FBI agents continued searching and gathering anything related to Kopp. On April 15, FBI agents searched the Raymond P. Betit Agency, at 439 Main St., Room Seven, Bennington, Vt. and seized Kopp’s insurance file. April 19, agents searched 4112 Pleasure Ave., Sea Isle City, N.J. and seized an arc welder. That same day they searched the grounds at 148 Deep Grass Lane, Greenwood, Del. In an abandoned building on the property they found a passport in the name of Nancy Kopp, some papers, rope and a ceramic cup. On May 5 and 6 they searched Seth Grodofsky’s apartment in Jersey City again, seized a pad of tracing paper, a piece of wire with pink plastic insulation, and a piece of armored three-wire electrical conduit. On May 11, agents searched CVS Pharmacy, 1099 Route. 33, Hamilton, New Jersey, and collected one videotape labeled “Thursday.”
Forensics agents sifted through reams of DNA and fiber evidence. Hair found in a green hat at the scene behind the Slepians’ home did not contain roots, and thus no DNA. Instead a mitochondrial DNA analysis was performed. The profile was compared to DNA evidence obtained from a toothbrush found in James Gannon’s attic. The two samples matched, and excluded 99.35 percent of the general Caucasian population. The guy who had been in the woods behind Dr. Slepian’s house had also stayed at Gannon’s. Was it James Kopp? They needed to capture Kopp and retrieve his DNA to prove that.
Meanwhile, Karen Lanning, an FBI lab scientist, studied the blue-green acrylic fibers discovered on the wooden stock extension attached to the rifle. There were similar fibers on the pair of white gloves and a belted fanny pack—much like the fibers found on the tree where the sniper had positioned himself, which in turn resembled those found on clothing and bedding in Seth Grodofsky’s Jersey City apartment, and those vacuumed from James Kopp’s Chevy Cavalier in Newark.
Ballistics focused on the SKS rifle. FBI firearms expert James Cadigan determined that the full metal jacket 7.42 x 39-millimeter bullet recovered inside the house was of a caliber consistent with the rifle found in the woods. But there was a snag. When Cadigan test fired the SKS at an FBI range to confirm it was operable, he could not conclusively link the Slepian bullet to the rifle. The rifling marks on the bullet he fired did not match those on the evidence. Had the bullet that killed Dr. Slepian been fired from another rifle? Not necessarily, Cadigan argued. It was not uncommon for the internal characteristics of the barrel of a high-powered rifle to change with each shot, which meant rifling marks would change as well.
A second issue was the rifle’s accuracy. If the case ever went to trial, they would have to reconstruct the shooting scene and the sniper’s position in meticulous detail. That included test firing the weapon. But the rifle’s scope had been removed to test the eyepiece glass for DNA. When the scope was remounted, the alignment was off. An FBI marksman later had to align it properly. Those were issues that FBI investigators knew could come back to bite them in court, if they ever made an arrest in the case.
The evidence collected so far was sufficient. An arrest warrant was issued for James Charles Kopp in the murder of Dr. Barnett Slepian. The federal warrant, signed by Judge Hugh B. Scott, referred to Kopp using “force, intentionally injuring, intimidating and interfering with Dr. Barnett Slepian because he was and had been providing reproductive health services.”
Bernie Tolbert watched his son take to the baseball diamond with the other kids. Springtime in Amherst. His youngest boy played in the Lou Gehrig Little League. Tolbert walked over to the bleachers. There was Lynne Slepian. She had a son playing ball, too. She was playing the role of both mother and father now. It had been seven months since the murder, seven months since Bart’s boys had been there, kneeling on the floor, watching their father bleed to death. She stayed in touch with Bernie, quizzing him for updates on the investigation. What are you doing? What is going on? Bernie told her the FBI put Kopp on its Ten Most Wanted Fugitives List. “But will that help, Bernie, have a tangible effect?”
“It’s an important, maybe critical, step, Lynne,” he said in
his deep, deliberate baritone. “The success rate is something like 94 percent captured,” he said. It was hard for Bernie to look into Lynne’s face when she watched her fatherless sons. It was a reminder that they had to get Kopp. Had to.
On June 2, agents searched a garage at 252 Whiton Street, Jersey City, and seized two wood and carpeted structures bearing the name “Clyde.” On June 16, California agents searched a residence at 351 View Drive, Ukiah, California.
On June 23, FBI agents once again interviewed Loretta’s brother, Nicholas. “I still haven’t heard from her,” he said. The agents played him a tape recording. It was from a call on November 20, 1998. Nick listened. It was the conversation between an unsuspecting Loretta—returning a page for John Rizzo—and a law enforcement officer. “I don’t recognize either voice,” he said.
Later, an agent made notes. Nicholas Marra was lying, he believed. Telephone records for Marra showed that he had called the Rizzo pager himself, as well as a cell phone Loretta had been using under the name of John Graskukas.
It was on June 24 that a grand jury in Erie County indicted James Charles Kopp on charges of murder in the second degree, reckless endangerment in the first degree, and criminal possession of a weapon in the third degree. But Jim Kopp was a long way from Erie County.
Brooklyn, N.Y.
Wednesday, October 6, 1999
The woman who called herself Joyce Maier walked into the brown brick building at 385 Chestnut Street, in the eastern corner of Brooklyn. Loretta Marra had lived with Dennis Malvasi in apartment 2D since March. There were some nice streets not too far away, quaint walk-up apartments, bustling shops and markets. But the immediate area around the building on Chestnut was not pleasant. Cabbies wouldn’t come here at night. Loretta’s apartment overlooked Liberty Street and F&H Auto Repair, which was protected by a chain-link fence crowned with razor wire. Across the street sat an empty lot overgrown with weeds and strewn with litter, a “Danger: Poison” sign marking the spot.
Loretta sometimes spoke with a neighbor named Carmen, and her friend Yolanda. Carmen was a tiny 78-year old from Puerto Rico, walked with a limp and had a black Chiuahaua named Chi Chi. She was a pastor, had her very own pulpit in her apartment where she addressed friends or those she helped off the street, preached the Rapture to them, told them the Good News: “God is coming, and the earth will be aflame! And you know who will burn? The wicked will burn. The wicked will burn!”
It is difficult making yourself disappear. It takes planning, energy, an inner radar detector—paranoia is your friend, unless it goes too far and you are sucked into your own vortex of obsession. Loretta was living such a life. Here she was, a devout Catholic pro-lifer, holed up in Brooklyn, underground, as her mother had been with the French resistance.
Loretta opened the letter dated October 12, from one of her friends in Canada. A very nice one. It was addressed to “Jane,” the name she had used when crossing the border to give birth to her son in Canada. “I pray for you,” it said. “I pray that everything will change, and once more, freedom.”
Outside it is dark, raining. A dirty American flag lies tangled and ripped on the fire escape of her neighbor’s apartment. She can see, through her window, across Liberty Street, the car lot and razor wire bathed in security lights. Above her head in the apartment, water drips from a hole in the pockmarked ceiling. Pip. Pip. Pip. She moves past the lightbulb that dangls on a cord, and walks to the door, opens it just a crack. No such thing as a smoke-free apartment in this part of Brooklyn. But she has to think of her kids. Loretta lights a cigarette and inhales. Pip. Pip. Pip. She leans her shoulder and head against the wall, peering through the opening. She exhales, the smoke escaping into the corridor. She stares at nothing.
New York City
October 4, 1999
Monday morning. The special agent drove to work in downtown Manhattan. What car was it today? The Intrepid? The Taurus? FBI agents changed cars every day. In the interests of security? Nah. That’s Hollywood stuff. Your car for the day was simply whatever was available in the company pool. Security? Hell, he couldn’t even park in the underground garage at the office. Had to find a spot on the street like everyone else. He worked at 265 Federal Plaza, the Jacob K. Javits Building. In a part of Manhattan where so much of the architecture was striking, larger than life, the 41-storey dark blue- and graycheckered concrete building, reflected the agent, looked so—federal government.
The G-man parked and emerged from his car, walked along the sidewalk to the side door for employees, the security guard nodded at him in recognition. Six foot four, angular and athletic, long casual stride. The herringbone, tan suit shimmered in the sun, dark shoes polished, tie with red-and-blue teardrop design. His hair combed back, perhaps a dash of mousse, the flecks of gray unnoticeable from a distance. Name: Michael A. Osborn. He was overseeing the biggest investigation of his career.
He lived in New York but there was no hint of a local accent, no drawl of any kind, no regional inflection. Where was he from, originally? “Can’t tell you that.” Which region of the country? Sorry. He spoke G-man, carried the act to amusing extremes. The bureau cultivated it. In a country of sharply divergent regional cultures and state laws, the FBI is national, loyal to nothing except the Constitution. Just the facts, ma’am. Osborn had been with the bureau for five years. This new case, while high-profile, wasn’t a promotion, that’s not how things worked. His field office was the logical one given the proximity of the suspects. And he, Osborn, was deemed to have the skills for the job.
It was a case rife with politics, religion, ends and means, “justifiable homicide,” the kind of case where those being pursued, and their allies, saw the FBI as jackbooted assassins with uberfeminists Hillary Clinton and Janet Reno pushing the buttons. Abortion. Murder. Pro-life. Pro-choice. Osborn could not let himself dwell upon the politics, it was peripheral to the task. He had his orders.
Mike Osborn was pursuing a couple of people who were friends of James Charles Kopp, the wanted killer of an abortion doctor. That was his focus. He allowed himself to think about the night Dr. Slepian was killed, his kids beside him in the kitchen, the blood. That’s the crime. You couldn’t imagine Michael Osborn lying awake at night debating whether the shooter of an obstetrician was more worthy of FBI pursuit than the killer of a plastic surgeon. Enforce the law. It’s all in the FBI oath.
His team was watching and recording somewhere close to the building at 385 Chestnut Street in Brooklyn on Tuesday, October 5. Agents working surveillance included Osborn, Robert Conrad, Joan Machiono. They saw a man who looked like Dennis Malvasi walk into the building. Two weeks later they watched a blue Mazda park in front of the building. They ran the plate: car registered to a Joyce Maier, driver’s license obtained in that name, January 1999. The address given by the woman is not 385 Chestnut, but an American Mail Depot box. Agents obtained paperwork for the license and vehicle. They lifted fingerprints from the forms she’d filled out. The prints matched those of Loretta Marra.
Brooklyn, N.Y.
Friday, November 5, 1999
TV Reporter (off camera): What do you think is going through his mind when he looks through that telescope at the doctor? FBI behavioral expert: Target acquisition. Pull trigger, take in breath, pull trigger, kill.
Reporter: So he’s not thinking anti-abortion thoughts? FBI expert: No. He is focused solely on his mission, his covert military mission, as I’m sure he describes it to himself, and that is to acquire target and kill.
Host: I’m Mike Wallace. These stories tonight on 60 Minutes II.
The videotape of the program continued. Loretta Marra and Dennis Malvasi watched, along with a man Dennis had known years before, and with whom he had recently become reacquainted. The 60 Minutes episode had first aired two months earlier. The segment was called “The Fugitive.” It was about a man wanted by the FBI named James Kopp, “believed to be a lone sniper assassin who picks off abortion doctors one by one.”
(Images of flowers and mourners from Bart Slepian’s funeral. FBI wanted poster for Kopp.)
Reporter: The FBI discovered that Jim Kopp was one of the busiest anti-abortion activists in the country, a legend within the movement.
(Cut to Jim’s stepmother, Lynn Kopp)
Lynn Kopp: The children had some very strong disciplinary action against them.
Reporter: Like what?
Lynn Kopp: Beatings. And one of his daughters told me that Chuck had—had been very cruel to his wife.
Reporter: How do you think this impacted the kids, Jim in particular?
Lynn Kopp: They would be very protective of their mother, and there would be a lot of resentment towards their father. (Cut to Dr. Garson Romalis in Vancouver recalling the morning of his near-mortal wounding in 1994.)
At that moment Loretta Marra spoke up.
“He could have killed him if he wanted to,” she said. Malvasi’s old friend listened carefully, memorizing her words.
The agents would want him to remember them precisely. “So what did Marra say, exactly?”
The man considered the question. He tried to remember. “He could have killed him if he wanted to.”
Did Loretta Marra mean James Kopp? That Kopp could have killed Romalis if he had wished to? Or was she using a generic “he,” as in “the sniper?” First he was sure she had meant Kopp. Then he wasn’t.
Malvasi’s “old friend,” was now a paid informant of the FBI. Code name CS1. The FBI had recruited him some months earlier. There was a second informant, CS2, working other people in the pro-life movement. As for CS1, his first task was helping to locate Marra and Malvasi. Now he was in regular contact with Dennis and Loretta and was being paid for solid information. He would engage the couple in conversation, work it around to Kopp. So far, Kopp’s location had not been revealed. If Loretta knew where he was, she was still cautious talking about it.
Hopefully Loretta would loosen up, tell the informant where Kopp was, or better yet, try to contact him. But at this point it was not wise for the FBI to simply haul her in for questioning. If the FBI knew one thing about Loretta Marra, it was that she would not be intimidated and would never give up a fellow pro-life soldier. She felt that suffering was what being a true Catholic was all about, suffering for the truth, for a higher good. She would happily put out her hands for cuffing, her lips sealed to protect Jim from the government. He was innocent, after all.
Dublin, Ireland
Winter 1999
Dublin is a city that seems ready to burst at the seams, cars crowded on narrow streets, sidewalks and footbridges crossing the River Liffey with crowds pinched like sand passing through an hourglass. “It feels,” says a cabbie, “like half the fookin’ country lives in the capital.” It is a good place to blend in, to vanish, to be no one. Jim Kopp was in Dublin, in a tough part of town, among others who had no money and were also perhaps running from their past.
At a hostel he found a savior when he looked into the kind, pale, wrinkled face of an elderly Irishman named Francis. “Yes, yes, come in, come in,” Francis would tell all visitors, his eyes as warm as a fireplace, his hands thick and soft. He was a retired furniture maker—retired, but still a joyful Catholic working towards a greater goal: delivering his soul to the Lord. He managed the Morningstar men’s hostel, named after the star of Jesus, run by the Legion of Mary. The hostel didn’t force religion on its guests but was Christian in approach, held services in the chapel. There was a picture and quotes from Saint Thérese d’Lisieux on the wall—one of Jim Kopp’s favorite saints, as it happened. Francis believed he had
been sent to the hostel by God. He was 77 years old, his Irish lilt gentle when he spoke, barely above a whisper. But he was still spry enough to bound up the stairs two at a time. In the 400-year-old building, row upon row of cots lined the communal sleeping areas, the walls a faded yellow, not the grandest setting, but definitely an improvement from the street. At Morningstar, for two pounds a day, you could live your life in a respectable manner.
One day, a tall, thin man, glasses, half beard, showed up needing help. As always, Francis was there.
“What’s your name, son?” he asked in his hushed voice.
“Timothy,” came the reply.
Francis took the tired hand in his, and Timmy’s life was saved. A nice man, Francis thought. Prayerful. But Timmy’s life wasn’t perfect, he made mistakes, as all who came to the hostel had done. Francis listened to Timothy’s story. A real shame about his family, back in the United States, who apparently no longer accepted him, who had cast him out for being different. Francis felt for him. Timmy had his beliefs, others held them in disdain, so he escaped from the torment, hid from it. The others might come looking for him. It was important that he remain hidden at least for a while. Timmy said his family lived in New Orleans. He had lots of stories. One day, Timmy didn’t show up for mass as he always did. He was gone, just like that, unannounced. Strange for him to leave so suddenly.
“Good luck to you, my son,” Francis thought. “May the Lord look over you. And may your parents one day find you. Whatever happened, they must be so worried.”