Las Vegan Magazine article 'The Discovery of D.B. Cooper' by Byron H. Brown, October 1983

The Discovery of D.B. Cooper by Byron H. Brown

---

EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION: Las Vegas has never been associated with the most famous skyjacking in American history, but in the 1970's an investigation of incredible dimensions was centered in this gambling capitol, one which led to the identification of the legendary Northwest sky- jacker D.B. Cooper. Conducted by a unique pair of characters—an unemployed aircraft engineer and his son, who was an investigative reporter and freelance writer here—the investigation shattered the myth surrounding the D.B. Cooper affair and in striking fashion exposed many obscure, never-before-revealed facets of the famous skyjacking, causing one local FBI agent to admit to the two: "You have accomplished the im- possible."

In 1975, freelance journalist Byron Brown met a Hollywood producer who was in Las Vegas to film a sporting event for CBS television, and in- terested him in the idea of making a movie about a bizarre journey he had taken the year before with his father and an old prison buddy of his—a man who claimed to be the legendary D.B. Cooper. Before long Byron was traveling regularly to Los Angeles to assist in the development of a movie script and to engage in meetings with motion picture executives. Strategy sessions in Las Vegas nightspots resulted in his going on the road to develop leads and uncover major evidence.

"As a native of the Pacific Northwest, I have always been intrigued by the famous skyjacking. Even in Nevada, people instantly recognize the name D.B. Cooper and comment upon the veil of mystery surrounding the crime. Las Vegas, the pre-eminent city of gamblers, obviously appreciates one of its kind: a man who forced the odds to turn in his favor when the chips were down. So when I first met Byron Brown (ironically, not long after I had seen the movie In Pursuit of D.B. Cooper), I began to realize that he had, in fact, uncovered the truth about Cooper and also stumbled upon one of the most exciting stories ever to come across my desk. His sincerity and the massive documentation he showed me—he has the only

---

70 OCTOBER 1983/LAS VEGAN MAGAZINE

---

DB Cooper-20766

illustration by Steve Charem

---

LAS VEGAN MAGAZINE/OCTOBER 1983 71

---

DB Cooper-20767

known photographs of the man now identified as D.B. Cooper, which will be published in Las Vegan's November issue—convinced me that he had spent many years professionally researching and investigating obscure leads and myriad new facts about the skyjacking. Byron, then completing his book on the subject, was hesitant to share his information at first, but my inquisitiveness about the famous criminal prompted him to begin work on this exclusive two-part series for Las Vegan. The D.B. Cooper matter is a complex and serious one. Shortly after the skyjacking, FBI agents in charge of the investigation concluded that Cooper had probably died in his extraordinary leap from the commercial airliner. But to be on the safe side, in 1976 the U.S. Justice Department issued a re-indictment of Cooper in Portland, Oregon, which effectively nullified any statute-of-limitations on the crime. Technically, therefore, Cooper still may be prosecuted, so the FBI has never closed its file on the case. Las Vegan Magazine is proud to present this previously unreported evidence in the amazing story which begins in the following report. JES

---

THE CRIME

Late afternoon on Thanksgiving Eve, November 24, 1971, the sky was turning gray in Portland, Oregon. As storm clouds moved in from the Pacific coast, Northwest Orient Flight 305 was preparing for take-off to Seattle. The plane, a three-engine Boeing 727, had left Washington D.C. earlier in the day, making a series of hops across the country before arriving in Portland. So far it had been a routine flight. But at the Portland terminal a man who signed his name as Dan Cooper and paid cash for his ticket to Seattle was causing a delay. Standing by the terminal windows, he was peering worriedly at the rear of the Boeing 727, nervously sipping a drink. He ignored the final boarding call. Stewardess Florence Schaffner approached the man and warned him that he was about to be left behind. According to later press dispatches, there was nothing remarkable about his appearance. A tall, swarthy, black-haired man who appeared to be in his mid-forties, Cooper was wearing a dark business suit, brown Oxford lace-up shoes and an unfashionably narrow tie. He carried a topcoat and briefcase, and once aboard the plane he donned a pair of dark sunglasses. Florence Schaffner thought he was some sort of country bumpkin. Perhaps he was afraid of flying. She led him almost like a frightened little boy to his seat. As soon as the plane was in the air, Cooper pushed the stewardess call button and ordered a bourbon. When Florence Schaffner brought it to him, she was puzzled that he was wearing a pair of white gloves. She was even more puzzled when he handed her a

---

note in a sealed envelope, but Florence is an attractive young woman and was used to male passengers making passes at her, so she put the note in her handbag without reading it and began serving other passengers. Suddenly, Cooper called out to her in an angry voice, "Miss, I want you to read that note!" She opened the envelope distractedly, and was suddenly faced with the awesome message — written in block capitals on a single sheet of paper — "MISS—I HAVE A BOMB IN MY BRIEFCASE AND I WANT YOU TO SIT BESIDE ME." "Oh, no!" she thought, trying to comprehend the words. "You're kidding," she stammered to him, "are you kidding?" He was not. "You better sit down right now," he threatened. From his window seat he grabbed her hand and pulled her into the aisle seat. Then he opened the briefcase in the seat between them and showed her a large battery, some wiring, and several reddish-brown sticks bundled together which he claimed were dynamite. "All I have to do is touch these two wires together and it's all over," he said.

---

Among the young anti-establishment crowd, Cooper became a heroic symbol of rebellion: he had successfully stuck it to Northwest Airlines, the banks and insurance companies, and also thumbed his nose at the FBI.

---

Florence took down Cooper's demands on the back of the envelope: he wanted four parachutes — two sport chutes and two military backpacks — and $200,000 in cash to be delivered to him upon landing in Seattle. Also, he wanted a fuel truck to meet the plane at the end of the runway. Otherwise, he would "blow this damn bird out of the sky." He wanted the money in $20 bills and placed in a hiker's backpack, but Florence forgot to write down these two points or to relay them to the captain. She was nearly fainting with fear. The plane was approaching Seattle. Captain William Scott and Co-pilot Bill Rataczak were in a frenzy about what to do. They relayed Cooper's demands to Northwest Operations at Sea-Tac Airport and asked for instructions. Back came the word: cooperate fully and "do whatever he demands." Other authorities radioed Scott: "FBI and police have advised no action be taken. Repeat. No action be taken." Scott was forced to circle the field for two-and-a-half hours while those on the ground

---

frantically got together the $200,000 and four parachutes. Due to the approaching Thanksgiving holiday, they were having difficulties collecting the money. He landed the plane at Seattle at 5:40 PM, but the ransom was still not collected. The tower radioed Scott: "Impress on this man that we are not trying to stall. The money is on its way. It was picked up at more than one bank." Finally, at 6:30 PM the money and parachutes arrived, but Cooper was outraged that the ransom had been placed in a mail sack instead of a backpack. "Screw me one more time and you're a dead man," he warned Scott over the plane's intercom. Nevertheless, he allowed the thirty-six passengers and two of the stewardesses — Schaffner and Alice Hancock — to leave the plane, but at the last minute he ordered stewardess Tina Mucklow to remain with him as a hostage and instructed her to close all the window blinds in the cabin. He suspected the FBI was lining up outside to try to shoot him. The fuel truck Cooper had ordered was taking an interminably long time to complete its task. He suspected a set-up. "I know exactly how long it takes to fuel this plane!" he barked over the intercom. "Let's get this motherf—— show on the road!" Finally, at 7:36 PM the 727 took off again. Cooper had demanded to be flown to Mexico City, but Captain Scott pointed out to him that Mexico was beyond the range of the aircraft, so there would have to be another refueling stop. After a series of exchanges with Northwest Flight Control in Minneapolis, Scott was given three alternatives: Reno, Phoenix, and "somewhere in between" — which had to be Las Vegas. Cooper chose Reno. There, three and a half hours after leaving Seattle, the plane landed. Since the crew had not heard from Cooper over the interphone in over three hours (Tina Mucklow was ordered into the cockpit by him shortly after take-off from Seattle), FBI agents, airport security personnel, and police warily closed in on the plane, firing a barrage of tear-gas cannisters into the back. But Cooper, the money, the briefcase with the bomb, and two of the four parachutes were gone. D.B. Cooper — the name the press gave him, and the one that stuck — had gotten clean away. "D.B. Cooper, Where Are You?" demanded the bumper stickers. "D.B. Cooper, We Love You" proclaimed the T-shirts. There was a whimsical cartoon book about him: Skyjacker's Guide — Or Please Hold This Bomb While I Go To The Bathroom. In Seattle for a while there was even a D.B. Cooper Discotheque where patrons danced "the skyjack." Among the young anti-establishment crowd, Cooper became a heroic symbol of rebellion: he had successfully stuck it to Northwest Airlines, the banks and insurance companies, and also thumbed his nose at the FBI.

---

72 OCTOBER 1983/LAS VEGAN MAGAZINE

---

DB Cooper-20768

But many people, particularly FBI agents involved in the case, believed that Cooper died in the jump. "What we're looking for is a hole in the ground," said one agent. Their suspicions were bolstered by the fact that one of the chest packs Cooper was given turned out to be a sewn-up dummy chute used for classroom demonstration — according to George Harrison, who was Seattle transport manager for Northwest Airlines at the time. Also, if Cooper had survived the jump he was obviously in no hurry to spend the money. Not one of the $20 bills he had received — all the serial numbers had been recorded — ever turned up until a small bundle of Cooper's loot was discovered by a young Oklahoma boy, Brian Ingram, on the banks of the Columbia River nine miles north of Portland in February 1980. The FBI interpreted this find as proof that Cooper died in the jump, but they had trouble accounting for why this small bundle of money ended up in a place ten miles upstream from the place they have always maintained he jumped out — the area around the town of Woodland, Washington.

According to the crew of the plane, a series of strong "pressure bumps" occurred directly over this area of broad, flat farming country about twenty miles north of Portland, which seemed the most likely place for him to have jumped. Local authorities, familiar with the geography, doubted that he jumped much farther south. To do so would run the risk of bailing out into the cold, rugged, densely-forested Cascades, which were already thinly covered with snow. Survival there in street clothes would be nearly impossible, especially since the Cascades had been hit by fierce storms the night of the skyjacking. On the basis of the crew's information, a massive search was mounted. The day after Thanksgiving, when the weather cleared, a horde of official searchers invaded the Woodland area. FBI agents, local sheriffs and deputies, local police and Boy Scout troups, assisted by helicopters provided by the Army and Weyerhauser Lumber Company, searched exhaustively. But they found nothing. In the spring another search was conducted, this time by nearly three hundred soldiers from Fort Lewis, Washington. They too found nothing. It seemed that D.B. Cooper had disappeared forever.

• • •

---

As soon as the plane was in the air, Cooper pushed the stewardess call button and ordered a bourbon. When Florence Schaffner brought it to him, she was puzzled that he was wearing a pair of white gloves.

---

THE REVELATION

But now the mystery may be over. A confession, two eye-witnesses, and a mass of circumstantial evidence indicate that a man known to many as Bryant "Jack" Coffelt once committed a crime of such daring that it captured the imagination of a nation.

The story I related to the producer in Las Vegas was this: In 1974, when I was 16, my father asked me to join him on a camping ex-

---

pedition to the Cascade Mountains of Oregon with an old friend of his, ostensibly so that we would have a chance to look over towns where I might decide to go to college. My father had been having a lot of trouble lately at a small beer and wine store that he ran. Recently, a county grand jury had revoked the store's license because of the many disturbances that occurred there, so my father had plenty of time on his hands to take this much-needed vacation. "Hell, I might want to move out there myself," he said, "if I can put together a little money."

We started out from our home in northeast Georgia, our truck-camper rig loaded with hiking gear, on the thousand-mile trip to Joplin, Missouri, where we were to meet his old friend. It was the third week in June. We met Jack Coffelt in Joplin as night was falling, and immediately proceeded to a seedy motel on the outskirts of town where we took a room for the night. In the small room, with a dim lamp il-

---

luminating his face, Jack Coffelt looked me steadily in the eye and asked suspiciously, "Byron, you remember that fella that skyjacked that airplane out in Oregon a few years back? — Cooper, D.B. Cooper? You remember him?"

"Sure," I replied. "All my friends at school were talking about that for weeks after it happened." I thought he would tell me we were going to look for Cooper.

"Well, I'm Cooper," he said, thumping his chest with his forefinger. "I'm D.B. Cooper!" He gave me no time to think. "I need your help, Byron. I lost my goddam money! I dropped it when the parachute opened. Your father has promised to help, but we need your help too." He could see that I was dumbfounded. His and my father's eyes fell steadily upon me. "The bastards tried to kill me," cried Coffelt. "Gave me a rotten chute — no good. It wouldn't open. I kept clawing at it but it wouldn't open. Finally I got the other one open — the back pack — but it jolted me so bad I dropped the money! I dropped the bag of money!" The words echoed pitifully through the small room as Coffelt buried his head in his hands.

"Will you help me?" he pleaded. "You're young; we're just two old men. You can climb the mountains out there. I'm gonna give your daddy half, and we're going to buy you a brand new car." He [guess: hoisted] his shorts and showed me his legs all the way up to the thighs. They were horribly discolored — purple and yellowish bruises blending with the pale skin. He claimed he had hit a tree limb between his legs when he crashed down on a rugged mountain

---

LAS VEGAS MAGAZINE DB Cooper-20769

slope in the dark. His shoes had filled with blood; he had broken a rib. "I've never re-covered," he gasped. "It ruined me. I wouldn't do it again for a million dollars."

I was astounded by his allegations, and as I retold them over a year later they seemed as outlandish as they had that night in the Joplin motel. But the allegations would grow im-mensely. In one meeting at the Tropicana Hotel with writers and executives of Universal Studios, I told how Coffelt claimed he had "connections" in Las Vegas, that these persons were going to help him launder that stolen loot through the casino cage of one major Strip hotel. In lighter moments he bragged about his Las Vegas past, once dropping a name and boasting of "taking over a town" and being "the boss's right arm;" how he "always packed a gun then because business was rough" . . . the name was Howard Hughes.

At times I thought he was all blow, for as we drove along the vast western prairies he re-counted fantastic tales like a man hallucinating. But I would discover later that he indeed had connections in Las Vegas, and that the authori-ties had once kept a close eye on his actions here. By having a "trace" placed on his FBI number through a friend in the Las Vegas police department, I found that on October 7, 1959, Jack had registered as an ex-felon in Phoenix, Arizona; and ten months later, on July 18, 1960, he registered as an ex-felon in Las Vegas, both places requiring known mal-contents to so register. But also, registering as an ex-felon implies that Jack stayed in the Phoenix and Las Vegas areas for a fairly long period of time. He wasn't just passing through. I was to discover that he stayed in Las Vegas long enough to find himself a woman compan-ion who remained with him — as a partner and overseer of his various shady activities — for the next 14 years.

---

THE COMPANION

Lorraine Thompson was a pretty red-haired woman, pleasant, unassuming, and quiet. One source who knew her thought she had "spent a lot of time in the backwoods of Tennessee collecting antiques." But somehow she migrated west. On September 23, 1955, when she was twenty-eight years old, she married Paul C. Gulas, thirty-three, in Las Vegas. Old timers in town may have heard of Gulas, a man who naturally would have associated with many types of people. Gulas had been previously married and had a son, Paul, Jr. now residing in Las Vegas.

Gulas Sr. was a Las Vegas policeman. He went on to become the Captain of Detectives in 1968, retired from the force in 1974, and died in Texas in early 1976. Lorraine and Gulas were divorced after six years, on July 26,

---

1961. Shortly thereafter she was constantly seen in the company of Jack Coffelt. She called herself Tave — Tave Coffelt — although they never married. The couple seemed pros-perous in those years. Jack wore expensive suits and drove a late-model Cadillac. Paul Gulas Jr. told me that he thought "Tave" had been a police dispatcher in Miami, Florida. One reliable source told me "my information is that she's FBI." Whatever her line, she was to introduce Jack Coffelt to a new and different world — a world of political intrigue under-taken in the highest circles. A few months after her divorce from Gulas in Las Vegas, Jack and Tave set up permanent residence in Washington D.C., and Jack entered upon his new career as a government informant. He was to be seen at White House inauguration balls. He hobnobbed with Mrs. Kennedy and Lady Bird Johnson. At least twice he entered Nixon's presidential enclave with White House passes. He was often seen in the company of FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover. Indeed, as I myself witnessed in 1974, he carried an FBI identification badge, and one card identified him as an agent for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. From the years 1961 to 1974 Jack Coffelt seemed to

---

Coffelt seemed hurt that the true merit of his crime had never been fully appreciated. The whole idea that D.B. Cooper had just "jumped out in the night like Santa Claus" was perversely ridiculous to him.

---

play many roles. Sources who knew him in Washington D.C. link him to undercover poli-tical operations in such disparate places as Egypt, Cuba, and Mexico City. One Las Vegas FBI agent told me cryptically, "He may well have been CIA."

• • •

THE INSPIRATION

Bryant "Jack" Coffelt was born February 20, 1916, and grew up in near poverty in the lead and zinc mining area around Joplin, Missouri. As a youth he hung around the gambling halls and brothels of Picher, Okla-homa, a few miles southwest of Joplin. Accord-ing to those who knew him there, he was a "strange" youth, always into trouble.

"He never would mind. He wouldn't mind nobody," said his sister. From the age of

---

fourteen on he would always be in trouble with the law, serving a total of over twenty years in reformatories, jails, and prisons. In the late 1940's, while serving a ten-year sentence for auto theft and attempted escape at Atlanta Federal Penitentiary, he was working in the print shop as a press operator one day when he met my father, who was editor of the prison magazine.

In 1944, James Brown, the son of a Georgia lawyer, had been commissioned as a second-lieutenant in the U.S. Army-Air Force, a pilot in a transport squadron. He was expecting to be sent to England for the invasion of Europe, but instead found himself facing a court martial, charged with rape. He was sentenced to life imprisonment and sent to Atlanta Penitentiary. Brown, who always maintained his innocence, was paroled in 1952 after serving eight years, but during those years he became close friends with Jack Coffelt. The two would often spend hours together on the prison recreation yard. Like many of the inmates, Coffelt often dreamt of the perfect crime, the big job, and was fas-cinated by Brown's ability to fly an airplane. "He would ask me if it would be possible to escape by landing a plane in the prison yard," said Brown, "or if I could fly him to Mexico if he pulled a bank job."

After Brown's release in 1952, the two did not hear from each other for many years. Coffelt was discharged in 1955, after being transferred to Leavenworth Penitentiary in Kansas. But their friendship during those lonely prison years was cemented. Coffelt told me that his admiration for my father's flying ability was in fact the seed which culminated in his planning the skyjacking. And he said when he dropped the money the first man he thought of to help him was James Brown.

The story of the skyjacking grew. According to Coffelt, it was an exceedingly well-planned and thoroughly rehearsed operation. He claimed he had taken Flight 305 from Portland to Seattle "two or three times" before the actual crime in order to perfect the timing of the operation. He had been trained by an engineer who was familiar with the Boeing 727 aircraft, the only plane in commercial operation which had a stairway which opened directly out the rear. He was instructed to order the pilot to fly at 15 degrees wingflaps so that the plane could go no faster than approx-imately 175 knots (200 mph). If it flew any faster than that, Coffelt said, he would have been killed by the tremendous suction effect at the rear opening. Moreover, he ordered the pilot to fly at 10,000 feet altitude. "That bastard flew to 10,500 feet once," he said. "I knew. I was wearing a wrist altimeter. I got on the interphone and ordered him back down."

Coffelt often scoffed at the "lousy" journal-ists who had first reported the crime. "All they did was talk to the FBI," he said. He

---

74 OCTOBER 1983/LAS VEGAN MAGAZINE

---

DB Cooper-20770

Jack and Tave seemed prosperous in those years. Jack wore expensive suits and drove a late-model Cadillac.

---

seemed hurt that the true merit — the intricate planning and deception — of his crime had never been fully appreciated. The whole idea that D.B. Cooper had just "jumped out in the night like Santa Claus" was perversely ridicu- lous to him. He claimed he had a perfect landing site — a wheat field that was plowed over in the fall of the year — in which to jump. There was a large beacon near the field — "you could see the damn thing for a hundred miles" — a bright light which he ordered the pilot to fly over. As part of his getaway plan Coffelt had stashed an old army jeep a mile or two from the field with a transmitter in it, so that he heard a steady bleeping sound through a receiver that he carried in the plane. The bleeping sound grew louder and louder as he approached the jump site. "When it was two or three pitches from full intensity — that's when I needed to jump," he said, a design which would allow him room to float in the parachute to a pin-point landing. "It was the perfect crime," he lamented wistfully many times, "the perfect crime."

But of course there is no such thing as a perfect crime. Many factors which he could· not have foreseen led to Jack Coffelt's defeat. He had planned to hook the backpack contain- ing the $200,000 to one of the military back- packs and belt it securely around his waist, but since stewardess Schaffner never relayed his request for the backpack and the money was

---

He explained to us, with a look of horror and pain on his face, how he had spent over 15 hours clawing his way — at times on hands and knees — through the dense underbrush of the forest and up the side of a towering rock cliff.

---

delivered to him in a mail sack with no hooks or belts, he was forced to open one of the para- chutes and cut the shroud lines, which he used to tie a loop for his arm to go through at the top of the mail sack. This left him two out of the three remaining chutes to choose from — and the chest pack he opted for was the one that was inoperative! As he descended the stairs, burdened by the two heavy parachutes and the 25-pound sack of money on his arm, he lost his hold on the handrail and — about a minute before he had planned — he was sucked out by the windstream, in his own words, "like a cork out of a bottle."

He knew even as he was falling that he must

---

be nearly a mile too far north of his landing field. Afraid of hitting the jagged mountains which everywhere encompassed the landing area — he had planned to free-fall for almost thirty seconds — he tugged early on the rip- cord of the chest pack, but to his horror it did not open! Struggling to hold the money on his arm, he frantically reached over his shoulder and pulled the rip-cord of the military back- pack. He felt the pack release and then sensed a gentle tugging above him — it was only the guide chute opening — which he mistook for the main chute. Relieved that the back-up parachute had opened at all, he relaxed his grip on the money bag. Suddenly he was hit by a tremendous jolt as the 28-foot main canopy opened, and the bag of money slid off his dangling arm and tumbled away into the darkness.

Almost instantaneously, the billowing para- chute was tossed by ferocious winds from the thunderstorms which had moved in over the mountains earlier that night. He was helplessly tossed and thrown about. Sleet and hail pelted his face and soaked his clothes. He was unable to see any of the ground lights which he and an accomplice had set up to assist him in guiding the parachute to the landing field. Below him, somewhere in the immense darkness, waited jagged cliffs and vast forests of towering Ponderosa pines. He saw the lights of the Boeing 727 slowly disappear and, tailing about

---

LAS VEGAS MAGAZINE/OCTOBER 1983 75 DB Cooper-20771

There was a large beacon near the field—"you could see the damn thing for a hundred miles"—a bright light which he ordered the pilot to fly over.

---

half a mile behind it, the lights of a C-130 cargo plane carrying would-be pursuers — a paratrooper squadron from McChord Air Force Base in Tacoma, Washington. But they had not seen him jump. Due to the raging storm the cargo plane's scanning radar was rendered useless.

Coffelt crashed down on a mountain slope, hitting a tree limb between his legs and crushing his ankles as he plowed into the rocky surface. But even though he was in severe pain, he gathered the billowing chute around his legs, clawed a hole in the loose scree and compacted the chute into it, then sprayed it with a magnesium compound — he explained the magnesium would burn so hot it would melt even the metal harness buckles — and set a match to it so there would be no evidence for any would-be pursuers to ever find.

Coffelt explained to us, with a look of horror and pain on his face, how he had spent over 15 hours clawing his way — at times on hands and knees — through the dense underbrush of the forest and up the side of a towering rock cliff, finally coming out the next morning into a meadow where he saw a trail that was familiar to him. He walked along the narrow logging trail until he found the hidden jeep, then, using the vehicle's two-way radio, contacted his accomplice who had been cruising a highway twenty miles away hoping to see signs of the fallen parachute. He rendezvoused with this accomplice — whom he described vaguely as "an Army man" — at an isolated point along the deep and swift-moving Deschutes River which meanders through central Oregon, and there pushed the jeep over a cliff into the rushing waters, blowing it to pieces with a charge of dynamite as it went down. Then he climbed in the back seat of the getaway car and was driven two thousand miles across back roads to a place somewhere in the Midwest, where a friendly doctor quietly treated his injuries.

---

My father, by nature a deeply suspicious man, grew increasingly worried. "What are we getting ourselves into?" he asked me over and over again.

---

THE CONSPIRACY

Coffelt had returned to the Oregon area twice — in the spring and fall of 1972 — to search for the missing money, each time without success, until in desperation he decided to solicit my father's help. He further maintained that the FBI had tried to kill him in connection with the crime. "They wanted to silence me," he said. "I had to leave Washington D.C. fast." So he had moved with Tave to the Seattle area — like a true conman secretly returning to the scene of the crime — and rented an apartment in the middle-class suburb of Lynnwood. There, in that cold and rainy environment, his health deteriorated. He began taking nitroglycerin tablets — a habit which he continued during our journey — to prevent clotting of his blood. He was a terribly desperate man, "That job was my last chance," he mused. "It meant everything to me. I had nothing to lose." Nothing except his life.

---

Try as he might to downplay them, hints of a broad, complex conspiracy began to weave their way into Coffelt's story, and we grew more and more worried the closer we came to our destination of Oregon. According to him, there were at least three co-conspirators still lurking about who had vested interests in the money being found. One of these men, whom Coffelt called the "ring-leader," was actually a former pilot who was "grounded because of heart trouble," and who was thus terribly embittered at life. This man, relying on his years of experience in flying over the area, had actually picked the Oregon locale as the best place in the country to pull off the skyjacking. Also, there was the mysterious engineer whom Coffelt claimed had instructed him about the workings of the Boeing 727 aircraft, and then there was the "Army man" — the accomplice waiting on the ground for him.

To satisfy all these mysterious people, the real take was supposed to be several million dollars of used bank notes that were to be loaded onto the plane at Portland by an armored Brinks truck. "But the goddam Brinks truck never showed," said Coffelt. "I kept watching out the terminal windows for it. I almost got left behind." It was then that he decided to put into effect "Plan B" — the demand for a $200,000 ransom. "If someone was trying to double-cross me," he explained, "I'd get my share anyway." But some, or all, of these people never believed that he lost the money and with growing impatience had beleaguered him for their cut. He had been threatened, and had counter-threatened to blow the whole story if they didn't take the heat off. "I feel like a hunted animal," he said to me many times. "You and your father are the only people I can trust anymore."

But the two old prison buddies could not recapture the past. There was a gulf between them that could not be filled. My father, who had left his prison years behind him like a bad dream, had gone on to become an engineer, and his critical mind was thirsting for hard details about the sky[guess: jacking]. He constantly quizzed Coffelt. "Who helped you plan this thing, Jack? What's this man's name — this engineer? What about this former pilot? You trying to tell me he was the brains behind it?"

---

76 OCTOBER 1983/LAS VEGAS MAGAZINE

---

DB Cooper-20772

andré courrèges boutique

[Fashion photograph of woman in short dark dress]

150 me fashion show 3200 los vegas blvd s las vegas nv 89109 702-733-8230 corneview plaza 1900 east camelback rd scottsdale az 85251 602 947 1313 coast walk 1298 prospect st la jolla california 92037 714-459-3475 american express and other credit cards welcome

---

But Jack wasn't saying a damn word more about it. "You just help me find my money, James, and you'll get your cut. But don't ask too many goddam questions." A deep rift developed between the two men. My father, by nature a deeply suspicious man, grew increasingly worried. "What are we getting ourselves into?" he asked me over and over again. In a few short days the skyjacking had grown from the job of one lonely man to a conspiracy with vast tentacles. Were we already, perhaps, accessories-after-the-fact to a federal crime? But Coffelt took me aside and pleaded: "You've got to keep your father with me. This is my last chance." His biggest worry was that the authorities would finally catch up with him and that he would either be killed or die in a cold prison cell. Our journey became a battle of wits and emotions in which I was pulled between the two men — taking sides now for one, then for the other — until the loneliness of our quest and the haunting isolation of the vast western expanses began to get us down. My father threatened to abandon the trip and return home. But the desperate Coffelt, with a sinister portent in his voice, counter-threatened: "You know too much already, James." The end came on July 12, 1974, when we returned to camp after a long day of searching for the bag of money. We had been in the search area for about a week. Coffelt had taken us to the place where he had hit the slope and showed us the broken tree limb he had crashed into. We could still see the long skid marks where his heels had plowed into the loose rocks. Climbing back up the slope he nearly died, coughing up blood and choking horribly as he gasped for air. He and my father had a terrible fight over where we should concentrate the search. My father wanted to start from where Coffelt had landed and backtrack from there. But Coffelt was afraid we would be spotted by forest rangers — a lookout tower was visible in the distance — and he wanted to begin the search farther to the west, in the dense forests at the base of 11,000 ft. Mount Hood. "I know my money's there," he cried angrily. "You're looking in the wrong place." But those forests were so thick with blow-down and debris and tangled underbrush that it was impossible to see one another from ten feet away. Even in broad daylight the forest floor was blanketed with darkness. The chances of spotting a faded bag of money there seemed hopeless. Coffelt returned to Seattle, claiming he needed to recuperate for a few days. Then, the very next day an astonishing thing happened. While we prepared for dinner a car suddenly appeared on the rutted trail in front of us and sped past. Beside the driver sat a passenger cradling a rifle between his legs. The car's license plates read KANSAS — Coffelt country! Shortly down the trail the car stopped

---

interior design services available by TAOS INTERIORS For Those Who Deserve The Finest

Executive Brokers incorporated Ms. Sandy Mazzu, Broker 734-2133 4155 Maryland Parkway Suite 102 Las Vegas, Nevada 89109

---

Chantal's Boutique clothes for the one-of-a-kind lady (702) 733-1939 1305 East Vegas Valley Drive Las Vegas, Nevada 89109

---

78 OCTOBER 1983/LAS VEGAN MAGAZINE

---

DB Cooper-20773