On this warm afternoon, wearing his shirt tucked in, Hoss hesitated before getting out of the GTO to go inside the café. To hide his 9-shot he’d have to wear his jacket, which lay on the backseat. He looked up and down the street. All was quiet, ordinary, not a cop or cruiser to be seen. From the floorboard, Hoss retrieved a brown sandwich bag, put his gun inside it, then placed the bag on the passenger seat. Just a bite, coffee, … he wouldn’t be long, he reasoned. Hoss got out, locked the car, and casually walked into the café.
Sergeant Robert Kuenstling had come on duty at 7:00 A.M. It was several days ago, Kuenstling remembered, that he’d first heard of Stanley Hoss, a cop-killer and kidnapper from Pennsylvania who, at the time, was thought to be traveling west, maybe through Iowa. And now, during this morning’s briefing, he heard the name again. Sometime overnight a new flyer had been received at the station house. Apparently, the FBI gauged this fugitive to be somewhere in Iowa on this very day. Kuenstling wrote in his pocket notebook the description of the GTO, then went out on duty.
…
Hoss seated himself at the far end of the counter. The waitress was busy with a woman and a little girl at a table. A radio played music and gave the news … The Fifth Rangers have killed over one hundred Viet Cong in a small province … Senator Fulbright is preparing for next week’s foreign relations committee hearings … A daughter of TV personality Art Linkletter has plunged to her death from the sixth floor of a plush west Hollywood apartment …
There was no news about himself, so Hoss turned his attention to a well-worn menu. With the waitress still busy, an aproned man eventually came out of the kitchen with order pad in hand. “Special today is pork chops,” he told the customer. “Nah,” Hoss replied, “gimmie the T-bone steak.”
Truth be told, as Sergeant Keunstling neared the end of his shift, he hadn’t given much thought to Hoss and the GTO, not with the accident way down on First, or with a hotel alarm going off for no damn reason he could figure, or with the three juvvie punks trying to pinch eight-tracks from Woolworth’s. He was glad to be pulling in the driveway at the rear of city hall, glad to call it a day. It was 2:45 P.M.
Hoss was enjoying his steak dinner, but often raised his head to look around. The windows of the café permitted a view of the parking lot and a short distance down Fifth. Had there been windows in the café’s west wall, Hoss would have been able to see a police cruiser park in a driveway across the street—but there weren’t.
Kuenstling stood beside his car. He tapped his shirt pocket to see that he had his pen and sunglasses. He hoped he could finish a bit of paperwork and be on his way home by three sharp. He paused, wondering if he needed anything else from the car. For no reason, his eyes fell on the familiar Maywood Lunch across the street. “What the hell … ?” he said aloud, then turned to see if other officers were about. None were.
Kuenstling returned his attention to the Maywood. A bicycle leaned against the building and three cars were parked in the lot. The sergeant’s eyes were riveted on the one nearest, the one in plain view. He retrieved his notebook from his hip pocket: Hoss, Stan, Gun. ’69 Grn. Wte. Top Pont. Pa. 9N3119.
To get a look at the plate, Kuenstling walked closer to the car. It was an Illinois plate, but the rest of the car was a match. Keeping out of view from anyone inside, Kuenstling took slow, quiet steps to the edge of a window and peeked inside: Molly, the waitress, stood talking with a young woman with a child; Smitty, the cook, leaned in the kitchen doorway, smoking a cigarette; and seated, hunched over a plate at the counter, was a man— twenties, sandy hair….
Kuenstling backed away from the Maywood, crossed the street, quickly entered the station, and approached Lieutenant Duane Murray.
“Duane, the info this morning about the cop killer from Pennsylvania, Hoss, riding a GTO?”
“Yeah?”
“Dollars to donuts, the guy’s across the street in the Maywood.”
Before Kuenstling said another word, Murray called down the hallway, “Tom, Don, come here quick.” Apprised of the news, Detectives Tom Matzen and Don Kehoe learned more from Kuenstling.
“He’s sitting at the counter. There’s a woman and female child in there, too. They were sittin’ at a different table but you don’t suppose they could be his kidnap victims, do you?”
“I don’t know,” Murray said, “but we have to move, right now. Bob, do you have any idea how long he’s been over there?”
“No. He’s eatin’ is all. Startin’, finishin’, can’t say.”
Lieutenant Murray felt all eyes on him, waiting for instructions. He and the two detectives were in plain clothes.
“Okay, Tom, Don, come with me. We’re going in, take a table and watch him. Bob, gather up some uniforms, and position yourselves around the place, out of sight. Be careful, let’s do this right. We don’t want a hostage situation or a gun battle inside that café. We’ll try not to do anything till he walks outside.”
Lieutenant Murray and his team checked their weapons and started their walk toward the Maywood. In the meantime, another patrol car had spotted the GTO and had notified Detective William Fernau. So as the three plainclothesmen converged from the front, Detective Fernau, on his own initiative, was already going in the Maywood’s back door. (Sharp, these Waterloo cops.)
Murray, Matzen, and Kehoe strolled casually but carefully into the café. All wore sports coats, their guns covered up. They were surprised to see Detective Fernau already seated, ordering coffee. Eye contact was made with Fernau, who returned a barely perceptible nod.
Aside from Hoss, another risk inside was the waitress. With the Maywood so close to the station it was common for policemen to stop in before or after shifts. She was on a first name basis with many. It was hoped she wouldn’t say anything which would tip them as cops. Murray spoke up as soon as he could catch her eye.
“Hey, Molly, what’s doin’? Sit anywhere?”
Looking up, Molly said cheerfully, “Hey yourself, Duane. How are you guys? Yes, anywhere, sit down, relax.” She walked nearer their table.
“What’ll it be, guys?”
Murray spoke for all. “Three coffees. We’ll look over the menu in a minute.”
“Okey dokey.” Molly turned away. Over her shoulder she informed, “Pork chops today. Not bad, either.”
During this brief while of whistling up coffee, the lieutenant and three detectives kept a surreptitious eye on their mark. From what they could tell, the man seated at the counter remained unalarmed. The threesome’s table was about twenty feet from Hoss’s counter stool. Detective Fernau, seated alone, was a similar distance away. The woman and child were seated along a wall, closer to Fernau than the others. The woman was slim and her daughter was two or three years old, but both had heads of light brown hair, not blonde, and they appeared unassociated with the man at the counter. Still, a relationship could not be discounted. Also inside, unseen by Sergeant Kuenstling when he first peered in the eatery’s window, was a pair of elderly ladies, seated beyond the cops and past the counter. The ladies were the furthest from the door. With the civilians inside, the cops were uncomfortable and rued the lack of time for more planning. Be that as it may, they’d be careful as could be and do nothing to alarm their quarry while inside the café.
If voices were kept low at the tables, the words could not be discerned from the counter. Yet, after Molly had poured the coffee, Murray, by ruse and for effect, followed up on Molly’s earlier comment, “How’s business?” Raising his voice enough to be heard twenty feet away, he groused, “ … so everybody wants new appliances but, Christ, they want ’em for free. They want everything under invoice. If I did that, how’m I supposed to make a buck?” Kehoe joked, “Yeah, where the hell’s your next Caddie gonna come from?” They all laughed, then Matzen chimed in. “Duane, you’re so tight with a buck you throw around nickels like manhole covers,” while at the same time writing on a napkin: Where is his gun?
After a dozen bites of steak and potato Hoss noticed a man t
ake a table and order coffee. The man did not come through the front door so there must be a back door somewhere. Hoss wondered abut this. Further, the man’s presence slightly disrupted the no-threat atmosphere of a young woman, her baby, and two old ladies as the only customers in the place. Hoss assessed the new customer as inoffensive, bespectacled, bookish … probably a teacher. He’d watch him, though. It was the next event that got Hoss on edge. A minute after the first man entered, three more men came in, all smiles and charm, called the waitress by her name. Coats and ties. Insurance agents … or federal agents? A couple of them were fair-sized.
He heard their give-and-take with the waitress and strained to hear any of their conversation. The way Hoss was facing, he had to distinctly turn his head to the right to look at these newcomers, which, unless he wanted to draw suspicion, he couldn’t do too often. The trio did not seem to have a connection with the first guy. One time, during a roll of laughter at the table, Hoss took the opportunity to again look their way. This was maybe the third or fourth time he’d done so, him avoiding direct eye contact and they, it struck Hoss, doing the same. But his impression was speculative, fleeting. Hoss was not sure what to make of it. If he was sure, he might as well just get up from his stool and start blasting, get them first. Then he cursed his negligence in not wearing the jacket he’d needed to cover his gun, the gun that should have been tucked in his belt, instead of lying uselessly on the car seat.
Knowing their suspect would soon be done eating, Detective Matzen quietly said he was going outside to check the setup. Rising from his chair he raised his voice a decibel. “All right, gotta meet the wife in half an hour.” He never looked Fernau’s way but upon leaving addressed the “appliance man,” Lieutenant Murray. “And hey, you tightwad, keep your hands off the change by my plate. That’s for Molly.”
When Detective Matzen walked outside, he was appalled to see in plain view two cruisers and at least four uniforms. He waved his arm vigorously, signaling everyone to get the hell out of sight. Then Matzen walked to the far end of the Maywood’s front wall, leaned his shoulder against it … and waited.
Hoss felt better when one of the three men at the table walked out of the café. If they were after him, surely they wouldn’t reduce their force, he reasoned. Hoss had finished his meal, but Molly had come by and poured him more coffee. While he sipped, another worrisome observation hit him. Even businessmen, younger or even middle-aged, wore their hair fuller and longer these days. The men at the table, and even the one sitting on his own, had well-trimmed hair and short sideburns. Hoss wanted to believe otherwise, but his instinct, which had seen him through many a tight spot, told him the “businessmen” were the enemy. Now the only question was, what were they doing drinking coffee in the same place he was drinking coffee?
Hoss stood up from his stool and walked to the cash register. He waited while Molly finished stacking plates and made her way over.
“Did you enjoy your meal?”
“Yeah, steak was good, haven’t had one in awhile.”
While adding the bill, Molly said, “With the dinners, coffee’s included with the price, you know.”
Hoss didn’t respond. He was listening for the scraping of chair legs, but he heard nothing.
Molly looked up to say, “That’ll be $2.99.”
Hoss placed three one-dollar bills beside the cash register then added a half-buck tip. “Thanks. Your coffee’s good, too.”
Hoss walked past the men at the tables. They made no move to get up. As he walked out the door, he began to think his suspicions were overblown … until he turned toward the GTO and at the same time saw the café customer—the one who’d left to meet his wife—leaning against the building. The man straightened up and faced the GTO. As Hoss strode toward the car, so did the man. Hoss looked over his shoulder. The three men from inside had emerged and were fanning out, approaching him from behind. Hoss saw no guns drawn, heard no shouts for him to freeze. No one said a word, but everyone’s destination seemed to be the GTO.
Hoss turned the lock of the car door only a moment before Detective Tom Matzen was beside him. In the next moment, Murray, Kehoe, and Fernau had Hoss ringed.
“Let’s see some identification,” Matzen said.
Feigning surprise, Hoss answered, “What’s this about?”
“What’s your name?”
“Bill Young. That woman in the café knows me.”
“We’ll see,” pressed Matzen, “but right now you’re gonna show some ID.”
Hoss stole a glance inside the car. On the seat was the paper bag with his gun inside.
“Sure,” said Hoss. “It’s in the car.”
Hoss opened the door but one of the detectives slammed it shut. Then came that long second when the detectives wondered how this was going to go; though braced, they were still unprepared for Hoss’s sudden ferocity.
Matzen took a fist to the sternum that sent shock waves down to his bowels. Kehoe got it next, with an openhanded straight arm to the face. Blood burst from his nose. Murray, older than the others, lunged at the assailant’s shoulder, trying to wrap him up, but took a severe elbow jab in the side and was tossed off. Fearing a breakaway, Fernau dove in for a tackle around the waist. A knee in the gut stopped his breath, but he still hung on until Hoss worked a leg free to knee him again, followed by a mighty kick to the hip. Hoss was essentially untouched after this first flurry—but he was wild-eyed and desperate, looking for any crease to make his way out. The cops, though each stunned, were already advancing for the next go-round. Matzen and Murray were clutching for their weapons. Hoss saw this and took a swing at Matzen’s head, then lunged at Murray, fists and legs pumping, all the while grappling for control of the lieutenant’s .38. Fearing he could not match the strength of his attacker, whose hands had already unsnapped his holster and were pulling on the gun’s grip, Murray slammed as hard as he could on the man’s forearms and wrists, then used all his weight to twist away and fall to the ground with his service revolver still holstered, under his body. Opportunity lost, Hoss made a grab for Matzen’s weapon, but the detective jumped out of reach.
Kehoe, nose bleeding, took another run in from behind and got both his arms around the suspect, who reacted with a fury that broke the grip. When Hoss turned to face Kehoe, the detective’s fist was already on the way, hitting Hoss’s upper cheekbone but, adrenaline-pumped as Hoss was, Kehoe’s blow had only the effect of slapping a tiger’s face. Kehoe felt the counterpunch slam the side of his head, but the diversion this provided allowed Matzen, Murray, and Fernau to rush in, grabbing, pulling, punching … anything to get this brute down on the pavement. By this time, too, help had arrived. Sergeant Kuenstling and four other cops had been situated in cars or around corners, keeping an eye on the “takedown.” Seeing it was not going well, the uniformed backup rushed to the scene. Kuenstling threw himself into the melee, acting as a battering ram. Hoss was knocked off balance as the shoves and pulls from all directions dragged him down. At least four officers were on him, around his back and shoulders, trying to pinion his arms. Now on his knees, with one arm braced against the pavement to prevent being forced flat, Hoss gathered all his remaining strength to viciously kick, twist, and flail, taking everyone by surprise. Miraculously, he regained his feet, threw punches with both arms, and then put his head down in an effort to crash through the ring of captors. Billy clubs came out. A stream of mace blinded the wild man, then all nine officers collapsed upon him. Grabbed, whacked, and pummeled, Hoss was finally slammed down, his arms forced behind his back, his wrists jammed together until the handcuffs clicked tight.
Lieutenant Murray, flushed and with torn sports coat, yelled at the manacled man, bleeding and prostrate.
“Who are you!?”
“Drop dead.”
Legs bruised, Sergeant Kuenstling hobbled into the café to see if the young mother and child he’d spied earlier were, in fact, Linda and Lori Peugeot. They weren’t.
One of the backups, Louis Braatz,
brought leg irons over from the trunk of a cruiser. They were put in place before the suspect was dragged to his feet.
“Nothing to say, huh?” said Matzen. There was no response. “Okay, wiseass, I think we’ll find out who you are directly.”
Matzen fumbled with the suspect’s left cuff. With the handcuffs in the way, Matzen, in his hurry, twice failed to unbutton the cuff. Finally, he just ripped it apart and none too gently yanked up the sleeve, exposing a tattooed forearm: “Born To Lose.”
. . .
Chief Blackie DeLellis has kept a memento over the years. It is the quickly scrawled note he found on his desk at the Verona Station House.
Oct. 4, 1969
Hoss apprehended
A Live in
Iowa at 3:45 PM
There were questions aplenty, but all in good time. First, all the news from Iowa was absorbed, every detail. Detective Matzen reported Hoss was “brought down, not without battle. He was an animal, very powerful.” Lieutenant Murray agreed. “He had the strength of twenty men.”
Hoss refused to say anything. A search of his pockets yielded $157 and a key to room 7 at the Travelers Motel.
The same thought struck everyone: This is where the woman and baby are, gagged and tied up.
Within minutes Travelers Motel owner H. B. DeLapp found his place swarming with cops. Pretty clerk Pat Heidler was stunned to silence. Oh, my lord, she thought, I flirted with the man … mildly (she rationalized) but I did. To think that …
When the door to room 7 was opened, no woman or child was found inside, nor any signs that they had ever been there. Officers did find five unsealed letters to Jodine Fawkes. Hurriedly read, they did not shed light on the fate or location of the Peugeots. On the nightstand was a roll of quarters, a roll of nickels, and 157 pennies—oddly, the same number of pennies as the number of dollars found in Hoss’s pocket. Police also confiscated a pair of slacks and a shirt with a laundry tag labeled “William Young.” In a coat pocket, they found thirty-six rounds for a .22 caliber revolver. Other items—postcards and gas and motel receipts—were carefully collected and put in evidence bags.
Born to Lose Page 20
