LA (Los Angeles weekly) issue of Oct 28, 1972: 'The D.B. Cooper Story, Part II' by Karl Fleming

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McCauley later wrote me that Thomas [was] the kind of person we all remember in grade school: the type who trudges into the cloakroom, hangs up his mackinaw, and then all the other kids rush in and stuff snowballs into his mackinaw hood and pockets. [illegible] One of the nagging problems about the story was the difficulty and near-impossibility of verifying any of Cooper's statements. To go to anyone, the airline, to Boeing, and certainly to the FBI to verify the story would not be intelligent. That would be blowing my story, and causing Cooper's arrest even before anything could be published. [illegible] If there was now a chance Thomas or someone else there might talk as seemed likely, then I would have to do something, quick. I telephoned Morgan in Atlanta, and he rapidly devised a plan. He left instantly for Washington, went to the Justice Department, and reported that he had a client, unnamed, who had knowledge of a serious federal crime, that the client planned to publish a story about it, and that the client would turn over the information he would print — 10 days before publication — providing the client could get a promise of immunity. Here was the legal danger: were I to publish the story and Cooper take flight, then I might be liable for aiding and abetting a criminal to take flight to avoid prosecution, and other things. But if the FBI got the information 10 days ahead of publication, they'd have a fair shot at doing their jobs, and for that matter, possibly establishing whether Cooper's story was true. The promise of immunity was made. Meantime, Morgan urged me to hurry.

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[illegible top strip] only visible [partially] — about the Cambodian invasion [illegible] more populous, and emboldened enough to appear by day scuttling under cars and running across the streets. Now at the end of the term with John Connally heading up the Democrats for Republicans Committee, they're in parks, not running, but standing still contesting with the pigeons for dry bread crumbs. In this city of predators the rats have no natural enemies. Yes, there's a rat- abatement program, but like so much under the Nixon Administration it doesn't work. People don't realize that. They think these Republicans are efficient because they don't make big, dreamy, Democratic promises and then fail to carry them out. You can break modest promises too, but that hasn't sunk in any more than the Watergate Scandal or the Milk Scandal or the Wheat Scandal or the You- Fill-in-the-Blank Scandal. Nor does the country, over which this capital presides know about another scandal: the almost nightly escape from Washington's jails. Since January they have averaged one escape every four days. They make good their get-aways not only singularly, but in groups. Fat City, Rat City, who's to blame? One test of an administration is how it runs Washington. Do we blame the low caliber of Nixon's appointees or are the crooks bribing their way out? That accusation has been made but not answered. No questions get answered in the rat kingdom where the rodents come out of their holes, and a faceless President slips down and out of sight broadcasting modest radio messages in the Television Age from impenetrable places. Many, many questions. There are questions to be asked about John Ales[truncated] purposes, the mice must live off Ziegler briefings, and they only have half enough of them because he has the cut the daily briefings from two to one. [illegible] With their rations reduced to the level of pernicious anemia last week, they squeaked at their keeper as he stood in front of the blue curtain in the White House briefing room; but Ziegler squelched the weakened things, telling them that, "We're not going to have this type of chaos in future briefings...(and) as far as this briefing is concerned, ending it, it's ended." The questions pile up. Instead of answers there are diversions, such as Marina Whitman, the most presentable member of the Council of Economic Advisors, who makes those monthly admissions that prices have gone up again. "Dahlings," the ZsaZsa Gabor of economics says in effect, "we have our good months and we have our bad months, and this was a bad one again, but not so bad if you know how to read the numbers like us experts. Sure, bread's up, rent's up, milk's up, but we've got GM to hold the line on Cadillac, and diamond prices are stable." Fat city, Rat city, who's to blame? Copyright, 1972, The Washington Post-King Features Syndicate

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[illegible top strip — partial words: Cooper, No do[ubt], FBI, [il]licit, military, search for Cooper] Cooper had been located [illegible] — he was dying of an incurable disease. The fraud case was yet to be tried, but strong evidence seemed to be accumulating that Donald Sylvester Murphy — my Cooper — is not the real Cooper. A private investigator checked again last week and says that Murphy had not been employed at Boeing, and had [no] military record as a jumper. Neither fact, of course, is proof that Murphy did or did not hijack the airplane. In theory anybody smart enough to pull it off would be smart enough to concoct an elaborate fictitious background for himself. Or, anybody smart enough to do it would be smart enough to do it and tell the story for money, but tell it in such a way that it appeared to be a hoax. [illegible] But in the end, or to this point, it seems appropriate to conclude that Murphy — not Cooper — which means I jumped his [story] I fell hard. Long ago I played in a poker game with a bristly-browed old curmudgeon who had run whiskey for Capone in Philadelphia. He was one tough old man. He would try to goad me into calling his bets, when my cards didn't indicate I should. "Go on. Take a chance," he taunted. "Columbus took a chance." Yes. Columbus took a chance and discovered America. Now I had taken a chance, everything on the line, and had discovered what? More than likely an impostor, an actor, a pretender — herculean deeds. Still there lingers a small gut feeling, maybe self-serving, maybe not, that [I] had the right man all along. And if [I] didn't, well, so be it. It was a great taking story that didn't check out. And that is what a reporter is for.

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THE D.B. COOPER SKYJACKING STORY Part II: 'Sex Is Better on Payday' (Page 18)

[large masthead logo: LA]

[date line, partially legible:] ...ober 28, 1972 [price/issue illegible]

Von Hoffman Lance Rentzel Politics Reporter Faces Jail Encounter Groups

18 LA October 28, 1972

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D.B. COOPER WHY HE HIJACKED PLANE FOR $200,000

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By Karl Fleming

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In last week's first installment, the man claiming to be D.B. Cooper told how he planned the hijacking for more than a year, how he did it alone, how he decided where to do it, how after he parachuted to earth with $200,000, he walked to his car and drove home, how he [continues into main body columns]

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there that he would surface and expose himself to capture? If Cooper was smart enough to essay such a slickly pulled-off crime, he doubtless would be smart enough to know with what appetite agents of the law were seeking his capture. His getting away with it, after all, would only encourage others to mimic his deed, at God knows what cost to the airlines in hard dollars and possibly in human life. "Advertise!"

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ground revolutionary bomber group to tell his story: advertising. Accordingly, I placed a classified advertisement in several Pacific Northwest newspapers, addressed to Cooper, inviting him to contact me, and assuring him we could talk without exposing him to capture. An imprudent and wasted effort, probably. I had not been one to shy away from risks. No, only was there but a tiny chance Cooper would respond, but a minefield of booby-traps and pitfalls lay in wait. I would be

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secret? Or would I be obligated, as a citizen with knowledge of a crime, to turn Cooper in? Moreover, suppose in fact someone came forward representing himself as Cooper. How could I know he was the right man? After all, the Clifford Irving hoax was much in the press. How could I be sure someone wouldn't try the same scheme on me? There was one way, it seemed, to prove his identity: if Cooper responded to my ad, I could demand that he produce the money from the [text cut off at right edge]

In last week's first installment, the man claiming to be D.B. Cooper told how he explained the hijacking; for more than a year, how he did it alone; how he decided where to do it; how after he parachuted to earth with $200,000, he walked to his car and drove home; how he discovered he couldn't spend the money. This week he explains why he did it.

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THREE WEEKS AFTER D.B. COOPER skyjacked a Northwest Airline plane and got away with $200,000, the following letter appeared in a Reno newspaper: "I didn't rob Northwest Orient (sic) because I thought it would be romantic, heroic or any of the other euphemisms that seem to attach themselves to situations of high risk. I am no modern-day Robin Hood. Unfortunately, I do have only 14 months to live. My life has been one of hate, turmoil, frustration and more hate. This seemed like the fastest and most profitable way to gain a few la[illegible]rains of peace of mind. I am not holed up in some obscure backwoods town. Neither am I a psychopathic killer. As a matter of fact, I've never even received a speeding ticket." Here, the long-trained reporter's instinct suggested, was a man who wanted to talk, to justify, to rationalize and to do verbal penance for his deed. What he had done was to execute the most daring and ingenious airline holdup in history—doing it all alone and diving out of the plane with $200,000 booty—and to all appearances, getting away with it. Half the FBI agents in the country were looking for him. Hundreds of military troops fanned out on foot to search the countryside around Lake Merwin, Wash., where it was believed he landed after parachuting. Northwest [text continues, cut off at column break]

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there that he would surface and expose himself to capture? If Cooper was smart enough to essay such a slickly pulled-off crime, he doubtless would be smart enough to know with what appetite agents of the law were seeking his capture. His getting away with it, after all, would only encourage others to mimic his deed, at God knows what cost to the airlines in hard dollars and possibly in human life.

Advertise!

Still, there remained the fact of the letter: After several days of pondering, I decided to try a scheme I had successfully used once before: to lure from hiding a member of a secret under-

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The man who says he is D.B. Cooper.

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ground revolutionary bomber group to tell his story: advertising. Accordingly, I placed a classified advertisement in several Pacific Northwest newspapers, addressed to Cooper, inviting him to contact me, and assuring him we could talk without exposing him to capture. An imprudent and wasted effort, probably. I had not been one to shy away from risks. No one was there but a tiny chance Cooper would respond, but a minefield of booby-traps and pitfalls lay in wait. I would be working alone and underground, outside the law, treading a delicate constitutional line. If I found Cooper, would I have constitutional privilege as a reporter to keep my source of information secret? Or would I be obligated as a citizen with knowledge of a crime to turn Cooper in? Moreover, suppose, in fact, someone came forward representing himself as Cooper. How could I know he was the right man? After all, the Clifford Irving hoax was much in the press. How could I be sure someone wouldn't try the same scheme on me? There was one way, it seemed, to prove his identity: if Cooper responded to my ad, I could demand that he produce the money from the skyjacking. That would be strong proof. Preparing for such an eventuality, I obtained the 34-page FBI booklet containing the numbers of every one of the stolen bills. The FBI was circulating it to banks and other money institutions.

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Midnight Phone Call

Then an entire month passed. The few respondents to the ad were cranks. Nothing more. Then on the night of Jan. 31, precisely at midnight, my phone rang and when I answered a voice said: "This call is from the Pacific Northwest." I was fully awake in an instant and said "Don't say a word more. Call me tomorrow night at 9 o'clock and I will have made arrangements for us to talk on a safe telephone." As many a reporter who has been involved in hairy, dangerous stories (I had covered Birmingham, Selma, Jackson, Watts, and four assassinations) I was careful almost to the point of paranoia about telephone tapping. Once down South, a reporter friend was dictating his integration story to his office by long-distance call when a voice, obviously white, probably cop, broke in and said: "You goddamned nigger-loving son-of-a-bitch." One learned to be careful about phones. By next morning, I had arranged an elaborate system involving four phones: my answering service was in-

What he had done was execute the most daring and ingenious airline hold-up in history—doing it all alone and diving out of the plane with $200,000 booty—and to all appearances getting away with it. Half the FBI agents in the country were looking for him. Hundreds of military troops fanned out on foot to search the countryside around Lake Merwin, Wash., where it was believed he landed after parachuting. Northwest posted a $25,000 reward. So no matter how urgently Cooper might have wanted to talk, he would be laying extremely low.

Nevertheless, I brooded, if a reporter could somehow get to Cooper, what a story there was to be had. Not only was the crime daringly unique, but Cooper's letter suggested an extremely uncommon and thus potentially fascinating motive. If a reporter was good at his craft, he looked for this extra dimension in a story – a situation or an occurrence of an extraordinary nature that instantly crystalized some aspect of the human spectacle.

Given the intensity of the search for Cooper, however, what real hope was

Copyright© 1972 Platypus Publications

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[illegible top lines] and said 'Don't say a word more. Call me tomorrow night at 9 o'clock and I will have made arrangements for [illegible] to talk on a safe telephone. [illegible]

As is many a reporter who has been involved in 'hairy,' dangerous stories (I had covered Birmingham, Selma, Jackson, Watts, and four assassinations) I was careful almost to the point of paranoia about telephone tapping. Once down South, a reporter friend was dictating his integration story to his office by long-distance call when a voice, obviously white, probably cop, broke in and said 'You goddamned nigger-loving son-of-a-bitch.'

One learned to be careful about phones. By next morning, I had arranged an elaborate system involving four phones; my answering service was in-[text continues beyond page]

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KARL FLEMING was associated with Newsweek magazine as correspondent, Los Angeles bureau chief and contributing editor for 11 years before resigning April 15 to found LA. While with Newsweek, he covered virtually every significant civil rights story of the turbulent '60s, including Birmingham, Selma, Ole Miss, Little Rock and Watts. He covered the assassinations of President John F. Kennedy and his brother Robert and those of Martin Luther King and Medgar Evers. He was assigned to Richard Nixon during the last Presidential campaign and has covered Lyndon Johnson, George Wallace, Hubert Humphrey, Barry Goldwater and Ronald Reagan. He also reported on the Charles Manson and Jack Ruby trials for Newsweek and the trial of Pueblo spy ship captain Lloyd M. Bucker.

October 28, 1972

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LA 19

[Two artist's conception illustrations, side by side] [Left illustration]: Figure depicted — partial text visible: "aloha" | "MIGHT BE" [partially legible] [Right illustration]: Figure depicted — large text visible: "5727A" [Bottom-right credit]: Robert I [lue/illegible]

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The D. B. Cooper Story, an artist's conception of what he says he was, is, and might be: a Boeing engineer, a skyjacker riding the plane he parachuted from; a vacationer enjoying his spoils; or a convict, caught and dispatched to jail.

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[illegible fragments — scan artifacts and surrounding page text bleeding through] ... Boeing engin[eer], G. r[illegible] p[illegible] ... ... Says he was, is, and might be-[illegible] ... ... lane [illegible] ... ... [illegible] ...

20 LA October 28, 1972

COOPER THOUGHT ABOUT SUICIDE

BUT IN THE CHURCH IT'S A SIN

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[instru]cted to take the call and refer it to another number, where a friend was standing by with instructions to take the call, refer the caller to yet another number—where I was waiting—and then get out of the house. In case the call was traced to that number, the friend would be absent if anyone came knocking.

At 9 p.m., I was waiting, and at 9:10, the phone rang. The caller identified himself as "Mr. Thomas" and said he was acting as an intermediary for Cooper. He said Cooper was interested in explaining to the American people the reason for the skyjacking, but Cooper was having a hard time financially. He wasn't able to spend the $200,000, for the money was hot. The FBI had the numbers of the bills, therefore, he wanted to sell his story for $45,000, to be paid in three segments: $15,000 when I was sure I had the right man; $15,000 when my interviews were completed (he suggested a filmed interview, with masks); and $15,000 upon publication of the story.

Seth Thomas Shows Up

Next week, the intermediary came to Los Angeles, and we met at the Airport Marina Hotel, where I had taken a room. "Seth Thomas" was a plodding, black-haired, spade-bearded real estate broker and investment counselor of—so he described himself—and he brought with him several Polaroid photographs of his client, pictures that looked [cut off at bottom]

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felt guilty even when stealing cookies from a jar when he was a child.

He had been married to the same woman for 25 years, had never cheated on her once, belonged to the country club, the PTA and had been so faithful an upward-aspiring engineer at Boeing that he carried two cheese sandwiches to lunch every day, and often toiled into the night at his job. He was a perfect Free enterprise specimen.

Feathers His Neck

Item: "You don't laugh at motherhood. You don't laugh at tradition, at religion, at everything possible that a man could hold dear," he said.

Item: "When you're at the football game and somebody gets up and sings the 'Star-Spangled Banner,' it still makes the feathers come up on my neck when I hear it."

Item: "When I had my first sexual experience with a girl, I was 17 years old. This was an older woman. I was so dumb. I was drinking beer with her. I was away from home and it was Christmas Eve. We went to her apartment. She asked me if I wanted to play cards. So I said 'sure.' So we're playing strip poker. For real. So, the next thing, I had to go to the bathroom and when I came back, she was in bed. So I said 'Well, I guess I'll be going, Irene.' And she said 'Oh, it's cold in here. If you'd just come over and warm me up a bit.' Well, I'm a pretty [sharp fellow, I just got in...] [cut off at bottom]

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phase out everybody in their 40s because it would be cheaper, and better economics to keep the young blood coming in. If you can suck the last drop of gray matter from the ones you're going to dump and put it into the brains of the younger ones, then see how much more money you're ahead!"

The first shock passed, and Cooper realized that his situation—though he had a $300 a month mortgage on a suburban home, two cars, a boat, a camper and two children to support—wasn't too bad. After all, this executive at Northwest, upon whom occasionally Cooper paid service calls, had "made a standing offer that any time I wanted to change companies...it would be great to have me on the Northwest team." The Northwest man had been buttering him up, courting him even.

So Cooper telephoned him. The secretary said he was on another line and would call back. When he didn't, Cooper phoned again. He was not in the office, the secretary said, but she would have him call. He didn't. Cooper telephoned again. He was in conference, the secretary said. Finally, another bolt of truth: his old pal at Northwest, his occasional golf partner, was avoiding him. There would be no job.

As the out-of-work days passed, Cooper began dipping into his savings, and thinking of what he would do with the rest of his life. His pride had been hurt. "Any man who gets up and goes to work [cut off at bottom]"

He said Cooper was interested in explaining to the American people the reason for the skyjacking, but Cooper was having a hard time financially. He wasn't able to spend the $200,000, for the money was hot. The FBI had the numbers of the bills, therefore, he wanted to sell his story for $45,000, to be paid in three segments: $15,000 when I was sure I had the right man; $15,000 when my interviews were completed (he suggested a filmed interview, with masks); and $15,000 upon publication of the story.

Seth Thomas Shows Up

Next week, the intermediary came to Los Angeles, and we met at the Airport Marina Hotel, where I had taken a room. "Seth Thomas" was a plodding, black-haired, spade-bearded real estate broker and investment counselor – or so he described himself – and he brought with him several Polaroid photographs of his client, pictures that looked remarkably like the composite drawing of D.B. Cooper which the FBI circulated to newspapers. He also produced a paper containing three serial numbers, which coincided with three numbers on the FBI list.

That, I told him, was hardly real proof, for nearly anyone could obtain the list and copy numbers out of it. How about the real bills?

As we dickered over the interview fee, he promised the real bills would be produced. We agreed on a price, $30,000, and on Feb. 15, I nervously boarded a Western flight to Seattle, carrying cameras, two tape recorders, and $30,000 in $20 and $50 bills, concealed in several envelopes and buried in my tennis equipment case.

Shortly after checking into The Swept Wing Motel near the Seattle airport Thomas arrived, and minutes later, Cooper himself appeared, entering my room furtively from the parking lot. He was a nervous, slightly-built, balding middle-aged man who wore a black raincoat, black shoes and black gloves. He kept the gloves on while he chain-smoked filter cigarettes. He spoke in a raspy voice that reminded me instantly of the Pueblo spy ship commander Pete Bucher.

Cooper was anxious to have the money [text continues, partially illegible at column break]

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Item: 'You don't laugh at motherhood, at religion, at everything possible that a man could hold dear,' he said.

Item: 'When you're at the football game and somebody gets up and sings the "Star-Spangled Banner," it still makes the feathers come up on my neck when I hear it.'

Item: 'When I had my first sexual experience with a girl, I was 17 years old. This was an older woman. I was so dumb. I was drinking beer with her. I was away from home and it was Christmas Eve. We went to her apartment. She asked me if I wanted to play cards. So I said "sure." So we're playing strip poker. For real. So, the next thing, I had to go to the bathroom and when I came back, she was in bed. So I said "Well, I guess I'll be going, Irene." And she said "Oh, it's cold in here. If you'd just come over and warm me up a bit." Well, I'm a pretty sharp fellow. I just got in, clothes and all. I took my shoes off. That's all. I'll tell you what: she gave me an education before I was much older.'

Item: 'A woman is different from a man. A woman comes from some other place. She comes from the land of Nod or something... If a man doesn't take the dominant role in the bedroom, there's something wrong with him. A man can go out into an alley or the back of a car or something. But a woman has to have some feeling of security in her lovemaking.'

Item: 'A man's feeling of manhood, his masculinity, is directly associated with his ability to provide for himself and to earn a good living. When all of sudden he is unable to do this, if he has been a red-blooded man who stood on his feet and worked all his life and asked no quarter from anyone, asked for nothing, then you in effect have emasculated this man. It means cut the balls off him.'

Item: 'I guess you would have to say that sex is better on payday.'

Item: 'You work hard for Dear Old Ironworks and do a good job and put in your years there and do the best you can and make money for them and get along well with everyone and you will be rewarded. Because besides your pay check and your annual leave and your [text continues onto next page or column]'

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After all, this executive at Northwest, upon whom [Cooper] occasionally [made] service calls, had made a standing offer that any time I wanted to change companies...it would be great to have me on the Northwest team.' The Northwest man had been buttering him up, courting him.

So Cooper telephoned him. The secretary said he was on another line and would call back. When he didn't, Cooper phoned again. He was not in the office, the secretary said, but she would have him call. He didn't. Cooper telephoned again. He was in conference, the secretary said. Finally, another bolt of truth: his old pal at Northwest, his occasional golf partner, was avoiding him. There would be no job.

As the out-of-work days passed, Cooper began dipping into his savings, and thinking of what he would do with the rest of his life. His pride had been hurt. 'Any man who gets up and goes to work in the morning is a proud man,' he said. He had been fired, so he suffered constant embarrassment.

'People look at you with a sympathetic eye, and this is the thing that kills you. Sympathy is the one thing I could never stand all my life.'

Abortive Business Attempts

He tried to get a construction company going, but couldn't raise the capital. He made an abortive attempt to go into the house trailer business, but he had no money.

Finally, he gritted his teeth and did something inimical to everything he stood for: he went to the unemployment office. A typically crisp, impersonal, juiceless woman bureaucrat, he said, coolly interrogated him about his qualifications, then suggested he take a job as an 'aide.' He left in a boiling rage. The humiliation of that experience, the anger at being fired and tossed on the junkheap, the betrayal of his friend, they all came together at once and washed over him in tear-scalding anger.

He couldn't get work. His pride was deteriorating. He began to contemplate suicide. Pills, he finally decided, would be the way. He tried, but he couldn't do it. The Catholic Church had instilled [text continues onto next page]

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Karl Fleming and D. B. Cooper

in $20 and $50 bills, concealed in several envelopes and buried in my tennis equipment case.

Shortly after checking into The Swept Wing Motel, near the Seattle airport, Thomas arrived, and minutes later, Cooper himself appeared, entering my room furtively from the parking lot. He was a nervous, slightly-built, balding, middle-aged man who wore a black raincoat, black shoes and black gloves. He kept the gloves on while he chain-smoked filter cigarettes. He spoke in a raspy voice that reminded me instantly of the Pueblo spy ship commander Pete Bucher.

Cooper was anxious to have the money handed over. But I insisted on seeing the real money, whereupon Thomas extracted a wallet and produced three crisp $20 bills. I checked their serial numbers against the FBI list. They matched.

Cooper asked if I would like to have the three $20 bills. "And I have $199,940 more of them buried in the ground that I will be happy to give you in exchange for other bills," he said. I told him I didn't think I wanted to have any stolen bills in my possession.

I continued to hesitate, prodding Cooper to yield up details of the hijacking — few of which had appeared in the press. He began hesitantly, but soon convinced me I had the right man. Subsequently I handed over the money, with the stipulation that it be held for Cooper's legal defense were he caught. What helped convince me was what Cooper said was his motive.

He was raised in an authoritarian Catholic household, Cooper said, and

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his masculinity [illegible] associated with his ability to provide for himself and to earn a good living. When all of a sudden he is unable to do this, if he has been a red-blooded man who stood on his feet and worked all his life and asked no quarter from anyone, asked for nothing, then you in effect have emasculated this man. It means cut the balls off him."

Item: "I guess you would have to say that sex is better on payday."

Item: "You work hard for Dear Old Ironworks and do a good job and put in your years there and do the best you can and make money for them and get along well with everyone and you will be rewarded. Because besides your paycheck and your annual leave and your vacation, if you get a little higher up, you can look forward to a bonus and the pension and be well-fed and, of course, you'll get the gold watch or whatever."

That was D.B. Cooper, and that was the way he had lived his life, patiently hoeing out the row, obeying the rules, and waiting to cash in on the American Dream, as advertised.

Bitter Payoff

His payoff, he related bitterly, came one day when he went to his Boeing desk and found a pink slip of dismissal. He was crushed.

"It made me feel just like the first time I jumped out of an airplane... just bereft of everything that's inside you, that's all," he said.

He was being replaced, he discovered, by a man 15 years his junior, a junior man he had carefully trained. He had been a believer, an unquestioning cog, but now a jolt of hard truth hit him: "You're dead wood. If they could, they'd

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finally, he [illegible] something inimical to everything he stood for, he went to the unemployment office. A typically crisp, impersonal, juiceless woman bureaucrat, he said, coolly interrogated him about his qualifications, then suggested he take a job as an "aide." He left in a boiling rage. The humiliation of that experience, the anger at being fired and tossed on the junkheap, the betrayal of his friends — they all came together at once and washed over him in tear-scalding anger.

He couldn't get work. His pride was deteriorating. He began to contemplate suicide. Pills, he finally decided, would be the way. He tried, but he couldn't do it. The Catholic Church had instilled too strongly in him that suicide, like marital infidelity, is a sin.

At home every day, he read a lot of newspapers. They were full of hijacking stories, which he read after vainly searching the classified job section.

"So then, I started thinking about it," he said. "The more I thought about it, the more I thought how easy it would be. Because the security is very weak, very lax, almost non-existent. So I started to organize, mentally, to do this. I would go on with everyday living. But I would begin to think about this in earnest."

Then followed a period of moral wrestling: "There's the code: you can't take what's not yours. But wait a minute. Who says it's not mine? Where would this money come from? Either the stockholders or the company that insures them. Now, wait a minute. Insurance. Who has a strangle hold on the American economy? Insurance companies. And

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the insurance companies, they're trying to hide the money. They're buying land. They're loaning money. They're building skyscrapers. They're into everything. And then you get thoughts like: how many millionaires made $1 last year and didn't pay taxes. And look at the oil companies. I could put the money I would steal down as a depletion allowance," Cooper said.

So he planned. "I didn't want to give anything I had up, and in order to even maintain what I had, I had to do something. And then I was, if you'll pardon the expression, very much pissed off right then. So more and more, I planned, for over a year, and still I was not sure I would go through with it. But my bitterness was changing to hard cynicism."

If he did it, how much money would he ask? Had he worked at Boeing to retirement, his annual income, with company

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Karl Fleming and D. B. Cooper

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[Header top-left, partially legible:] October 28, 1973 [Header top-right, partially legible:] [illegible masthead text] [page number:] 21

[illegible] over all of it I had more co[m]ing [than] [that, I] [didn't do anything wrong] ... I showed the [illegible] [illegible] bonets and [illegible] investigations. [w]on [illegible] [illegible] anything wrong." he [said] his fantasy and travel[?] [illegible]

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benefits and his few investments, would be about $12,000. He went to "Seth Thomas," investment counselor, who had approached him several times previous about putting his money into land.

[column break]

even all of it. I had more coming than that, I didn't do anything wrong." he said.

Wax in Ears

When we finished some eight hours [illegible]

[column break]

the rat race again? Or would he fulfill his fantasy and travel? "If anything, I've done the people a favor," he said. "I've shown them that it can be done. You don't have to be the [guess: stereotyped] individual that hijacks[—]

[column break]

and their escape through drugs. Well, I showed them. I'm not over the hill. I can make another jump tomorrow. I can make one 10 years from now, God willing. You bet."

And: "I proved to the Establishment [illegible]"

[illegible/fragmented] ...bout putting his money into land: [illegible] when [illegible] we [illegible] some $5[illegible] ...ke-u [illegible] [illegible] ch of a captain sum Cooper [illegible] of taped interviews, he put on ma[ke-up] [illegible] asked would a man have to invest to [illegible] a wool cap and answered himself [illegible] 0007 [illegible] a freelance cameraman and [illegible] yield [an] annual income of about $12,[000] [illegible] soundman [illegible] had brought up [illegible] [Thomas] took his pencil and worked [illegible] age [illegible] "00" Cooper thought [illegible] structing them to hear nothing, see but [illegible] his needs were modest [illegible] nothing, ask no questions. [illegible] their ears while [illegible] made them [illegible] scaled d[own] the figure [illegible] stick wads of wax [illegible] [made] them. [illegible] the plane for $200,000. [illegible] relating how he hijacked the [illegible] he raised the photostats [illegible] of the stolen [illegible] And that was [illegible] [illegible] turn their backs from the camera when [illegible] stereotyped individual [illegible] [illegible] that I'm not just a faceless number. I'm [illegible] he decided to [illegible] [illegible] he decided to [illegible] [illegible] I interviewed Cooper, and [illegible] [illegible] bills to be fi[lmed] [illegible] [illegible] planes. You don't have to even [illegible] your voice. You don't have to [use] any [illegible] person [illegible] I'm a human [being] prove violence. You don't have to use [any] Old Dad can still do it. threats, and you can still tell that plane [illegible] Packed my fil[m] [illegible] where to go and not jeopardize all those [illegible] of the bills [illegible] headed people. I showed them their [screening] [illegible] still euphoric [when] the plane system doesn't work. [illegible] Les[?] Angeles [illegible] felt that if [illegible] [illegible] never dreamed [illegible] [illegible] [illegible] had [illegible] anything against the Establishment [illegible] but here he had hijacked this plane in a [illegible] [high?] [illegible] cold vengeful rage. Now he had [illegible] [illegible] [illegible] [illegible] classic commentary on American [so-]

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benefits and his few investments, would be about $12,000. He went to "Seth Thomas," investment counselor, who had approached him several times previous about putting his money into land. How much of a capital sum, Cooper asked, would a man have to invest to yield an annual income of about $12,000? Thomas took his pencil and worked it out: $250,000. Cooper thought about it, but then decided his needs were modest, so he scaled down the figure to $200,000. And that was how he decided to hijack the plane for $200,000.

After relating how he hijacked the plane and drove home in his car with the money, he insisted he didn't feel guilty over the crime, or over the possibility that he might encourage others to stage hijackings, until someone got killed.

"I took what I figured was mine, not even all of it. I had more coming than that. I didn't do anything wrong," he said.

Wax in Ears

When we finished some eight hours of taped interviews, he put on make-up and a wool cap and allowed himself to be filmed by a freelance cameraman and soundman I had brought up after instructing them to hear nothing, see nothing, ask no questions. I made them stick wads of wax into their ears while I interviewed Cooper, and made them turn their backs from the camera when he raised the photostats of the stolen bills to be filmed.

That afternoon, we rode – along with Seth Thomas, whose name I now knew to be Jack Lewis – down Interstate 5, and he showed me all the key spots in the hijacking. As we drove, he talked about his future. Would he get back in the rat race again? Or would he fulfill his fantasy and travel?

"If anything, I've done the people a favor," he said. "I've shown them that it can be done. You don't have to be the stereotyped individual that hijacks planes. You don't have to even raise your voice. You don't have to use any violence. You don't have to use any threats, and you can still tell that plane where to go and not jeopardize all those people. I showed them their screening system doesn't work."

He "never dreamed I would be saying anything against the Establishment" but here he had hijacked this plane in a cold vengeful rage. Now he had a message "to the younger generation that wants to shoot everybody over 30. They've botched every single one they've ever done, with all their bombings and all their riots and cold-blooded murders and their escape through drugs. Well, I showed them. I'm not over the hill. I can make another jump tomorrow. I can make one 10 years from now, God willing. You bet."

And: "I proved to the Establishment that I'm not just a faceless number. I'm a person. I'm a human being. I proved that Old Dad can still do it."

Jubilantly, I packed my film, my tapes, my copies of the bills and headed home.

I was still euphoric when the plane reached Los Angeles. I felt that if I never wrote another story, I had justified my existence, by creating something worthwhile, something that would stand – I presumed to imagine – as a classic commentary on American society.

NEXT WEEK: [a out?], a book publisher's betrayal of trust, some indictments, and the growing suspicion that it was all a hoax.

LA October 28, 1972 40 [page number, upper left]

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[No readable text within photograph]

[partial text visible in image]: ...HAMAS / ...ATION IN / ...URY

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Will This Happen to the Man Who Says He Is D.B. Cooper? NEXT WEEK: THE AFTERMATH

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[Partial text visible within illustration, right panel]: [guess: DR]AMAS / [guess: ]ATION IN / [guess: ]AIRY

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Will This Happen to the Man Who Says He Is D.B. Cooper? NEXT WEEK: THE AFTERMATH