Confessions of a Second Story Man
Page 31
“I was so fucking mad. Tommy had been my partner for years. And he had worked with Mickie for a long time as well. We had done a thousand jobs together. More important than that, Mickie had been a good friend to Tommy. When he would hook up with a woman, they would stay at our place in Jersey. He liked our company. Mickie would cook big meals for them and clean up after them. She had been a damn good friend to Tommy for a long time, and then he does something like this to her. He became a no-good fucking rat. I wanted to kill him.
“When I got off the phone with her, I immediately got one of the other guys in line to give me a piece of his phone time. I called Troy McEntee in Philly. I quickly told him what had happened and I planned on coming out. I needed someone to pick me up at nine o’clock the next morning. I told him I’d be at a McDonald’s restaurant that was right outside the federal prison reservation. Troy understood and said, don’t worry; he’d have somebody down there to pick me up.
“It took me only a few minutes to figure it all out. I guess your brain never stops working. Even though you’re locked up and separated from society, you’re still thinking about things, especially how to get out. I must have been consciously and unconsciously thinking about it as soon as I hit Atlanta. It’s only natural—when you feel like a caged animal you want to get out. That’s all you think about.
“I had been at Atlanta for a while and had been given a job where I got to go outside the walls on occasion. It was a maintenance job where I worked with a crew of guys to fix up and maintain the homes of top prison personnel like the warden, the doctor, the psychologist, the maintenance supervisor. Everything on the reservation that needed fixing was ours. I had got the hang of it pretty quick and would periodically leave the four-man crew I worked with for a few hours in the afternoon and hit a motel in the area. Though I still loved Mickie, we had grown apart since all the crap hit us. The cops, the legal beefs, the separations had taken their toll. Dottie, another Philly girl I had grown friendly with, would come down periodically for a visit, and we’d share a few pleasant hours together and then I’d go back to work.
“I knew it would work; I had things planned. As a backup, I told Boston Blackie [Frank Rossi], a friend of mine from Boston who celled with me on the block and ran the dental lab, to call for me at one p.m. so there would be no suspicion when I didn’t show up for count on the block. They had counts several times a day at Atlanta, and if you didn’t show up on somebody’s count you were considered an escapee and the whole place would shut down. By having them think I was down at the dentist’s office, it gave me a few more hours to play with before they started looking for me.
“I went to another friend on my block and told him I was in a jam and needed some money. He came up with a hundred dollar bill.
“The maintenance crew used a pickup truck to get around, and we were always dressed in prison khakis so I had to quickly come up with something else so I wouldn’t be recognized on the street as someone who just walked out of a maximum-security federal prison. It was June 22, 1979, and it was hot as hell, just as you’d expect Georgia to be in mid-summer. Underneath my khakis I wore a pair of jogging shorts and a tank top. As usual, I’m wearing a pair of sneakers.
“It’s around 8:30 in the morning, and we’ve been doing some work on the prison grounds, and I have the guys drop me off near the McDonald’s. They don’t think nothing of it. They give me a wave and a smile and figure Junior is on another one of his afternoon delights at the local motel. I decide to shed my prison clothes and sit tight behind some bushes near the restaurant so I can check out everybody who pulls into the McDonald’s parking lot. I don’t know what the guy looks like who’s supposed to pick me up, Troy never told me who he’d send down, so I’m taking a serious look at anybody who drives in. Finally, I spot a guy who drives in the lot, sits in his car a while, and then goes in the McDonald’s for a cup of coffee. He comes back out, sits in his car, and doesn’t look in any particular hurry. I decide I’ve got to take the shot; this could be the guy. I walk out from the bushes. Wouldn’t you know it, just as I get near the car door the guy turns on the ignition and drives off. I’m left there standing like a naked cigar store Indian and have to run back to the bushes and hope no one saw me.
“Now time is going by, it’s getting hotter by the minute, and all I can think of is that they already started looking for me. People are coming and going in the parking lot, but none of ’em look like they’re there for me. They’re more interested in Egg McMuffins and cheeseburgers than a guy looking for a quick ride north. I’m beginning to think Troy wasn’t able to set it up and no one is coming for me. I’m now getting nervous and begin thinking I better take the hell off or I’m not gonna have the chance.
“After an hour or so, I decide that’s it. I’m outta here. I start jogging up the street. I only get a block or two when a car pulls up next to me. ‘Hey, you,’ the guy says. ‘Did you just come off the reservation?’
“Just my fucking luck. I can’t tell for sure if he’s a neighborhood do-gooder or some kind of government agent. He’s not in a government vehicle, but his attitude is definitely more assertive than an average citizen. ‘Hell, no,’ I tell him. ‘I live over there,’ and point to a nearby housing development. ‘I’m just out for some exercise.’
“The guy doesn’t buy it. He turns out to be a federal parole agent. He opens the car door and says, ‘I think you came off the penitentiary reservation.’ He then reaches for something in his back pocket. I figure it’s a gun. Maybe a badge or a set of cuffs, but I can’t take the chance. I tell him, ‘I don’t give a fuck what you think,’ kick the door closed on him, and run like a bat out of hell down the street into a housing project.
“I figure I’m fucked now and they’re definitely gonna be coming after me. I’m running like a son-of-a-bitch and trying to stay off of the streets just in case he wants to be a hero, starts tracking me, and is keen on taking me in by himself. I dart through a new housing development, between houses and down driveways, and after a few blocks run up to a guy in a car who’s just pulled up at a stop sign. He’s a black guy about 50 years old and doesn’t know from nothing. I came up on him so quick, I scared him half to death.
“‘I need a favor, buddy,’ I tell him. ’I been out jogging and I’m getting chest pains. I need to get to a hospital.’
“He looks at me suspiciously; he doesn’t buy it. I’m sweating bullets, but I keep talking. I explain I’m okay; I’m a salesman and live in the neighborhood just a few blocks away. He’s still reluctant. I tell him I’m a legitimate businessman and show him the $100 bill I’m carrying. The guy finally lets me in and drives me to a local hospital, where I get out and he goes on his way. I spot a bank across the street and decide to go in and break the hundred. The bank is part of a small strip mall, which includes a clothing store where I buy a red T-shirt, an Atlanta Braves baseball cap, and a pair of jeans. I then go behind the store where there’s a wooded area and change into the stuff I just bought and bury my sweat-soaked tank top and shorts. I know they’re going to be looking for me and informing all the local train, bus, and cab companies in the area to be on the lookout for me.
“I’m trying to figure out how I’m gonna get to downtown Atlanta. I gotta make a couple calls and find out if Troy sent anybody down for me or if I gotta get a car or train to get back up North. Just as I’m trying to decide if it’s worth it to call for a cab, a black car pulls up near this phone booth I’m standing in.
“‘Hey, buddy,’ I say to the guy, ‘Can you help me out? I’m in a jam. I’m late for this interview downtown at the Hyatt Regency. If I don’t get down there pronto, I’m gonna lose this job and I need it bad.’
“This black guy is now looking me over. I’m sweating and sure as hell don’t look like I’m ready for any kind of interview.
“‘Look man,’ I say as I reach for my money, ‘I’ll give you $20 if you drive me downtown to the Hyatt.’
“His expression changes big time. ‘Hell, for $20
,’ the guy says, ‘I’ll take you downtown or any other town you wanna go to.’
“When we get downtown, I get out of his car and give him the twenty. I then give the guy a serious look and say, ‘I was never in this car, understand?’
“‘Friend,’ he says, inspecting the money, ‘I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I ain’t never seen you before.’
“He drives off and I go in another store and buy a white T-shirt this time and a quart of beer. I want to keep changing my appearance just in case they’re putting my description out on the street. I couldn’t resist buying a beer; I hadn’t had a real one in years. I then get to a phone and call Dottie in Jersey. I tell her to tell Troy I’m on the run down by Peach Tree Street in Atlanta and ask what’s going on. What about my ride? What the hell happened? She tells me Troy did send a guy, but he got stuck in North Carolina. There’s a gas crisis going on around the country, and the guy got held up down there in one of these long gas lines. But don’t worry; he’s still on his way.
“I go into this public park and begin sipping my beer. It’s good to be free, but I feel exposed and see all these cop cars driving by. People seem to be looking at me. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I don’t like it. Now I’m starting to think it’s better if I get the hell out of town and find someplace that’s less congested. I go in a store and buy a map of the area. After looking it over for a couple minutes, I decide a place called Stone Mountain sounds good. I buy a ticket, get on this bus, and head out to Stone Mountain, Georgia. All the way I’m taking notice of the hardware stores we pass just in case I have to get some tools—gloves, screwdriver, pliers, L-bar—anything I may need to break in a joint or jump a car. I finally get out at this little place that has a garage and car lot next to a 24-hour waffle house. I make another call to Dottie, describe the place, and tell her I’ll be waiting in back of the joint, where there’s some heavy weeds that separate it from a small housing development. I tell her to have him hit the horn twice and I’ll come out.
“I’m out there for hours, but the guy finally pulls in at two in the morning and we take the hell off. He was only a kid, but he must have been a stock car driver in an earlier life, ’cause he’s running about 95 miles per hour all through Georgia and South Carolina. I’m thinking to myself, I just escaped from a federal institution, a thousand state and local cops are after me, Skarbek will probably have every FBI agent between here and New York looking for me, and I got no identification. And because of this kid I’m gonna get nabbed and sent back to Atlanta and given an additional 10 years, all for a dumb speeding violation. I repeatedly tell the kid to slow down, but he’s incapable of getting anywhere near the speed limit. I finally tell the kid, ‘That’s it. I’ve had it. Give me some money and take me to the closest city where I can catch a train.’ He drives me to Charlotte, North Carolina, where I hop out at the train station and take Amtrak back to Philly.”
The long train ride up the East Coast went quickly, but not uneventfully. Junior always had an eye for the ladies. That day he had the good fortune to sit next to a particularly friendly female passenger who took a liking to the tall, brash stranger, a gentleman who, unbeknownst to her, had just hours before walked out of a federal prison complex. She and Junior grew quite cozy on the ride north and eventually had sexual relations. It was a first for him—doing it on a Metroliner going 80 miles per hour. Yes, it was certainly good to be free again, free of the clanging bars and metal gates, the barren, cement walls, and the daily strife caused by thousands of angry, imprisoned men. But as the train traveled through the Maryland and Delaware countryside and approached Philadelphia, reality began to set in. Junior gradually lost interest in the high-speed romantic interlude; he had more important things on his mind. He was on a mission. He was going to kill Tommy Seher.
LIKE A NUMBER of other K&A journeymen in the burglary trade, Tommy Seher grew up in a working-class section of Philadelphia and gravitated to Kensington as a young man. In addition to the many bars and lively nightclubs that flourished there, the bustling blue collar neighborhood was where second story men congregated and looked for work, much as card-carrying teamsters or longshoremen would go to a union hall. An experienced, dependable thief with a good reputation, Seher floated in and out of several burglary teams, as was the custom of certain K&A men in search of the next easy score. It was just such loose, lackadaisical working arrangements that led to his downfall and, eventually, that of his friend and crew chief, Junior Kripplebauer.
For years, Seher drifted between crews, but spent most of his time with burglary teams captained by Teddy Wigerman and Junior Kripplebauer. Both men were smart, experienced, trustworthy leaders, whose crews profited because of it. Mistakes were rare, and the scores were always good. But even in such elite, well-traveled crews, mistakes were committed—such as Tommy’s decision to ignore Junior’s orders in Houston and discard identifiable items in a motel’s dumpster—and they could prove disastrous for all concerned. A seemingly minor indiscretion by a Wigerman crew member led to a string of prosecutions, the ugly specter of standup men turning government informants, and ultimately the demise of two prolific and celebrated K&A burglary teams.
It started far from home, in North Carolina—a state that had been a favorite target of the K&A Gang for years. Cities like Raleigh, Winston-Salem, and Greensboro might as well have been juicy plums on a fruit tree. Prominent homeowners—including top corporate executives and high-ranking elected officials—were caught in the criminal undertow and more than a little distraught over the loss of precious possessions that never seemed to surface again. Law enforcement authorities, unable to stop the pillaging, were left embarrassed and bewildered. The disturbing phenomenon, which ran from the late 1960s to the mid-1970s, became a colossal statewide mystery.
“We had no earthly idea who was doing it,” says D. C. Williams, a veteran Raleigh police official, who spent years trying to track down the Hallmark Gang, named after their penchant for stealing “only the very best” silverware. “Great big stuff including silverware, jewelry,” and the like was being taken, and it was happening “eight to ten times a weekend during certain seasons. Most of what was getting hit was old Raleigh money. The bluebloods of Raleigh, people that had been in the area for generations—top citizens, an ex-governor, lawyers, doctors, professionals.” Precautionary measures, including stepped-up patrols, greater law enforcement networking, citizen education efforts, and a host of other programs, proved of little value. Even occasional clues—like the discovery of a piece of paper with the hand-written names, addresses, and phone numbers of homeowners on the same street as a recently burgled home—had no tangible impact. The Hallmark Gang, whoever they were and wherever they came from, stole only the best, and they stole with impunity.
On February 16, 1976, a significant break in the North Carolina mystery occurred hundreds of miles away in the form of a seemingly unrelated drug arrest at the Jersey shore. Steven Edward Schrieber, a 24-year-old Mays Landing resident, was picked up on a minor marijuana charge. In his car, however, police found a.22-caliber handgun. A routine check of the weapon through the FBI’s computerized National Crime Information Center disclosed that the gun had been stolen from a Raleigh home just a month earlier.
D. C. Williams was ecstatic, for in all the many years that he had worked on the Hallmark Gang thefts, no stolen item had ever resurfaced. “I had been after these guys for years,” says Williams, “and this was the first break. We were never able to recover any of the stolen property. Nothing ever turned up. When I got a call that a pistol had been recovered in Atlantic City during a drug search, I was jubilant. The gun belonged to John Holloway, a prominent Raleigh architect whose residence had recently been burglarized. It was a great break. I went to Atlantic City that very day and searched the guy’s house and found luggage and a ring that belonged to Holloway’s wife.” The North Carolina cop also learned that Schrieber’s handwriting matched that on a note found at the scene of one of the crimes.
Kripplebauer was adamant about such rules. He knew how enticing an expensive Rolex watch or piece of fine jewelry for a wife or girlfriend could be, but he also knew the legal quagmire it could get you in. “I told everyone who ever worked for me that we keep nothing for ourselves,” he says. “It all goes in the pot, and we then sell it to a trustworthy friend who we’ve done business with before. I said we were in somebody else’s home to make money, not to hurt anybody or to keep interesting trinkets that caught our attention. I didn’t care how much somebody wanted a fancy watch or a rare coin or a neat-looking pen; you don’t keep it. I told them you only grab something for yourself if you catch me doing it. And I didn’t do it.” And his team followed the rules. Besides knowing it was the right thing to do, Junior wasn’t someone you wanted to cross.
But young Stevie Schrieber was part of Teddy Wigerman’s operation.
Wigerman had come to second story work much as Kripplebauer and so many others had over the years: early in life he acquired a taste for money and a profound distaste for an honest day’s work. He was born in the small upstate Pennsylvania town of Danville, but his alcoholic father moved the family to Kensington when the steel mills closed in the Susquehanna Valley. Teddy Wigerman was a rebellious youth, and gangs, hanging out on streetcorners, and joy rides in stolen cars were his introduction to the second story lifestyle. A short stint in the Air Force let him avoid a bit in a reform school, but the Kensington tradition of going AWOL landed him right back on the streets around K&A. Wigerman joined a gang, stole cars, and stuck up stores on Kensington Avenue. Arrested in 1949 at the age of 17 as the ringleader of the Blue Dragon Gang, Wigerman was nailed with a bitter 10-to 20-year sentence.