by Philip Jett
“What do you think about the note, son?”
“Joe and I read it yesterday with Harold Bray and an FBI agent at the big house. Based on it being postmarked before 3:00 and there weren’t any press releases until 5:00, we think it has to be a valid note.” (The 22-room Queen Anne house built by Adolph Coors in which Mr. and Mrs. Coors then resided was nicknamed the “big house.”)
Mrs. Coors asked Bill how Ad’s children were faring, and expressed her desire to pick them up from Joe and Holly’s house now that she had returned from Hawaii. Mrs. Coors also asked about Mary and if anyone had called May Louise, Ad’s sister.
It was a quiet drive the rest of the way home. Mr. Coors glared at passing house lights, and Mrs. Coors’s glove-covered hands gripped her purse tightly. They were worried, but Mr. Coors refused to show it.
The following morning, Bill picked up his father and mother at the big house and returned to Mary’s, where Joe was waiting with FBI agents and Harold Bray.
Mr. Coors walked up to Mary, patted her on her arm, and said, “Be brave for your young ones.” While Mrs. Coors stayed to comfort Mary, Mr. Coors went into the living room, where FBI agents were posted.
“Who’s in charge?” asked Mr. Coors, bringing the meeting to order as he looked about the room.
One of the men stepped forward. “Hello, Mr. Coors. I’m Scott Werner, special agent in charge of the FBI field office in Denver. Director Hoover extends his regrets and wishes to assure you that he is using the full resources of the Department of Justice and the FBI, sir, to secure your son’s release unharmed.”
“Thank you. Any idea where my son is being held?” asked Mr. Coors.
“No, sir. But if I may, I’d like to brief you on where the investigation stands.”
“Go ahead,” Mr. Coors said, taking a seat near the fireplace.
“We contacted your bank in Boston and arranged to have the ransom money flown to Denver tomorrow morning, subject to your order to proceed. We’ve recorded all serial numbers and marked several of the used bills.”
Mary Coors protested that the kidnappers wrote not to do that. Werner assured Mr. Coors they could do it without detection. “Go on,” said Mr. Coors.
“Your sons and I discussed whether this is a genuine note,” Werner said, who then explained that it had been received before news broke of the kidnapping. “So, unless the writer is clairvoyant,” Werner continued, “it has to be real.”
The FBI chief went on to explain that the classified ad spelled out in the ransom note had already been arranged to be placed in The Denver Post Sunday to signal the kidnappers that the money was ready. The ad would run for a fortnight. “We have men operating recorders on your home telephone and those of your sons and at the brewery. We’ll also attempt to trace the call when it comes in, but if they’re smart, they’ll know that and won’t talk long.”
“What about the ransom drop?” asked Mr. Coors.
“We have two good men with experience in kidnappings who are standing by to deliver the money. One’s Tony Redder. He’s a pro at this type of thing,” Werner said. Tony Redder was a retired FBI agent currently serving as Denver County undersheriff and jail warden. He had been the liaison in several past kidnappings around the country. Werner explained how typically one kidnapper stayed with the hostage while the other secured the ransom money, and that once the one with the money was safely away, the other would release the hostage, and then the two would meet at a prearranged location to divvy up the loot. “But we’ll stay on the one with the money in unmarked cars and a helicopter. We’ll grab him and the money as soon as your son is released. Once he’s in custody, he’ll snitch on his partner. That’s the way it usually plays out.”
“I know about the blood. Tell me, how bad is the boy hurt? Is he dead?” asked Mr. Coors, who rarely minced words.
Mary bowed her head.
Special Agent Werner glanced at Mary and then looked at Bill.
“Come on, Mary,” said her brother, James Grant III (Jim), who had flown in from New York that day to stay with Mary awhile. “Let’s go to the basement for a bit.”
“Mother, why don’t you go with Mary,” said Bill. “I’d like Jim to stay up here in case any legal questions come up.”
“Come on, dear,” said Mrs. Coors, taking Mary by the elbow.
Werner nodded to Mary as she passed. He waited until he saw the door leading into the basement close before continuing.
Mary and Mrs. Coors, whose name was Alice May, sat on the couch in the basement and talked. They rarely did.
“I remember when Ad was a baby,” Mrs. Coors began. “He was the fattest little thing with a headful of curly blond hair. Can you imagine Ad with curly blond hair?”
“I’ve seen his baby pictures,” said Mary. “He was very cute.”
“I remember the paper telephoned and asked if they could borrow one of his photographs for a piece they were doing on little children, babies really, one or two years old, who belonged to the more respectable families.”
“Spike’s baby pictures always remind me of Ad’s,” said Mary.
“Yes … I can see that. They do favor.”
Mary and Mrs. Coors sipped coffee and continued talking about Ad’s childhood. Upstairs, Mr. Coors continued his board meeting.
“Well, is he alive or dead?”
“I’ll be frank with you, sir,” Werner said. “There was a great deal of blood at the scene caused by at least one gunshot, maybe two. There was a pool of blood on the ground as round as a washtub and saturated pretty deep. There was blood spatter on the Travelall’s bumper, the windshield, the front seat, and along the driver’s-side window as far back as the rear fender. There also was blood on a section of bridge railing and even on some logs twenty feet away along the creek bank.”
Mr. Coors dropped his head. He didn’t know there’d been that much blood. Neither did Bill or Joe.
“All the blood is group A,” Werner continued. “That means in all likelihood, the blood came from one person. As yet, we’ve been unable to locate your son’s blood type, so we can’t be positive who the blood actually belongs to.”
“I’m not sure I even know what mine is,” said Mr. Coors, standing and stretching his hands out to feel the warmth of the crackling fire. “Do you boys know yours?”
Bill and Joe shook their heads.
“But one of your men said yesterday the blood could have come from a kidnapper Ad shot,” Joe said, interrupting Werner. “’Cause he’d have fought like a wildcat. You can depend on it.”
“It is possible he shot a kidnapper. His wife said he sometimes carried a pistol in his car, and we didn’t find it in the Travelall, but we’ve since located it in this house, so it wasn’t his gun that fired the shot. Still, he could have wrestled for a kidnapper’s gun and shot one of them. If he did shoot one, he’ll be in even more danger, but then again, it’s better than if it’s his blood because—”
“Yes?” asked Mr. Coors, turning to look at Werner.
“I’ll tell you straight away, Mr. Coors, it would be nearly impossible for whoever got shot to survive after losing that much blood, even if taken to a hospital, which we know didn’t happen. He would have bled to death not long after he entered the vehicle, if not before.”
Mr. Coors sat. All eyes converged on the family patriarch, awaiting his response.
“Damn.” There was a long pause as Mr. Coors sat stoically. “All right, then. Go ahead and get the money ready, but we don’t pay until we know the boy’s alive. And if he is, though you’re saying he’s probably not—”
“It’s possible he’s alive,” interrupted Werner. “We have to operate under that assumption.”
“Don’t try to sugarcoat this like you do for that one in the basement,” Mr. Coors said, gesturing with one hand toward the floor.
Before Werner could say anything, Mr. Coors continued, “Look. It’s simple. I want my son if he’s alive. If he’s dead, I want his body, and I want his murderers executed
. And if you have to give them the money, I want every penny of it back.”
* * *
The next morning, Steve Hart’s legal secretary knocked and entered the office. “There’s a telephone call for you from Bill Coors.”
“Thanks. Close the door behind you.”
Steve Hart was a good friend of Ad’s, and his wife had been a bridesmaid in Ad and Mary’s wedding. In his early years, he’d worked for Mary’s father, James Grant Jr. He’d chosen the law firm of Lewis & Grant over that of his own father, who was a prominent attorney in Denver, as was Hart’s grandfather. Hart now practiced law in his own firm.
“Hi, Steve,” said Bill. “Jim Grant and I would like to see you today. It’s about Ad. You free?”
It was Thursday. Two days after Ad’s disappearance.
They made the appointment for two o’clock.
After the three men had convened in the law office, Steve Hart’s legal associate, Bruce Buell, joined the triangle of old friends. Buell was twenty-eight years old, good looking, tall, and thin, and was establishing himself as a respected estate attorney in town.
As they took seats around a conference table, Steve Hart knew Mary’s brother, Jim, also a lawyer, though his practice was in New York City.
“Like I said on the telephone, we’re here to discuss Ad’s affairs,” said Bill. “I guess you could say I’m representing the Coorses’ interests, and Jim is representing Mary’s interests.”
“Have you received word of Ad’s death?” asked Hart.
“No,” said Bill.
“No,” joined Jim. “It looks exceedingly bleak. Of course, we’re maintaining all hope Ad will return safe and sound, but—”
Bill interrupted and explained that there was an awful lot of blood at the bridge. He told of his conversation the night before with an FBI agent at the bridge who told him that the bloodstain was not droplets, as Bill and Joe had initially perceived, but was substantial, covering an area twelve by nineteen inches, soaked in the dirt three inches deep, and the length of the spray was more than twenty feet down to the creek bank.
“So I asked if Ad was dead. I remember the agent rested his hands on his hips and looked down. ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Coors,’ he said. ‘It seems cut and dried to me. Your brother never left this bridge alive,’” continued Bill. “And this morning at Ad and Mary’s, Denver’s FBI chief confirmed the same bloody details. So it looks like Ad’s gone, I’m afraid, absent a miracle. That’s why Dad wants me to make sure Ad’s affairs are in order and there’s nothing that might pop up, you know, from a company or personal standpoint that might be embarrassing to the family. Jim can speak to making sure Mary’s taken care of. And the kids.”
Buell felt the entire meeting was premature, perhaps a little cold. Though he’d been practicing law only three years, he’d never seen anyone talk about an estate before the person was known dead, especially only two days after he went missing. But then again, there was all the blood at the scene.
Steve Hart assured Bill that Ad did not own any stock or assets in Adolph Coors Company, Coors Porcelain Company, Coors Container Company, or other Coors-owned company. He then proceeded to recite the dispositive provisions of Ad’s last will and testament that bequeathed most of Ad’s assets to Mary, with some passing in trust for his children.
“Well, that sounds fine to me,” said Bill. “But before we go any further, we need to know—Dad wants to know—there’s nothing else—no kept woman, no blind trust for a bastard child, or anything like that.”
“Absolutely nothing,” Hart said without hesitation. “Ad was—is—a straight-up fellow. He hid nothing from Mary or his family, at least that I’m aware.”
Jim went on to say that Mary would need access to Ad’s assets very soon. The checks from the brewery were made out to Ad, so when the next one came in, she wouldn’t be able to cash or deposit it. She needed an interim administration of Ad’s estate to keep receiving money and paying the bills so she wouldn’t be forced to access the Grant trust fund for her benefit.
“We can help her gain access to Ad’s checks and assets, at least to some extent,” said Hart. “The only problem is that Colorado doesn’t allow for administration of a person’s estate until that person is proved deceased, and in this case, at least so far, Ad is only missing two days. There’s no body, no murderer, nothing.”
“If Ad’s dead, his body could be at the bottom of Soda Lakes for all we know,” said Bill. “He may never be found.”
“Colorado hasn’t enacted any legislation to provide for the administration of an absentee’s estate?” asked Jim.
“No, it hasn’t.”
“Anything you can do in the local courts? Seems to me it would behoove the judge to bend a few rules since it involves Ad and Mary. Is the judge an old friend of Father’s?” asked Jim.
“It’ll be Judge Roscoe Pile. Tell you what, I’ll give him a call after we break up,” said Hart. “He’ll bend the law as far as he legally can to accommodate Mary and the Grant and Coors families. Of course, it’s too early for an actual court administration, but I’ll talk to the judge and see if we can get some concessions so Mary’s hands won’t be tied.”
“That sounds good,” said Bill, standing from his chair.
“And I’ll be praying for that miracle, gentlemen,” said Hart as he walked Bill and Jim to the door.
* * *
The snow and winds that had been predicted all week hit after five o’clock Thursday evening with lows reaching the teens, dumping several inches of snow in the foothills. Sheriff Wermuth temporarily halted the search for Ad. The storm forced Mary’s doctor to park at the bottom of the drive and walk up the steep hill through the deepening snow. It had been one of the worst winters in years, with snowstorm after snowstorm.
The snow did not delay the plane carrying the ransom money from a Boston bank, however. It arrived early Friday afternoon. The FBI placed the used bills totaling $500,000 (more than $4 million today) and weighing seventy-five pounds in a footlocker and delivered the locker to Ad’s house so when the time came, the kidnappers, if watching, would see the money loaded into the vehicle that would drop off the ransom. The footlocker creepily sat on the kitchen floor like a metal coffin.
Despite the bad weather, the FBI and county investigators continued interviewing possible witnesses and began focusing on two of the automobiles seen in the area before Ad’s disappearance: a green 1946 or ’47 Dodge sedan and a 1951 or ’52 yellow Mercury.
Mary was crazed with worry, dozing in and out of consciousness, heavily sedated and distressed to the point of being physically ill. Late Friday morning, she awakened and walked to the kitchen, where she found her brother. He was seated at the kitchen table, reading documents he’d brought along from his New York office.
She walked into the den and gazed out the window at the melting snow. She saw deputies outside, lots of them. Standing, sitting, in cars, on cars, some huddled together near the house, on the road below, smoking cigarettes, or drinking coffee from thermos caps. She even saw one laughing as if telling jokes to his fellow deputy. Her grief turned to anger.
“No wonder the kidnappers won’t contact us. Would you look at them out there?” Mary motioned for her brother. “The kidnappers said don’t call the police, and look at them standing in the open. I want them gone. I want them out of here! Now! Call that FBI man or the sheriff or whomever you have to call, but get rid of them.” Mary stormed away toward her bedroom.
Later that day, a statement was released to the newspapers. They were told it was from Mary Coors, prepared and released through the Denver public relations firm William Kostka and Associates, which represented the Adolph Coors Company.
I am requesting Sheriff Arthur Wermuth of Jefferson County to withdraw all guards on duty, and men and equipment used in road-blocks near my home. I am also requesting that no one interfere with any steps which might be taken to effect my husband’s safe return. The safe return of my husband is my only concern. Our entire
family is deeply appreciative of the cooperation we have received from all officials and the concern that has been expressed by all our friends. I am grateful for the understanding of the press and hope that it will continue to exercise continued understanding of our position.
“We will jail anyone on complaint of trespassing that we receive from the Coors family,” Sheriff Wermuth told reporters.
Wermuth had little else to say. He was being squeezed out by the FBI, a situation that was fine with the Coors family. They wanted the more experienced and professional federal agents heading the kidnapping investigation. He’d joined the many reporters waiting for word along the corridors of the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office. Wermuth taped a sign written in crayon on a door leading to the inner offices that read, “Law officers only beyond this point.” When asked if contact had been made with the kidnappers, Wermuth said with frustration, “I’m not aware of any contact. I’ve had no communication from the Coors family.”
The newspaper, television, and radio journalists respected Mary’s plea and stayed away from the Coors ranch home. That was a rarity. Even reporters admitted they couldn’t recall a time when they didn’t look for personal beats on a story.
More snow fell on Friday.
“Well, I remember the snow very well,” Mary Coors would tell jurors later. “It began to snow hard and steadily, and that again gave us a little hope that possibly whoever had taken Ad was not able to contact us. And it gave us hope, and yet again it was bad because we knew that he had been hurt and possibly he was somewhere where he could not get medical attention. I just remember snow and wind and very bad roads.”
* * *
Special agents checked the records of the Denver Police Department’s Auto Theft Bureau. One of the witnesses near the bridge, James Cable, had given the FBI a partial plate number. “AT-62, perhaps AT-6205,” he said. Agent Leroy Green discovered only four Mercury automobiles in Denver had been assigned a license plate with the prefix AT-62.