Stolen from the Garden: The Kidnapping of Virginia Piper

It is growing dark again in the woods. Otherwise Ginny would have no idea how much time is passing, that morning has become afternoon and afternoon, evening. The daytime sky remains gray, overcast, sometimes wet—unhelpful. She would love to see the sun and feel the warmth on her face. It seems a lifetime ago that she was tending to her flowers in the garden.

She occasionally asks the man the time, but she isn’t sure why it matters. She is not going anywhere, it seems apparent, anytime soon. Every once in a while, the man hooks up the chain to her handcuffs and wanders off into the brush behind her, where she can’t see him, to relieve himself, she figures, or to stretch his aching legs. Sometimes she sees things—a pretty dollhouse or an exotic bird—that she knows isn’t really there.

He will light a cigarette for her and give her another slice of soggy bread and cheese that she takes with swallows of tepid 7-Up. She is not aware of him either eating or drinking or smoking a cigarette, though she suspects he eats and drinks something when he is off by himself. She is certain he’s the man who rode in the passenger seat when they were driving to wherever they were going—the man with the map—and it seemed to her that it was the driver who did all the smoking, so maybe this man—“Alabama”—doesn’t smoke at all.

During one of their conversations, the man says he has been studying psychology. He says that he would like to go to college and really study the subject, and as they talk she realizes that he is speaking of criminal psychology. He mentions a book he read on psychology and crime. He tells her the book’s author and title, but neither means anything to her, and she almost immediately forgets them.

He says nothing that she construes as threatening or suggestive. She would never think of calling such a person a gentleman, but there is no denying that he has been decent. At one point he tells her that he was told to chain her to a tree and leave her “until we come and get you on Saturday,” but he decided to stay with her the whole time, “you being a woman.” He also says, at another time, that he “can’t do anything” that might hurt her, or “the penalty will be worse.” He says it as though he expects to be caught.

He tells her that her husband will be called at nine o’clock tonight, and, when he has the instructions, he will deliver the money. “I hope he’s not followed by the FBI, because then you and I will be up here another day,” he says.

“Oh, I’m sure he will follow directions and not do anything that would jeopardize me,” Ginny replies.

Then, or sometime later, he tells her, “You know, you’re a very good sport”—as though she is the victim of a fraternity-house prank. In any other circumstance, she would have laughed out loud.

As the light fades today, she tells the man that she doesn’t understand why he has to chain her up whenever he steps away. “I’m too cold and tired now to even stand up,” she says. “Where am I going to go?” But the man says he feels “safer” doing it this way. And today he has kept the chain attached most of the afternoon and into the evening—in fact, he double-checks the chain and handcuffs and even tightens them a little, which leads her to wonder if he is preparing to leave her for good.

She asks why he is fussing with the handcuffs and chain. “I’m not going to run away,” she says. But she doesn’t get a satisfactory reply.

Bobby drives his white, four-door Oldsmobile sedan down the next-door neighbor’s driveway and turns right onto Spring Hill Road. The car has been outfitted with a radio beeper that is covered by a blanket in the backseat and a minuscule video camera somehow fastened behind the grille up front. In addition to his driving instructions, he has brought along a flashlight and a Hennepin County road map. The Oldsmobile’s trunk contains a spare tire, tire-repair tools, and a canvas bag stuffed with a million dollars.

He drives away from the squad cars and the crowd of reporters and presumably other curious people who have gathered at the bottom of his driveway, apparently unnoticed. He checks his mirror to see if anyone is following. Spring Hill Road, even relatively early on a Friday night, is not heavily trafficked. For a few moments he is sure he’s alone.

Spring Hill Road runs almost immediately into Sixth Avenue North, which, less than a quarter mile farther, intersects North Ferndale Road, where he turns right and heads due south in the direction of Lake Minnetonka. Ferndale Road, half a mile later, before it reaches the lake, connects with Wayzata Boulevard, also known as US Highway 12, which will take Bobby eastward toward Minneapolis.

About ten minutes later, he turns left off Highway 12 onto Louisiana Avenue and, following the instructions, proceeds north along about two blocks of industrial/commercial wasteland to its terminus at Laurel. He stops the car at the only signpost he sees and gets out. He sees no other cars in the immediate vicinity. In the weeds and uncut grass at the base of the post, he finds a package containing a small device wrapped in a white envelope. Typed on the envelope are the words

The first stop on Bobby’s ransom-delivery run. A set of typed instructions found at the base of this street sign directed him to the next point. FBI photo, courtesy Harry Piper III

LOUISIANA AND LAURAL [sic]

NOTICE! DO NOT SPEAK. REMAIN ABSOLUTELY SILENT AND READ. DO NOT READ ALOUD.

Bobby opens the envelope and pulls out a single sheet of paper. It is the same kind of paper—inexpensive loose-leaf notebook stock—the kidnappers used for the ransom note. The typewritten text looks the same, too.

THE DEVICE YOU HAVE FOUND WITH THIS MESSAGE IS A RADIO TRANSMITTER THAT IS IN CONTINUOUS OPERATION. FROM THIS TIME UNTIL DELIVERY IS COMPLETED YOU WILL BE MONITORED CONSTANTLY FOR SOUND. DO NOT SPEAK. YOU WILL EXTEND THE ANTENNA AND PLACE THE TRANSMITTER ON THE DASH OF YOUR CAR WITH THE MICROPHONE UP. DRIVE IMMEDIATELY TO THE SHOPPING CENTRE [sic] AT HIGHWAY TWELVE AND TURNER CROSS ROADS [sic]. THIS IS ACROSS THE HIGHWAY FROM THE AMBASSADOR MOTEL. ENTER THE SMALL PARKING LOT BEHIND BRIDGEMANS [sic]. PARK WELL IN THE BACK WHERE YOU ARE NOT VISIBLE FROM THE HIGHWAY. PARK AND TURN OFF YOUR LIGHTS. LEAVE YOUR CAR IMMEDIATELY TAKING THE KEYS AND TRANSMITTER WITH YOU. REMOVE NO OTHER OBJECTS OR ITEMS FROM YOUR CAR. LOCATE A CAR IN THIS LOT THAT IS MARKED BY TWO STRIPS OF TAPE ON THE REAR WINDOW. THE TRUNK AND IGNITION KEYS FOR THIS CAR WILL BE FOUND IN THEIR RESPECTIVE LOCKS. TRANSFER THE MONEY TO THE TRUNK OF THIS CAR IMMEDIATELY. LEAVE YOUR CAR AT THIS LOCATION AND DRIVE TO THE PARKING LOT OF THE AMBASSADOR WHERE YOU WILL STOP AND READ THE FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS YOU WILL FIND IN THE GLOVE BOX. YOU WILL FIND A FLASH LIGHT IN THE GLOVE BOX FOR READING. YOU WILL POSITION THE RADIO TRANSMITTER ON THE DASH OF THIS CAR AS YOU DID IN YOUR OWN.

EVERY MOVEMENT YOU MAKE AT THIS STAGE IS BEING CONSTANTLY OBSERVED.

Bobby gets back in the Oldsmobile, turns around, and heads back down Louisiana to Highway 12, then drives east to nearby Turners Crossroad, where there is a small, anonymous strip mall, all but deserted in the after-hours gloom. As he was instructed, he pulls into the complex and parks behind the Bridgeman’s ice-cream shop. He scans the handful of cars spread around the lot and spots a two-tone green Chevrolet with two strips of tape running up and down in the rear window.

He walks over to the green car, a two-door Monte Carlo, and checks to see that there are keys in the trunk and ignition. There are, so he returns to his own car, opens the trunk, and removes the large canvas bag. With no small effort, he lugs the 110-plus-pound parcel to the Monte Carlo, secures it in its trunk, and climbs behind the wheel.

Still following the instructions, he drives the Monte Carlo across the highway to the Ambassador Motel and parks in its brightly lit lot. There, he opens the glove compartment and fishes out another note.

GO EAST ON TWELVE ABOUT ONE AND ONE HALF MILES TO GLENWOOD PARKWAY. THE EXIT OCCURS ON THE RIGHT HAND SIDE JUST AFTER YOU GO UNDER A BRIDGE. DO NOT MISS THIS EXIT. EXIT ONTO GLENWOOD PARKWAY AND FOLLOW IT NORTH TO THE GOLDEN VALLEY ROAD. THE DISTANCE FROM TWELVE IS ABOUT THREE AND THREE TENTHS MILES. TURN RIGHT ONTO THE GOLDEN VALLEY ROAD AND FOLLOW IT TO THE END. THEN MAKE A CLOSE LEFT AND RIGHT ONTO BROADWAY. GO RIGHT ON BROADWAY ABOUT SEVEN TENTHS OF A MILE TO FOURTH STREET. TURN RIGHT ONTO FOURTH STREET AND PREPARE TO STOP. STOP OPPOSITE THE SECOND POWER POLE FROM THE CORNER JUST BEYOND THE STREAMLINE BAR. FIND FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS AT THE BASE OF THIS POLE.

TRAVEL TIME HAS BEEN CAREFULLY CHECKED AND YOU MUST MOVE PRUDENTLY BUT QUICKLY.

With the new set of instructions beside him and the kidnappers’ “transmitter” positioned atop the dashboard, Bobby pulls away from the Ambassador in the unfamiliar car.

Whatever good the FBI’s beeper and camera might have done him is irrelevant now, though he has no doubt that someone is observing his “every movement.”

It is pitch dark and raining hard. After checking the chain and cuffs yet again, the man walked away—it seems hours ago now—and hasn’t come back. He has never been gone so long before, so Ginny figures he’s abandoned her.

Sometime, she is guessing it’s close to midnight, she hears a car horn honk twice. She also notices, through the trees, lights that she assumes must belong to a car on the road. She is not sure exactly where the road is relative to where the men pulled her out of the car (whenever that was) or from which direction they approached her location. In her fatigue and confusion, she figures that the other man has come to pick up the first man, though, as far as she can tell, the first man has not returned from where he went hours ago. The thought occurs to her—she is too tired to get panicky—that they may be going to take her out of the woods and dump her somewhere else.

Moments pass, and then a figure appears out of the darkness. She can see just enough to note that he is wearing a nylon stocking on his head, though she is quite sure it isn’t the man who has been guarding her.

Ginny says that she has no idea. He left, she tells him, at least two hours ago, though that is just a guess.

The man says okay and walks back into the woods. He returns maybe half an hour later—she is fully awake and alert now—and she says, “You promised you’d take me home tomorrow morning,” not certain whether it was this man or the other who promised that, or what “tomorrow morning” meant at the time.

This man says, “I promise, Mrs. Piper, that somebody will pick you up. Somebody who knows where you are will pick you up tomorrow morning at six.”

Then the man disappears again, and she is alone. A few moments later, someone, presumably the man who just left, hollers, “So long, Grandma!” Neither man had called her “Grandma” before. Were they being affectionate in their way, or were they mocking her? She couldn’t tell.

She hears nothing after that. No voices, no car, nothing. She is, she believes, abandoned and alone, chained to a tree in the dark. And, try as she might, she finds no reason to believe that anyone will pick her up, tomorrow morning or ever.

Bobby gets back on Highway 12 and proceeds eastward toward Minneapolis until he reaches Glenwood Parkway. The parkway, which in this area meanders along a dark, wooded stretch, is all but deserted. Whoever is following Bobby is being extremely stealthy. Then again, maybe no one is following him. Maybe people are positioned here and there along the route, communicating with each other using walkie-talkies. He figures this would be an ideal spot to stop him and take the money.

He is driving short distances now: Glenwood Parkway to Golden Valley Road to Broadway to Fourth Street. He is in the city, in a gritty area of light-industrial buildings, a few rundown houses, and vacant lots where much of whatever used to make up the neighborhood on the margin of downtown Minneapolis is now shuttered, derelict, or gone.

He spots a couple of power poles standing in the weeds a few yards from the Streamline Bar on Fourth Street and stops alongside the second one. Sure enough, two envelopes have been left at its base. Again there are typewritten words on the outside.

NUMBER ONE:

OPEN AND READ IMMEDIATELY. DO NOT OPEN

SECOND ENVELOPE UNTIL THESE DIRECTIONS

HAVE BEEN FOLLOWED.

Bobby opens the envelope and withdraws another typewritten note, virtually identical to the others.

CONTINUE AHEAD ON FOURTH STREET FIVE AND ONE HALF BLOCKS FROM BROADWAY. IN THE MIDDLE OF THE LAST BLOCK BEFORE REACHING PLYMOUTH AVENUE YOU WILL SEE TWO DRIVEWAY APPROUCHES [sic] ON THE RIGHT HAND SIDE OF THE STREET. YOU WILL ENTER THE SECOND APPROUCH [sic]. DRIVE STRAIGHT AHEAD AND PARK YOUR CAR AS CLOSE AS POSSIBLE TO AND FACING THE BUILDING. ENTER THE SPORTSMAN BAR THROUGH THE BACK DOOR. REMOVE KEYS FROM THE CAR. BRING BOTH ENVELOPES WITH DIRECTIONS JUST RECEIVED INTO THE BAR WITH YOU. GO IMMEDIATELY TO THE PUBLIC PHONES AND DIAL THE NUMBER 529-9891. THIS IS A PUBLIC PHONE AND YOUR CALL SHOUD [sic] NOT BE ANSWERED. IF YOU RECEIVE A REPLY HANG UP WITHOUT SPEAKING AND RE-DIAL A MOMENT LATER. ALLOW THE NUMBER TO RING FIVE TIMES AND HANG UP. IMMEDIATELY ENTER THE MENS [sic] TOILET AND WHEN UNOBSERVED PLACE THE AUTO TRUNK KEY ON THE TOP OF THE CASING ABOVE THE DOOR NEAR THE CENTRE [sic]. WHILE STILL IN THE TOILET READ THE INSTRUCTIONS IN THE SECOND ENVELOPE.

Back in the car, Bobby drives down Fourth Street to the scrubby parking lot behind the Sportsman’s Retreat and pulls up to the wall near the back door as instructed. He sees no one in the lot, though there are at least a half dozen parked cars, and no one going into or coming out of the back door. He locks the car and enters the tavern. The bar is a smoky, noisy joint thick with the reek of cigarettes and beer. It is not packed, but it’s busy, the clientele a mix of American Indians, Hispanics, and whites in working-class clothes. He walks over to the pay phone he sees on a wall, trying to look inconspicuous. He drops a dime in the slot and dials the number in the note.

The next time he picks up the receiver a woman is on the line. She says, “Please don’t try to use this phone. I’m trying to call in.”

Bobby is a patient man, but this is almost too much. Against his better judgment, he steps outside to check on the Monte Carlo. He is worried about the money, but he doesn’t dare open the trunk to make sure it’s still there. He sees no one in the lot. Back inside, he tries the phone again. This time he gets a dial tone and connects with the prescribed number. He lets it ring five times and hangs up.

The Sportsman’s Retreat, near downtown Minneapolis, in July 1972. FBI photo, courtesy Harry Piper III

He goes directly to the men’s room. A man is just leaving. When the room is deserted, he places the Monte Carlo’s trunk key on the ledge above the door. Then he tears open the second note.

AFTER READING RETURN TO THE PHONES AND REPEAT YOUR PREVIOUS CALL. ALLOW THE NUMBER TO RING FIVE TIMES. THIS CALL IS TO SIGNAL YOUR DEPARTURE AND YOU WILL THEN LEAVE IMMEDIATELY. YOU WILL TURN RIGHT ON TO PLYMOUTH AVENUE AND FOLLOW PLYMOUTH TO LYNDALE. YOU WILL TURN LEFT ONTO LYNDALE. YOU WILL GO SOUTH ON LYNDALE AND WILL NOT LEAVE LYNDALE. YOU WILL GO TO THE HOLIDAY STORE AT 8341 LYNDALE SO. ENTER THE PARKING LOT AND PARK AS CLOSE AS POSSIBLE TO THE STORE. YOUR ENTRANCE WILL BE OBSERVED HERE. YOU WILL LOCK THE CAR AND ENTER THE STORE. PHONE A CAB FROM THE PUBLIC PHONES AND RETURN HOME. IF ALL INSTRUCTIONS HAVE BEEN FOLLOWED TO THIS POINT THE PICK UP WILL BE MADE RIGHT AWAY.

After reading this last note, Bobby steps out of the men’s room and leaves the bar. Backing the car away from the building, he realizes his mistake: He’s forgotten to repeat the phone call as told. He pulls the car up against the building, goes back into the bar, and dials the number. This time someone answers, so he hangs up. He can only hope he has done the right thing. He believes he has been in the bar about ten or fifteen minutes all told. He is not sure, but he has the sense that there are fewer cars in the lot than when he arrived.

The drive down Lyndale to the Holiday store in Bloomington will take him more than twenty minutes. It is a straight shot down the south side of the city, but the route is cluttered with busy intersections and stoplights, so he has plenty of opportunity to look for suspicious vehicles. He is sure he sees several motorcycles and a particular white van more than once on the trip, but he doesn’t get a good enough look at their drivers to make a lasting impression.

It is about eleven thirty when he reaches the Holiday, a well-lit discount and convenience store that is part of a local chain. He parks the car in the lot and goes inside to call a cab. When the cab arrives a few minutes later, he tells the driver to take him to the Wayzata Tavern on Highway 12 not far from his home. Two hours have elapsed since he left home with the ransom in his trunk.

From the tavern, he calls Assistant Special Agent in Charge Robert Kent at the house. He tells Kent that he has completed the payout run and left the second car in Bloomington, providing the address of the Holiday store. Then he calls a friend, Newell Weed, and asks to be picked up at the tavern and driven home. The reporters gathered at the foot of his driveway won’t know Newt’s car, so he can pull up to the house without attracting a lot of attention.

Then Bobby has a second thought. When Weed picks him up, he tells his friend to drive back to Bloomington. He is worried that someone other than Ginny’s captors will steal the Monte Carlo or snatch the money out of the trunk. Twenty minutes later, he and his friend pull into the nearly empty Holiday lot and slowly drive past the Monte Carlo, which looks the same as when he left it. Bobby tells Weed to park on the far side of the lot so they can watch the car.

Almost immediately a car pulls up beside them. A man identifies himself as FBI, tells Bobby there are several agents watching the lot, and asks him to please go home.

For the first time since she arrived in the woods God knows how long ago now, Ginny’s fear is curdling into something like panic.

The men have gone, vanished into the darkness with that odd, mocking call, and she is certain that they are not coming back. In a curious way, she felt safer when one of them—“Alabama” or “Tom” or whatever his name might be—was close by. He was guarding her, of course, but assuming she was indeed worth a ransom, he was protecting her as well. She had come to believe that he wasn’t going to hurt her—if he was, she figures he would have done it right away. And at least he gave her a cigarette and a bite to eat every once in a while.

But she does not believe their promises of imminent freedom and is horrified by the vision, new and persistent, of her emaciated body lying in the underbrush, maybe stumbled upon by hikers months or even years from now, or maybe never found at all. The thought of never again seeing Bobby and the boys and the many other people she loves in her life, coupled with that image of her corpse wasting away in the weeds, is almost more than she can bear.

In the darkness she hears her mother’s voice, though her mother passed away a year ago, and her mother’s presence comforts her.

Then, encouraged by that voice or inspired by something else, she has a mad idea.

The tree she is chained to is not very big, maybe only five inches in diameter, so she tells herself its root system can’t be all that extensive. If she digs down around the trunk, maybe she can eventually loosen the roots enough to dislodge the tree, to actually topple it, and then work the chain off from the bottom. Or maybe, once the tree has been felled, she can drag it down the hill closer to the road, where someone might see or hear her. It’s crazy, she knows. She doesn’t have so much as a soup spoon or nail file to dig with. She feels around in the grass for an empty 7-Up can, but can reach only so far and doesn’t find one. But what else can she possibly do to free herself and get out of this awful place?

She drops to her knees at the foot of the tree and with her bare hands begins to dig.