Sniper: The True Story of Anti-Abortion Killer James Kopp

by Jon Wells

  “I’m sorry, Rick, but I can’t remember—was Bart’s last name Slepian?”

  “Yes,” Rick replied. Why?”

  “I just heard on CNN he’s been shot.”

  Shot? Wounded, thought Rick, obviously at some kind of protest. Bart. Maybe now the stubborn guy will back off. “Aw for chrissakes, that’s—goddamnit, I told him to stay away from that stuff,” Rick said. “Is he OK?”

  “Rick, he’s—dead.”

  At first the information did not register. Then, suddenly, a deluge of emotion, and Rick Schwarz came unglued. He cried, and phoned Lynne. “Lynne, it’s Rick, please tell me what I’m hearing is not true.”

  Then Rick turned on CNN and saw the news for himself. On Saturday, U.S. President Bill Clinton issued a statement. “I am outraged by the murder of Dr. Barnett Slepian in his home last night in Amherst, New York. The Department of Justice is working with state and local authorities to find the person or persons responsible and bring them to justice. While we do not have all the facts of this case, one thing is clear, this nation cannot tolerate violence directed at those providing a constitutionally protected medical service… No matter where we stand on the issue of abortion, all Americans must stand together in condemning this tragic and brutal act. We must protect the safety and freedom of all our citizens. Hillary and I extend our thoughts and prayers to the family of Dr. Slepian.”

  The Amherst police and FBI agents searched for clues, checked names of anti-abortion radicals against their known locations. Bart had no shortage of pro-life enemies. Some had been charged with harassing him. Jim Kopp was not one of those people. The gray-blue eyes looked up at the TV. He was on the road at a truck stop. The news was on. He had driven west from Amherst, into Pennsylvania, stayed overnight at a motel, then on to Cleveland. CNN was broadcasting the story over and over. The sound was turned off. Just visuals. Yellow police tape. Amherst police cruisers. Bart Slepian dead. Jim Kopp felt his body shrink, fear creeping through his bones. He left the diner and turned his car back east. He needed money. New Jersey was his next stop.

  * * *

  There were several hundred mourners at Bart’s funeral. A letter was read from Bill and Hillary Clinton: “Bart Slepian lived to love and loved to live,” it said. A few weeks later, the Clintons visited Buffalo, met with Lynne. For Bart’s friends, the funeral was an awful thing—all the media attention, the surreal nature of his death. But the eulogy, read by Bart’s niece, Amanda Robb, was inspired. A professional television writer, the funniest person in the family, she was eloquent, hit all the right notes. She recalled her uncle Bart back in the early seventies, the one who had the least to give to the family, and one who gave the most.

  * * *

  The autopsy took place early the next day, but the cause of Bart Slepian’s death was no mystery. He bled to death. Erie County chief medical examiner Dr.Sung-ook Baik studied the entry and exit wounds, removed organs to examine the tissue for impact marks, traced the path the bullet traveled through the body. He recorded his findings:

  • Entrance of bullet hole, left side of the back, measuring three-quarters of an inch by one-half an inch.

  • No evidence of gunpowder on the skin.

  • Bullet penetrated left chest wall, left eighth rib, thoracic vertebral bone, spinal cord—severing approximately two inches of the cord—right lung, right fifth and sixth ribs.

  • Bullet exited body from the posterior part of the right armpit, 12 inches from the top of the head.

  At the scene, police used a ballistic alignment laser to trace the trajectory of the shot. The bullet had traveled 15 feet inside the house and 31 yards outside, from the wooded area to the sunroom window. A tree was identified as the likely shooting point used by the sniper to brace himself. At this scene, unlike the Canadian shootings, there were no spent cartridges found.

  Within days the FBI’s Jim Fitzgerald stood out in the darkened woods, seeing what the sniper saw. What had the sniper been thinking? The focus was on execution, making the kill, thought Fitzgerald. Acquire target, squeeze trigger. This shooting—at night from the rear of the home, with a well-planned escape route— followed the MO of the other shootings to date.

  A news conference was held in Buffalo by local police and the FBI. Police hold news conferences in the early hours of an investigation for two reasons. One is to protect public safety—get the killer’s name and face out there. Public safety wasn’t at issue here. The sniper’s profile suggested that, given his cautious manner, he would stay quiet for a long time, would not risk getting caught by striking again soon. The other reason for going public is for the police to solicit help. As a police officer spoke at the podium and the cameras rolled, in the background surveying the room was a man who could pass for a young Sidney Poitier. His name was Bernard Tolbert, FBI. He was in charge and knew they were up against it. They had nothing—nothing, until the phone call.

  A woman named Joan Dorn heard the plea for help in the media regarding the murder of Dr. Barnett Slepian. She was a fitness buff and lived in Bart’s neighborhood, over on Paradise Road. On Wednesday, October 14, she had risen before dawn, hit the pavement for a jog in the dark at 5:30 a.m. As she ran, she saw a car parked not far from her home.

  Never seen it before. Dorn was a scientist, an epidemiologist. She taught at the University of Buffalo. Noticing things, little things, patterns, things not readily apparent to the naked eye, was what she did for a living. She knew her neighborhood well, what pieces did and did not belong. She noticed the strange car. Black Cavalier. Vermont plate. Didn’t belong. Who parks their car on the street at five in the morning?

  A man in a dark exercise suit got out, started stretching. In the morning gloom, in the bulky clothes, he looked big. He started to jog. The stranger’s gait, it was all wrong, Dorn could tell. He wasn’t a jogger, not a regular, anyway. He looked slow, plodding. And he was overdressed for the mild weather they were enjoying. And why drive your car somewhere to park and then run? She watched him jog out of sight, in the direction of Roxbury.

  Instead of shaking her head at the incongruity of it all and resuming her day, Joan Dorn went home and opened her personal journal, where she kept notes on her runs, how she felt, distance traveled. “Wacky car,” she wrote, and the plate number: BPE 216, Vermont. Then she showed her husband the note she had written. “Honey, if I don’t come home tomorrow from jogging, check this out,” she quipped.

  Now she heard the request from police for anyone noticing anything unusual in the area. She picked up the phone. Later she would be applauded for providing a critical tip, journalists would come knocking on her door. Dorn didn’t think she had done anything remarkable—you pay attention to your neighborhood. If anything, she was hard on herself. She should have acted sooner, reported the stranger to police on the morning of her jog. Maybe, she reflected, if she had said something sooner, Lynne Slepian would still have a husband, and her sons a father.

  An investigator ran the plate number she provided. It was registered to James Charles Kopp, Box 379, Highgate Road, St. Albans, Vermont, and his driving privileges had previously been suspended. The plate matched with a black Chevy Cavalier. Vehicle Identification Number 1G1JE2111H7175930. Police gathered background on the owner: arrested at least two dozen times for anti-abortion protests in the United States; 5′10″, 165 pounds, blue eyes, brown hair. Date of birth 8/2/54, place of birth—California.

  An Autotrak search showed four suspended or expired driver’s licenses for James Charles Kopp—from New York, Rhode Island, Wisconsin and California. A nationwide alert was put out for the Cavalier. And in Vermont, nine FBI agents showed up at the home of Anthony Kenny in Swanton. No sign of Kopp. Kenny was interviewed. Kopp had been using the Swanton address for some of his mail; he handed the agents two unopened pieces. They contained bank records for account # 644-0055964, belonging to to John C. Kopp d/b/a, JMJ Construction at PNC Bank. P.O. Box 158, Riverside, Connecticut.

  “Where else does Kopp send his mail?�
� an agent asked Kenny. “He called me about a month ago and gave a new forwarding address.”

  “Which is?”

  “Box 42, Whiting, New Jersey, 08759.”

  Chapter 12 ~ Are you James Kopp?

  Crestwood Village Retirement Community

  Whiting, N.J.

  He was a pretty high-strung guy, Alex. He shared an apartment with easygoing Jim Gannon. Alex, who was not a pro-life activist, worked as a security guard. Anyone stepped onto Gannon’s property, Alex heard alarms go off in his head. And so, that day when he was at the kitchen table and saw the red and blue lights flashing through the window, he leapt to his feet. What’s going on? A knock. Jim Gannon, sweet old man, cool as a cucumber, stayed at his seat. Alex, his heart pumping, was at the door. He opened it. And saw the barrel pointing at the middle of his chest. The Glock was out, the FBI agent on the porch staring into Alex’s eyes. Uniformed police backed up the FBI outside, guns drawn.

  “Sit down.” The agent motioned to a chair. Alex obeyed. “Are you James C. Kopp?”

  “No,” Alex said.

  Five agents entered the house, Gannon stood to meet them. “Come on in!” he said, gentle blue eyes twinkling. Alex was in shock, but Gannon was not frightened. Not much rattled him. Heck, he came from a large family, six boys, six girls, he was used to commotion; Mom used to invite strangers in off the street for tea all the time. That’s how worried James Gannon was about the FBI showing up at his door.

  He was told the FBI was investigating the shooting of a doctor in Amherst. Special Agent Daniel McKenna asked Gannon if he knew James Charles Kopp. Sure, sure, Gannon knew Jim. Stayed there sometimes. Gannon knew there was no way Jim could be involved, although it seemed a lot of folks were entertaining a different point of view. Lordy Pete, he thought. Lordy Pete! They were acting like Jim was a terrorist or something.

  The FBI interview lasted more than two hours. Gannon told agents that he forwarded Kopp’s nonbanking mail to one of two addresses: Ark Sales, P.O. Box 61, Essex Junction, Vermont 05452, or Nazareth Farms, 1073 Buck Hollow Road, Fairfax, Vermont 05454, Attn: Jen—Jen, as in Jennifer Rock.

  “Can I take Mr. Kopp’s items?” asked Agent McKenna.

  “Go right ahead.” Agents gave him receipts for the items. They asked for permission to search the attic.

  “Go right ahead,” Gannon said. He had nothing to hide, and neither, he was certain, did Jim Kopp.

  Four agents went upstairs and returned with a blue knapsack containing a toothbrush, envelopes addressed to Kopp c/o a post office box under the name “Before Dawn.” The agents questioned Gannon again. What was “Before Dawn?” Jim produced the newsletter, Gannon explained, which was aimed at seeking donations for the Pro-life cause. The post office box was Gannon’s mailing address, he collected donations and deposited them in an account at Sovereign Bank, gave copies of bank statements to a woman named Elizabeth Lewis, who lived in the same retirement community.

  Betty had a powder-white, crinkled face, silver hair and kind eyes. She had been arrested with Kopp at a protest in Atlanta back in 1988. She was shocked to see all the police. Oh dear. The agents came into her house and looked up in her attic. “Jim was very pleasant, he just came and went,” she said. “A drifter, really. Didn’t talk much. He spent a lot of time on the porch, mostly reading, working on the computer. And walking, a great walker. He would be up at six, before dawn, and go walking.”

  When Betty heard that Jim Kopp was a suspect in the shooting of Dr. Barnett Slepian, she didn’t believe it. Jim had once told her that he was as concerned for the spiritual welfare of the abortionists as he was for the babies. She believed him. Such a soft-spoken, nice man. Jim slept in the corner room and spent most of his time on the couch, on the computer, job hunting.

  The FBI did not make James Charles Kopp’s name public immediately. They intended to keep Kopp in the dark, wherever he was, while they gathered information, found more friends of his who wouldn’t see them coming. On Sunday, October 26, three days after Bart’s murder, the Bureau collected 13 videotapes of protests outside the downtown Buffalo clinic where Dr. Slepian worked.

  On November 4, Amherst police continued their search in the woods behind the home. An officer found trace bits of hair and fibers on the bark of the tree the sniper had leaned against. The hair might produce a DNA profile—but that meant nothing without a match to compare it with. There was no DNA profile for James Kopp on file. But the prospect was there, at least, for Amherst police to compare their DNA sample with the one Hamilton police had retrieved three years earlier from the ski mask discovered in Dr. Hugh Short’s driveway. If the two samples matched, they could make the case that the sniper was the same person in both attacks—even though the owner of the DNA profiles would still be unknown.

  That same day, the FBI went public. FBI special agent Bernie Tolbert stood at the lectern at the press conference and announced there was a federal material witness warrant for apprehending James Charles Kopp. Joel Mercer, a young red-haired FBI agent, was doing the legwork, co-ordinating searches and other aspects of the investigation. He had only been with the bureau for a year; this case was a big step up. His superiors felt he could handle it. The supervisor of the investigation, and the more visible presence, was Tolbert, 55 years old, charismatic.

  Bernie Tolbert had been on the job the morning after the shooting, looking over the crime scene. He lived only minutes away from the Slepians. The shooting got to him. He stood in the Slepians’ den, saw the photos of Bart, Lynne and the boys. He had a couple of young boys himself. Bart’s sons had just lost their father. So tragic. He took Lynne aside. “We’ll find whoever did this, I promise you that, Lynne,” he vowed. “Hey, this is my neighborhood, my town. We will find him.”

  “I’d just like 15 minutes alone with him,” Lynne said.

  Tolbert had been a star athlete in high school and university. He held high jump and triple jump records but then knee injuries slowed him down. He became a social worker. Then one day he met an aggressive recruiter from the FBI. There weren’t a lot of black men in the bureau back in the mid-seventies. Most blacks only came in contact with the FBI when agents arrived to arrest someone in the neighborhood. Bernie was dubious, but he applied.

  Bernie Tolbert, FBI

  He was rejected. The examiner said the knee injuries disqualified the 30-year-old. He predicted Bernie would be in a wheelchair at 50.

  That did it. Now Bernie wanted in. He wrote a letter to the top, to the director: “I will see any doctor, any time, at my own expense. I will pit myself against any agent.” The bureau gave him another chance. This time, he made it. In the 22 years since, Tolbert had worked out of offices in New York, Philadelphia and Washington. Now he was posted back in Buffalo and standing before the TV cameras, the national media, backed by a huge Justice Department logo. He was acutely aware that the case was attracting enormous attention. It was his biggest show ever. He held up a photo of Kopp.

  “This is a picture of the individual we are looking for,” he said. “We have no idea where he is. We’re looking everywhere for him. “He appears to be committed to the anti-abortion movement. The problem is, I don’t think you can kill someone to show your commitment.”

  The photo Tolbert held became the public, iconic, “most wanted” image of James Charles Kopp. The ill-trimmed goatee, the short unkempt hair, the glower he directed at the camera. He looked like a killer. Some of Jim Kopp’s supporters were so struck by how different he looked, they believed the photo was a fake. But it was a mug shot from his most recent arrest, in New Jersey, on January 23, 1997. The photo did, in fact, look far different from the way Kopp appeared in person. It was as though he had affected the look on purpose, scowling, changing his look, to distort his constantly shifting identity.

  On one level, Bernie Tolbert could try to think of the Slepian murder as just another case. A federal law had been broken, so the FBI was automatically involved. But he also knew there was special interest in this show that we
nt as high as the White House. Tolbert soon found himself in conference calls with Washington, talking directly to Attorney General Janet Reno—who herself frequently talked to President Clinton about the case and about anti-abortion violence in general.

  Shortly after Tolbert’s announcement that James Kopp was wanted as a material witness, a $500,000 reward was offered by the Justice Department for information. The police and FBI were careful not to publicly call Kopp a suspect. They did, however, tell reporters they believed he might hold the key to the investigation.

  Tolbert cursed the zeal with which reporters chased the story. Reporters didn’t have to play by the same rules as agents, could talk to anyone they pleased without regard for the legalities or nuances of criminal investigation. There were times FBI agents showed up at the home of someone connected to Kopp to find journalists already there. Reporters were all over the place in Vermont. Agents were losing the element of surprise and the media attention was helping Kopp.

  On the other hand, the FBI counted on media coverage to spread images of Kopp’s face to encourage public tips. One of those tips came from Daniel Lenard, a Buffalo high school teacher. He told police he had seen a jogger on October 18, five days before the murder, hunched over and running slowly along a road near Dr. Slepian’s house. Saw him for maybe 10, 15 seconds. He had glasses and a reddish goatee, wore a black hooded sweatshirt and black biker shorts. Ruddy complexion. Pronounced jawline. Looked stressed. And he held his hands up as though he were training for a boxing match, strange compared to other joggers you’d see around there, hardly the picture of health or fitness. Lenard later met with a detective who placed a page of head shots in front of him. There were photos of six men who had brownish-red beards or goatees. The photos were numbered 1 to 6.

  “Do you recognize any of them?” the detective asked.

  “Yes. Number four. That’s him. No question that’s the jogger, and the same guy I saw on TV. ”