Observing this odd situation, a neighbor cautiously came up to the car and asked, “Are you okay, George?” (Kripplebauer was known as “George Bain” in Florida). “Are you in pain? Are you all right? You don’t look good.”
“No, no, no,” replied Junior, his body slouched to the side and his head lying against the head rest. He was still trying to manipulate the remote control for the garage door.
“Something’s wrong,” said the neighbor, his concern increasing. “You don’t look good. Do you need help?”
“I’m all right,” said Junior. “The door won’t work. I can’t get the garage door to open.”
Now taking notice of the situation below her window, Sherry came outside to see what the problem was.
“He’s having a stroke,” said the neighbor.
“I’m all right,” said Junior. “I’m okay.”
“He’s not okay,” replied the neighbor more assertively. “I think he’s having a stroke.”
Sherry and the neighbor decided to get Junior out of the hot South Florida sun and helped him out of the vehicle and into the basement of her town house. He was still insisting he had to take a piss, so they helped him into the bathroom and stood by him so he wouldn’t fall.
When the ambulance crew arrived at the house, they immediately laid Junior on the floor. He was still arguing that he was okay and didn’t need all the attention he was receiving. It was then that the medical technician said, “Pal, you’re having a stroke. This is my business and I’m telling you you’re having a stroke.”
“It didn’t process,” recalls Kripplebauer. “They kept on talking stroke but I didn’t comprehend what was happening. As I’m in the ambulance I heard them discussing somebody’s condition and they keep on mentioning stroke, what they should do, what medicine to inject, but I didn’t think it was for me. I kept telling them I was okay; I wasn’t having a stroke.”
In fact, Junior was in the midst of a massive stroke, one that would come close to taking his life. It was payback time: he was now paying for his bad crack habit. Dealing drugs, hanging with a fast Miami crowd, he had joined their lavish, self-indulgent, reckless lifestyle. He was smoking crack several times a day after becoming addicted to the “intense marijuana high” he got from the drug. Hospital toxicology tests showed he was on the verge of “narcotic poisoning; his blood system was full of it,” doctors told him.
“When I woke up the next day,” says Kripplebauer, “I looked around and saw a guy in bed with an IV and tubes in him and another guy who was hooked up to a sophisticated monitor, and I knew I was in the hospital. I finally realized I was in bad shape. I couldn’t move one arm or a leg. I thought that maybe I had been in a car accident ’cause that was the last thing I remembered, driving the car. I felt my arm and head to see if plaster casts had been placed on me. I didn’t know what the damage was.
“I had to take a terrible piss, but had trouble moving and getting out of bed. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t stand up; it was very difficult. When I finally got up, I immediately lost my balance and tried to reach out for the bed with both hands, but only one arm worked and I crashed to the floor. One of the other patients saw me go down and rang for assistance. When the nurse came in she started screaming, ‘What do you think you’re doing? You shouldn’t be trying to get out of bed.’
“‘I was walking to the bathroom,’ I told her.
“‘But you can’t walk,’ she replied.
“‘What do you mean I can’t walk? I can walk.’
“‘No you can’t,’ the nurse shot back, ‘you’re paralyzed.’
“It was then that I learned just how bad I had been jackpotted. It affected my whole left side. I couldn’t swallow, my speech was slurred, and even my face was affected.”
Doctors theorized that if Kripplebauer hadn’t maintained his rigorous workout routine from his days in prison, which still included running five miles a day, the stroke would probably have killed him. As it was, his recovery was partial at best and the struggle long and arduous. He was in Fort Lauderdale’s St. Luke’s Hospital for months, relearning the simplest human functions, how to swallow, talk, and perform rudimentary tasks with one side of his body useless, completely shut down. There would be only pureed food for the first three months of his hospitalization, hours of painful rehab that wasn’t all that successful, and familiarizing himself with his new vehicle—not a Lincoln Town Car, Cadillac de Ville, or foreign sports car, but a cumbersome wheelchair that he could barely manipulate.
Eventually, his sister and niece thought it was time to bring him home and had him transferred to a rehabilitation facility in Camden, New Jersey. More exercise, counseling sessions, and therapy were in store for the once-formidable physical specimen who was now a broken shell of his former self. The upstate Pennsylvania coal-cracker had come full circle: from his youthful dreams of escaping the filthy, stifling coal mines to confinement in a facility for aged, crippled residents who can no longer survive on their own. Between those extremes, however, Louis James Kripplebauer, Jr., lived life on his own terms.
Though Kripplebauer must have been tormented with self-doubt and regret during his lengthy recovery, he assumed the role of team captain, an upbeat, therapeutic cheerleader encouraging his wheelchair-bound roommates and other physically handicapped residents to work harder, keep the faith, and not fall prey to despondency and defeatism. Better times were ahead, he’d counsel the 85-year-old ladies who received few family visits, and their male counterparts who had little but their meals to look forward to each day. They would overcome their current difficulties, he’d argue, and make the gains that would allow them to leave the medical facility. Yes, he’d counsel them—they’d enjoy life once again.
At both the Camden rehab facility and the assisted-living community he would shortly be transferred to in Voorhees, Lou—as he would now be known— was undoubtedly one of the most popular and trusted members of the residential community. Upbeat, concerned, and always desirous to provide a helping hand, Kripplebauer was a friend to all and kept the door to his room open around the clock just in case he was needed. More like a benevolent mayor looking after a valued constituency than a needy patient requiring assistance, Junior was no doubt thought to be a retired physical education teacher or social worker, and certainly not what he really was—a bona-fide and extremely accomplished second story man who ran law enforcement authorities ragged all over America.
Now in his sixty-eighth year and confined to a wheelchair at a South Jersey assisted-living facility, Kripplebauer looks forward to visits from friends and family, periodic excursions to the shore to enjoy a pina colada on the beach and play the slots, and the generous kisses of a gentle and loving border collie pup who pays scant heed to her friend’s age or infirmities.
Ironically, the door to his room is now closed. The fabled burglar who may have pillaged more homes than Genghis Khan, and who preoccupied law enforcement officers 10 times as long as John Dillinger, had fallen victim to thieves; money and personal items had gone missing. Was it a cruel turnabout for an infirm and well-liked senior citizen or just deserts for an inveterate career criminal? Alas, the master thief who ran roughshod over affluent communities from the Canadian to the Mexican borders, and from ocean to ocean, is now the one on the alert.
Thieves beware—one of your own is watching.
Acknowledgments
THIS BOOK could not have been written without the assistance of scores of individuals in Philadelphia and around the nation who were willing to be interviewed—many times over, in some cases. Not surprisingly, the great bulk of the interviews that make up this historical investigation are with criminals— specifically burglars—and the federal, state, and local lawmen who chased after them. If it had not been for the willing cooperation of both thieves and cops— many of whom were talking on the record about sensitive subjects for the first time—this project could not have been undertaken, much less completed.
I must initially thank Jimmy Mor
an and Jackie Johnson for providing the inspirational spark that led me to tackle this subject. Until now the K&A Gang has only been whispered about late at night in the safe confines of neighborhood taprooms across Philadelphia’s river wards. Though it was my original intention to research an unrelated criminal justice story, the entertaining accounts of the K&A Gang by these two proud Kensington natives gradually won me over. The gang’s wide-ranging exploits, the Runyonesque characters who made up the old Irish Mob, accounts of big scores, and their many prison misadventures were too compelling to be left to die in dingy, smoke-filled shot-and-beer joints. Those many stories had to be collected, bound, and offered to the public.
Once I embarked on what turned out to be a five-year-long project and tracked down such accomplished second story men (and captivating raconteurs) as Jimmy Dolan, Jimmy Laverty, and John L. McManus, my instincts were confirmed. A thorough account of Philadelphia’s contribution to the history of burglary was long overdue.
It goes without saying that I owe a tremendous debt of gratitude to Junior Kripplebauer, a consummate career criminal and perfect gentleman (in my dealings with him) whose life and daring deeds form the centerpiece of this saga. Early on in my research the Kripplebauer name resonated. Talked about with respect and reverence by his old colleagues, protected by his loyal attorney, and living under an assumed name somewhere in Florida, he seemed as intriguing as he was elusive. It appeared for the longest time that he would be one former gang member that I would not have access to. By all accounts he was a larger-than-life figure, but one whom I could only fantasize about tracking down and incorporating into this story. Junior’s misfortune was my narrative breakthrough. A devastating stroke brought him back to the area and, soon after, to a well-deserved position as focal point of Confessions of a Second Story Man.
Over the course of countless interviews and several years, Louis James Kripplebauer, Jr., and I not only chronicled his birth and evolution as a K&A burglar, but also became good friends. His assistance in this project has been invaluable and is deeply appreciated.
I must also thank the many other K&A men who offered me their time and recollections. They include, in no particular order, Jimmy Dolan, Chick Goodroe, Jimmy Laverty, John L. McManus, George R. Smith, Don Johnstone, Don Abrams, Bill McClurg, Marty Bell, Johnny Boggs, Owen Gallagher, and Frank Mawhinney.
My sincere appreciation must also be extended to their archenemies, the many law enforcement officers who supplied, corroborated, and augmented the stories I was collecting. They include FBI Special Agents William Skarbek, Andy Sloan, James McAleer, Klaus Rohr, Robert McClernand, George Sherwood, Henry Handy, Robert McKenney, John Bierman, James Aardweg, and Robert Bazin; Raleigh Police Officer D. C. Williams and North Carolina Judge Rick Greeson; former federal prosecutor Louis Pichini, James Smith of the Greenwich, Conn., Police Department; Richard Richroath of the New Jersey state police; Jenkintown Police Chief Carl Butzloff and Abington Police Chief Herb Mooney.
Sincere appreciation is also extended to the many former members of the Philadelphia Police Department who assisted me, including John DelCarlino, Jack Lanzidelle, Frank Wallace, Joseph Brophy, Joe Dougherty, Frank X. O’Shea, Frank Friel, Francis Lederer, Robert Shubert, Bill Fleisher, John Wilson, and Jim Catahlo. Former ATF officers William Drum and James Kelly and former U.S. Marshal Tom O’Rourke provided valuable information as well.
A special note of thanks must be extended to the late Herbie Rhodes, a former Philly police officer and member of Clarence Ferguson’s Special Investigative Squad, who championed my efforts during this long project (when he wasn’t encouraging me to drop it and write the definitive account of the infamous Pottsville Heist). Herbie had an integral role in the Pottsville drama, knew the key players intimately, and was unquestionably correct when he said that Pottsville deserved both a book and a movie of its own.
During the early stages of my research, I drew upon the services of Margaret Jerrido of Temple University’s Urban Archives and Frank Donahue of the Philadelphia Inquirer..oth institutions offered an invaluable collection of old newspaper clips that not only provided a jumping-off point for my investigation but also helped document the activities of individual members of the K&A Gang.
Martha Woodall of the Philadelphia Inquirer.ery kindly shared information collected during her days as a reporter for the Greensboro Record. Ms. Woodall was one of the first to recognize the unique qualities and importance of the Hallmark Gang (as they were called in North Carolina) and produced substantive magazine pieces on the gang for both papers.
Also deserving a special thank you is Stephen LaCheen, an attorney of unquestioned ability and loyalty who represented many of the K&A burglars over the decades and won their respect and friendship many times over. Steven provided me with illuminating vignettes of his clients as well as Junior Kripplebauer’s lengthy legal file, which greatly assisted me in untangling the impressive and varied list of Junior’s criminal cases around the country. After interviewing so many key players in the criminal justice community in the course of writing this book, there is little question in my mind that if I ever needed a criminal defense lawyer, Steve LaCheen would be the man for the job.
In any research project, particularly one of this magnitude, many individuals help the author do the heavy lifting. Although there are too many to mention, I would like to pay a dept of gratitude to Carole Heidinger, Arlene Burke, Al Zabala, Marvin Edelman, Ron Avery, Joe Daughen, Joel Moldovsky, Sal Avena, Al Ronconi, Gene Pedicord, Virginia Chiucarelli, Larry McMullin, Eddie Rief, Buddy Brennan, Edward Froggatt, Mary Kober, Andrew Guckin, Gil Slowe, and Torben Jenks.
George Holmes shared his incisive knowledge of Kensington and offered able assistance during those occasional but still nerve-wracking computer melt-downs.
Also deserving a special thank you is Laura Lister, who hung in there during some of the more trying periods of this project, as well as Peter Steinberg, my literary agent, and Micah Kleit, my editor at Temple University Press, who recognized early on that Philly’s K&A Gang was truly something special and long overdue for book-length treatment. I would also like to thank Jane Barry for attending the many English classes I did not, learning the evils of dangling participles, and thereby making a good but flawed manuscript considerably better.
Notes
Books, whether for a scholarly audience or a more general readership, tend to be written about people and events that have already received a good bit of attention. Some of us, however, are not particularly interested in writing the two-hundred-twenty-fifth biography of Benjamin Franklin—or the fifth book on John Gotti, for that matter. Instead of rehashing long-known tales, such writers seek out previously unexplored stories or phenomena, even when there is little written documentation to help in the investigation.
In the field of organized crime, especially during the past half-century, telling a new story can mean going out on the street and tracking down both the players and the observers of your target population. Biker bars, shot-and-beer joints, gambling halls, and rat-infested back alleys are not conventional research venues—they certainly lack the scholarly aura and amenities of university libraries and historical societies—but they provide a wealth of information. This is particularly true when you are exploring a legendary urban phenomenon like the K&A Gang.
Mythic in certain neighborhoods throughout Philadelphia—as well as numerous cities and towns around the country—Philly’s old Irish Mob had long been in the shadow of Italian organized-crime activities in the area and was overdue for serious attention, scholarly or otherwise. Operating over a vast geographic area and several decades, Kensington’s well-known and respected community of burglars (and later meth dealers) went unclaimed and unexamined by both academics and journalists. With no one to chronicle their accomplishments, they had become legendary bandits whose legend was gradually fading with the passage of time. The thieves themselves, famously uncooperative, collaborated in their own anonymity by keeping investigators at arm’s l
ength. Outsiders—journalists, scholars, or members of the law enforcement establishment—were aggressively encouraged to stay out of their “business.”
I was fortunate enough to have established friendly relationships with both cops and cons over the years and have been a board member of a diverse cross-section of criminal justice organizations, including the Pennsylvania Prison Society and the Pennsylvania Crime Commission. These contacts led to others, and I was passed along from one knowledgeable source to another until I was eventually among the burglars themselves and the lawmen whose job it was to hunt them down. No accurate account of the K&A Gang could be based on old police files, newspaper clips, and legal documents alone. Without my access to the burglars themselves, the true flavor of the gang, their individual characteristics, their private motivations, and the outrageous experiences that the law and the press never heard about, would have been lost. It is those deeply personal traits and adventures that give life to the story presented here and explain, in part, the gang members’ endearing qualities and mythic status.
Having said that, I should add that half-century-old newspaper articles, police reports, and the burglars’ own legal files greatly augmented the large array of oral histories I was collecting. I made it a point to try to document every anecdotal account or claim by a burglar with a similar recollection by a law enforcement officer or public document before I would accept it as fact. That formula appeared to work in just about every case.
Obviously, the criminal career of Louis James Kripplebauer, Jr., is the central thread running through this story. His busy career, a veritable laundry list of illegal activities, is almost too exhausting to catalogue, much less recount in a book-length treatment. Much of his life story can be confirmed by other criminals, law enforcement authorities, government documents, and news articles. However, many of his criminal endeavors escaped the notice of authorities and newspaper scribes and therefore went unrecorded—to his gratification, I may add.
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