Sniper_ The True Story Of Anti-Abortion Killer James Kopp Part 8

Dennis Malvasi cited his Fifth Amendment rights and refused to answer the question. He said he lived alone.

"Has anyone used your 1990 Acura? Does anyone else drive that with your permission?"

"Not steadily, no."

"Have you ever loaned it to a friend who has a baby or has a child that requires a car seat?"

"Oh, yeah."

"And who would that be?"

"My niece."

"And her name is?"

"Joyce Maier."

On March 1, 1999, Loretta Marra signed a lease for a new apartment at 385 Chestnut Street in Brooklyn. She and Dennis were listed on the lease under the names Joyce and Ted Barnes. In April, Loretta went to Canada to give birth to her second child. She had many Canadian friends and, with her aliases, she could still easily cross the border. She gave birth that same month, near Ottawa. It was her second boy.

On March 19, 1999, Canadian law enforcement officials announced that a $547,000 reward would be offered to anyone helping lead police to "the arrest and conviction of the person or persons responsible for the shootings of the three Canadian doctors." Canadian police released a poster featuring pictures of James Charles Kopp-who was described only as a "person of interest" in the investigation. Among the groups contributing towards the reward money were the Canadian Abortion Rights Action League (CARAL), Canadian Medical a.s.sociation, and provincial medical a.s.sociations.

Amherst, N.Y. April 8, 1999 No weapon had ever been found at any of the crime scenes where the sniper attacked. Amherst police had ended the search for a weapon when winter set in. With the ground now thawing, Amherst chief of detectives Joseph Scioli ordered a more thorough search of the woods behind the Slepian's home.

A detective named Donald Wright was one of those on the search that day. Wright was a former Boy Scout leader. Perhaps only someone like Wright, who was an expert in orienteering, would have noticed. As they scoured the woods, officers kept their eyes glued to the ground, searching. Wright looked up. He noticed a small paint marking, at roughly eye level, on one sapling. And then another. And a third. Triangulation? Where did the three points intersect? Wright looked closer. On two of the saplings there was a plus sign painted, and on the third, a negative sign. Painted on a small tree near the saplings were the letters N and W and the number 0. Wright slowly walked in a line due north from between the two saplings. If you did so, you would intersect with a line from the tree that was painted N,W, 0. Where the lines intersected, he noticed two cut evergreen branches crossed over each other.

"Could I have some a.s.sistance over here?" Wright said. "I think I might have something." The former Boy Scout was correct. Police started digging and, 30 centimeters down, found a tube wrapped in rubberized material. It was buried at an angle, with one end open at ground level. It was like a subterranean holster. Inside the tube was a Russian-made semiautomatic SKS rifle, with wooden stock extension. The tube also contained two pairs of gloves, one white and one brown. The location was about 160 feet away from the tree where the sniper had braced himself. He had created a guide map so he could easily find his rifle in the dark, take his shot at Dr. Slepian, slip the gun back in its holster and escape. The cops would never figure it out, and the SKS would remain buried forever, or someone could return some day and retrieve it. The serial number was GYUT10251.

Two days later, the FBI made a return visit to the A-Z p.a.w.n Shop in Old Hickory, Tennessee. This time, Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms agent Mark Hoback wasn't looking for a name, but rather a serial number. The store records showed the gun buried on Bart Slepian's property had indeed been sold by A-Z. The man who purchased it on July 16, 1997 was a B. James Milton, of Virginia. The FBI checked Virginia records. B. James Milton did not exist.

Chapter 14 ~ Wanted.

FBI agents continued searching and gathering anything related to Kopp. On April 15, FBI agents searched the Raymond P. Bet.i.t 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 Gra.s.s Lane, Greenwood, Del. In an abandoned building on the property they found a pa.s.sport 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 a.n.a.lysis 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 f.a.n.n.y 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 gla.s.s 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.

[image]The Brooklyn apartment building where Loretta Marra was in hiding.

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: "G.o.d 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? h.e.l.l, 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 Const.i.tution. 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 a.s.sa.s.sins with uberfeminists Hillary Clinton and Janet Reno pushing the b.u.t.tons. 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) (off camera): What do you think is going through his mind when he looks through that telescope at the doctor? What do you think is going through his mind when he looks through that telescope at the doctor? FBI behavioral expert: FBI behavioral expert: Target acquisition. Pull trigger, take in breath, pull trigger, kill. Target acquisition. Pull trigger, take in breath, pull trigger, kill.

Reporter: So he's not thinking anti-abortion thoughts? So he's not thinking anti-abortion thoughts? FBI expert: 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. 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. 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 a.s.sa.s.sin 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. 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. The children had some very strong disciplinary action against them.

Reporter: Like what? Like what?

Lynn Kopp: Beatings. And one of his daughters told me that Chuck had-had been very cruel to his wife. 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? 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.) 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 pa.s.sing through an hourgla.s.s. "It feels," says a cabbie, "like half the f.o.o.kin' 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 Therese d'Lisieux on the wall-one of Jim Kopp's favorite saints, as it happened. Francis believed he had [image]Francis welcomed Jim Kopp-"Timothy"-into his hostel.

been sent to the hostel by G.o.d. 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, gla.s.ses, 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 ma.s.s 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."

Chapter 15 ~ Tim Guttler.

Hamilton, Ontario Monday, January 24, 2000 The Canadian arm of the international joint sniper task force held a press conference-with spokesman Keith McCaskill from Winnipeg, Hamilton police chief Ken Robertson, and Dennis McGillis from the Ontario Provincial Police. There was an announcement. The OPP had officially issued an arrest warrant for James Charles Kopp in the attempted murder of Ancaster's Dr. Hugh Short in 1995. No charges were announced in the attacks on Dr. Jack Fainman in 1997 or Dr. Garson Romalis in 1994. McCaskill added that the investigation would continue across the country, but refused to point the finger at Kopp in connection to the Winnipeg and Vancouver attacks. "We certainly know that Mr. Kopp may be a key to the investigations in Winnipeg and Vancouver," McCaskill said, describing Kopp as "a person the police want to interview."

[image]Hamilton Police Chief Ken Robertson addresses media.

What was going on? It had been seven months since the Erie County grand jury had indicted Kopp for Dr. Slepian's murder. Why had the OPP waited to file its charge? There was no new evidence, no break in the case. Investigators in Vancouver, Hamilton and Winnipeg had done all they could.

They had even pursued a possible link between Kopp and a fundamentalist Catholic sect called St. Pius X, which catered to Kopp's known preference for attending ma.s.s in the traditional Latin. There were St. Pius X churches in Vancouver, Winnipeg and St. Catharines-a city 40 minutes east of Ancaster. A story making the rounds in the Winnipeg congregation had Kopp attending Our Lady of the Rosary. It was even suggested that he had helped organize the ma.s.s, but no one could confirm it.

Hamilton police had scoured the woods behind Dr. Hugh Short's home several times looking for the weapon. They returned and searched again after the rifle was discovered behind Slepian's house, three years after the Ancaster shooting-but found nothing. Hamilton police had found the hair fibers in the ski hat at the scene, and developed DNA from it, but could not confirm whose DNA it was. The decision to finally issue an arrest warrant for Kopp seemed more of an attempt to rekindle media interest and encourage tips. Chief Robertson would only say to gathered media that Hamilton police had reviewed the evidence with the OPP, discussed the case with Hamilton's crown attorney, and decided to issue the arrest warrant.

The effectiveness of the task force had been called into question. In Winnipeg, McCaskill had publicly defended their work. He suggested FBI had caught a big break when Joan Dorn had called the police with Kopp's license-plate number in Amherst-it "was not exceptional police work," he was quoted saying in the Winnipeg Free Press. But the reality, despite the big announcement, pointed out columnist Susan Clairmont in the Hamilton Spectator, was that little was happening in the Canadian sniper hunt. At the same time the arrest warrant was issued, two of the three OPP officers who had been working with the task force were given new a.s.signments. "We're not going to have these guys traveling the country searching for him," said one OPP official.

The Slepian murder had altered the nature of the Canadian investigation, the FBI had the resources-not to mention direction from the White House-to lead the effort to catch him. The Canadian police were primarily on the sidelines, the evidence they had gathered a reference for the American investigation. But for all that the FBI had learned about Kopp, for all the searches and forensic evidence and surveillance, 15 months after Bart Slepian was killed, they still had no clue where he was.

Dublin, Ireland Spring 2000 The slender man with thick gla.s.ses and bleached hair moved among the crowd on Grafton Street. He loved Grafton, the redbrick street reserved for pedestrians. Shoppers, tourists, professionals, lawyers dressed in black robes taking a break from the nearby courthouse, schoolgirls at lunch, teenage boys on guitar singing John Lennon's "Come Together" to earn loose change.

Jim Kopp loved to blend in and walk the street, up and down, taking in every detail, thoughts swirling in his head. He worked on the local accent, but was still far from being good enough to fool a native Dubliner. He loved languages, the dialects running within each. He considered his spoken French, for example, to have a Caribbean lilt to it. No, he reflected, he would not speak Irish until he got it down perfect. Do not abuse the language, he mused, it would offend the people. Ireland was the right place for him to be, this country where G.o.d's law still transcended man's law-they hadn't legalized baby killing here.

He ducked into Bewleys, his favorite coffee shop off Grafton, climbed the wooden stairs to the second level and the James Joyce room, named for the city's favorite son. Jim Kopp had been on the run from the FBI for 17 months. Yet he frequented a place like Bewleys, which was a popular meeting place in the city. It was hardly the kind of dark corner where a fugitive would be expected to lurk. Despite his professed rejection of material things, Jim gravitated towards the trendy. Bewleys had energy, felt so alive. Had he not come this far? Was G.o.d not with him? The FBI tentacles were everywhere, he knew, but they had not found him. As he climbed the stairs, Jim could see the quotations stenciled onto the peach-colored walls, written in Gaelic, the language the Irish tried to preserve.

Is friotal aindethe, Is bri na nadana. (I am the true word of the hidden G.o.ds, I am a word of poetry.) Mise an ghaois/ Mise an deal bhadoir/ Mise gaoth ar muir. (I am the wisdom of the mind/ I am the conjuring sage/ I am the wind over the sea.) Nurse a coffee, chat with a few of the regulars who knew him as Timothy, people like Peter, who was sacristan at a nearby church. And there was Terry, who had cerebral palsy and was in a wheelchair. Everyone on the street knew Terry.

[image]St. Stephen's Green, Dublin Timothy rose, left his friends, walked to the end of Grafton. There is a war monument there-like a miniature Arc de Triomphe, it occurred to him-listing the death casualties for the South African War at the turn of the 20th century. He could read the scroll: Third Battalion: L. Murphy. Murphy. His grandmother's maiden name. He walked under the arch into St. Stephen's Green. A pond, fountains, lush green gra.s.s, palm trees-not an uncommon sight in Ireland-rows of tall elms. He thought of the place as a Garden of Eden. Do not linger long. Yellow reflective jackets. The Gardai-Irish police, on foot patrol.

Jim Kopp loved the city but hated his life, the anguish of running, the fear. Exhilaration one moment, despondency the next. Such extremes. Having left the Morningstar hostel, he now lived at the Ivelagh Hostel on Bride Road, in the Christ Church area of Dublin. It was an old part of town crowded with apartments, row houses, markets. He lived on the top floor of the hostel, room 191, in a cramped dorm-style room with an armoire, some shelves, a bed, and barely enough room to turn around. From his window he could see the courtyard of a vocational school, and beyond that the spires of St. Patrick's Cathedral. On the main floor there was a kitchenette where tenants made toast and snacks, a common room, dining area, everything painted pistachio green. Compared to Morningstar, this was high living. He lived under the name Tim Guttler, came and went as he pleased, said h.e.l.lo to the manager, staffers. He worked odd jobs, earned about 74 Irish pounds weekly. Kevin Byrne managed the place, a burly man with gray hair and ruddy face who guarded the privacy of his tenants like a bulldog.

Jim Kopp was by now an expert at obtaining false ident.i.ties. The names of the dead were perfect. He'd visit a cemetery, find the name of someone who would have been close to his own age. On July 4, 2000, he obtained a temporary driver's license in the name of Sean O'Briain, date of birth January 2, 1960. He put together a new resume and submitted it to an employment agency.

Jim Kopp made a good Catholic effort to mortify temptation, but drinking did not rank as high on his list of sins to resist as others, especially in Dublin. His weakness was Bulmers cider. Pubs are Dublin's heart, places independent of time where the Irish take their worries out for the night and dance all over them. At pubs like O'Shea's, walls shake from people clapping and stomping to [image]Jim Kopp attended the church through the gate pictured at right, on a narrow Dublin street.

the sounds of Celtic Storm, the smoky room filled with faces that glow from the drink, heat, and uninhibited perfection of the evening. Young men and women, elderly, couples, singles, all joining as though part of a single body, feeding off the energy of one another. The mood peaks, incongruously, when the band launches into American standards like Kenny Rogers's "The Gambler," and John Denver's "Country Roads," hitting the chorus hard: "Take me home, country roads, to the place, I BE-LONG!"

True to form, Jim also spent time in the trendy, cobblestoned Temple Bar area, where tourists and students flock. There was a sports bar boasting 100 TV screens he visited to watch American football, see if his hometown San Francisco 49ers were playing.

(Did he mention that he had a connection-apologies if he sounds like a name-dropper, he hates doing that- with Joe Montana, the Niners legend? Not a direct connection, mind you, but he knew someone who knew Montana quite well. And he had once met Mark Bavaro, too, the former New York Giants tight end-a big pro-lifer.) He hung with his Irish friends, had a few drinks, perhaps more than a few drinks, walked the streets with them late at night, feeling like a regular guy at times. But could he feel anything for long? The friends who knew him as Timothy had no idea who he really was. Did Jim even know the answer to that question? He had been on the run for 20 months.