by David Stout
Then, hope. On Friday, July 8, 1938, a man named Lester Mead was arrested on a farm near Ritzville, in southeast Washington State, after saying that he had killed someone. Since Mead, who was thirty-two, resembled the description of the Mattson kidnapper, he was taken to Tacoma for questioning. After three days of interrogation, he said he had kidnapped and killed Charles Mattson.
But it was soon revealed that Mead had escaped from a mental hospital after the kidnapping of Charles Mattson. “He is entirely harmless, but is given to fantastic theories that he is a big-time criminal,” the hospital director told the Seattle Times.180
And that may have been the last time the Mattson kidnapping was big news—or news at all. The years went by, and various crackpots “confessed” to the crime, only to be proven innocent. The merciless, half-witted kidnapper—“Don’t you kids try to start anything, because I have a bullet-proof vest on”—was never caught. No doubt he passed from the scene long ago. One can only hope he finally found himself in front of the highest court of all, an otherworldly tribunal from which there was no appeal.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
AMBUSHED ON THE ROAD
Chicago
Saturday, September 25, 1937
“The car behind has been following us for some time and displaying unusually bright lights,” Charles Ross commented to his former secretary and longtime friend, Florence Freihage. “I don’t like the looks of this. I’ll cut over to the side and let him pass.”181
Ross’s suspicions were correct. As he pulled his car over to the side of the road, his secretary recalled later, the car that had been following veered sharply in front of him, blocking any forward progress. And here came two men from that car, one with a revolver in hand.
The gunman yanked on the driver’s side door, which was locked. Then he tapped on the door window with his revolver and told Ross to get out. Ross complied and was quickly searched and stuffed into the car of the kidnappers—for there seemed to be no doubt that the two ambushers were just that.
Freihage implored them not to hurt him, telling the kidnappers that Ross had a weak heart and high blood pressure. Ross was also seventy-two years old, and Freihage, who was forty-four, was afraid the sudden shock of events swirling beyond his control could do him great harm.
One of the abductors asked about her relationship with Ross.
When Freihage explained, the man seemed interested. “Oh, his secretary,” he said. “Can he stand a touch for a quarter million?”182
“I don’t…I don’t think so.” In a futile goodwill gesture, she offered the man her purse. He took $85 from it and told her to stay quiet in the car if she didn’t want to be killed or want her ex-boss and friend to be killed.
Quickly, Freihage took inventory of the man: curly hair, pointy nose, sharp features in general.
“Don’t call the police after we have gone, or we’ll kill him,” one of the kidnappers said.183 And off they went with their new prisoner, Charles Sherman Ross, retired president of the George S. Carrington Company, printers of valentines and other greeting cards.
There was no doubt about it: Ross had a head for business. He was a former druggist who became an investor in real estate and building materials, where he made “a sizable fortune,” as the New York Times put it, before becoming a partner in the Carrington company, from which he had retired in 1935.184
Yet he and his wife, May, were not fabulously wealthy like the Weyerhaeusers, Urschels, or Boettchers, families who had been victimized by kidnappers. Florence Freihage knew this, which may be why she voiced doubt that Ross and his family could come up with a quarter million dollars in a hurry.
Freihage was accustomed to conferring with her former boss every week or so. Ross kept up with company affairs and was in the midst of selling his interest in Carrington.
On this Saturday evening, Ross and his former secretary had dined at the Fargo Hotel in Sycamore, Illinois, and were heading back into Chicago proper when they were waylaid. Normally, Ross’s wife would have dined with them, but she had been taken ill.
After she shook off her initial shock and fear, Freihage drove Ross’s car to a nearby service station and called the local police, who in turn notified the Illinois State Police.
Then it was time to wait.
There was much going on in the wider world. Chancellor Hitler welcomed Benito Mussolini to Munich. The German dictator and his Italian counterpart seemed to be getting along famously. Dispatches from Germany reported, somewhat vaguely, that they would discuss how to preserve peace.
In the Orient, events were far more disturbing. Japanese bombers continued their attacks on the Chinese capital of Nanking. Hundreds of civilians were killed, and destruction was widespread. Other cities in China were also under attack, indicating that Japan was hoping to secure a quick victory in its war with China. The ruthless and relentless nature of the Japanese campaign could only make observers wonder how the Japanese would behave as conquerors.
As would be learned later, the kidnappers drove their captive into Wisconsin and across the state to Minnesota where, late on Sunday, they neared the hideout they had prepared near the community of Emily. The hideout was in the woods. It was a coffin-sized hole lined with wood chips.
On Thursday, September 30, five days after the abduction, a ransom-extortion letter was received by Harvey Brackett, a former business associate of Ross, in Green Bay, Wisconsin.
“Dear Dick,” the letter began. “I am being held for ransom.”185 The “Dear Dick” was proof positive that the letter was from Ross, as “Dick” was his affectionate, if improbable, nickname for his wife.
“I have stated I am worth $100,000 including the G. S. Carrington Co. stock held in escrow by First National Bank,” the letter went on. “Try and raise $50,000. Yours, Charles S. Ross.” The letter concluded, “Contact Harvey S. Brackett. Say nothing to anyone except Harvey.”
FBI agents deduced that the letter had been intended for May Ross but that the kidnappers had decided to send it directly to Harvey Brackett, along with another letter, this one addressed to Brackett and in Ross’s handwriting. It instructed Brackett to hire a motorcycle rider from Harley-Davidson who was to take $50,000 in unmarked, nonconsecutive bills of various denominations and deliver the money at night on a highway to be designated later.
When the money had been assembled and the motorcycle rider had been hired, an ad was to be placed in the “used cars for sale” section of the Chicago Tribune: “Dodge. Good cond. No defect. (amount)”
But the kidnappers were about to become increasingly elaborate in their demands. They acquired a typewriter on which they prepared additional demand letters. The next one was postmarked October 2 in Chicago and addressed to Olden Armitage, a friend who belonged to the same fraternal lodge as Ross.
“YOU are Chas. S. Ross’ last hope,” the letter said. “His own choice as middleman.” The letter demanded that the motorcycle delivery man dress in white, and it warned against any contact with “the feds.”
Yet another letter, postmarked October 6 in Chicago, was sent to Armitage. This one declared that Ross himself was “very incenced over delays” caused by “pied pipers and rat hunts,” apparently meaning the presence of federal agents in the investigation. Most significantly, it promised proof that Ross was alive and well. The proof could be obtained at a camera company on South Wabash Street in pictures left for Armitage.
Sure enough, eight photographs of Charles Ross were found at the camera company. They showed him amid a thicket of birch trees, looking haggard, wearing the clothes he’d had on the night he was kidnapped. Ross was holding up a late edition of a Chicago paper from Saturday, October 2, displaying that day’s college football scores.
Hope!
And the final message, received Friday, October 8, by Elton Armitage and postmarked two days earlier in Chicago: “EVERYTHING SET. LETS GO.” It laid out the long itinerary, some four hundred miles, that the motorcycle delivery man (dressed in white!) was to take
before dumping the ransom money. “ROSS OPINES AS HOW THERES TOO MUCH VITAMIN G IN THIS MESS. WE AGREE.” The allusion to vitamin G apparently meant federal agents, or “G-men,” as they were beginning to be called.
That very night, the motorcycle rider set out. About six miles east of Rockford, Illinois, he became aware of a car close behind him. The car’s lights flashed—the signal for the ransom package to be thrown to the side of the road. After tossing it, the rider drove another few hundred yards and dismounted. One of the kidnappers emerged from the darkness, picked up the money, and vanished.
But where was Charles Ross?
We don’t know the moment when lawmen broached the subject with May Ross. But at some point, someone told her it was it was time to concentrate on catching the kidnappers. We can only imagine her emotions at that moment. On October 18, she issued a statement calling for her husband to be freed at once. The next day, the FBI distributed lists of the serial numbers on the ransom bills across the country.
In early January 1938, ransom bills began showing up at the Federal Reserve Bank in Los Angeles. The bills were traced to the nearby Santa Anita racetrack. Hoover, who was no stranger to racetracks, traveled to Los Angeles and enlisted the help of track officials in setting a trap. Agents were stationed behind the betting windows and nearby, ready to pounce on any bettor passing a bill from the Ross ransom. This was no easy mission. Up to a million dollars a day passed through several hundred cashier windows, all amid the hubbub that was normal for a racetrack.
But the vigilance paid off. On Friday, January 14, 1938, a man walked up to a window to bet on a horse and handed over money from the ransom. Whether by luck or alertness or both, agents spotted the bills at once, and the would-be bettor was soon on his way to the Los Angeles FBI office—but not before some $5,600 in ransom money was found on his person, in his hotel room, and in his car.
The man gave his name as “Peter Ander” and said he had obtained the money from bank robbers at a large reduction. In other words, he didn’t mind admitting that he had laundered the money. He denied any part in the kidnapping of Charles Ross. Then, questioned at length by Hoover, he changed his story.
He said his real name was John Henry Seadlund. He was twenty-seven years old and had once been a logger. He had shot Ross to death, along with his own partner, in a dispute over how to divide the ransom. He signed a twenty-eight-page confession laying out the details and agreed to show agents where the bodies were.
Flown to Minnesota, Seadlund guided agents across snow-covered fields. Near an abandoned stretch of train track, he pointed to a mound beneath the snow. There, agents found a typewriter case with some $32,000 in ransom money inside.
Horses and sleds were hired for the rest of the search. There were no major highways in the region at the time, and the existing roads were buried under snow. They came to the first hideout, near Emily, Minnesota, where Ross had been kept in a wood-lined dugout for almost two weeks after he was taken. Then Seadlund guided the searchers into Wisconsin, near the little community of Spooner. Agents brushed away snow and brush where Seadlund indicated, thus exposing a coffin-sized hole. Inside lay the bodies of Seadlund’s partner, James Atwood Gray, and the victim, Charles Ross.
Seadlund admitted killing Ross and Gray on October 10, or two days after the ransom was delivered.
Back in Chicago, Seadlund pleaded guilty in Federal District Court on February 28, 1938, to violating the Federal Kidnapping Statute—the Lindbergh Law. A few weeks later, he was sentenced to the electric chair. He shouted a vulgarity and was led out of the courtroom to begin his stay on death row.
The body of Charles Ross was transported to Chicago for private services.
John Henry Seadlund was born in Wisconsin and grew up in that state and in Minnesota, where his father worked in the iron mines. He liked engines and motors more than textbooks and preferred hunting in the woods to sitting in the classroom.
His father died when Seadlund was thirteen. Seadlund also worked in the mines until, one by one, they closed during the Depression. He worked as a logger, at a service station, and as a grocery store deliveryman.
If there was a moment that changed his life, it may have been a chance meeting with a gangster named Tommy Carroll, an associate of John Dillinger, when Seadlund was an adolescent. The encounter took place while Seadlund was hunting in a patch of woods where Carroll was hiding out. They struck up a friendship of sorts, and Carroll persuaded Seadlund to bring him some food.
The FBI file on the meeting between the young Seadlund and Carroll is sparse, but it seems to have convinced Seadlund that a life on the wrong side of the law could be more exciting than a dreary existence on the straight and narrow.*
He began his criminal career by pulling off store robberies and stealing cars while he was still in his teen years. Soon, he graduated to bank heists, committing several in Wisconsin. Then he traveled to Spokane, Washington, where he did honest work for a while. But he grew homesick for the Upper Midwest and returned there, intending to rob more banks in Wisconsin and Minnesota.
On his trip eastward, Seadlund picked up James Atwood Gray, who was hitchhiking and who was similarly eager to commit crimes. A few weeks before kidnapping Charles Ross, the pair kidnapped the wife of a café owner in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. The enterprise didn’t go well. The woman was released after two days as Seadlund and Gray were unable to persuade her husband to pay.
Seadlund traveled up and down the Eastern Seaboard and across the country in the weeks after the kidnapping of Charles Ross. Although he seems to have been missing some connections in his emotional circuitry, it was clear that Seadlund was not devoid of feelings. On October 20, 1937, while he was in Denver, he bought a small dog for companionship. Six weeks after the kidnapping, he was in Spokane, where he asked an eighteen-year-old to marry him after only their second date. She turned him down. “There was something about him—I don’t know what—that gave me a queer feeling,” she said later.186
After Seadlund was captured, the gossipmonger Walter Winchell reported on his radio show that Seadlund had once considered kidnapping the baseball stars Joe DiMaggio of the New York Yankees and Dizzy Dean of the St. Louis Cardinals. Hoover refused to comment on Winchell’s report, at least publicly. Odds are that Hoover fed Winchell the “scoop” in the first place.
A few minutes past midnight on July 14, 1938, Seadlund walked unassisted into the death chamber at the Cook County Jail in Chicago and sat down in the electric chair, sitting impassively as the straps were adjusted. The current flowed, and he was soon pronounced dead.
*Carroll was killed at Waterloo, Iowa, on June 7, 1934, just weeks before Dillinger was slain in Chicago.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
A MAN OF GOD IS TAKEN
Huntington, West Virginia
Tuesday, November 2, 1937
Dr. James Seder was a retired minister who seems never to have wondered why God put him on this earth. It was to preach against the evils of alcohol, which he had done for much of his adult life. He and other members of the “dry” movement had lost the good fight four years before with the repeal of Prohibition, but the minister never doubted that their cause was right, socially and morally. He held forth on the evils of drink and other issues in articles that he wrote for English- and German-language religious publications.
He was unusually vigorous for a man of seventy-nine, though his eyesight was fading, and he lived alone in a unit of an apartment building he owned in Huntington. His wife had fallen ill on a visit to St. Paul, Minnesota, to visit one of their sons, Arthur, and had remained there. Arthur was a comptroller for a railroad. Another son, Willard, was an official with the Bethlehem Steel Corporation in Pittsburgh.
All in all, the Seders were prosperous, especially for those hard times. The man of God had also shown himself to be quite competent in the ways of the world.
Photographs of Seder show a smiling, friendly face, nothing like the fire-and-brimstone look one might have expected. Eve
n with his fervid opposition to alcohol, he did not seem like a man who made enemies.
But where was he?
“I’m afraid something may have happened to Dr. Seder,” a man who lived in the same building told the police this Tuesday evening. “The lights burned in his place all night, and I noticed today that his mail is still in the box and his evening newspaper is still on the porch.”187
A patrolman rushed to the building and found Dr. Seder’s unit empty. But the rear door was unlocked. Immediately, the patrolman summoned detectives.
Right away, investigators saw reasons for alarm. The sheets and blankets on the minister’s bed had been yanked off; a remaining sheet, next to the mattress, was ripped. And the three white canes that Seder owned were present. It was inconceivable, said the resident who had called the police, that Seder would have left home at night without one of them, given his poor vision. (A fourth cane, a red one, was missing.)
The minister’s sons were summoned to Huntington, as was his daughter, who lived in New York City. Willard Seder asked the FBI to investigate. He was convinced his father had been kidnapped. What other explanation could there be?
Dr. Seder had last been seen the previous Monday evening when one of his tenants stopped by to pay the November rent. Now, as Tuesday night became Wednesday morning, lawmen waited for messages from whoever had taken the minister. FBI agents had special cellophane envelopes to enclose the messages on their way to the laboratory.
Anxiety turned to dread as the days ticked by with no contact. Finally, a week after the minister vanished, a ransom letter arrived. It had been mailed in Huntington the previous Saturday, four full days after the police discovered that Seder was missing. The sender knew enough about the Seder family to address the letter to the minister’s son Arthur (though he was referred to as Raymond, his middle name). “Your father being held for $30,000 ransom,” it began. “Call all law off—pretend you found him in St. Paul.” The message went on to demand the money in small bills—“no serial no’s taken”—and instructed that an ad be put in the Huntington newspaper: “Peg—Am Waiting Call Sally.”