“All I can hear is the fuckin’ alarm ringing and thinking I now got a serious beef in the middle of nowhere. These mountain people will kill us when they find out we’re Yankees from up North and were trying to steal their money. I can hear our guys yelling and cursing outside and scrambling to their cars. Me and Mitchell get the hell out of the store, hop in a car with Billy Blew, Jimmy Riffert, and Charlie Murtaugh, and drive out of there with the alarm still ringing in our ears. It’s pitch black out, and we’re driving like madmen along these unpaved mountain roads, and I’m cursing our lousy luck. We hadn’t driven 15 minutes when I realize I’m filthy. I’m covered in metal filings, chips of white plaster, and a lot of safe dust. I can’t help thinking back a few years to an earlier job gone bad in Bucks County where the prosecutor brought in a forensics specialist who testified about all the safe dust we had on us when we were arrested. I figure if the cops stop us I’ve had it; I’m covered in plaster and safe dust. And if I get nailed, everybody in the car with me is going down too.
“‘If we get stopped, everybody is gonna get convicted,’ I tell the guys in the car. ‘Mitchell and me are covered in safe dust. If our clothes are sent to a forensics lab, they can directly put us with that safe. Even if we’re caught in Chicago or Pittsburgh, they can connect us to that safe. And the longer we’re in this car with you guys, the greater the chance this stuff will get on you.’
“We get into a beef in the car. The guys start giving me an argument. They don’t want us to take the weight. They don’t want to split up. They’ll take their chances, but they never had to face a courtroom grilling over forensic evidence like I did. We don’t know where the other guys got to, everybody cut out when the alarm went off. The other two cars were probably halfway to Philly by now. We, on the other hand, were driving through the night on these desolate roads expecting seven cop cars to come down on us at any moment.
“After a couple of hours we’ve probably traveled 100 miles and come to a real town or sort of one. Something called Bluefield, West Virginia. There’s no doubt in my mind the cops have been notified what’s happened in that little mountain town we just disturbed and will be on the lookout for us. ‘Stop the car,’ I tell them just before we enter Bluefield. ‘We’re getting out.’ They give me an argument, but they know I’m right. Me, Mitchell, and Billy Blew get out of the car and start walking towards town as the sun starts to come up. Riffert and Murtaugh take off in the car and are gonna try and make it back to Philly.
“Bill’s the only one of us in a suit, so he gets us a motel room to hole up in. He then goes to a local laundry, gets his suit cleaned, and then goes out and buys me and Mitchell some new clothes we can wear. Now we got to figure out the best way to get back home. We discover Bluefield has an airport that has flights to Pittsburgh, but Bill’s afraid of planes. He won’t fly. Fortunately, the town also has a train station and we can catch a train to Washington, D.C. We decide to try it, although we know the cops will be on the lookout for us.
“It turned out to be the longest train ride of my life. It was only five hours, but it felt like five days. The train hardly picked up any speed between station stops and the guy driving the thing insisted on stopping at every little village or hamlet that had a newspaper and a toilet. Every time we stopped I expected the state police to come through the doors. All three of us could have used a stiff drink or two, but the train had no food service, nothing. It was like we were on a slow moving desert. It was brutal.
“We finally pull in to Union Station in D.C. and feel like we’re back in the real world, civilization at last. But now we got another problem. The station is packed with people. I mean packed. It’s a mob scene. The station platforms reminded me of Grand Central Station in Manhattan. We’re all wondering, what the hell is going on here? It turns out there’s a large antiwar rally taking place at the Capitol and people are coming in from all over the country protesting our continued presence in Vietnam. The station is loaded with kids in jeans, sandals, tank tops, bandanas around their heads and they’re holding all sorts of protest and antiwar signs. Many of them are smoking pot, and some of them looked like they were on something stronger. There were thousands of them. These long-haired, hippie kids are feeling sort of bold. They’re in their element. You know, security in numbers. Once they see me, Bill, and Mitchell dressed in suits on the train platform, and looking sort of serious, they automatically jump to the conclusion we’re part of some government surveillance operation. They think we’re undercover cops or FBI agents. Can you believe it? We’re just back from a serious beef with some country bumpkins who were looking to nail us to a tree, each of us has a prison record as long as our arm, and these dirty, long-haired kids are calling us “pigs,” spitting at our feet, and telling us to shove Nixon’s war up our ass. It’s crazy. And I can see Mitchell is getting pissed; he’s having a hard time with the bullshit and the verbal harassment.
“‘If one more kid calls me a pig or a stinkin’ FBI agent,’ barks Mitchell, ‘I’m gonna deck him. I’m tellin’ ya, I’m gonna drop kick ‘im right on his ass.’
“That’s all we need to make this debacle complete, I think to myself. A bunch of us Kensington knuckleheads traveled hundreds of miles to do a job in some backwoods hole-in-the-wall, the deal goes bust, the cops are chasing us, we get stranded in some one-horse town, have to take a hundred-year-old train back East, and now get picked up for smacking a long-haired, college kid protesting the war. All because we were mistaken for plainclothes cops.”
Kripplebauer was able to restrain Mitchell Prinski from manhandling any of the youthful demonstrators, and the three broke and exhausted burglars managed to make it back to Philadelphia and Marty’s Bar, where they doused their wounded egos with pints of beer and recounted the details of their grueling excursion to amused bar patrons.
Wild goose chases were inevitable in their line of work. Nothing was guaranteed, but on the whole things were going well. The two and a half years after Junior was released from Trenton State were good ones. He and Mickie were happily married and gainfully employed: production work provided a good living. But the couple was about to plunge into a maelstrom of events from which they would never quite recover. The bitterly cold winter of 1974/75 augured a dramatic shift in the fortunes of the Kripplebauers and their associates.
The decision to head south and avoid the icy grip of winter was a smart one. Everybody agreed. The Kripplebauers, Tommy Seher, and Bruce Agnew had pulled so much swag out of a fancy Houston suburb that they had to dump some of it. The large steamer trunks they had purchased for shipping the loot home were filled to the brim. Silverware had to be flattened, candelabras bent, some fur pieces and loose odds and ends discarded, and the three men labored to lift the trunks into the rental cars for the trip to the airport. Mickie was to fly back to Philadelphia with Tommy and Bruce; Junior had business on the West Coast and would meet the others later.
But it was not to be. Burglary was a dangerous game. The smallest oversight, the slightest sin of omission or commission, could result in a serious beef. As good as they were, arrest and imprisonment were always possibilities. The Houston heist had gone off like clockwork. It was a quick hitter, short and profitable, just the way the crew liked it. There hadn’t been a hint of trouble. Or so they thought. But they had, in fact, made one critical mistake. Junior had told Tommy Seher on their last night in Houston to ditch the unwanted goods in a dumpster on the way to the airport. Instead, Seher had discarded a number of items in their motel’s dumpster early that morning. Unbeknownst to him, Mary Esther Lee, one of the motel’s maids, had been shaking out a dust rag from a third floor balcony. She couldn’t help but notice a guest throwing out a couple of fur pieces, a small jewelry box, silver and crystal candleholders, several pieces of luggage, and a few paintings. “Dumbfounded,” as she later told the police, she immediately informed her supervisor.
A short while after his partners had departed for the airport, Junior left his room to catch his own flight.
As he walked through the motel’s parking lot, he glimpsed a cop and maid talking. It was serious; he wasn’t trying to make time with her. The policeman—tall, broad-shouldered, and in his mid-thirties—began walking in his direction. Junior knew he had a problem.
“Excuse me, sir,” said the officer.
“Could I help you?” replied Junior courteously. He looked at the officer’s name plate. D. W. Cook of the Houston Police Department.
“Are you a resident of the motel?” asked the officer.
“Yes,” said Junior. “I’m just checking out. Is there anything wrong?”
“What room are you in?”
“One forty-three,” said Junior. “Is there a problem?”
The officer gave Kripplebauer, his luggage, and his car a quick once-over. “Where are you from?”
“California,” replied Junior.
“Could I see some identification?”
Kripplebauer handed the officer his California driver’s license. It was issued in the name of Louis Bauer.
As the officer inspected it, he asked, “Are you here alone?”
“No, I’m with my wife,” said Junior.
“Is she in the room now?”
“No,” said Junior. “She’s out shopping.”
“Tell me where she’s at,” said Cook. “I’ll have somebody pick her up.”
“No,” said Junior brusquely. “I can pick her up myself. Look, I’ve got things to do, Officer. I want to leave. Am I under arrest?”
“No, you’re not. But you can’t go yet.”
“Look, Officer, I’ve got business to take care of,” argued Junior. “My wife’s expecting me to pick her up. I haven’t done anything wrong. Here, look in my suitcase if you want to.”
Junior thought he was making some headway. The cop gradually appeared more relaxed. His posture was less rigid and his demeanor less confrontational. Junior kept talking; he was familiar with tight situations. Able to project an impressive display of sincerity at a moment’s notice, Kripplebauer never lost his cool; he was a professional. Of Irish-German extraction and a lapsed Catholic of no great religious conviction, Kripplebauer could convince the Dalai Lama he was a seventeenth-century Tibetan monk preordained to bring peace and harmony to the world. Whatever was necessary to get out of a jam.
Officer Cook looked more puzzled than assertive now, but just when there seemed to be a glimmer of hope his partner drove up in a patrol car. Junior’s heart sank when he got a glimpse of what the other cop was holding in his hands as he exited the police cruiser.
“I found these in the dumpster,” he said, walking up to his partner. He was holding a pair of channel locks, a screwdriver, and a crowbar in one hand and a couple of cashmere sweaters with fur collars in the other. “Looks like genuine mink to me,” he added, stroking the fur with his thumb and glaring at Kripplebauer.
“Did you ever see these before?” asked Officer Cook as he grabbed the crowbar out of his partner’s hand.
“No. Absolutely not,” said Junior angrily. “Did anybody say they saw me with them? Did someone tell you they saw me throw those things in the dumpster?”
Junior was insistent; he was fighting for his life. Cook appeared unsure. Had he nabbed a burglar or an innocent motel patron? Initially, he believed he had caught someone ripping off the motel. But the manager said the items found in the dumpster weren’t his. After a quick check, nothing appeared to be missing from the motel. Perplexed, Officer Cook called the station house and told the captain of the burglary squad that they were holding “a California guy who might be packing burglary tools. What do you want me to do with him?”
“Well, we haven’t had any reports of a burglary at any motels,” said the captain, “but we had a bunch of others over the last few days. Looks like a few places got hit pretty bad.”
He was referring to five burglaries that had been reported in just the last three days and well over a half-million dollars in stolen property. Piney Point, one of the three small towns that made up the Village community and said to be “the richest town in Texas,” had been hit pretty hard. One burglary victim, according to a newspaper report, was “Harry G. Jamail, an executive of an exclusive grocery store chain specializing in gourmet food and crystal.”
“Bring him in,” Cook was told by the more senior officer. “Let’s take a look at him.”
At the station house, a detective went through Junior’s pockets, wallet, and suitcase and found identification cards for a Louis Kripplebauer Jr. out of Philadelphia. That was the final nail in Junior’s coffin. After running the name through the national criminal database, the captain thought he had hit the lottery. Bells, whistles, and sirens were going off. Kripplebauer wasn’t any run-of-the-mill criminal; he was a certified crime wave who had done everything from burglary to brazen stickups and full-blown bank heists. The Houston police had nabbed the real deal.
The captain walked over to the young officer who made the pinch and congratulated him on catching one of the key players in Philly’s infamous K&A Gang. He told Cook he didn’t catch just any old fish; he had caught a Great White.
The captain then turned to Junior with a big smile on his face. “Hello, Mr. Kripplebauer. Welcome to Houston.” His demeanor quickly changing, the captain leaned over Junior and whispered, “I got your fuckin’ ass now, buddy. And I not only have you, I’m gonna get your partners as well. We know you did those houses in the Village, and we’re sure as hell gonna get you for it.”
The Houston authorities leaned on Kripplebauer for the names of his accomplices, their whereabouts, and the location of the stolen goods. Their efforts were futile; Junior was never a big talker. The police had Kripplebauer, but they were at a loss concerning his partners and the loot. The maid at the motel gave them descriptions of Kripplebauer’s friends, but there was no sign of them or the stolen goods. The swag couldn’t have just evaporated; the silver items and rare coins alone would have required several cars or a trailer to haul them away. Junior overheard the detectives saying that a million or more might have been taken.
Knowing that they had to act quickly, they immediately informed the local U.S. Attorney’s Office that something unusual had gone down, that they had picked up a known burglar named Louis Kripplebauer, and that a considerable assortment of valuable goods had been sucked out of a prominent Houston suburb. Guidance from federal agents would be welcome.
When the call came in to the Philadelphia office, Bill Skarbek knew just what to do. He got on the phone with the Houston police and told them they had nailed one of the key members of the K&A Gang, the nation’s premier band of residential and commercial burglars. It was a landmark—K&A guys weren’t normally caught at the scene of the crime—but there was no time to celebrate. They had to work quickly if they were going to nab Kripplebauer’s accomplices and get the stolen items back.
“According to what they told me,” recalls Skarbek, “Texas got ripped a new asshole by Kripplebauer’s crew. I told them to go to all of Houston’s major transportation centers and check on shipments to Philadelphia. I explained to them these guys were slick and not to expect to find any of the missing items in their possession. They were probably shipping the stolen goods back to Philly in foot-lockers, and I’d be on the lookout for anything coming into Philly from Houston.”
Skarbek had his agents call all the freight carriers in Philadelphia and told them to be on the lookout for any shipments coming in from Houston. When Tommy Seher, Bruce Agnew, and Marilynne Kripplebauer deplaned at Philadelphia International Airport, they were promptly arrested and aggressively questioned. Their interrogations proved as fruitless as Junior’s. Just about the time an airfreight receipt in the name of George Kuni was found on Tommy Seher, however, Skarbek received an urgent call from Eastern Airlines: four footlockers had just been unloaded. The heavy lockers had been shipped from Houston.
Just before midnight, Skarbek and two other agents seized the footlockers and took them back to the FBI offices in Philadelphia. Th
ey were opened the next morning. Inside was over $500,000 in jewelry, furs, coins, stamps, and silver. As they inspected the stolen items, the bounty seemed to fill the entire office. Jack Frels, an assistant district attorney from Houston who flew to Philadelphia to assist with the inventory, was amazed by the haul. “It just knocked your eyes out,” said Frels.
The authorities now had the burglars and the goods; the Houston caper was a nicely tied package.
Back in Houston, Junior was charged with being a habitual offender and breaking into an uninhabited dwelling at night. Convictions on both counts added up to a life sentence in Texas. The cops gave Junior one telephone call, and he contacted Steve LaCheen, his attorney in Philadelphia. He told Steve he was in a serious pickle and needed the name of a good lawyer in Texas. Steve told him he’d have to make some inquiries, but he told Junior it was important to get someone immediately to fend off additional charges and ensure that his rights weren’t violated. Texas justice was swift and harsh.
Junior handed the phone to the police captain, who spoke cordially with the prominent Philadelphia attorney. After a brief discussion, the captain recommended Larry Hurst, a former Houston police officer now practicing criminal law. With LaCheen’s assent, Hurst was hired to represent Kripplebauer.
The initial meeting between lawyer and client was typical Junior. Kripplebauer was still in the police district lockup, mulling over his lousy luck and his chances of getting out of his current predicament. The first thing he asked for when Hurst introduced himself was a cigarette.
Confessions of a Second Story Man Page 27
