Part 50, page 163

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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

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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

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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.

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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.

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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

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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.

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72 OCTOBER 1983/LAS VEGAN MAGAZINE

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