by Philip Jett
By 8:15, Bill and Joe were seated in their office. Joe flipped through a financial newspaper as a radio on his desk announced the morning’s news. Bill busied himself reviewing sketches of an additional conveyor system to be installed at Coors Container. The brothers were casual and relaxed. Mr. Coors was in Hawaii and wouldn’t return for two weeks. There’d be no stern father making unexpected stops in their office.
The hands of the office’s wall clock clicked to ten as Joe and Bill worked. Jo Ann had little to do except answer Ad’s telephone line. “He’s busy at the moment. Can I take a message and ask him to return your call?”
Jo Ann wasn’t alarmed. Ad had been late before, especially when his father was away, though he’d usually telephoned. She continued with her morning’s tasks, expecting her smiling boss to walk in any moment.
Sunlight was breaking through dark clouds, and the sprinkles of rain stopped. The office was warming as Bill and Joe sat at their desks, holding calls so they’d be ready for their 10:30 a.m. meeting to discuss, among other things, a possible union strike—but no Ad.
Although their father had handed over most of the decisions, he retained ultimate veto power. As for the sons’ votes, they had to agree on all major company matters. Adolph Coors Company didn’t run by majority vote. If one son refused his consent, that was the end of the matter, subject only to Mr. Coors’s intervention.
“The three of us worked with our father as a team during the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s,” recalled Bill. “Not that there was always agreement—four strong-willed people in one room guarantees conflict. Our father, however, would not tolerate dissension. If there was a difference of opinion, he insisted we sit there and argue things out until we reached unanimity. We were then bound by the decision.… It was up to me and my brothers to preserve and improve what he had given to us. We were ready.”
The brothers were more than ready to divvy up management duties. They had years of experience working under the tutelage of their demanding father. “I never got a word of approval, nor did my brothers,” recalled Bill. “A prefect job was expected of you; anything else was underperformance.” They also had first-rate educations. Ad graduated from Phillips Exeter Academy and received an engineering degree from Cornell like his father, where Ad was the president of Quill and Dagger, a prestigious senior honor society. Bill also graduated from Phillips Exeter, but became the only Coors to earn his chemical engineering degree from Princeton. Joe earned his degree in chemical engineering from Cornell. “Ad was the only one of us not to have a chemical engineering degree, and I believe that hampered him,” recalled Bill. “Sometimes he had to bite his tongue and go along with the will of the mass.”
Military service had not interfered with their educations or tutelage at the brewery. Their father had not served in the military, and none of the Coors brothers had served during World War II or Korea. Ad had a legitimate excuse. He was 4-F for acute nearsightedness. He couldn’t see his hands without his glasses. Bill had been in charge at Coors Porcelain, building porcelain insulators for atomic missile research at Oak Ridge, Tennessee, during World War II, which was viewed by the War Department as more important than him trudging across his family’s Prussian homeland. Joe’s exemption was the weakest. He had been put in charge of the American Dairy Association.
After fifteen minutes had passed and Ad had still not shown up, Bill didn’t want to wait any longer. “Jo Ann?” he called. “Ring Ad at home and see what’s holding him up. Tell him we’re starting without ’im.”
“Yes, sir.”
The telephone rang at the ranch house.
“Hello,” answered Mary, expecting the call to be from a friend anxious to hear about her stay at the luxurious Americana Hotel in Miami where the likes of Frank Sinatra and his Rat Pack frequented.
“Hello, Mrs. Coors. This is Jo Ann at the brewery. How are you?”
“I’m fine, thanks. And you?”
“Fine, thank you. The reason I’m calling is Ad hasn’t got here yet, and Bill asked me to call to see if he’s still at home.”
“No … he’s not here,” replied Mary.
“Do you know where he’s at? He was supposed to be here right now for the executive committee meeting.”
“Well, I don’t know. He left about eight. I thought he was headed straight for the brewery. He should be there,” Mary said, not too concerned, because Ad had taken excursions for ranch or beer business. Only the day before, he’d gone to Denver first and arrived at the brewery around nine thirty. “Maybe he had some stops to make,” continued Mary.
“Okay. I’ll check at the warehouse and Porcelain to see if he’s there,” Jo Ann said. “Maybe he got stuck on something before he could come into the office. Anyplace else I should call you can think of?”
“Let me see,” Mary said. “I’m not sure. Tell you what, I’ll call the Jefferson County Grange and see if they’ve seen him this morning. Sometimes he gets to talking and loses track of time. If he’s not at the feedstore, I don’t know—”
Jo Ann could detect anxiety creeping into Mary’s voice. “I’m sure he’s hunky-dory,” she interrupted. “You know Ad. He’ll pop in any minute.”
Jo Ann knew Ad, too, and it wasn’t like him to forget to call and let his brothers know he wasn’t coming in.
“Call me when he does, okay?” asked Mary.
“I will,” said Jo Ann. “And if you hear from him, please tell him to call Bill.”
Mary lowered the receiver and wondered where Ad could be. Perhaps he went up in the company plane and that’s why no one could reach him. Or he was out inspecting cattle, but Ad usually took Bill Hosler with him, and Hosler was at the ranch. A startling thought suddenly crossed Mary’s mind. Perhaps he had a rendezvous … but no sooner had the thought crossed her mind than it evaporated. No, Ad wasn’t like that. She dialed the feedstore.
Jo Ann called the Coors warehouse in Denver and the Porcelain offices. She checked with all the departments within the brewery. No one had seen Ad. She was starting to become worried.
Though Bill was frustrated, he, Joe, and office manager, Ray Frost, went ahead with the executive committee meeting.
Another hour passed. Jo Ann had had enough. She pulled out the telephone directory and began calling hospitals and doctor offices. She was still making calls when Jack Scanlan from Coors Traffic Department buzzed her.
“Is Ad in?” Scanlan asked.
Jo Ann started to reply that Ad was in a meeting, but didn’t. She sensed nervousness in Scanlan’s voice. “No. Can I take a message?”
“I just got a call from the Colorado State Patrol. They said … tell you what, transfer me to Bill Coors instead.”
“Is something wrong? Is Ad hurt?”
“On second thought, tell Bill I’m on my way up to his office.”
“Okay.” Jo Ann was about to explode. The state patrol meant one thing. Ad was in a car accident. But she knew better than to pry.
“Bill, I just got a call from Jack Scanlan over at Traffic,” phoned Jo Ann. “Says someone from the Colorado State Patrol just called him. Jack’s on his way to your office.”
“What’s it about?”
“I asked, but he wouldn’t say. I think it’s about Ad.”
Bill groaned. “Here he is now,” Bill said, hanging up the phone as Scanlan entered.
“Sorry to barge in, but—”
“That’s okay, Jack. What’s wrong? Ad in a wreck?”
“The patrol wouldn’t say. Just said they’d found a company car and said for me to get someone from management to call back. That’s all they’d tell me. I looked it up, and it belongs to your brother Ad, so I thought I should tell you personally. Here’s the phone number,” said Scanlan, handing Bill a piece of paper.
Bill dialed the number. “Hello, this is Bill Coors. I received a message—”
“Yes, sir. The lieutenant is expecting your call. Let me transfer you.”
“Hello. Mr. Coors?”
“Yes, this i
s Bill Coors. What’s this all about?”
The officer introduced himself and then began. “Our dispatcher received a call from one of our patrolmen, who located a car registered to the Adolph Coors Company.” The officer spoke clearly and without emotion. “It’s a 1959 International Harvester Travelall, four door, light blue and white, bearing Colorado license plate number RT-2423.”
“Is it wrecked? Broken down?” Bill asked.
“No, sir. It appears abandoned, though it’s in perfect running order. It was spotted by a motorist, parked on a bridge with the engine running. No driver. Our patrolman radioed it in at 11:35 a.m. as still there. You know who the driver is? Was the car stolen, and if it’s not, what’s the trouble?”
“It’s my brother Ad’s car.”
“Ad?”
“Adolph Coors III.”
“Have you been in contact with him today? Do you know his whereabouts? We’d like him to pick up his car.”
“No. He was supposed to be here at the company. He usually gets here around 8:15, but we haven’t heard from him.”
“I see.” The officer paused, hesitating to say more. An abandoned vehicle may have just turned into a missing-person report of a Coors.
“Hello?” said Bill.
“Is your brother married?”
“Yes, he is, but Ad’s secretary just spoke with her. She doesn’t know where he is either. You say the car’s not wrecked? No flat? Plenty of gas?”
“No, it’s fine.”
“Can I speak to the patrolman at the scene?” asked Bill.
“Yes, we can patch him through to your number via dispatch, but—”
“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I come there and talk to the patrolman and see the car in person? Maybe we can straighten this out. What’s his name, and where can I meet him?”
“Sure, that might help wrap this up,” said the patrol officer. “The patrolman’s name is…”
Bill listened.
“Patrolman George Hedricks. Okay, hold on a minute.”
Bill turned to Joe and asked, “Know where Turkey Creek Bridge is?”
“Over at Turkey Creek Canyon near Ad’s house is all I know,” Joe said with Ray Frost looking on.
“How about we meet him on the north end of Morrison at the Sinclair station just as you come into town?” Bill told the patrolman. “We can follow him to the bridge from there.”
“All right,” said the officer. “I’ll radio Patrolman Hedricks to meet you. How long will it take?”
“We’ll be there as soon as we can, maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes.”
Bill hung up the telephone and remained silent. Ray Frost and Joe stared at Bill.
“Well?” asked Joe.
“We’ve got to meet a Colorado state patrolman in Morrison—now. Drop everything. We’ve got to go,” said Bill.
“What’s wrong? Ad hurt?”
“His car was found on Turkey Creek Bridge, but the highway patrol can’t find Ad.”
Joe lifted his brows. “What do you mean, can’t find Ad? Is it parked or on the road or—”
“I’ll fill you in on the way. We need to get going.”
The brothers were silent for a moment, suspended in disbelief, until Frost broke in. “If it’s all right, I’d like to come along.”
Bill nodded and then buzzed his secretary. “Phyllis, Joe and I’ve got to go out for a while. Hold all calls and meetings. We’ll be back in, uh, as soon as we can. Maybe three o’clock. Tell Joe’s and Ad’s secretaries. Ray Frost is coming along, too. Thanks.”
Jo Ann got the relay call and stepped into the hallway in time to see the company president, vice president, and office manager marching down the hallway toward the side parking lot. She could see them talking and Joe shaking his head before the three silhouettes passed from view.
* * *
Snow in Colorado can be beautiful. A white, powdery blanket stretched over otherwise dirty streets and unkempt yards can be a wonder. Evergreen branches laden with natural flock can be picturesque. Too much snow, however, can be treacherous. Blizzards reduce visibility, and plummeting temperatures freeze everything like stone. Those who camp to see the winter beauty amid peaceful solitude sometimes learn a hard lesson—heavy snow, gusting winds, and near-zero temperatures lead to collapsed tents, frozen drinking water, wet clothing, extinguished fires, and obscured or impassable hiking trails. The result is often frostbite, hypothermia, dehydration, snow blindness, or death.
Winds were gusting on the morning of February 9, and the air was chilly despite a warming temperature. Only patches of snow remained on the grass and in the shade, but weather forecasters were predicting heavy snows moving into the area by Thursday.
Corbett’s plans changed that Tuesday morning. Rather than camp in an isolated spot outside Denver, he ran errands around the city. Close to midday, he walked to the Safeway at Colfax Avenue and Pearl Street and grabbed some sandwich meat to make lunch at his apartment. Seated on his davenport, he switched on the television and then the radio to listen to the noonday newscasts. He discovered the news was slow so far. And the weather forecast? It hadn’t changed. Lots of snow on the way.
He turned down the radio as he heard footsteps approaching. Several people were walking down the hallway. The footsteps grew closer and heavier. Corbett began to stand, but stopped in a crouched position and listened. The steps came within inches of his studio door, but as quickly they passed. Get ahold of yourself, he told himself. It’s not the law. They couldn’t know by now.
Corbett sat back on his couch and, after a sigh of relief, recalled his brush with the law two weeks earlier when he also had to remind himself to remain calm. It was a minor incident, really, but for a fugitive carrying weapons, nothing involving the law is minor. He’d been driving around aimlessly on January 25, again on one of his forays about four miles north of Morrison on Highway 285, when a red revolving light flashed in his rearview mirror. He hadn’t had an encounter with the police since he’d scaled the fence at Chino. No, that’s not true. Incredibly, he’d been stopped once before and given only a warning for driving with an expired California driver’s license. He thought he was lucky to avoid detection that time. Perhaps his luck had run out. He knew his old car couldn’t outrun the state patrol’s Ford Interceptor, so he pulled over. Corbett was indignant. He should have been courteous to avoid suspicion, but he couldn’t help it. He hated law enforcement. The Colorado state patrolman, John B. Kelly, walked to the rear of the yellow Mercury and withdrew a pad, wrote down the license plate number, AT-6203, and after receiving Corbett’s license and registration, scribbled the driver’s license number D13217 along with the driver’s name—Walter Osborne. The officer radioed in the information. It all checked out. He wrote out an eight-dollar ticket for improper passing and handed it to Corbett. The officer could not have known.
“He was always so quiet,” Corbett’s landlady Viola Merys later told an FBI agent. “Always took his lunch to work, cooked most his meals in, and was hardly ever gone from his apartment for very long. Since I been here, he never took a vacation or went on trips and he never had any visitors. I thought it peculiar that he never received any Christmas packages.”
Corbett left his apartment again that Tuesday after finishing off his sandwich. He locked his apartment and walked out the back door. It was around 1:30 p.m. He was away only a short period, as his landlady would describe later.
“Do you have an account with us?” asked Athalee Brehm, a clerk at Gigantic Cleaners & Laundry on East Seventeenth Avenue, sifting through the laundry bag.
“No, ma’am. I’m a new customer,” Corbett said, standing at the counter in heavily starched khaki work pants and checkered sport shirt underneath a brown zippered jacket.
“I need to fill out a card on you, then. I need your name and address here.” The woman cocked her head to see what her customer was writing. “Okay. ‘Osborne, W., 1435 Pearl, 2-9-60.’ Should be ready by Friday. Will that be okay?”
&nbs
p; “Sure.”
Corbett stepped out and saw a ruffled sky with more low clouds rolling in, but no snow yet. He got in his car and searched for news on the radio dial as he pulled on the street. His next stop would be a post office in Denver. He typically dropped his mail inside his box in the apartment entrance, but this was the letter he’d typed so carefully, the one that hopefully promised him a better life. Soon, Corbett stood in front of the intake chute outside the post office. He looked left and then right, seeing cars and pedestrians moving busily about their day. He dropped the letter into the chute and then returned to his Mercury and wiped a smudge from the dashboard. He pulled onto the street. It was nearing three o’clock.
“I suppose you could call him odd, though we all are a little, I guess,” Merys explained to an FBI agent. “He locked his apartment door every time he went out, even if he was gone for a minute, like when he’d take out the garbage. And he always used the building’s back door, never the front. But the oddest thing was he always put his rent money in an envelope and slipped it under my door. When I first started managing the apartment, he signed the envelope Walter Osborn. So I made out his receipt that way, Walter Osborn. But after two or three months, he started signing the envelopes with an e on the end—Walter Osborne. I thought it mighty peculiar, but I don’t pry into my tenants’ business.”
* * *
The brothers hardly spoke during the twenty-minute drive south on Highway 285 to Morrison in Bill’s company car. When they arrived, Patrolman Hedricks identified himself, and then Ad’s brothers followed along behind the patrol car to Turkey Creek Bridge. Frost followed in his automobile. As they drove along the bumpy gravel road, the Travelall appeared, parked off the road near the bridge, its front wheels pointing hard to the left. It was 12:40.
Bill and Joe got out. “A milkman backed it over there out of his way,” Hedricks said. The four men walked over to the Travelall. They opened the doors and examined the interior. They didn’t notice anything unusual. The men split up and searched for footprints and clues.
