Born to Lose (25 page)

The place was surrounded. Plans were whispered. At a set signal, police busted open the door with a battering ram, yelling, “Don't move! Down! Down! Police!”—but the room was empty. Not a GTO in sight either.

The lawmen knew for a dead certainty that Hoss was no longer in Jackson, but they were only momentarily disheartened. The errant fugitive couldn't be too far down the road.

Which road, though? Lawmen and G-men pulled out maps and the guesswork began, but this time the hunt would be aided by a critical piece of intelligence: Hoss was bound for Pennsylvania. If not a sure bet, it was thought likely true. Jodine and her secret codes were taken as credible.

The command centers were again abuzz. The FBI chief in Pittsburgh, Ian MacLennan, conferred with Agent Porter and area police chiefs, and was in constant communication with his Midwest counterparts. MacLennan also called Washington, D.C., as J. Edgar Hoover had demanded any news and updates.

The responsibility to guess correctly and cover all the bases fell primarily to MacLennan. According to kidnap victim Karen Maxwell, Hoss had mentioned Canada as an escape route. As far back as a week ago, all border-crossing points had been provided with wanted posters. Since Jackson, Minnesota, was so far north, close to the border, the Canadian posts and the famed Mounties were alerted once again. Yet, if Hoss was indeed set on returning to western Pennsylvania from Jackson, he couldn't very well shoot straight east, as he'd run smack into Lake Michigan. No, to clear its southern shore, Hoss would have to drop a couple of hundred miles south, then proceed east.

MacLennan thought hard. His critical judgment was that Hoss would turn south from Minnesota, enter Iowa, and pick up Interstate 80 east at Des Moines. This would take him by Chicago, where his brother, Harry, was reported to live, and then on to Cleveland, from which it was an easy drive into Pittsburgh.

While this entire route had to be covered—a gargantuan task—MacLennan's top priority was to ensure that Hoss was caught sooner rather than later; the longer he remained at large, the greater the likelihood that he would again kidnap, rape, or murder someone, not to mention any robberies he must commit to finance his flight.

“If Hoss is coming back to Pennsylvania, he is at this moment in Iowa,” said Ian macLennan from his tenth-floor office in downtown Pittsburgh. “I want all our people and every P.D. in the state over notified by phone, teletype, and posters. Make sure the description of the GTO goes out again.” Pittsburgh's FBI chief glanced at his watch, then at the half-dozen colleagues gathered round. “It's 1:00 A.M. Saturday already. Let's go.”

After Hoss's truncated call to Jodine, his sixth sense told him not to stay the night in Jackson; he was long gone by the time the cops charged into his motel room. He recognized that returning to Pennsylvania would be far more dangerous for him than any other plan he'd contrived, but his
mind was made up. He would get close to home, contact Jodine. She and their two kids would meet him at some clandestine spot and from there they'd speed off to a fresh start, a new life. He was also intent on a little payback. There were people he felt had done him wrong.

Hoss took the first road south he could find. In no time he was in Iowa. Two hours later, he pulled up at Fort Dodge and checked into the Starlite Motel. At 1:00 A.M., as Ian MacLennan ordered Iowa be scoured, Hoss was fast asleep.

. . .

Hoss's arrival in Iowa was not the first occasion such a blackguard had darkened the door of America's heartland. One of these was federal suspect Tommy Carroll, who'd come to Waterloo, Iowa, on June 7, 1934. Unaware the police were on to him after receiving a tip his car was filled with guns and stolen license plates, Carroll had parked along Lafayette Street directly across from old city hall, which, as everyone but Carroll knew, doubled as the police station. After Detectives Emil Steffen and P. E. Walker spotted the gangster's car, a surprised Carroll heard, “You are under arrest!”

The robber, trim and fit, cockily said, “Like hell I am,” jumped from his roadster and—in thirties parlance—reached for his “heater” inside his lapel, but Detective Walker, aged fifty-seven but sturdy, sent Carroll sprawling with a blow to the jaw. Carroll regained his feet, and both detectives opened fire. Four bullets assured Carroll had breathed his last. For ending the gangster's career, Detectives Steffen and Walker were commended on the floor of Congress. (Sharp, these Waterloo cops.) Sage commentators, lumping Carroll in with others of like character, offered, “Died as they lived … by the gun,” and the inevitable, “Tommy Carroll met his Waterloo at Waterloo.” Now, thirty-five years after Carroll's demise, Waterloo would play center stage for another federal suspect.

. . .

By 8:00 A.M. on a sunny Saturday, October 4, Stanley Hoss had made a last check of his motel room in Fort Dodge before driving south. At the village of Kalo, he swung east onto Route 20 and kept this course through Cedar Falls, after which he soon glimpsed signs for the next place down the road—Waterloo.

Even though he hadn't gone very far for the day, Hoss decided to stop at Waterloo. He'd check in somewhere, then spend the remainder of the day and evening enjoying hot meals and relaxing; maybe he'd knock off a store as well. Hoss could not know that his and Jo's secret codes were no longer secret, or that throughout the night and all morning long a blizzard of
posters and information about him had descended on every community, large and small, throughout the Hawkeye state. In ignorant bliss, Hoss followed Route 20 to the west side of town.

Along Washington Street, Hoss spied the Travelers Motel, which featured colored TV and air conditioning. The motel units were situated above the street, obscured from passing autos.

At 1:20 P.M., motel clerk Pat Heidler greeted her latest customer.

“Hi, pretty day, isn't it?”

“It is, yeah,” said Stanley Hoss. “This is nice, the motel an' all. Seems quiet.”

The fresh-faced young woman appraised the man: a few years older than herself, not perfectly handsome but by no means hard to look at, hair combed, soft-spoken, and wearing a clean white tee shirt. He was alone, likely just passing through, Pat guessed. Weren't they all?

“Yes, it is quiet. Have you been to Waterloo before?”

“Been in Iowa, but not here.”

“Your accent's a little different. You're from … ?”

“Back east, Pennsylvania.”

Hoss rested his hands on the counter. Pat noticed his fingernails were trimmed and clean. His upper body was nicely proportioned, his arms muscular and well defined, like those of a gymnast. Absent was a wedding band. She brushed a strand of hair from her forehead—a subtle feminine gesture.

“I'm guessing you'd like a room then?”

“I would. How much is that?”

“Just one night, or will you stay longer in our fair city?”

“I'll see, but just the night for now.”

“Then that will be eight dollars,” Pat said pleasantly, “plus twenty-four cents for the governor.” Pat pointed out the front window. “By the way, see that big house there? That, we like to inform our customers, is the old governor's residence from thirty or forty years ago. Mr. DeLapp, who owns this whole place now, lives there and added the motel rooms to the property. In fact, Mr. DeLapp right now is out test-driving a car I'm thinking to buy.”

“That so?” Hoss said. “I know a little about cars myself.” He then gave Pat the low-down on different makes and advised her on what to look for in a new car. Pat wouldn't have minded prolonging the conversation, but she couldn't think of anything more to say without appearing forward. She reluctantly opened the registration book and watched as the Pennsylvanian signed William Young.

“Uh, one more thing,” Hoss said.

“Yes?” Pat wondered if he would ask her out.

“Do you know if there's a sporting goods store nearby?”

Pat, disappointed, gave him directions to Colburn Sports Shop, a few blocks away.

Hoss parked the GTO in front of room number 7. He put his belongings inside, changed into a white dress shirt, then left the motel for Colburn's, presumably to purchase ammunition. He had trouble finding a parking spot near the store so, deciding to come back later, Hoss continued toward downtown Waterloo. Along East Fifth he came to a café, the Maywood Lunch, parked the GTO—the most sought-after car in America—in the Maywood lot, and in the process made the very same mistake gangster Tommy Carroll had thirty-five years earlier: Hoss parked directly across the street from Waterloo's city hall—and police department—which, since Carroll's day, had been moved from Lafayette Street to Fifth. Like Carroll, Hoss was unaware that he had parked so near the police department; its sign was around the corner, out of his sight.

Hoss kept his gun with him at all times. When he was driving, the gun was beside him or just under the seat. When he was walking around, the gun was tucked in his belt, covered by shirt or jacket. In a room at night, he slept with the gun beside him on the mattress, on the bed stand, or under his pillow. When he showered, it was on a ledge of the tub. He would not be taken by surprise, and mercy on any copper's soul who did not kill him first.

On this warm afternoon, wearing his shirt tucked in, Hoss hesitated before getting out of the GTO to go inside the café. To hide his 9-shot he'd have to wear his jacket, which lay on the backseat. He looked up and down the street. All was quiet, ordinary, not a cop or cruiser to be seen. From the floorboard, Hoss retrieved a brown sandwich bag, put his gun inside it, then placed the bag on the passenger seat. Just a bite, coffee, … he wouldn't be long, he reasoned. Hoss got out, locked the car, and casually walked into the café.

Sergeant Robert Kuenstling had come on duty at 7:00 A.M. It was several days ago, Kuenstling remembered, that he'd first heard of Stanley Hoss, a cop-killer and kidnapper from Pennsylvania who, at the time, was thought to be traveling west, maybe through Iowa. And now, during this morning's briefing, he heard the name again. Sometime overnight a new flyer had been received at the station house. Apparently, the FBI gauged this fugitive to be somewhere in Iowa on this very day. Kuenstling wrote in his pocket notebook the description of the GTO, then went out on duty.

…

Hoss seated himself at the far end of the counter. The waitress was busy with a woman and a little girl at a table. A radio played music and gave the news … The Fifth Rangers have killed over one hundred Viet Cong in a small province … Senator Fulbright is preparing for next week's foreign relations committee hearings … A daughter of TV personality Art Linkletter has plunged to her death from the sixth floor of a plush west Hollywood apartment …

There was no news about himself, so Hoss turned his attention to a well-worn menu. With the waitress still busy, an aproned man eventually came out of the kitchen with order pad in hand. “Special today is pork chops,” he told the customer. “Nah,” Hoss replied, “gimmie the T-bone steak.”

Truth be told, as Sergeant Keunstling neared the end of his shift, he hadn't given much thought to Hoss and the GTO, not with the accident way down on First, or with a hotel alarm going off for no damn reason he could figure, or with the three juvvie punks trying to pinch eight-tracks from Woolworth's. He was glad to be pulling in the driveway at the rear of city hall, glad to call it a day. It was 2:45 P.M.

Hoss was enjoying his steak dinner, but often raised his head to look around. The windows of the café permitted a view of the parking lot and a short distance down Fifth. Had there been windows in the café's west wall, Hoss would have been able to see a police cruiser park in a driveway across the street—but there weren't.

Kuenstling stood beside his car. He tapped his shirt pocket to see that he had his pen and sunglasses. He hoped he could finish a bit of paperwork and be on his way home by three sharp. He paused, wondering if he needed anything else from the car. For no reason, his eyes fell on the familiar Maywood Lunch across the street. “What the hell … ?” he said aloud, then turned to see if other officers were about. None were.

Kuenstling returned his attention to the Maywood. A bicycle leaned against the building and three cars were parked in the lot. The sergeant's eyes were riveted on the one nearest, the one in plain view. He retrieved his notebook from his hip pocket: Hoss, Stan, Gun. '69 Grn. Wte. Top Pont. Pa. 9N3119.

To get a look at the plate, Kuenstling walked closer to the car. It was an Illinois plate, but the rest of the car was a match. Keeping out of view from anyone inside, Kuenstling took slow, quiet steps to the edge of a window and peeked inside: Molly, the waitress, stood talking with a young woman with a child; Smitty, the cook, leaned in the kitchen doorway, smoking a
cigarette; and seated, hunched over a plate at the counter, was a man— twenties, sandy hair….

Kuenstling backed away from the Maywood, crossed the street, quickly entered the station, and approached Lieutenant Duane Murray.

“Duane, the info this morning about the cop killer from Pennsylvania, Hoss, riding a GTO?”

“Yeah?”

“Dollars to donuts, the guy's across the street in the Maywood.”

Before Kuenstling said another word, Murray called down the hallway, “Tom, Don, come here quick.” Apprised of the news, Detectives Tom Matzen and Don Kehoe learned more from Kuenstling.

“He's sitting at the counter. There's a woman and female child in there, too. They were sittin' at a different table but you don't suppose they could be his kidnap victims, do you?”

“I don't know,” Murray said, “but we have to move, right now. Bob, do you have any idea how long he's been over there?”

“No. He's eatin' is all. Startin', finishin', can't say.”

Lieutenant Murray felt all eyes on him, waiting for instructions. He and the two detectives were in plain clothes.