The Murder of Oneal Moore: The KKK’s Deadly Message and a Justice System That Failed
On a warm summer night in 1965, a patrol car rolled through the backroads of Washington Parish, Louisiana. Inside sat Oneal Moore, one of the first two Black deputy sheriffs in the parish’s history. His partner, Creed Rogers, rode beside him. They had been on the force for exactly one year and one day—a milestone that should have been a triumph. Instead, it became a death sentence.
As they drove through the darkened streets, headlights flashed behind them. Before either man could react, bullets tore through the car. The windshield shattered, glass and blood sprayed across the seats. Oneal Moore was dead. Creed Rogers was critically wounded, left permanently blinded in one eye. Their assailants vanished into the night.
The murder ignited a federal investigation that would stretch for more than half a century. The killers were no mystery—their names were whispered in the streets, their allegiance to the Ku Klux Klan an open secret. And yet, in a case where confessions were recorded and evidence mounted, no one was ever brought to justice.
Why Was Oneal Moore Targeted?
To understand why Moore was ambushed, one must look at the racial tensions gripping the South. Washington Parish had long been a Klan stronghold. The white supremacist group held meetings in secret, terrorized Black communities, and sought to uphold segregation at all costs.
When Sheriff Dorman Crowe sought re-election in 1964, he did something radical: he promised to hire Black deputies if he won. True to his word, he appointed Moore and Rogers to the force, instantly making them targets for the Klan’s wrath.
To the Klan, Moore’s badge was more than just a symbol of law enforcement—it was a direct challenge to their reign of terror. A Black man arresting a white man? Unthinkable. A Black man wielding the power of the law? Unforgivable. The Klan vowed to make an example of him.
The Culture of Fear: A Town Held Hostage by the Klan
In 1960s Louisiana, the Klan wasn’t just a hate group—it was an underground government. Their influence stretched into law enforcement, local politics, and the courts.
Elmo Breland, a prime suspect in Moore’s murder, was later convicted of another killing. Yet, despite a violent track record, he remained free for years. The lead investigator on Moore’s case, Bogalusa Police Chief Claxton Knight, was caught tipping off Klan attorneys about FBI movements. The very system that was supposed to protect Moore was stacked against him.
People knew who pulled the trigger that night, but fear silenced them. To speak out against the Klan meant risking your life—and possibly the lives of your loved ones. White residents turned a blind eye. Black residents knew better than to step forward.
FBI Files, Confessions, and a Justice System That Did Nothing
For over five decades, the FBI compiled nearly 40,000 pages of investigative documents. They tapped phones, sent informants, and tracked suspects across state lines. At one point, they even captured two men confessing to the murder on tape.
But without a murder weapon or physical evidence linking the shooters to the scene, the Department of Justice refused to prosecute. They claimed the case was too weak. The FBI’s frustration seeped into their reports, noting how the Black community believed the entire investigation was a cover-up.
The Toll of Injustice
For the Moore family, the pain never faded. His widow was left to raise their children alone, haunted by the knowledge that her husband’s killers were free men.
For Creed Rogers, survival came at a cost. The man who had once stood beside his partner in uniform now carried the weight of survivor’s guilt. He lived to see the Klan’s power wane, but he never saw justice served.
For the Black community in Washington Parish, Moore’s murder was another cruel reminder of America’s two-tiered justice system—one for the privileged, another for the persecuted.
The case was officially closed in 2016, after 51 years of investigations. No arrests. No convictions. Just a man’s name carved into history, a story of courage overshadowed by the weight of unanswered injustice.
Today, Oneal Moore’s memory lingers—not just as a tragic victim, but as a symbol of a battle that was fought in blood, a war against racism that remains unfinished.
