by Jon Wells
* * *
The jet descended over, London, the Thames River snaking through the city below. Jim Kopp had been to England several times before, primed for battle in the abortion wars. This time, he was invisible. Had to be. Indeed, he might not be staying long. Not at all. The flight touched down at Heathrow Airport. He deboarded. The connecting flight was later in the day, to Australia. Jim loved Australia. Even though he came from roots that were, he maintained, of Austrian and Irish origin, and even though he respected Canada, he identified most with the Australians. That country had the national experience that most closely resembled the American, he felt. One-time colony, a frontier mentality, fierce fighters in wartime. He sat in the airport. Something didn’t feel right, though. Nothing had ever felt right since he had started running. His senses were on fire. Trust no one. The man with the $500,000 bounty on his head, the man on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted List, got up and left the airport. There would be no trip to Australia. Not today.
He thought of this time on the lam as “sleeping,” as though he wasn’t conscious, or was dreaming. The next several weeks were a blur. He was living hand-to-mouth, barely surviving, finding odd jobs in exchange for food and permission to sleep in a closet somewhere. On the run before long he lost 30 pounds, grew a beard, shaved it off, grew it, repeat, changing his appearance as frequently as possible. He wasn’t just feeling the heat from the FBI. In his mind’s eye, Scotland Yard was on his case, British intelligence, Interpol, city police—they were all looking for him. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, the FBI would connect the dots, they would stomp on every person he had ever known or loved back home, he thought. That much was a no-brainer. And so they would come looking for him. But they wouldn’t find him. He had to move again.
* * *
New York City
December, 1998
Loretta Marra was now 35 years old, had a young son and was pregnant with a second child. She was underground. Where might she finally show her face? On December 12, her father, William Marra, was driving home to Connecticut from Birmingham, Alabama. He had spent the past two months teaching seminarians. He stopped at a friend’s home in Berkeley Springs, West Virginia. After dinner he left. On Route 81 he suffered a heart attack, managed to pull over, was taken to hospital. A family friend called a priest who arrived just in time to give him last rites. The FBI learned of his death. Would Loretta surface to attend the funeral of her beloved father? Agents were among the mourners, or hidden nearby, at the service. Loretta did not attend.
On January 28, a woman named Joyce Maier took her driver’s license exam in New York. The real Joyce Maier was a 31-yearold mentally disabled woman who had been unable to work for years. She was also a niece of Dennis Malvasi. The woman with dark hair and pale green eyes who passed the driver’s exam was Loretta Marra. Malvasi had given Joyce’s ID to Loretta. He also got his wife an ID in the name of Rosemarie Howard, who was deceased. Assuming the identity of a dead person was an easy way to get a driver’s license. It was a trick that Jim Kopp himself had used many times. Officials rarely checked ID against death certificates.
Marra registered a 1988 Mazda using Joyce Maier’s social security number. She listed her address as 4809 Avenue North, in Brooklyn, Apt. 148. In fact it was not a residence; 148 was a mailbox number at an American Mail Depot. In February, Marra opened a new bank account at CFS Bank in the name of Joyce Maier. She was proving to be an elusive target for the FBI. Her husband, on the other hand, had always been on the FBI’s radar—he was still on probation. Agents interviewed Malvasi’s probation officer, trying to determine if he was still with Marra. The probation officer told the FBI that he had recently seen a baby seat in Malvasi’s Acura. The officer had also visited Malvasi at his home at 2468 Lynden Avenue, and was told through the door by a woman who remained hidden that Dennis was not home. Agents interviewed an employer of Malvasi named Anthony Castellano. He was not enthusiastic about speaking to the FBI. Castellano said that Malvasi kept company with a woman, but Castellano only knew her as “Rose.” An agent pulled out a photograph.
“Is this her?”
Castellano looked at the photo of Loretta Marra. He paused.
“Yes.”
Malvasi was ordered to appear before a grand jury in Buffalo in connection with the search for Kopp. He testified on February 10, 1999.
“Do you know James Charles Kopp?”
“I have never met him,” said Malvasi.
“Do you know Loretta Marra?”
Dennis Malvasi cited his Fifth Amendment rights and refused to answer the question. He said he lived alone.
“Has anyone used your 1990 Acura? Does anyone else drive that with your permission?”
“Not steadily, no.”
“Have you ever loaned it to a friend who has a baby or has a child that requires a car seat?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“And who would that be?”
“My niece.”
“And her name is?”
“Joyce Maier.”
On March 1, 1999, Loretta Marra signed a lease for a new apartment at 385 Chestnut Street in Brooklyn. She and Dennis were listed on the lease under the names Joyce and Ted Barnes. In April, Loretta went to Canada to give birth to her second child. She had many Canadian friends and, with her aliases, she could still easily cross the border. She gave birth that same month, near Ottawa. It was her second boy.
* * *
On March 19, 1999, Canadian law enforcement officials announced that a $547,000 reward would be offered to anyone helping lead police to “the arrest and conviction of the person or persons responsible for the shootings of the three Canadian doctors.” Canadian police released a poster featuring pictures of James Charles Kopp—who was described only as a “person of interest” in the investigation. Among the groups contributing towards the reward money were the Canadian Abortion Rights Action League (CARAL), Canadian Medical Association, and provincial medical associations.
* * *
Amherst, N.Y.
April 8, 1999
No weapon had ever been found at any of the crime scenes where the sniper attacked. Amherst police had ended the search for a weapon when winter set in. With the ground now thawing, Amherst chief of detectives Joseph Scioli ordered a more thorough search of the woods behind the Slepian’s home.
A detective named Donald Wright was one of those on the search that day. Wright was a former Boy Scout leader. Perhaps only someone like Wright, who was an expert in orienteering, would have noticed. As they scoured the woods, officers kept their eyes glued to the ground, searching. Wright looked up. He noticed a small paint marking, at roughly eye level, on one sapling. And then another. And a third. Triangulation? Where did the three points intersect? Wright looked closer. On two of the saplings there was a plus sign painted, and on the third, a negative sign. Painted on a small tree near the saplings were the letters N and W and the number 0. Wright slowly walked in a line due north from between the two saplings. If you did so, you would intersect with a line from the tree that was painted N,W, 0. Where the lines intersected, he noticed two cut evergreen branches crossed over each other.
“Could I have some assistance over here?” Wright said. “I think I might have something.” The former Boy Scout was correct. Police started digging and, 30 centimeters down, found a tube wrapped in rubberized material. It was buried at an angle, with one end open at ground level. It was like a subterranean holster. Inside the tube was a Russian-made semiautomatic SKS rifle, with wooden stock extension. The tube also contained two pairs of gloves, one white and one brown. The location was about 160 feet away from the tree where the sniper had braced himself. He had created a guide map so he could easily find his rifle in the dark, take his shot at Dr. Slepian, slip the gun back in its holster and escape. The cops would never figure it out, and the SKS would remain buried forever, or someone could return some day and retrieve it. The serial number was GYUT10251.
Two days later, the FBI made a ret
urn visit to the A-Z Pawn Shop in Old Hickory, Tennessee. This time, Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms agent Mark Hoback wasn’t looking for a name, but rather a serial number. The store records showed the gun buried on Bart Slepian’s property had indeed been sold by A-Z. The man who purchased it on July 16, 1997 was a B. James Milton, of Virginia. The FBI checked Virginia records. B. James Milton did not exist.
Chapter 14 ~ Wanted
FBI agents continued searching and gathering anything related to Kopp. On April 15, FBI agents searched the Raymond P. Betit Agency, at 439 Main St., Room Seven, Bennington, Vt. and seized Kopp’s insurance file. April 19, agents searched 4112 Pleasure Ave., Sea Isle City, N.J. and seized an arc welder. That same day they searched the grounds at 148 Deep Grass Lane, Greenwood, Del. In an abandoned building on the property they found a passport in the name of Nancy Kopp, some papers, rope and a ceramic cup. On May 5 and 6 they searched Seth Grodofsky’s apartment in Jersey City again, seized a pad of tracing paper, a piece of wire with pink plastic insulation, and a piece of armored three-wire electrical conduit. On May 11, agents searched CVS Pharmacy, 1099 Route. 33, Hamilton, New Jersey, and collected one videotape labeled “Thursday.”
Forensics agents sifted through reams of DNA and fiber evidence. Hair found in a green hat at the scene behind the Slepians’ home did not contain roots, and thus no DNA. Instead a mitochondrial DNA analysis was performed. The profile was compared to DNA evidence obtained from a toothbrush found in James Gannon’s attic. The two samples matched, and excluded 99.35 percent of the general Caucasian population. The guy who had been in the woods behind Dr. Slepian’s house had also stayed at Gannon’s. Was it James Kopp? They needed to capture Kopp and retrieve his DNA to prove that.
Meanwhile, Karen Lanning, an FBI lab scientist, studied the blue-green acrylic fibers discovered on the wooden stock extension attached to the rifle. There were similar fibers on the pair of white gloves and a belted fanny pack—much like the fibers found on the tree where the sniper had positioned himself, which in turn resembled those found on clothing and bedding in Seth Grodofsky’s Jersey City apartment, and those vacuumed from James Kopp’s Chevy Cavalier in Newark.
Ballistics focused on the SKS rifle. FBI firearms expert James Cadigan determined that the full metal jacket 7.42 x 39-millimeter bullet recovered inside the house was of a caliber consistent with the rifle found in the woods. But there was a snag. When Cadigan test fired the SKS at an FBI range to confirm it was operable, he could not conclusively link the Slepian bullet to the rifle. The rifling marks on the bullet he fired did not match those on the evidence. Had the bullet that killed Dr. Slepian been fired from another rifle? Not necessarily, Cadigan argued. It was not uncommon for the internal characteristics of the barrel of a high-powered rifle to change with each shot, which meant rifling marks would change as well.
A second issue was the rifle’s accuracy. If the case ever went to trial, they would have to reconstruct the shooting scene and the sniper’s position in meticulous detail. That included test firing the weapon. But the rifle’s scope had been removed to test the eyepiece glass for DNA. When the scope was remounted, the alignment was off. An FBI marksman later had to align it properly. Those were issues that FBI investigators knew could come back to bite them in court, if they ever made an arrest in the case.
The evidence collected so far was sufficient. An arrest warrant was issued for James Charles Kopp in the murder of Dr. Barnett Slepian. The federal warrant, signed by Judge Hugh B. Scott, referred to Kopp using “force, intentionally injuring, intimidating and interfering with Dr. Barnett Slepian because he was and had been providing reproductive health services.”
* * *
Bernie Tolbert watched his son take to the baseball diamond with the other kids. Springtime in Amherst. His youngest boy played in the Lou Gehrig Little League. Tolbert walked over to the bleachers. There was Lynne Slepian. She had a son playing ball, too. She was playing the role of both mother and father now. It had been seven months since the murder, seven months since Bart’s boys had been there, kneeling on the floor, watching their father bleed to death. She stayed in touch with Bernie, quizzing him for updates on the investigation. What are you doing? What is going on? Bernie told her the FBI put Kopp on its Ten Most Wanted Fugitives List. “But will that help, Bernie, have a tangible effect?”
“It’s an important, maybe critical, step, Lynne,” he said in
his deep, deliberate baritone. “The success rate is something like 94 percent captured,” he said. It was hard for Bernie to look into Lynne’s face when she watched her fatherless sons. It was a reminder that they had to get Kopp. Had to.
On June 2, agents searched a garage at 252 Whiton Street, Jersey City, and seized two wood and carpeted structures bearing the name “Clyde.” On June 16, California agents searched a residence at 351 View Drive, Ukiah, California.
On June 23, FBI agents once again interviewed Loretta’s brother, Nicholas. “I still haven’t heard from her,” he said. The agents played him a tape recording. It was from a call on November 20, 1998. Nick listened. It was the conversation between an unsuspecting Loretta—returning a page for John Rizzo—and a law enforcement officer. “I don’t recognize either voice,” he said.
Later, an agent made notes. Nicholas Marra was lying, he believed. Telephone records for Marra showed that he had called the Rizzo pager himself, as well as a cell phone Loretta had been using under the name of John Graskukas.
It was on June 24 that a grand jury in Erie County indicted James Charles Kopp on charges of murder in the second degree, reckless endangerment in the first degree, and criminal possession of a weapon in the third degree. But Jim Kopp was a long way from Erie County.
* * *
Brooklyn, N.Y.
Wednesday, October 6, 1999
The woman who called herself Joyce Maier walked into the brown brick building at 385 Chestnut Street, in the eastern corner of Brooklyn. Loretta Marra had lived with Dennis Malvasi in apartment 2D since March. There were some nice streets not too far away, quaint walk-up apartments, bustling shops and markets. But the immediate area around the building on Chestnut was not pleasant. Cabbies wouldn’t come here at night. Loretta’s apartment overlooked Liberty Street and F&H Auto Repair, which was protected by a chain-link fence crowned with razor wire. Across the street sat an empty lot overgrown with weeds and strewn with litter, a “Danger: Poison” sign marking the spot.
The Brooklyn apartment building where Loretta Marra was in hiding.
Loretta sometimes spoke with a neighbor named Carmen, and her friend Yolanda. Carmen was a tiny 78-year old from Puerto Rico, walked with a limp and had a black Chiuahaua named Chi Chi. She was a pastor, had her very own pulpit in her apartment where she addressed friends or those she helped off the street, preached the Rapture to them, told them the Good News: “God is coming, and the earth will be aflame! And you know who will burn? The wicked will burn. The wicked will burn!”
It is difficult making yourself disappear. It takes planning, energy, an inner radar detector—paranoia is your friend, unless it goes too far and you are sucked into your own vortex of obsession. Loretta was living such a life. Here she was, a devout Catholic pro-lifer, holed up in Brooklyn, underground, as her mother had been with the French resistance.
Loretta opened the letter dated October 12, from one of her friends in Canada. A very nice one. It was addressed to “Jane,” the name she had used when crossing the border to give birth to her son in Canada. “I pray for you,” it said. “I pray that everything will change, and once more, freedom.”
Outside it is dark, raining. A dirty American flag lies tangled and ripped on the fire escape of her neighbor’s apartment. She can see, through her window, across Liberty Street, the car lot and razor wire bathed in security lights. Above her head in the apartment, water drips from a hole in the pockmarked ceiling. Pip. Pip. Pip. She moves past the lightbulb that dangls on a cord, and walks to the door, opens it just a crack. No such th
ing as a smoke-free apartment in this part of Brooklyn. But she has to think of her kids. Loretta lights a cigarette and inhales. Pip. Pip. Pip. She leans her shoulder and head against the wall, peering through the opening. She exhales, the smoke escaping into the corridor. She stares at nothing.
* * *
New York City
October 4, 1999
Monday morning. The special agent drove to work in downtown Manhattan. What car was it today? The Intrepid? The Taurus? FBI agents changed cars every day. In the interests of security? Nah. That’s Hollywood stuff. Your car for the day was simply whatever was available in the company pool. Security? Hell, he couldn’t even park in the underground garage at the office. Had to find a spot on the street like everyone else. He worked at 265 Federal Plaza, the Jacob K. Javits Building. In a part of Manhattan where so much of the architecture was striking, larger than life, the 41-storey dark blue- and graycheckered concrete building, reflected the agent, looked so—federal government.
The G-man parked and emerged from his car, walked along the sidewalk to the side door for employees, the security guard nodded at him in recognition. Six foot four, angular and athletic, long casual stride. The herringbone, tan suit shimmered in the sun, dark shoes polished, tie with red-and-blue teardrop design. His hair combed back, perhaps a dash of mousse, the flecks of gray unnoticeable from a distance. Name: Michael A. Osborn. He was overseeing the biggest investigation of his career.
He lived in New York but there was no hint of a local accent, no drawl of any kind, no regional inflection. Where was he from, originally? “Can’t tell you that.” Which region of the country? Sorry. He spoke G-man, carried the act to amusing extremes. The bureau cultivated it. In a country of sharply divergent regional cultures and state laws, the FBI is national, loyal to nothing except the Constitution. Just the facts, ma’am. Osborn had been with the bureau for five years. This new case, while high-profile, wasn’t a promotion, that’s not how things worked. His field office was the logical one given the proximity of the suspects. And he, Osborn, was deemed to have the skills for the job.
