Sniper: The True Story of Anti-Abortion Killer James Kopp

by Jon Wells

  Kopp and Marra discussed his future, whether he should he return “to the field.” They talked about “outcome” number one and two. Number one referred to wounding abortion doctors. Number two meant killing them. Number one, wrote Marra, is the desired option, but the “rate of recidivism” is high—abortion doctors may return to work after being wounded. “Ronald Reagans” or “Rsquared” was a reference to the assassination attempt on President Reagan’s life. “Jackie area”? Jackie might be a reference to Loretta’s son, who was born near Montreal, “Jackie area” was probably that part of Canada. Loretta had also written: “Mech points out that jackie is said to be under closer scrutiny these days, because others have thought of what you’ve thought of, with those others are said to be very, very naughty.” Mech was Dennis Malvasi. And jackie—Canada, or Canadian Immigration, the Canadian border—was under scrutiny of late. Kopp’s reference to “on margins” meant international borders. “Capital city of mom’s birth” was a reference to Loretta Marra’s mother, who was born in Paris.

  Osborn wrote out his analysis of the emails and passed it to the Buffalo office. Murder suspect and fugitive James Charles Kopp is likely in the vicinity of Paris, plans to fly to Montreal in order to return to the field—to shoot more doctors.

  Chapter 18 ~ Worried Big-Time

  Dinan, France

  Thursday, March 15, 2001

  It is a steep climb from the marina up the cobblestone Rue du Jerzual in Dinan. The cool damp air smells of moss and wet stone. Closer to the top, the scent of fresh baguette and pastry arrives. “Dinan,” if spoken with an anglo “n” on the end will draw a blank stare from a Frenchman. Jim Kopp focused on getting the pronunciation perfect, prided himself on speaking proper French. You show respect for the locals by earnestly trying to speak the language so as not to mangle it. No need to pull any Ugly American routine, he felt.

  The town, encircled by 13th-century ramparts that once guarded it from invaders, sits atop a hill overlooking the Rance River valley in France’s Brittany region. On the outside of the ramparts, down in the lower town, is the marina. Sailboats set out and wind their way north along the Rance River to the Golfe de Saint-Malo and, ultimately, the Atlantic. Dinan has 11,000 people but feels much smaller, a village trapped in a medieval time warp with its half-timbered, moss-dappled homes, some of which tilt from the weight of their 600 years, as though ready to fall at any moment. He walked inside the 12th-century Basilique Saint-Sauveur in the town center near the clock tower on Rue de l’Horloge. It was dark inside, smelling of old stone. A massive crucifix rose above the altar. Purple, yellow, and green light burst through stained glass.

  Dinan is in one sense a tourist destination, not so much for North Americans as for Europeans. It still feels isolated, a fourhour drive from Paris. Jim walked among the locals, tourists, past the post office, banks—and two police stations, local and national. There were brasseries, crepe shops, lingerie stores, cybercafes. Jim Kopp got a room in a hostel in the lower city, not far from the marina. It was a drive alongside the river, through a thickly forested area, across a narrow stream, to the lone stone building called the Moulin Meen—an auberge de jeunesse, or youth hostel. He had one of the several bunk beds in room 14, second level. He met a young Japanese man and they engaged in long conversations. The hostel manager was Benoit Benetou, a man with a thoughtful face who spoke English well. The thin American appeared unremarkable to Benoit. He merely seemed adrift, like so many of the young people who stayed there.

  The Mouline Meen hostel, where Kopp stayed in Dinan.

  Jim decided to take an impromptu trip to Paris, a two-hour ride by train.

  There he visited a place that always beguiled him. Behind Notre Dame Cathedral is a parkette, and belowground is a monument lacking the ornate design of most everything in Paris. It is a Holocaust memorial called Memorial de la Déportation, remembering the French Jews who were captured and gassed by the Nazis. He descended the steps, the walls white and rough textured, the corridors tight, tomblike, all sharp angles. Words were etched on the wall as though put there by fingernails. And, visible but untouchable through a grate, were buttons, thousands of them, lined up to mark each death. So many innocent lives sacrificed on the altar of ideology. Just like the murdered babies, Jim Kopp thought. On the wall were quotations: “The day that people will have understood who you were, they will bite the earth with sadness and remorse, they will water it with their tears, and they will build temples to you.” Later, he walked along the Champs d’Élysées at his languid pace, his lungs filling with crisp spring air, moving past shops and cafés, Parisians sipping red wine on patios and breaking baguette. The folksy tune entered his mind, and then the words:

  Lately I wonder what I do it for

  If l had my way

  I’d just walk through those doors

  And wander down the Champs d’Élysées

  Going café to cabaret,

  Thinking how I’d feel when I find

  That very good friend of mine.

  Joni Mitchell—“Free Man in Paris!” The lyrics and music flowed through his soul, from the angel poet he had held close to his heart since his teens in Marin County. He sang it to himself and it brought a smile. She was speaking to him. Trapped as he was on the run, he had for the moment escaped, gliding along on Joni’s rhythms. Later in the evening, he walked Rue St.-Honoré, which ran near the Louvre, the smell of crepes in the air, traffic jammed on the narrow street. Like Grafton Street in Dublin, Rue St. Honoré had the kind of upscale shops that someone of Jim Kopp’s means could never patronize.

  He had a package he needed to mail. In the envelope was a letter he had written, with more quirky references, cryptic messages, a collection of thoughts and tangents that reflected the crosscurrents in his labyrinthine mind. He included some articles he had printed off the Internet. One that amused him bore the headline “Meteorite Iron Found in ‘Tomb of Queens’” about a tomb discovered by a team of archeologists in a place in Syria called Umm el-Marra. Marra. Perfect! He sealed the envelope, addressed it to Ted Barnes, Brooklyn, N.Y., and dropped it in a mailbox.

  * * *

  Brooklyn, N.Y.

  March 16, 2001

  On Friday, March 16, an envelope addressed to Joyce and Ted Barnes arrived at a post office in Brooklyn. It had a Paris, France, postmark. The FBI special agent picked up the envelope with a gloved hand and opened it. Michael Osborn took photos of the envelope, then pored over the contents and photographed each page. James Kopp had been a busy guy. There were dozens of pages in the package, Internet printouts, newspaper articles, handwritten letters. Osborn made notations referencing each item in the package:

  • Handwriting: “C.S. Lewis wannabee; neverbee”

  • Article: “Our Lady of Fatima Said in 1917”

  • Birth certificate John O’Brien

  • Birth certificate Daniel Joseph O’Sullivan

  • Death certificate Daniel Joseph O’Sullivan

  • Two passport application forms

  • “Letter from Father Emily”

  • “Meteorite Iron Found in ‘Tomb of Queens’”

  • Article: “The Society of St. Pius X in Rome”

  Osborn placed the papers back in the envelope and resealed it for delivery to Ted and Joyce Barnes. Three days later, on March 19, a Federal Express package No. 40055766270 arrived at a Brooklyn sorting station. The intended recipient was Ted Barnes. Osborn reviewed the contents, took photos and wrote out notations quoting the start of each item. Most were letters handwritten by Kopp:

  • “I guess my situation…”

  • “Anyhoo, my boss…”

  • “add in xo above”

  • Miller and Boissonneault addresses

  • “Just got the pix”

  • “Yes, I need help”

  Osborn resealed the envelope. Later, after she had received the package, Marra wrote a new email in the Yahoo! draft folder for Kopp’s eyes.

  Subject: I got your sna
il

  Osborn wanted to widen the net further. He applied to put a tap on phone conversations. On March 21, Eastern New York District judge Reena Raggi signed an order allowing the FBI to listen to phone conversations between Loretta Claire Marra and James Charles Kopp on three phone numbers: 718-647-9440, 917-833-1317 and 917-826-8520.

  * * *

  Dinan, France

  March 21, 2001 9:45 a.m

  Jim logged on to the Yahoo! account. It was coming up on 4 a.m. in Brooklyn. He typed an email:

  Subject: now now now now now now

  Dear person, this keyboqrd [sic] is all frenchied up. [The keyboards in France have small but vexing variations from North American models. The “q” is where the “a” should be, for example.] The sooner I get about 1000, the sooner you see this smiling cherubic face… DV.

  He saved the message in the folder and wrote two more emails. He told Marra to send $20 to Jean Aubrigon c/o La Poste, Dinan, France.

  Meanwhile, that morning in New York City, Michael Osborn read the messages. “DV.” Deo volente. It was Kopp all right. And he had made a big mistake. He had just announced his location. Got him, Osborn thought.

  In Brooklyn, Loretta logged on to the account. She turned to Dennis. “He says the computer is ‘all frenchied up,’” she said. She wrote a new email at 1 p.m.

  Subject: on my way

  Will send the $20… my cellphone number is in the stuff you haven’t read. My hard line is listed in the phone book under the name you snail me at. The hard line is safest.

  The money was wired from a Brooklyn Western Union office to Jean Aubrigon in Dinan. Loretta wrote another email.

  Subject: 20 Sent

  Money has been sent. I have as much $ as you need.

  The next morning, Loretta was back on the computer checking for new messages from Jim.

  “Anything?” asked Dennis.

  “No,” she said.

  “Probably doesn’t have money to get online.”

  “I’m afraid he doesn’t have enough money to get himself back.”

  On Friday, at 4 p.m., Jim Kopp entered the cybercafé in Dinan. He typed two messages.

  Subject: thank You God Almighty qnd [sic] his little helpers

  He wrote that he needed more money. The escape route was still open. How would he communicate with Loretta upon arrival? He wrote another email.

  Subject: Jackie

  jackie route unless you wave off….. very happy you’re there… will need rest/medicine when i get there.

  Loretta and Dennis discussed options. Should they send someone to France to help Jim? Perhaps Sabine Goodwin, a friend who lived in the U.K., could do it. What about all the email messages in the folder—should they start deleting them? What about Jim calling them collect, was that safe? Loretta logged on to the computer and wrote a reply:

  Jackie is fine with me, I know of no problems….Can’t we please make the bmtm just you calling me from a pay phone when you’re in town on my lovely, friendly, safe and clean hard line and telling me where you are and I (or mech) come get you any hour day or night? we are convinced 100% that the mere fact of you being undiagnosed enough to stand around on the street and make phone calls is complete proof that you are not diagnosed at all. Can’t wait to see you. You can get as much rest as you need here, and we can likely get any prescription meds you need.

  She saved the message and logged off. Osborn read the exchange. “Bmtm” had been their code for Kopp’s escape route. “Jackie”—they were still planning to come back to the United. States via Montreal. “Undiagnosed”—they thought Kopp was moving about undetected. Not quite.

  * * *

  In Dinan it was 11:19 a.m. on Saturday, March 24, and 5:19 a.m. in Brooklyn. Jim had been unable to collect the money from the Dinan post office. He typed three messages.

  Subject: ouestern onion, c’est horrible

  Can’t get the $20 without the control number. Send the number on the email account right way and then send $50 after that and $600 after that, each time place a message with the control number for that transaction… I will study your bmtm plan and comply exactly. When I show up, I should be an ‘uncle’ from Paris.

  Loretta read the messages and talked to Dennis about finding a 24-hour Western Union (“ouestern onion”) office. Loretta phoned a friend. Did he know of one? She phoned Western Union. Meanwhile, Jim couldn’t help himself any longer. The email seemed to be working so well, he was undetected. Perhaps he simply yearned to hear her voice. He had to phone. Just before 3 p.m., he dialed. Loretta picked up. It was nearly 9 a.m. Brooklyn time. It was Jim.

  “Having some trouble with the French mail clerks,” he said. “You know the French, you have these virgin bitches protecting the Honor of France who think I’m committing fraud.”

  They chatted some more. Everyone back home sends their love, Loretta said.

  “Well let them love me with cash,” Jim quipped. They ended the call. Loretta turned to Dennis.

  “He sounds OK, but like he’s under really extreme pressure,” she said. “He’s just talking the way he does when he’s under pressure.”

  “What’s he want you to send him?” asked Dennis.

  “James?”

  “Yeah, how much money do you have to send him?”

  “Three hundred.”

  Dennis asked her if she wanted to do the Western Union transfer herself. Loretta went with a friend to Western Union and wired Jean Aubrigon $300. And then she wired $300 more. The friend was CS1—the informant, who was still on the job, still hoping to reap reward money if he could help capture Kopp. He managed to grab the receipt from the wire transfer, fold it up and tuck it into his sock, before getting back in the car with Loretta. Later, he found a phone book and called Michael Osborn: Kopp was still in Dinan.

  Back at the apartment, Loretta and Dennis continued planning. Should they contact their friends for help with Jim due back soon? What would be better for travel from Montreal to New York, bus or train? They needed to dispose of some of the files and letters. How secure had their emails been?

  “You shouldn’t stay online so long when you’re writing him messages,” said Dennis. “Who else is using the account? And who established it? We have to get rid of the papers. I’ll wrap them in newspapers and throw them in the recycling boxes in the subway.”

  And what about their eldest son Louis? Would he recognize Jim when he arrived?

  “We’ll call him Tony,” said Dennis. “And if he says he looks like Jim Kopp, I’ll just say, ‘yeah, he does look like him.’”

  On Sunday, Judge Nina Gershon approved an FBI application to continue monitoring two cell phones that Dennis and Loretta were using: numbers 917-833-1317 and 917-826-8520. That night Loretta left a new email message in the account. Osborn recorded the time of the message as 9:58 p.m.

  Subject: dauphin—not crucial to read right now

  You will be introduced as Mr. Tony Barret, a friend of ours.

  On Monday, Loretta wrote two more messages. She also received four phone calls. Osborn and his team listened. The caller did not identify himself, but by now they knew Kopp’s voice, could quickly recognize the tired cadence and diction, his accent at times verging on a southern drawl but never quite getting there. Kopp told Loretta he couldn’t get the $300 she had tried to send. There was still a problem with the test question used by Western Union agents to confirm the identity of the recipient, and also with the money transfer control number.

  Let’s try again, said Kopp. Send $70 to John O’Brien in Dinan. Loretta agreed to do so within the hour. She immediately went to Western Union and wired the money. This time, the money got through. Later that day Loretta and Dennis scanned online for news of the manhunt for James C. Kopp. They also examined a map and located Dinan.

  “I talked to him,” said Loretta. “He had problems with the wire. He’s using the name John O’Brien. I can’t believe all he’s going through.”

  Later, Loretta and Dennis talked about the futu
re. What if they were caught? What if the FBI showed up one day to knock down the door? What if they were filmed entering the Western Union office? Their fingerprints were all over the place there. They had used it too much. Couldn’t they have just mailed American cash overseas and let Jim exchange it for francs? What about tracing Jim’s calls to their apartment? They agreed to get rid of the pink Western Union receipts.

  “If you get picked up,” said Dennis, “I’ll get released and grab the boys.”

  “You might get released, but they would definitely detain me.”

  Tuesday morning Jim sat at a computer in Dinan and typed an email. Then four more within the span of a few minutes.

  At 7:23 p.m. in Brooklyn, Loretta wrote Jim.

  Subject: 1950 FF in CASH ON THE WAY

  Dennis went to Western Union to wire $50 to John O’Brien in Dinan. He waited, then phoned Loretta. “Check the control numbers to see if Jim has picked them up,” she said. Loretta phoned a contact named Sabine Goodwin. Would Sabine be able to get money to Jim in France? Next she phoned a contact at a monastery near Dinan. The contact said he could get a FedEx package to Jim. She went to the FedEx depot and sent a package containing 300 francs to the monastery. On Wednesday Loretta gave Dennis instructions on what to do if Jim called while she was out. Then she left the apartment, turned on her cell phone and called Sabine. When she returned, she logged on again to see if there was any message from Jim. There was nothing.