The End of the Dream (29 page)

There was just too much going on for one man to handle, even with Steve on the outside. Scott had also decided to move into larger banks, that would make a partner essential. Scott had struck out with Bobby Gray and Kevin Meyers, neither one of them wanted anything to do with his latest “projects.” And he was already using Steve as the outside man.

Now, Scott knew who he needed.

Mark. Mark had been with him on his first bank robbery, and he was trainable. He hadn’t seen Mark Biggins for two years, but he knew just where to find him, he would be close to his daughter Lori. Mark hadn’t heard from anyone in Washington for a long time. Part of him hoped that it would stay that way, another part strained against the poverty that had dogged him since he’d come to California. It was November 1995, when Scott showed up unexpectedly at Mark and Traci’s house in Oxnard. He said he’d been traveling, and had even stopped in to see his exwife. He was the same old Scott, and Mark couldn’t help being glad to see him.

Scott brought energy and laughter and the possibility that life could only get
 
better. He stayed a few days and they caught up on what was going on in each other’s lives. Almost casually, Scott said, “I’m working again.”

“Oh? “

“Yeah, with Steve.” Scott told Mark that he and Steve had planned to rob a bank in Chicago. They’d even gone back there to chose which one. But then some husband and wife bank robbers started making headlines all over the place and the heat was on in Chicago. Steve and Scott had dropped their plan for the windy city, Scott said he wanted to give Mark a plane ticket to come up to Washington. Mark tensed.

He knew what Scott was building up to. He had almost been home free, he had another life now. But he had no money, and he could barely meet his bills. He wondered if Scott could read it in his face. Mark Biggins flew to Seattle in late November or early December of 1995, and something crucial died in Mark on that trip.

There was no bank robbery at that time, but he and Scott did a lot of talking, and Mark obliged Scott by buying an older model station wagon that had been advertised in The Seattle Times.

Although he was home for Christmas, he knew he would go back. In January, Mark caught another plane to Washington. This time, Steve Meyers was there, too. Steve wasn’t anxious to continue robbing banks, he told Mark he had a feeling that they were close to being caught.

There had been some dicey situations already.

Nevertheless, Steve said he was in on the next job. Scott had decided to rob either the Sea first Bank in the Wedgwood area on Thirty-fifth NE or the First Interstate Bank, which was close by. He had never robbed either bank before, but he’d robbed a bank two blocks away in January two years earlier. He had robbed a First Interstate before and gotten almost $112,000, and he had hit six Sea first banks. One of the target banks in the Wedgwood neighborhood was good-sizedthe Sea first Bank but Scott didn’t want to attempt it unless he had someone who would go inside with him.

That someone would be Mark Biggins. Scott, Mark, and Steve made several trips to Thirty-fifth NE to observe the two banks. They not only watched from the outside, they mingled with the customers inside.

After they had done their surveillance, they would retire to a pool hall or a restaurant in Seattle to discuss their strategy. They agreed that Mark would be crowd control, and Steve would continue to be electronics, on the outside. Scott said that the robbery would come down on Thursday, January 25 almost exactly a year after his last job on January 27, 1995.
 
But he explained to. his accomplices that he wouldn’t decide which of the banks he would hit until they got there.

This made Mark and Steve more nervous than ever. Nevertheless, with Mark and Scott in full makeup, they headed for Seattle on that Thursday morning, arriving around eleven. Scott and Mark were in Scott’s white van and Steve drove a blue Mazda that he had rented in Portland. They had parked an unobtrusive beige 1984 Chevrolet station wagon near the bank the day before. They had agreed beforehand that if anyone saw an armored car near either bank, the code word would be “Stagecoach.” “The Sea first Bank would be “Number 1” and the Interstate was dubbed “Number 2.” Steve dropped Mark and Scott off at the old Chevy wagon and they cruised the area, observing both banks. They spotted the armored car at the Sea first bank, it was leaving which meant that the big money was going with it.

Scott picked up his Motorola and said, “The stagecoach is pulling out.

We’re going for Number Two.” They had picked one of Shawn Johnson’s three unlucky days, the dates he had checked on his calendar, based on how fast Hollywood spent money. But Johnson was sitting on a stakeout at a bank two miles away from the First Interstate branch, a lone FBI agent with a hunch. Mark Biggins carried a Smith and Wesson and a pistol with a fifteen-round magazine, Scott had his Glock, and they had also brought a rifle in a guitar case. That, Scott told them, was to shoot out the engine of any police car that might try to stop them.

Although they had always carried weapons, no one had ever talked aloud about actually firing them at anyone. Mark, who had been away from this world for so long felt sick to his stomach. And, then, it began again.
 
Inside the Interstate Bank, the head teller was assisting a customer when she caught a glimpse of a man in a theatrical mask out of the corner of her eye. She heard his voice, she would describe it later as an “an actor’s voice.” He held a black handgun and she saw that his finger was not on the trigger, but held straight above the trigger guard. That was only small comfort. “Ma’am, “ he said, politely, as he pushed a male customer out of his way, “this is a robbery. I want your fifties and hundreds.” He looked familiar if a man in makeup and a mask could look familiar, she had seen the flyers describing Hollywood and she knew who this man was. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing as he moved to another teller. She saw now that there was another man in disguise, a taller, bigger man, who was herding customers toward the center of the bank. The first robber leapt effortlessly over the gate and into the tellers’ area. He asked the first woman and the other tellers about specific security devices, he appeared to know so much about the inner workings of banks. He scooped money out of a teller’s drawer, leaving the dye pack behind.

He studied a wall of alarms that was usually hidden from customers’ view, as if he knew what to look for. A phone shrilled. The bank was so quiet that it sounded like a siren.

“If that’s the alarm company, “ he ordered, “tell them that there is nothing wrong.”

“I’m sure it’s just a customer, “ a teller answered.

“Why don’t we just let it ring? “ He seemed to consider that for a moment, and then he nodded. “Let it ring.” All during this time, customers were entering the bank unaware of the robbery and the second masked man was directing them toward the center lounge area. Now, the first man the smaller, slimmer man, asked for the vault teller. A woman stepped forward and identified herself as the vault teller. He nodded.
 
“OK, come with me and bring your keys.”
 
In the vault, she bent over the lock, fumbling a little as so many women had before her when they were next to the man in the mask, her fingers leaden with fear.

“Don’t fuck with me, lady, “ the robber hissed. To her immense relief, the vault door finally swung open. “Turn around and face the wall.” She complied, but she could see that he was taking stacks of money out and slipping them into a dark canvas bag. She could hear him muttering, half to himself, half to her, “Oh.

Dye pack, “ he said softly. “I’ve had enough of those in my lifetime.

“ Did he want her to know how savvy he was about bank robbing? He seemed to. She recognized the sound when he opened a cardboard box that was in the vault. She knew there were dye packs inside. And so did the robber.
 
He sounded annoyed as he said, “Oh, more.. ..” She heard him place them on top of the vault.

Was he through? No, he turned to her once more, and said, “OK.

Now open the ATM.” She lied to him, explaining that it was a very complicated procedure that involved several bank employees.

She hoped that he didn’t know as much about the ATM’s workings as he obviously did about the bank itself. They walked toward the ATM, and she felt her heart pounding. Suddenly, there was a squawking sound that sounded like the squelch button on a scanner.

A strange, almost robotlike, sing-songy male voice said, “Five, four, three, two, one. Endyou’re out of there.” 30 Both of the masked robbers instantly moved toward the west exit doors, but the man with the bag of money turned briefly and said, “Thank you, ladies! See you later! “ The moment they were out, she locked the doors behind them.

She watched them cross the street and get in a small Chevrolet station wagon with a silver luggage rack.

One of the other tellers took down the license number, 645BPM. It had Washington plates. So they had a beat-up old tan station wagon. Now, they also had $141,405. A few miles away, as Shawn Johnson watched and waited, his radio crackled with the report that police units were responding to a bank robbery. Damn!

He had almost tossed a coin between the First Interstate and the bank he’d picked, and he was frustrated that he had guessed wrong.

It wasn’t only the bank robbers who felt the adrenaline rush.

Shawn Johnson turned his car around and headed for the crime scene, but he was too late. Mike Magan was already there. A retired naval officer was telling him about the masked man who had pushed him aside as he waited in a teller’s line, and of how easily he had leapt over the gate to get to where the money was. “He was like a gazelle, “ the man marveled. “He went over that gate with no effort at all.” And the bank robbers had escaped clean. If there was one word that would sum up the task force’s feeling about Hollywood, it was frustration.

“I was so far behind this guy, “ Magan said. “And then I remembered my days as a defensive lineman. When a runner got too far ahead of you, you had to cut him off at an angle. That’s what I had to do with Hollywood.
 
I just wasn’t sure how.” The license number wouldn’t do the task force much good, Shawn Johnson traced the number to a Tacoma, Washington, address. The owner told the FBI agent that he had once owned the station wagon, but he had advertised it in The Seattle Times in November. A man named “Tim” had called him from a car phone. Two hours later, he showed up with another man in a gray Chevy Blazer. The driver had let “Tim” off and driven away.

Tim had asked only to drive the station wagon around the block.

Satisfied, he said he wanted it. “He paid the $1,200 in cash, “ the former owner said. “All $100 bills. I wanted to go to the license office to change the title right away, but he said he could do it without me.
 
Then I asked if we could do it the next day, and he said that was OK.

But he didn’t come back the next day.”

“What did he look like? “ Johnson asked. The man shrugged. “White, maybe thirty to forty, six feet, 200 pounds, short hair and a stubbly beard.”

“What was he wearing? “

“Sports coat gray, maybe. Button down shirt.

Gloves dirty yellow gloves.

“

“Can you remember anything else about him? “

“No, he was just a guy an ordinary-looking guy.” Ordinary or not, Shawn Johnson had an FBI artist sketch the man as the car owner described it.
 
He believed that the man might very well be one of Hollywood’s accomplices. Next, Johnson had the seller look at the recovered station wagon. “Is there anything different about it since you sold it in November? “ he asked. The man walked around it, looked under the hood, and then he nodded. “Yep, “ he said. “It has four brand new tires. And the battery’s new too.” Johnson traced the tires to a Les Schwab dealer in Tacoma. But no one remembered who had bought them. Nevertheless, it established another transaction involving Hollywood that was south of Seattle.

There was a silent war going on, a war between combatants who didn’t even know each other. The Puget Sound Violent Crimes Task Force knew in their bones that Hollywood was planning his next bank job. Although $141,000 was a big bundle of cash, it was not nearly as much as Hollywood had gotten in January a year earlier.

They doubted that he would wait a whole year before he hit again.

The investigators tabulated every bank robbery that they had attributed to Hollywood. They noted the date, time, day of the week, bank location, amount stolen, and whether he had brought an accomplice into the bank.
 
They added notations on whether a vehicle was recovered, whether a dye pack or marked bills were taken, and counted how many days passed between robberies. They knew every disguise he’d ever worn down to his shoes, they had dozens of surveillance photographs. Every human being on earth has certain behavioral patterns, most unconscious.

Hollywood was no different. If something worked, he repeated it.

If it didn’t, he dropped it. And, all the while, he was creating a profile that allowed his trackers to get a narrower fix on him.

This they had come to know about the man known as Hollywood, y He was white, five feet ten inches to six feet tall, of medium to slender build. He spoke as an educated man would, and he had a deep voice.

He had thick dark hair, covered always by a reddish blond wig that was streaked with gray. He was probably between thirty-five and forty five years old, although he moved like a much younger man. He worked with at least one “outside” accomplice. Twice, he had used an “inside” accomplice. He probably had several vehicles available to him, all of them prosaic, common makes that would not draw attention.

He probably lived south of Seattle. He preferred to hit banks at the end of the week during the late morning, noon, or late afternoon hours. He had never robbed a bank during March April, or May. He had hit the most in January four times. The shortest time between robberies was eight days, the longest 37days. He “cased” the banks he was going to hit beforehand.