Born to Lose (24 page)

On Sunday, someone had a good idea. The postcards indicated that Hoss cared about Jodine Fawkes. Maybe he loved her. Maybe he would listen to a message from her. A team of agents talked to Jodine. She was told she would not have to ask him his whereabouts but merely call for the safety of his hapless captives. Around the kitchen table, Jodine and the agents hammered out a brief but poignant plea to her man:

My darling Stan,

This is Jo. Wherever you are, whatever you are doing, I want you to remember and hear every word I say. This is coming from the bottom of my heart. My love for you will last forever and my need for you will always be strong. But you must let this Linda and Lori go. Please Stan, don't hurt them. Think this way. There is a dear little baby who has a life to lead and a woman also. You know how you would feel if I were in their place. So Stan, please do what I say. I beg of you.

I remain in deep sadness.

(signed) Jo

Copies of Jodine's appeal were sent to fifty-nine FBI offices throughout the nation for broadcast by local papers and radio stations.

Local reporters got what quotes they could. Hoss's wife, Diane, reiterated that she had filed for divorce. “I just don't want to be involved with him,” she said.

From the porch of her home, Jodine's mother, Violet, said, “Hoss couldn't get a job nowhere because he was on parole. Anything he could do to get a couple of dollars, he did it. Hoss is a hard man. My daughter couldn't get rid of him.”

Gerald Peugeot spoke to the press for the first time: “If Stanley Hoss has any feelings he will let Linda and Lori Mae go. I am pleading with Stanley Hoss, wherever he might be, to let them go. Please give me some hope that they are alive.”

No hope arrived. For the most part, the week passed in an exasperating lull, painful for all concerned.

. . .

Moving ever westward since departing Fairbury, Illinois, with Lori Mae on Thursday morning, September 25, Hoss put another thousand miles on the GTO. In Nebraska, he passed through Boys Town, a place made famous by the old Spencer Tracy film of the same name. Later, just a bit north, he spent the night in Fremont at the Mid-Western Motel. Following his customary pattern, Hoss robbed a gas station before turning in.

Dawn brought the last day of September, and on this chilly morn, something was different. Something had changed in the mind of Stanley Hoss. Abandoning his westward trek, he pointed the Goat north. By evening, after a long haul, Hoss found himself in Mitchell, South Dakota. He got a little careless with his day's robbery; it was foiled and he bolted empty-handed from the gas station. He stayed the night on the outskirts of Mitchell, at Steven's Motel, and stuck around the next day as well. This was the first time he'd stayed put for a day since as far back as his workhouse breakout on September 11. Driving to the other side of Mitchell, he botched yet another robbery attempt. For the second time in as many days, the usual steely, quick, and confident robber had to flee without dollar or coin.

Hoss was at a crossroads. West again, make California in a couple days, or keep on north? The Canadian border was three hundred miles away. Get to Winnipeg or … Moose Jaw. Get some money. Lay low. Move on northwest. Hit the Yukon Territory, dig for gold, or keep on for the remotest parts of Alaska. Become a logger, never to be found.

Hoss folded his maps, decision made. He'd had a restful night in his motel bed. Come morning, he checked the Goat's tires and oil. Once on the main road, the sun was in his eyes; he tipped the visor down. Now he traveled
east
, toward Sioux Falls, but Hoss knew he was really driving further east—back to Pittsburgh.

Now that he was halfway across the country, Hoss worried less about capture, but he knew he still had to be careful, make sure the car was in good working order, and never under any circumstance get caught during a holdup. If that meant shooting someone to get away, then that's what would have to be. He had his plans.

By late morning, Hoss was in Sioux Falls, North Dakota. He parked, then walked up and down the streets. From a distance Hoss saw a two-story, red-brick building. The sign out front said Sioux Falls Police Department. Hoss didn't think these local yokels could catch a cold; still, he crossed the street and walked by with head lowered.

After lunch, Hoss took in a matinee, “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.” Hoss got a kick out of the movie. He could identify. After the show, he did some shopping. He bought cowboy clothes along with a Western-style hat—black, of course. Walking along, up and down the streets, Hoss was in good spirits. He felt free of encumbrances, free of the law breathing down his neck, free of Linda Peugeot and finally … free of the little girl.

When Hoss stepped in a post office to buy a stamp for a letter he planned for Jodine, the poster on the wall stopped him cold. Two pictures of him, front and profile, on the poster were recent mug shots from the Allegheny County Jail last July, he remembered. He was described to a T, even down to scars and marks. He read he was wanted for Interstate Flight—Murder, Kidnapping.

Hoss hightailed it out of the post office without a stamp. He'd have quitted Sioux Falls altogether, but he'd already plunked down money to stay the night. Gone was Hoss's breezy mood: They'll never stop looking for me, he thought. Just like Butch and Sundance. After nightfall, Hoss hit another gas station. The sole attendant not only got robbed, but Hoss punched him in the face for good measure.

In the command centers in Pennsylvania and Maryland, and in FBI offices across the U.S., there was nary a word. Then Hoss slipped up.

“Pookie?”

Yes,” Penn responded.

“Do you know who this is?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Could you get in touch with Jo for me?”

“I probably could call her up.”

“Do you see much of her?”

“Yeah,” Penn said, “she comes over.”

“Okay, give her this number and tell her to call me. Tell her to call right away or I'm going to bug out.”

Penn wrote 847-9948, and read it back. “That right?”

“Yeah, that's it. Tell her to call me right away. I'm in a hotel under the name William Young.”

Walter Penn—family man, steelworker, and brother-in-law to Hoss's mistress—had a choice to make. He and his wife, Connie, had not called the authorities after Hoss's earlier call to them. Jodine was, after all, Connie's sister. Still, things had gone too far. Something had to be done. Penn called Pittsburgh's FBI office. When Agent John Porter answered, Penn said who he was then … “Stanley Hoss just got off the phone with me.” Porter knocked over his coffee reaching for a pen.

“You're certain?”

“Yes, I'm acquainted with Stan and I know his voice.”

“Did he tell you where he is,” Porter asked.

“No, I don't know if he's around here or not. The connection was clear, but I had a sense it came from a phone booth. There was a funny noise in the background, like traffic, no, not like traffic—there wasn't any break in the sound. Maybe like a factory hum, something like that.”

Penn also told Porter that “Pookie” is his nickname and Hoss refers to him by that name. Porter advised Penn to relay Hoss's message to Jodine but to call him back when he'd done so.

Minutes after he hung up with Penn and before Penn had the opportunity to follow his instructions, Hoss fed his coin phone dime after dime.

Jodine's mother, Violet Fawkes, answered her phone. The caller was calm and unhurried. He did not offer a greeting but said only, “I'd like to talk to Jo.” Violet hurried to the front porch where her daughter was sitting. “Jodine, Jodine! Hurry up, Stan is on the phone.”

Jo rushed into the living room, heart beating wildly.

“Hello.”

“Ah, Cookie,” said Hoss.

“Huh?”

“Your phone's tapped, huh? Well, gotta go.”

On his end, Hoss returned the receiver to its cradle.

The FBI swarmed in on this clue, the only definite one they'd had since Hoss was seen with Lori Mae at the Will-O-Motel in Tiffin, Ohio. “But that,” groaned Agent Porter, “was over a week ago. Now here we are, October 3. Something's got to break!” Porter turned to two special agents. “Get to the phone company. I want this number located, now!”

Agent Porter sat with Jodine at her kitchen table. She explained the phone number given her by Pookie Penn—847-9948—was not familiar to her. She dialed that number but it didn't go through. However, she revealed to Porter secret arrangements between her and Hoss.

“During the time I've dated Stan,” explained Jodine, “he'd lots of times call my sister Connie, or Pookie, and ask them to deliver a message to me. Sometimes people would be looking for Stan, ya know, so we got some private ways for me to call him if he needed to hide where he was.”

“Okay, so how did it work?”

“Well, the first thing was I'd call the number given to me, but if Stan wasn't at that number I'd use the code we devised. The first step was to take the first number of the prefix on my telephone, look on the Brackenridge telephone directory cover and find the correct prefix. So when I got this number from Pookie, the only prefix number starting with the number eight is the prefix 828, which is the Oakmont area, where you guys said Stan shot the cop. The last four numbers Pookie gave me were 9948, but by our code I would reverse them, so the right number Stan wanted me to call is 828-8499.”

“And you called?” said an amazed Porter.

“Yes, but when I did a man answered. I asked if Stan was there. The man said I had the wrong number, so I asked whose residence I was calling, and I was told Mr. Verasik lived there. I don't know anyone by that name.”

“All right. Pookie and you are sure no area code was given with the number?

“Nope, I told you the exact number I got.”

Porter gave instructions to another agent to talk to this Mr. Verasik anyway, just to be sure the man knew absolutely nothing. When Porter again addressed Jodine, she told him there was something else that might help.

“Me and Stan had another code in case I couldn't reach him with the phone code.”

Christ, Porter thought, maybe the CIA ought to hire this pair. “Another code? Tell me about it.”

“Okay, but first, I've been thinking again why he might call me ‘Cookie' when I answered the phone. Stan used to sing a song that had the words
cookie
and
California
in it. The words for the song were either “Cookie California” or “California Cookie,” but I don't remember the title or any other words. He never called me Cookie, ya know, like, as a name, so that's the best I can say about that.”

“I know you're trying. Now, what about this other code?”

“Well, see, I actually worked this out myself and gave it to Stan. He used it with me on several occasions. Trouble is, I don't have a copy of the code but I'll try to remember it for you.”

“Good, Jodine. Do your best.”

“Uh, let's see … we had the numbers one through ten and each number meant a word …” Jodine asked for Porter's paper and pen then wrote the following:

1—place 2—okay 3—please 4—know 5—I love you very much 6—trouble 7—you 8—home 9—going 99—coming 0—meet

Jodine slid the paper half way to Porter, at an angle, so they could both read it.

“To figure this one out,” Jodine explained, “I would look at the number Stan gave to Pookie to give to me, 847-9948. I'd take the first three prefix numbers and reverse them, then I'd decode the numbers for the message.”

Porter and Jodine reviewed the numbers and corresponding words. Decoded, it read: “YOU KNOW HOME COMING KNOW HOME.” Jodine said that sometimes she would have to improvise and fill in any missing words in relation to places or previous conversations. Mixing in that Hoss had called her Cookie, she told Porter she felt the message Hoss tried to get to her was: YOU KNOW I LOVE YOU. AM COMING HOME FROM CALIFORNIA.

“Jodine?”

Jodine raised her eyes to meet Porter's.

“You know what Stan has hanging over him. It's very bad. If he was out in California, do you think he'd come back here to see you?”

“Yes, he would, maybe … he might. He does crazy things.”

“Does he love you?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you love him?”

Jodine's eyes went to the ceiling then to her mother sitting across the room and finally to her hands clasped in her lap.

“My two boys are by him. I love him … but I'm so confused now, with all that's happening.”

Jodine suddenly got confrontational. “And what if none of this is so? I didn't hear of no eyewitness said Stan shot the cop … I don't know where the woman and baby are. Maybe Stan don't neither!”

“You're right, Jodine,” Porter said softly, “but that's why we have to talk with him, get his side of it.”

Jodine's mother sat mute, eyes down in her small, darkened living room. The phone rang beside her. She made no motion to answer it so after the third ring one of the agents picked it up, listened briefly then put the receiver down. He walked halfway to Porter before getting his attention, motioning with his eyes he'd like to talk with Porter on the porch.

“What ya got?” said Porter.

The agent wore a broad grin. “We got it!”

“What, got what, dammit?”

“The number, the phone number … the location. Stanley Hoss is in Jackson, Minnesota.”

The number had been traced to a phone booth on the property of the Skyline Motel. The Jackson police had the best shot of getting there the quickest. They were warned that Hoss might well be in one of the motel rooms and that he was very dangerous. An undercover officer went first to the motel office and gave a detailed description.

“Yes,” the clerk said, “that man's in room 22, toward the end. Got here about three hours ago, he did.”