by Philip Jett
“Take a look at the men in these photos,” said the agent, spreading the photographs of four men side by side.
“That’s him,” said Davis. “That’s Mr. Chiffins.” The clerk pointed out Joe Corbett.
Just to be sure, Agent John Broughton checked for anyone named William Chiffins in the area. He checked apartments, houses, businesses. He checked telephone directories, library cards, driver’s licenses at the Department of Motor Vehicles, voter cards at the election commission, marriage licenses, death certificates. He checked hospitals, military installations, credit unions, social clubs, retail associations. Nothing. There was absolutely no record the FBI could find of any person named William Chiffins having ever lived or died in the entire state of Colorado. But a man named Arthur John Cheffins had been imprisoned at San Quentin during Corbett’s incarceration there, and Corbett knew him. In addition, William was a popular alias of Corbett’s.
The FBI also discovered that 1735 Pennsylvania Street was the address for a building converted into a two-residence boardinghouse. One room had been rented to Eloise Bissett since February 1958, and the other had been vacant for two years. The boardinghouse just happened to be around the corner from Corbett’s old room at the Perlmor.
Their legwork told the agents that Corbett had to be the purchaser, and if agents could locate the typewriter, there’d be absolutely no question Corbett was guilty. Special Agent Werner’s office mailed hundreds of letters under his signature to department stores, typewriter dealers, pawnshops, and thrift stores in the Denver area.
In connection with an official investigation, this office is attempting to locate a Royalite portable typewriter, Serial Number RL 3663901, which may have been sold, pawned, traded in on another machine, or otherwise sought your attention since October 8, 1959. Your assistance is requested in checking your records to determine whether this typewriter may have been in your business establishment.
Despite an exhaustive probe, the FBI could not locate the typewriter. It was probably at the bottom of a mountain lake. Without the typewriter, they couldn’t match it to the type on the ransom note, which meant the FBI still had no direct evidence. They resumed building a circumstantial case.
Agents hoped to tie Corbett to the type of paper used for the ransom note. Though Corbett had left behind paper in the chicken wire storage at the Perlmor Apartments, the watermark didn’t match that of the ransom note. That was disappointing. Agents could only attempt to connect Corbett to purchasing paper with the identical watermark. Flimsy evidence on its own, but when viewed collectively with other evidence gathered, it might help close the gas chamber door on Corbett.
Paper used to type the ransom note was traced to the manufacturer Eaton Paper Company and to the Cherry Creek Store branch of the Denver Dry Goods Company. There, Ann Thompson, a college student working as a clerk during December break, told an FBI agent, “I’m nearly positive he’s the one who purchased the typewriting paper. I’m an art student at Denver University, and I noticed his facial bone structure and slanted teeth.” She pointed at Corbett’s photograph. “See, it’s a salient feature. We’re taught to notice those things in art class.”
Agents were pleased. They had collected evidence showing Corbett purchased one of the Royalite typewriters sold in the area, giving a future jury the opportunity to conclude that Corbett’s Royalite was the one that typed the note, especially in light of the evidence that Corbett purchased typewriting paper from a store that sold paper of a variety that matched the ransom note. The FBI continued gathering evidence. They needed more.
But FBI agents weren’t the only ones working the case. Colorado Department of Game and Fish director Tom Kimball inspected hundreds of hunting and fishing licenses in an attempt to locate Joe Corbett, Walter Osborne, or any of his other aliases, with the hope of determining what areas he frequented. Perhaps he was holed up somewhere in the mountains or he’d left behind evidence in a cabin or at a campsite. Maybe he could be connected to a place where he may have taken Ad … or hidden his body.
* * *
The weeks crept by for Mary Coors. She’d held out hope, but by July, all hope seemed lost. Everyone believed Ad was dead, and now the last holdout, Mary, resigned herself to the fact that her husband was gone forever, too. She drifted through each day like a sleepwalker, medicated and drinking more. The alcohol calmed her nerves and distracted her endless obsessions and memories, and all the what-ifs and should’ves she played and replayed in her mind. She tortured herself with guilt for not giving Ad a hug and saying more meaningful words, but how was she to know that morning would be her last seeing him?
Her conversations with friends often turned to Ad. Mary was not only depressed but fraught with hatred. It seethed behind her every thought. As well-meaning as friends were, it was natural for some to tire and drift away. Many grew weary of her morose disposition. Those that once entertained with Ad and Mary as a couple began to view her as the odd woman out. Even so, a few friends wouldn’t leave her.
During a luncheon, she was invited to accompany a friend and her husband to Bermuda in the fall. When Mary initially demurred, her friend pressed her to give one good reason why she couldn’t go.
Mary hesitated and then blurted out, “Ad and I spent our honeymoon there.”
She had been dating and married to Ad for more than twenty years. Everything reminded her of Ad. There were few places she could go for a change of scenery. No place to run, except to the bottle.
Mary pulled away from Joe’s wife, Holly, who had become a fundamentalist Christian. Holly’s often spoken words of faith and statements of God’s will fell hollow on Mary. Mary had never been much of a believer, and seeing Holly clutch her Bible angered Mary all the more. How could God take away a loving husband and a wonderful father?
Her sister-in-law Geraldine wasn’t much comfort either. She had her own problems. She was an alcoholic, smoked three packs of cigarettes a day, and her marriage with Bill was in serious trouble.
Mary had never had much of a relationship with Ad’s sister, May Louise Tooker. She’d moved to Greenwich, Connecticut, many years earlier, and they rarely spoke, except at occasional family gatherings.
And Ad’s father and mother were pulling away or so it seemed to Mary. Not that they’d ever been that close. She spoke to them on the few occasions her kids stayed over, which were becoming infrequent. Mary never thought Mr. Coors cared for her. He’d made his feelings pretty clear each Sunday when all the children and grandchildren gathered at the Queen Anne mansion for Sunday dinner. Maybe it was because she was a Grant and didn’t need the Coors name or money, and like Mr. Coors, she could be indomitable. She was intelligent and didn’t tremble whenever Mr. Coors raised his voice. She and Mrs. Coors had gotten along fine, but Mrs. Coors had taken Ad’s loss hard. After all, he was her firstborn child, and she didn’t want to talk about Ad. If Mary brought up his disappearance, or even Ad himself, Mrs. Coors often changed the subject. Perhaps Mary reminded Mrs. Coors of her son too much. It didn’t matter; Mrs. Coors didn’t contradict Mr. Coors. Whatever the problem was, a rift was growing between Mary and Ad’s parents and, worse, was spreading to Mary’s children.
As for The Denver Post and Rocky Mountain News, their articles about Ad’s disappearance were becoming fewer and fewer until they almost fizzled out altogether. One bizarre article that did appear added only embarrassment to misery.
MYSTIC DETECTIVE ARRIVES IN DENVER, the Rocky Mountain News headline read in July. The self-styled “telepathic detective,” Peter Hurkos claimed to have extrasensory perception and to have solved twenty-seven murders in seventeen countries. He was said to have acquired his ESP powers after falling from a ladder. “I see pictures in my mind like a television screen. When I touch something, I can then tell what I see.”
He made appearances on British television and The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson. Several said he really did have ESP. Others said he was merely a showman. Still others called him a charlatan. When he c
laimed his powers helped detectives solve actual crimes, police often refuted those claims.
Reporters and cameras had been bad enough, but with the self-professed mystic’s arrival, the Coors family believed the circus had at last come to town. When asked if the Coors family hired the paranormal crime fighter, the Coors spokesman fired back an emphatic “No.” Mercifully, Hurkos and his wife moved on to Pueblo, Colorado, to “investigate” another missing person, leaving the Coors family in peace.
What reporters didn’t know was Bill may have actually contacted a psychic soon after his brother’s disappearance. Not Peter Hurkos but Florence Sternfels. According to Ms. Sternfels, Bill secretly flew to her home in Edgewater, New Jersey, carrying a photograph and one of Ad’s favorite belt buckles. The elderly Sternfels had gained some notoriety as being what she termed a “psychometrist,” who receives mental pictures of someone by handling an object that belonged to that person.
“I see a pool of blood on a bridge,” she said, rubbing the belt buckle in one hand. Of course, everyone knew that, Bill thought. It had been in all the papers. “Here, I’ll draw a picture of it. I hate to tell you this, but I see your brother near this.” Photographs and diagrams of Turkey Creek Bridge also had been in the newspapers. “I see your brother was followed on his way to the factory.” Again, in all the papers and on television. “Oh, my head feels like there are two bullets in it.” That could have been a reference to Corbett’s shooting victim in California who had been shot twice in the head, or to the witness account of hearing two shots (again in the newspapers and television). “His body will be found at the end of the summer.” At last, a statement by the gray-haired prognosticator that was original, but still could be a simple guess, Bill supposed, who left New Jersey thinking he’d wasted a trip.
As the first days of August came to pass and summer was nearing a close, the FBI and Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office were no closer to solving the crime than they had been in March when Corbett’s identity was first discovered. Mr. Coors told reporters he was convinced his son had been murdered, and he’d already abandoned hope his missing son would ever be found. Yet the end of the summer was quickly approaching, and Ms. Sternfel’s only prediction would soon be put to the test.
CHAPTER 15
It was a beautiful fall day. The September skies were clear and blue. The smell of autumn was in the air. Edward Greene took full advantage. Sunday was his day off from his delivery job at Original Pizza Crust Company, so he grabbed his .25-caliber pistol and headed off to the Elephant Rock area near Devil’s Head Peak to enjoy what he and many Coloradans enjoyed—target shooting, hiking, and solitude.
Greene pulled his truck across a small ditch near the entrance to a dump in Douglas County. It was a secluded area, difficult to reach, off a more dirt than gravel road winding up a mountainside to its summit, fifteen miles southwest of Denver. No Trespassing signs warned visitors like Greene to stay away, but it seemed no one was ever around to enforce them. The pizza deliverer didn’t hesitate. He entered the property identified by a large sign: “Shamballah Ashrama—The Brotherhood of the White Temple.” The private dump was scattered with myriad objects that made perfect targets for his new pistol. He began to scrounge around for bottles to shoot. “Usually, I go with somebody else. But this time I went alone,” Greene would tell reporters. “But yesterday, I had a creepy feeling, kinda made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.”
The garbage was smoldering from its last burn, and smoke was hanging low that cool afternoon. Greene continued along one of two parallel paths worn by tires of vehicles belonging to those of the commune. He took a trail around the dump on his way down to a creek at the base of a steep hillside behind the dump. Hiking along the dirt path, scattered with fallen limbs, vines, and clumps of bushes, Greene descended the slope through thick overhanging pine and aspen amid massive boulder formations.
Greene grabbed limbs and pushed loose brush aside as he made his way along the steep, overgrown ravine. About six hundred feet down, he spotted a pair of leather dress shoes among the pine needles, leaves, and twigs. As he stepped past them, he thought they looked like a new pair, though one was unlaced and the other was full of spiderwebs.
A few feet farther along the path, he spotted a pair of gray flannel pants with a brown belt. They appeared new, just as the shoes did, except for having a tear down one leg. He kicked the pants to launch them off the path. They jingled. Greene kicked them again. He heard a rattle once more, so he reached down and picked them up. As he did, out spilled several coins—a quarter, dime, nickel, and three pennies—forty-three cents. Nice, thought Greene. He stuffed the coins into his pocket and rummaged through the pants. Inside was a pocketknife stamped MIAG and a key chain with eleven keys. Greene counted them as he considered what they might fit. And there was a penknife. This is my lucky day, Greene thought. Looks like silver. He flipped it in his hand and noticed some writing on it, an inscription. He strained to read the script in the shade of the enveloping trees. He read it once … and then again. “Holy shit!” Greene shouted, shattering the serenity of the deep woods.
The young Greene wasted no time hurrying up the steep hill to his truck. He set out for home, puffing hard from the climb and excitement. Greene later described his swift exit to a reporter: “Before I hightailed it out of there, I thought I saw some other things but thought I’d better report what I’d seen as soon as possible.”
He stopped at Johnson’s Corner and ran into a service station to borrow the telephone. He called his mother and told her what had happened at the garbage dump. “Inside the pants pockets was Adolph Coors’s key chain. It’s got his initials on it—AC III.” Greene’s mother told him not to get mixed up in the matter and to come straight home. (Amazingly, Greene’s brother had discovered a dead body a year earlier while fishing near Aspen.)
On the way home from the gas station, Greene stopped to speak with Charles Riddle, an Englewood police officer and friend. He handed the monogrammed knife to Riddle, who immediately called the FBI field office in Denver.
Forty-five minutes later, two carloads of agents arrived at Riddle’s house. By 4:30 p.m., they were at the dump.
Greene led the agents along the narrow footpath. Not long into their sweep, near where Greene had kicked the pants from the path, agents began to spot other pieces of clothing. The exploration continued for two hours until it became too dark to see. Most of the items discovered during the search were located in more or less a straight line heading down the slope to the bottom of a ravine, about a one thousand-foot stretch.
Agent Raymond Fox contacted Bill Coors and drove to his house in Denver, arriving around 6:30 p.m. Mary was there when he arrived.
With Bill’s wife, Geraldine, by Mary’s side, the agent began handing Mary the discovered items. Each item had been collected in a separate plastic bag. She identified the penknife with Ad’s initials. She could not identify the pocketknife bearing MIAG, but Bill did. An identical knife had been given to each Coors brother from a German company that sold grinding and milling equipment to the brewery: Mühlenbau und Industrie Aktiengesellschaft. A gray ballpoint pen also could not be identified, though it most certainly was Ad’s.
“Now, Mrs. Coors, I’m about to hand you items of clothing that we believe belong to your husband,” began Agent Fox. “What we’d like you to do is tell us if each piece of clothing was worn by your husband that last morning. I must warn you some clothes are stained and weather-beaten, and others are torn. But we really need to know if they’re his.”
“I understand,” Mary said. The sight of Ad’s personal items had not made her emotional. When she saw the bags of clothing, however, her mood changed.
“Can you do this?” asked Agent Fox. “If you’d like to wait until—”
“No, I’ve waited seven months,” said Mary.
The agent showed her a dress shirt that had been found 250 feet from the pants. It was stained with deteriorated blood and torn in several places. Both sle
eves had been ripped. It smelled like it had lain in a musty fruit cellar.
Mary hadn’t expected the clothing to be so disgusting. “Yes, that looks like what he wore that morning.”
“And this tie?”
“I don’t know. It looks like his, I suppose.”
“This tie clip was dangling from it … shaped like a ski.”
Mary balked. The sight of the tie and the ski clip together made it more personal. She felt sick. “Yes, that was his. It was a gift from the Sweeneys.” Bill agreed the tie clip was Ad’s.
“You all right, Mrs. Coors?” asked Fox.
“I’m feeling a little queasy.”
“You need something to drink?”
Geraldine jumped up and retrieved Mary a glass of cold water.
“Thank you,” Mary said and sipped.
“We can take a break if you need to,” said the agent.
“No. Let’s go on and get this over with.”
The agent continued. “And the socks?” he asked, holding a bag with a pair of dirty, torn blue socks.
“I’m not sure.”
The agent continued until each remaining piece of clothing—a white undershirt torn in three places, ripped pants (a label inside read, “Expressly for A. Coors, III”), shorts, belt, and a glove—had been tagged as either identified by Mary or Bill or not. Then the agent handed Mary the last item. It was stuffed in a grocery bag. “What about this blanket?”
Mary’s eyes widened. “No!” She yanked her arm back and turned her head. “Take it away,” she directed loudly. Mary knew what the blanket had been used for, and now so did the agent.
When leaving to return to his Denver office, Agent Fox asked Bill and Mary not to reveal the discovery until agents had more time to explore the area. If word got out, the site could become crowded with souvenir seekers and the curious who would contaminate or remove evidence and slow the search.