Alaska
The last woman in the bar: The 1961 murder of an Anchorage lounge singer
Part of a continuing weekly series on Alaska history by local historian David Reamer. Have a question about Anchorage or Alaska history or an idea for a future article? Go to the form at the bottom of this story.
The small clock on the wall revealed a somber reality of the dark, exhausting hours of the early morning. It was Nov. 20, 1961 and nearly 5 a.m., amid the last ticks of the long day at the Club 210, an Anchorage bar on East Fifth Avenue. There were four people in proper attendance, including bartender and co-owner Robert “Chick” Adams serving lounge singer Rose Dawn. The other two men were armed, eager to relieve the establishment of its cash. Three of those four principal actors survived the ensuing tragedy. Those readers familiar with either recent or distant Alaska history will be unsurprised. It was the woman who died.
Rose Dawn was a stage name, coincidentally also a popular brand of nylons back then. Rosemary Niedzwiecki was born in 1938 in San Diego and grew up there, attending Abraham Lincoln High School. She lived to sing, made it her profession, even at a young age establishing herself as a traveling act in destinations like Las Vegas. Meanwhile, as Anchorage boomed in the 1940s through 1950s, waves of new bars and clubs opened here, each viciously competing with the others for the right to raid local wallets. And one way they attracted business was by importing Lower 48 talent as B-girls, dancers and singers. As of November 1961, Rose Dawn was just 23 years old, a dark-eyed beauty working a standing gig for Leo’s Supper Club at the Forest Park Country Club. Forest Park was a golf course, just west of what is now the Westchester Lagoon, then the Chester Creek mudflats.
Club 210 opened in 1956, the name seemingly a bowling reference, as their address was 224 E. Fifth Ave. Joseph Miljas was an original co-owner. Miljas (1913-1979), also known as Papa Joe, later owned the notorious Spenard Road strip club PJ’s, hence the meaning behind those two letters. “Chick” Adams was born in Kentucky and had been in Anchorage for around a decade as of 1961. The smaller bars and clubs then took much of their personality from their owners, who were frequently the bartenders as well. So, the bar was also called “Chick n’ Joes,” or the place to drink with “Chic.” Consistent spelling was hardly a crucial step in getting drunk.
The fateful morning, Nov. 20, 1961, Dawn was unwinding after another grinding performance, verbally dancing with Adams in that expected pattern of bartender and unloading patron. She may have wondered, aloud or otherwise, about the progression or lack thereof in her career. Anchorage clubs in those days tended to pay well but weren’t the sort of prestige gigs that could advance a singer onwards and upwards. No one outside Alaska cared if you headlined the Buckaroo or Last Chance or even Leo’s Supper Club. Perhaps, just perhaps, that is why Dawn was the last woman in the last bar still open on a crisp, chilly night.

Two young men conspired at a table away from the bar, nursing drunks, both of them edgy and uncertain, eyes drifting about to soak in the details. Gerald Lee Cox and Terrance Wayne Brady were both 22 and residents at the Chinook Hotel. Nearing 5 a.m., the last customer besides themselves and Dawn left, prompting Cox and Brady to huddle around the bar. Cox stood and moved as if toward the restroom, only to turn around suddenly while holding an automatic pistol. “My friend wants to see how well you’ve done tonight,” the robber declared.
Cox guarded Dawn and Adams while Brady ransacked the cash register. It had been a solid night at the bar, producing a $250 score, roughly $2,700 in 2025, not counting the hundreds more in checks left behind. But the robbers wanted more. “You got any dough besides what’s in here?” they asked. Adams retorted, “You think I’d keep all that dough in the register if I had a safe?”
A storage room lay behind the bar, cold and drafty. Cox and Brady escorted Dawn and Adams into the back. They demanded Adams’ keys. “What for,” replied the barkeep. “So, I can lock the joint up when we leave,” replied one of the robbers. “We don’t want anybody to come stumbling in here and find you until we’ve had a chance to get away.” Adams grimaced at a sudden realization. His partner wouldn’t arrive to open the bar until 10, nearly five hours later, which should be enough time to let the criminals slip town. Still, he stared at their faces, willing their features into his memory. If given the chance, he wanted to remember them.
Seeing Dawn shiver, Adams argued, “Give the girl a break and let her have her coat. It gets damn cold back here.” One of the thieves responded ominously: “You’ll never feel it.” Then they struck the bartender over the head with a liquor bottle. He swayed toward the floor, dazed, then lost consciousness.
When Adams woke, he was gnawing on a cord wrapped around his head and pulled through his mouth. One of the bandits was trying to choke him to death. Nonetheless, he could see Dawn sprawled nearby, unmoving. As he struggled, two shots rang out in the small room. One passed through Adams’ neck. The other deflected off his skull and lodged near the junction with the spine. Of course, doctors later figured out all those specific details. As far as the robbers could tell, they’d shot Adams twice in the back of the head to massive crimson effect on the surroundings.
Adams was understandably woozy, in shock from the experience and wounds. Still, he recalled one of them talking, “Let’s get out of here. I got him right in the back of the head that time.” In one moment, they were there, standing over him, and in the next they were gone. Pained and growing cold, Adams scrabbled on the floor, moved himself by will toward a phone. With a heroic effort, he managed a single phone call for help, thereafter sinking back to the floor to await whatever came next. In his shaken daze, he had called the fire department, which dispatched an ambulance and subsequently contacted the police.

For a few minutes, Anchorage was shut down as the police sought to close off avenues of escape. They might not have bothered. Cox and Brady were arrested a few minutes later, just five blocks away from Club 210, albeit without gun or cash. They made for a rather conspicuous pair, two young men walking together around a freezing Anchorage at 5 in the morning right after two young men robbed a bar in the immediate vicinity. The officers on duty accomplished no incredible feat of policing when they put that particular two and two together. Because of fresh snow, it took a few days of searching, but the gun was eventually found tossed down an alley and the cash tucked away on a roof.
Given their age, both men had surprisingly lengthy rap sheets, but Cox in particular was well known to local law enforcement. In March 1960, he was arrested for robbing the Sears Roebuck store in Mountain View. After posting bail, he was arrested again that same day for an unconnected robbery. He faced additional charges after attempting to escape the local federal jail that May. In the summer of 1961, he robbed the Anchorage Transit System bus garage and was out on $10,000 bail at the very time he robbed Club 210.
When the ambulance arrived, Dawn was already dead. She had also been shot twice, once in the leg and again in the back of her head. Adams was alive but in serious condition. Doctors were unsure whether he would survive. A day later, he surprisingly improved and was able to identify Cox and Brady from his hospital bed.
As Adams continued to recover, establishing further clearance between himself and the grave, the outcome for the entire affair was carved deeper into stone. An injured living witness meant certainty, in the courts and for the imprisonment to come. There would be no clever legal maneuvers, no surprises. Cox, at least, understood this reality. At his arraignment, he told the judge, “Could you please appoint me (an attorney) so that I can begin proceedings and get this over with.” The waiting is the hardest part, he surely thought. Time to get on with whatever is next.
Adams indeed appeared at their preliminary hearing, pale but sure as he dramatically pointed out the killers, as if from a movie. After their indictments, Cox and Brady shaved a few visits to the courthouse off their lives and pleaded guilty. Their court-appointed attorneys — Ted Stevens represented Brady — argued for 20-year sentences, but Judge James Fitzgerald ordered life imprisonment without recommendation or parole. Fitzgerald described the murder as a “cruel and brutal killing, done with abandoned heart.”
The entire affair was featured in the April 1962 issue of “Official Detective Stories,” one of many pulpy true crime magazines then popular. “Without the Gun and the Money” appeared alongside other luridly titled articles, such as “Who Would Want to Bomb Congressman Green,” “Maybe Donna Had Too Many Friends,” “Human Bait for the Telephone Wolf,” and “I Want to Watch You Kill Me.”
Detective Earl Hibpshman worked the Club 210 case. An article on his 1974 retirement described the pulpy piece as “overdramatized, the old-timers say, and made Hibpshman and others who worked the case look like Columbo, Mike Hammer, and Sherlock Holmes rolled into one.”
Rose Dawn — Rosemary Niedzwiecki — was buried back in her hometown, at San Diego’s Holy Cross Cemetery. Alaska was her undoing, the end to any further career or fame. Or simply life. Alaska in general and Anchorage specifically are often touted as among the most dangerous places in the country for women, what with the dire rates of violence against women here. There are no trustworthy statistics for Alaska from the time of Rose Dawn’s brief tenure, but there is likewise nothing to suggest that it was a better reality. Again and again, a lesson learned, crime is no recent innovation in Anchorage.
[Trapped: The case of the 1951 Interior Alaska cabin fever murder that was solved and then retried]
[The great snoring assault of 1953 Anchorage and other snoring history]
Alaska
Bill allowing physician assistants to practice independently passes Alaska Senate
JUNEAU — The Alaska Senate has passed a bill that would allow physician assistants with sufficient training to practice under an independent license, removing the state’s current requirement that they work under a formal collaborative agreement with physicians.
Supporters say the change would reduce administrative burdens that can delay and increase the cost of care. But physicians who opposed the bill argue it lowers the bar for training and could affect patient care.
Senate Bill 89, sponsored by Anchorage Democratic Sen. Löki Tobin, passed by a unanimous vote in the Senate on Wednesday, with 18 votes in favor and two members absent. The bill would allow physician assistants to apply for an independent license after completing 4,000 hours of postgraduate supervised clinical practice.
Under current law, physician assistants in Alaska must operate under a collaborative plan with physicians. These plans outline the medical services a physician assistant can provide and require oversight from doctors.
The Alaska State Medical Board regulates physician assistants and authorizes them to provide care only within the scope of their training. Most physician assistants in Alaska work in family practice, though some are specially trained in particular fields. All care must be provided under a physician’s license through a collaborative agreement that also requires a second, alternate physician to sign off.
For some clinics, particularly in more remote areas, finding those physicians can be difficult.
Mary Swain, CEO of Cama’i Community Health Center in Bristol Bay, testified in support of the bill before the Senate Labor and Commerce Committee in March 2025. Her practice employs two physicians to maintain collaborative plans for its physician assistants. She said neither of them lived in the community, and the primary physician lived out of state.
Roughly 15% of physicians who hold collaborative agreements with Alaska-based physician assistants do not live in the state, according to Tobin. At the same time, Alaskans face some of the highest health care costs in the nation.
Jared Wallace, a physician assistant in Kenai and owner of Odyssey Family Practice, testified in support of the bill at a committee meeting in April.
Wallace said maintaining collaborative agreements is one of the most difficult parts of running his clinic. He said he pays a collaborative physician about $2,000 per physician assistant per month, roughly $96,000 a year, simply to maintain the required agreement.
“In my experience, a collaborative plan does not improve nor ensure good patient care,” Wallace said. “Instead, it is a barrier in providing good health care in a rural community where access is limited, is a threat that delicately suspends my practice in place, and if severed, the 6,000 patients that I care for would lose access to (their) primary provider and become displaced.”
Opposition to the bill largely came from physicians, who testified that physician assistants do not receive the same depth of training as doctors.
Dr. Nicholas Cosentino, an internal medicine physician, testified in opposition to the bill last April. He said that medical school training provides crucial experience in diagnosing complex cases.
“It’s not infrequent that you get a patient that you’re not exactly sure you know what’s going on, and you have to fall back on your scientific background, the four years of medical school training, the countless hours of residency to come up with that differential, to think critically and come up with a plan for that patient,” Cosentino said. “I think the bill as stated, 4,000 hours, does not equate to that level of training.”
The Alaska Primary Care Association said it supports the intent of the bill but argued that physician assistants should complete 10,000 hours in a collaborative practice model with a physician before practicing independently.
Other states that have moved to allow independent licensure for physician assistants have adopted a range of thresholds. North Dakota requires 4,000 hours, while Montana requires 8,000 hours. Utah requires 10,000 hours of postgraduate supervised work, while Wyoming does not set a specific statewide minimum hour requirement.
Tobin said the hour requirement chosen in the bill came from conversations with experts during the bill’s drafting.
“When we were working with stakeholders on this piece of legislation, we came to a compromise of 4,000 hours, recognizing and understanding that there was concerns, but also … understanding that it is a bit of an arbitrary choice,” she said.
The bill now heads to House committees before a potential vote on the House floor.
Alaska
Dunleavy, EPA visit UAF to discuss regulations in the arctic environment
Fairbanks, Alaska (KTUU/KTVF) – On Wednesday, Gov. Mike Dunleavy, Alaska Attorney General Stephen Cox and Lee Zeldin, the administrator for the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), spoke to press at the University of Alaska Fairbanks power plant.
During their time at the university, the federal and state leaders spoke about developing resources such as coal, oil, gas and critical minerals in the 49th state.
During his 24-hour trip to Fairbanks, Zeldin said he has spoke to business and state leaders about environmental regulations impacting operations in Alaska, saying the EPA needs to consider whether regulations are solving problems or are solutions in search of a problem.
He also discussed the concept of “cooperative federalism,” where the EPA takes its cues from state leaders to determine where regulations and help are needed.
“We’re here at the University of Alaska’s coal plant, and the most modern coal plant in the United States of America,” Dunleavy said.
Zeldin said visiting Fairbanks in winter helps inform decisions the agency is considering.
“There are a lot of decisions right now in front of this agency that the first-hand perspective of being here on the ground helps inform our agency to make the right decision,” he said.
Zeldin also said the agency is hearing concerns from Alaska truckers about diesel exhaust rules in extreme cold.
“We then met with truckers who have been dealing with unique cold weather concerns with the implementation of EPA regulations related to diesel exhaust fluid system,” he said.
When asked about PFAS in drinking water, Zeldin said the EPA is not rolling back the standards.
“So the PFAS standards are not being rolled back at all,” he said.
On Fairbanks air quality and PM2.5 regulations, Zeldin said the agency wants to work with the state.
“We want, at the EPA, to help the Fairbanks community be able to be in attainment on PM 2.5. We want to make it work,” he said.
Dunleavy said energy costs and heating needs remain a major factor in Interior air quality discussions.
“People have to be able to live. They’ve got to be able to afford to live,” he said.
Zeldin said EPA is considering further changes to diesel regulations and urged Alaskans to participate in the rulemaking process.
“We need Alaskans to participate in that public comment period,” he said.
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Alaska
Opinion: Life lessons learned from mushing and old-time Alaska
This is the beginning of the Iditarod spring, signaled by the burst of sun and what used to be the long wait for dog teams to pass under the arch in Nome, the finish line a thousand miles away from Anchorage. For old-timers, it’s the story of the way Alaska used to be. What once was a 30-day wait has become about 10 days for winners to celebrate and the rest of us to shout, “Well done.”
My story is about family that welcomed immigrants from all over the world to be among the last groups of Indigenous people in the country, a life of taking good care of dog teams, and of parents who taught their children how to live in a wild, rugged frontier.
I came to be in a different age, a time of dog teams that ruled the trails to mining camps and where the salmon ran strongest — before the introduction of the snowmachine that revolutionized rural and Native Alaska.
For the Blatchford family, it is a recognition that some things will always stay the same and everything else changes. All four of my grandparents were noncitizens. My mother Lena’s parents of Elim were Alaska Natives, as was my dad Ernie’s mother, Mae, of Shishmaref. The name Blatchford comes from his father, the Englishman who was born in Cornwall and arrived in Nome during the gold rush. His brother, William, was one of the early immigrants, and by 1899 there was a creek just outside Nome named after him. He discovered gold. My grandfather, Percy, found gold, too, but it was a different kind of wealth, a finding that he had found home and never left.
I was born in Nome, delivered by an Iñupiaq Eskimo midwife in a one-room cabin where the frozen Bering Sea met the treeless tundra’s permafrost. Dad had a dog team. I like to think that the dogs were anxious for me to be born because it was hunting time for Dad to hitch them up and mush out to where the sea mammals, snowshoe hares, ptarmigan and other game thrived in the winter. My earliest memories are of dogs; all of them working as a team to bring home the game so we could have a fine meal cooked by Lena. In the Arctic, dogs were essential for family survival. If you didn’t hunt, you didn’t eat.
There are several memories that remain strong. I suppose I can call them lessons of the Arctic.
The first is to take care of the dogs and treat them well. Dog lovers all over the world know very well that a dog, whatever the breed, is loyal and will die to protect the one who feeds and pets it. If you don’t feed a husky, it won’t pull, and it could mean a long time before the family eats. When a dog team is hungry, it will race back home to be fed a healthy meal. Mother Lena must have been a great cook because Dad said the dog team always raced back to the edge of Nome, where Lena was waiting beside the propane stove. For Mike, Tom and me, our job was to take the rifle, shotgun and .22 into the cabin to be cleaned and oiled. Once that was quickly done, we unhitched the dogs and then fed the team.
All three of us boys had special responsibilities to Tim, Buttons and Girlie. Tim, the lead dog, was brother Mike’s pet; Tom had Buttons, and I had Girlie. We made sure they were healthy and well cared for. Dad would often comment that “Papa,” our grandfather Percy, the Englishman, took good care of his dog teams, being kind to the dogs and feeding them. Dad was the oldest of a large family that lived in Teller and later Nome.
“Papa” Percy was a prospector, fox farmer and a contestant in the All-Alaska Sweepstakes, the dog team race from Nome to the mining camp of Candle, a 400-mile race. He didn’t win, but he finished well, very well. The stories of the Sweepstakes have remained with the family for over a century. At a memorial service in Palmer for “Doc” Blatchford, Aunt Marge, without a question or a prompt, said that Papa took good care of his dogs.
Percy Blatchford was a legend in the Alaska Territory. As a teacher of Alaska newspapers, I would find headlines similar to one in the Fairbanks Daily News-Miner that blazed on the front page: “Blatchford Wins Solomon Derby.” There was even a story in The New York Times.
There’s probably no other sport in Alaska that brought Alaskans together like dog mushing. When old-timers would visit over strong coffee, dogs and dog team racing would come up. In the territory, there were few high schools and fewer gymnasiums, so the only team sport was dog mushing. It was something to talk about that was unique to Alaskans.
I used to travel in rural Alaska quite a bit. In the smaller communities, I would see the teams and would wonder how long they would power the engines that brought the mail and the foodstuffs down and up the trails. When I think of dog teaming, I think of the Iditarod and wonder, and then come to know, what the strength of the story would mean for bringing generations together from Papa Blatchford to his eldest son Ernie and to the fourth generation of Blatchfords in Alaska.
There are times when I think that old-time Alaska is gone. But then my faith and confidence in the old-time spirit are ignited when I see what others in the Lower 48 see. When I was walking in downtown Philadelphia, I looked up and saw on an ancient federal building a stamped concrete sculpture of a dog musher leaning into a blizzard. Such is the way I think of the Iditarod and the lessons I learned growing up with the dog team, preserved in my memories.
Edgar Blatchford is former mayor of Seward, Mile 0 of the Iditarod Trail.
• • •
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