It was just before noon. The Royal Bank was crowded. June Smith, a senior sales officer at the bank, looked up to see a man in a baseball cap stepping behind the service counter. June got up from her desk to tell him that customers were not allowed to be back there. There was no reason for her to be alarmed, she just figured he had made a mistake and didn’t know where he was going.
As June stepped towards him he said, “Sit down and don’t move!”
She was about to argue with him but when she saw the gun in his hand she sat down. Realizing a robbery was taking place, her heart began to pound. No one else seemed to be aware of what was happening. June didn’t know what to do. She was afraid to move and didn’t want to scream; if she screamed it might cause the gunman to panic and she didn’t know what he would do then. She sat motionless, watching helplessly as he walked directly to the door of the central cash cage.
Three tellers were standing in front of the door waiting to make transactions. One of these women was Colleen Banks. She was an experienced bank teller and had seen the stranger coming but she didn’t quite know what to make of it. He simply walked around the west end of the counter and came directly towards the cage with a quick, steady step.
“What’s he doing back here?” she thought to herself.
“Stand back and don’t move!” he said to the three women outside the cage. They saw his gun right away.
All of them were frightened. They moved closer together and cautiously backed away from the cage door. They tried to move in a calm, deliberate manner that would not upset him.
“Open the door!” he said to twenty-six-year-old Debbie Cook who was working inside the cage. She stared into the face of the strange looking man in a red nylon jacket. His hair was reddish blond and stringy; it hung below his ears and over his collar. A heavy blond moustache spread to the corners of his mouth and hid his upper lip.
“Hurry up and open the door!” he said again in a deep voice.
When Debbie saw he had a gun in his left hand she let him in immediately. The man handed her a white canvas bag about two feet long with two small red maple leaf flags on it and two black straps at the top. He was standing so close to her she could see he had brown eyes and a ruddy complexion with freckles.
“Put all the money in there!”
While Debbie began emptying the money out of one of the cash trays into the bag other tellers became aware that an unfamiliar man was in the central cage. They could see that he wasn’t dressed like a banker and they couldn’t understand what he was doing in there. Debbie seemed to be working with him, handing him things. She would go away from him and then come back. Still, they knew that no one should be in there with her; that was definitely against bank policy. They looked at each other, unsure what to do.
Clients in the lineups also saw the man go into the cage but thought little of it. An eighteen-year-old at the front of the line saw the man go into the cage. He wondered why but it didn’t cause him any great concern. Even when he saw the three tellers standing frozen outside the cage with fearful expressions on their faces, it didn’t faze him. However, when he watched Debbie Cook emptying money trays into the man’s canvas bag, he was astounded that a robbery was happening in front of his very eyes.
Daina Brown, a clerk, was working at her desk west of the cage. She too saw the tellers frozen in fear outside the cage and Debbie emptying a money tray into the man’s sack. It was obvious that the man was robbing the bank. Suspecting he had a gun, she knew it was too dangerous to move so she began to jot down the robber’s description on the back of a withdrawal slip. She noted that he wore a black and white baseball cap, white denim pants and a red, lightweight jacket. He was white, in his early thirties, about 5’8” to 5’10”, medium build, approximately 160 pounds.
“Set the time locks!” the gunman said to Debbie Cook.
“They’re set at two minutes,” she replied.
Colleen Banks knew it was important for everyone to stay calm. She quietly told Debbie to set the combination for the time locks so they would open. Seeing the faces of the two younger tellers beside her contorted in fright, Colleen told them, “It’s OK, just don’t move.” With fear in their eyes, the two women nodded carefully.
Debbie set one of the time locks to open while the robber dumped the cash out of two unlocked drawers into his long white bag. While he was busy doing that, Fred Turner, a customer, was standing at the east end of the service counter. One of the tellers who stood frozen in front of the central cage caught Fred’s eye and mouthed the words, “It’s a hold up.” Fred immediately backed away from the counter and eased his way out the front door of the bank. Fighting the urge to run, he walked into the Kwik Kopy nearby. Without explaining anything to the manager he picked up the phone and, with shaking hands, dialed 911. He told the operator there was a holdup in progress at the Royal Bank, 380 Wellington Road. The operator relayed the information to the police department, noting the time of the call: 12:02 p.m.
While Turner was phoning the police, the gunman was busy cleaning out the cash cage.
“Open this,” he said to Debbie, pointing his weapon to another drawer. Debbie moved quickly to comply. As she did, he went to the other end of the cash cage and commanded, “Open these drawers!”
As Debbie unlocked each cash drawer he took the money and dumped it into the bag.
“Open that,” he said, motioning with his head to the safe. Debbie felt sick inside. She knew she couldn’t get the safe open and was afraid to tell him that because it might infuriate him. So she didn’t say anything but shrugged her shoulders and turned her palms up to indicate she couldn’t do it. When the thief saw her gestures and the desperate look on her face he didn’t get angry. He was well aware that the safe was on a much longer time lock and knew she was telling the truth.
“Don’t worry, no one’s going to hurt you,” he assured her in an almost pleasant voice. Then he looked around and, in a whisper said, “Get out of the way!” He walked by Debbie, went out of the cage, past the tellers, around the counter and out the back door of the bank into the shopping mall that connected the bank with the Holiday Inn. Debbie saw him begin to remove his baseball cap as he went through the door. As soon as he was out of the bank Daina Brown rushed to the door and locked it shut behind him. There was an audible sigh of relief from almost everyone in the bank. Some of the tellers broke into tears.
The robbery had taken ninety seconds. The police arrived in force thirty seconds after it was over. Thousands of dollars had been stolen. Detectives and uniformed personnel began to scour the nearby shops, bars and businesses in an effort to find the fugitive. One of the first policemen to arrive on the scene was officer Rod Trevors of the London B & E squad. He spotted a twenty-five-year-old man crossing Wellington Road who fit the description of the bank robber. Trevors saw that he was carrying a red sweatshirt wrapped in a jean jacket so he stopped him. He asked for identification and determined the man’s name was Bradley Brown from London. When Trevors found that Bradley had a sizeable quantity of cash on him, he arrested him. The suspect explained that he had cashed two cheques at the Money Mart just an hour ago. Trevors told Brown they had to check him out. He took him back to the bank and put him in one of the police cruisers parked outside. Colleen Banks was brought to see if she could identify him. She peered into the back seat of the police car and immediately said that the young man was not the person who held up the bank. Although Brown was shaken by the experience he was happy to be released.
While Bradley Brown’s little drama was unfolding, two other suspects wearing red jackets were stopped on King Street and questioned by police. When it was determined that they had no money on them of any significant quantity, they too were released.
The gunman had disappeared. After the robbery, he walked calmly out of the Royal Bank, removing his moustache as soon as he stepped through the door. Out in the small shopping mall adjacent to the bank he melded with the lunchtime crowd. Without running or doing anything else that would draw attention to himself he threaded his way through the crowded mall. Within seconds he was in the lobby of the nearby Holiday Inn. According to plan, he proceeded directly to a doorway off the lobby that led to a stairwell to the parking garage. As he ran down the stairs, he discarded his jacket and pulled off his wig. Another few steps and he located the briefcase that he had stashed earlier in the stairwell. Into the briefcase he put his gun, his disguise and the thousands of dollars he had just stolen from the bank no more than 200 yards away.
He removed his baggy pants and threw them in the corner. Underneath his loose clothing he wore a dress shirt and tie and a dark blue business suit. He picked up his attaché case and, looking for all the world like a successful executive, walked over to the Holiday Inn’s service elevator. Moments later he exited the elevator on the twentieth floor and went to room 2020, where he had slept the night before. Slightly over three minutes had elapsed since he first entered the bank.
Once he was in his room he was confident the police would never find him. He was very shrewd. He had robbed a lot of banks and each time he planned the robbery in the most minute detail. Before every job, he cased the site carefully to make sure it was in a busy location and had a glaring lack of security. In this case, the Royal Bank at the corner of King Street and Wellington Road in London was perfect. It was adjacent to a mall, near a major hotel and had neither security cameras nor a security guard. Above all, he didn’t want his picture taken or someone shooting at him while he was working.
Over the years he had honed his method of operation to a keen edge. He knew that speed was of the essence in a robbery. He believed that, from beginning to end, a holdup shouldn’t take any longer than ninety seconds. He liked to work on Fridays. The banks handled more money that day than any other day of the week. He preferred to work at lunch time when the malls and streets were crowded. After a hold up, he always walked into crowds of people, never away from them. He always wore a disguise – a wig, a moustache, sometimes fake skin, sometimes a beard. He always wore loose clothing over a shirt and tie and a good business suit. He always wore gloves. Once he finished the actual holdup he liked to discard his outer clothing as soon as possible, preferably in a nearby stairwell. He always took a room in a hotel as close as possible to the bank he intended to rob.
This particular robbery was easier than most because it was the second time he had robbed this branch at Wellington and King. He had been here two years before, in 1985, but then he had only taken $4,900. This time, having learned from past experience, he came away with a lot more. Last time at this bank, he robbed a single teller at the service counter. This time, he knew a lot more about banks and went directly to the central cash cage where the big money was kept.
Now safely in his room, he was elated by the knowledge that he had pulled it off again! The rush was exciting. His heart was pounding so fast it seemed like someone was squeezing his throat and choking him. It was as if the surge of adrenaline forced the blood to his neck. There was no pain, just pressure in the throat and a dry mouth. He loosened his tie but that didn’t help. He needed a cigarette but was afraid he would choke on the smoke. It was the same sensation after every robbery.
He knew what to do to relieve it. He needed to walk. He paced back and forth in his room, over and over until he became aware of a new sensation. Now he had to urinate. That was always the same too but he always seemed to forget. He nipped into the bathroom and once he had relieved himself the tension was gone.
Standing at the sink, he splashed water on his face and studied himself in the mirror. He had put on about fifteen pounds in the last three years and now weighed in at 175. Some of that gain showed in his light brown pudgy cheeks. Most of the weight, which was the result of a couple of years of high living, had gathered above his belt in a small paunch. He wasn’t entirely happy about that because he liked to think of himself as trim. But even with the added weight he still looked young. Although he turned thirty-one last year, he figured he could still be taken for a teenager. Sucking in his stomach and holding his breath, he promised himself he would cut down on the pizzas and try to exercise more.
That train of thought was broken by his desire to see how much money he had taken from the bank. He poured himself a drink of rye and opened his briefcase on the bed. It was full of bills in all denominations. Counting the money took much longer than doing the robbery. The total was $21,238. The size of the take sent a shiver of excitement through his body. He felt good that he had perfected his holdup method: forget the cash drawers at the service counter and go directly into the central teller’s cage. The risk was the same; the take was much greater.
But it was time to go. His wife, Janice, was waiting for him at home. She knew he had some business to take care of in London but she had no idea what he was doing. At the same time, she had made it absolutely clear that she was tired of his being away from home. He had left yesterday morning, June 11, and she insisted that he be home in time for dinner today.
Besides, he had an unwritten rule for himself: Never go back and stay in your hotel room unless you want to get caught. Get in and out of the bank fast then get out of your hotel room as quick as you can. Go somewhere away from the bank. Fast! That was his own special rule. He was not about to break it.
With that in mind, he took out a bundle of cash from the briefcase and stuffed about $4,000 in the pockets of his shirt and pants. Next he took care of his guns. The one on the bed was a Browning automatic 9mm Special that held thirteen rounds. That’s the one he carried in his hand in the bank. The first chamber was always left empty because he didn’t ever want the gun to go off by mistake – either his or somebody else’s. He never knew when someone might play the hero and try to grab it inside a bank. The other gun was a .38 Smith and Wesson snub-nosed revolver that he kept inside the front of his pants. He put both guns in his shaving kit which he placed in a pocket of his fold-over suit bag. Then he gathered up the rest of his clothes and packed them in the bag.
Before closing his briefcase he threw in some reading material he had brought with him – a novel, a fishing guide, a travel book on the Bahamas, a mickey of rye. Then he tightened his tie, combed his hair, put on his suit coat and went out the door less than ten minutes after he entered his room.
Down in the lobby he put his room key in the hotel’s quick checkout box and went over to the Air Express desk to make arrangements to fly home. Having determined yesterday there were no Pemair flights directly from London to his home town, Pembroke, he decided to buy an Air Express ticket to Toronto Island Airport. From there he would find a way to get home. At the counter the young clerk sold him a oneway ticket which he paid for with an En Route credit card registered in the name of Robert Whiteman. Then he asked her where he could catch a cab to the airport.
“There’s no need to do that Mr. Whiteman. Our shuttle bus will be here in a few minutes to take you to the airport. I have to go out there myself.”
“I think I’ll take a cab.”
“There’s no charge for that service, sir,” she advised.
“Thanks anyway but I think I’d rather take a cab. I’ve got some things to do.” Whiteman picked up his nylon garment bag and black briefcase and turned to leave.
“See you later,” he said pleasantly over his shoulder.
When he walked outside there were police cars in front of the bank and several policemen stationed along King Street. One of them was standing at the curb near the entrance to the Holiday Inn.
Whiteman stopped and asked, “What’s all the commotion about, officer?”
The policeman motioned to him to keep moving and replied, “Move along, please. There’s been some trouble in the bank.”
Whiteman was happy to oblige. He went to the head of the taxi line and asked the driver in the first car to take him to the London Airport.
“I got a flight at one o’clock.”
The cabbie looked at his watch. It was 12:23 pm. “OK,” he said, “hop in. We can make it, but we got to get goin’.”
As soon as Whiteman got in the car, he lit a cigarette. After a couple of deep drags, he asked the driver, “What’s going on out here?”
“Bank robbery,” the cabbie replied as he angled the Aboutown taxi out into the traffic.
“Really?” Whiteman asked as he looked back at the activity in front of the bank.
“Yeah. I heard all about it. It was over real quick. One guy did it. I hear he got a couple of thousand.”
“No kidding? Sure are a lot of cops out here.”
“Yeah. But a lot of good those cops are going to do now. Shit, that bank robber is probably long gone by now.”
Whiteman mumbled his agreement.
“Not a bad day for a flight,” the cabbie commented.
“Yeah, kind of overcast but it should be all right.”
“You heading home?”
“Yeah. I’m a computer programmer. Been working twenty-one days straight. Now I get seven days off, so I’m looking forward to going home.”
The cabbie was driving as fast as the law allowed, heading up Wellington for Oxford Street.
“You a married man?” he asked.
“Yeah. I got one little girl and another one on the way.”
“Oh, that’s nice. Well, you’ll be glad to get home then.”
“That’s for sure.”
All the way to the airport Whiteman and the driver nattered away, their conversation pleasantly straying from one inconsequential topic to another. Within twenty minutes they reached Crumlin Sideroad and Robert could see the airport buildings in the distance. There must have been eighty or ninety small planes scattered around the fifteen hangers. The main runway stretched off to the horizon like one long lonely road. It was an airport that could handle jets of any size; Robert had made it a point to learn that. The cabbie pulled up beside the brown brick airport terminal and helped his passenger out.
“Nice looking suit you got there,” he commented.
“Thanks,” Robert replied, “I bought it in Ottawa a couple of weeks ago. Fits like a glove.” He paid his fare with a twenty-dollar bill which left the driver a generous tip.
“Thank you very much, sir. Have a nice day.”
As the cab pulled away Whiteman went directly to the airport lounge. He sat at the bar, ordered himself a double rye and coke and lit a cigarette. He was feeling much better now. He figured if he wasn’t caught in the first three minutes of a robbery they would never get him. Although he liked to get out of the hotel fast, he didn’t like to go right home after doing a bank. Usually he would stick around town for a while, especially in smaller cities where there were limited flights from the local airport. It seemed to him that after a robbery the airport would be a natural place for the police to check for suspects. But, as far as he could tell, that wasn’t the case today.
As Whiteman was sitting there nursing his drink the Air Express clerk from the Holiday Inn got off the shuttle bus and came into the lounge area. She noticed him at the bar and nodded hello. He waved hello back to her. When his boarding announcement came over the PA, Whiteman remained at the bar drinking. Finally, one of the City Express supervisors came up to him and advised that it was time for him to board.
Whiteman thanked her, got up and walked directly out to the Dash 8 turboprop with his suit bag and briefcase in his hands. He knew there was no security check on domestic flights. That was the reason he could travel undetected across Canada with his guns in his shaving kit.
Twenty-five minutes after takeoff the aircraft was landing at Toronto Island. Robert looked out the starboard window and saw the impressive glass and concrete skyline of the city. Just ahead to his right he could see the CN Tower standing majestically alone beside the rising steelwork of the evolving Skydome.
Once he got into the airport terminal Robert learned that getting home from there wouldn’t be as easy as he had hoped. Not only were there no scheduled flights to Pembroke, there were no charters available either. He went into the airport lounge and ordered a double rye and coke. Then he made a few phone calls. He thought he might be able to hire a limousine from Toronto to drive him home but soon learned they were all booked up. It was Friday night and a number of high schools were holding their proms that evening.
A pilot sitting at the bar overheard Whiteman’s phone calls and suggested he try Buttonville Airport northeast of Toronto. He was sure Robert could arrange an air charter from there. Whiteman gave it a try.
The Torontair flight coordinator at Buttonville told him he could provide a charter from Toronto Island to Pembroke with a pilot named Grant Milburn and his co-pilot, Ian Deacon. The cost would be $1,350.
Whiteman did not flinch.
“I’ve got no problem with the price,” he said. “How long will it take them to get here?”
“They can leave right away. Should be there in fifteen minutes.”
“You got a deal. I’ll pay them in cash when they get here.”
“Alright Mr. Whiteman, they’re on their way.”
Robert went to the bar and ordered another drink. Then, on the hunch that this might be his lucky day, he bought some Wintario lottery tickets. When he finished his rye Robert walked out to a small boutique in the terminal that had caught his eye earlier. Without much deliberation he bought himself a leather bomber jacket for $339.95 and a pair of Barnstormer leather gloves for $49.95. The clerk was impressed by his quick decisions and even more impressed that he paid for these items by cash from a huge roll of bills that he pulled from his pocket.
Shortly after Whiteman completed his purchases he learned that Grant Milburn was easing his twin engine Piper Aztec down onto the Toronto Island runway. When it came to a stop, he went out to meet the plane and identified himself to the two pilots. Milburn and Deacon helped load his luggage on the plane and radioed the traffic agent that they were ready to take off. As soon as they were airborne, Robert Whiteman handed them the $1,350. in cash for the one-hour flight. Grant Milburn thanked him and put the money in his wallet.
Neither of the pilots found it unusual that a single individual would charter a plane at such a high cost. It happened quite often. Usually it was a businessman stuck in Toronto who needed a quick flight out. Whiteman told them he was a computer salesman and he was taking a small computer part to Pembroke for an emergency repair. The pilots were used to this. Often companies would send a technician or a mechanic to deliver a part to an industrial plant in another city. This ensured that the part would be quickly and properly replaced.
During the flight the pilots noticed that Whiteman was very keyed up. He squirmed around incessantly in his seat and talked constantly. He asked question after question about the plane and its equipment. He wanted to know about their flight path, their altitude, their backgrounds, the places they had flown.
Every once in a while he poured himself a drink of rye from his mickey but it was nothing to cause the pilots any concern. Milburn figured he just loved to talk. He seemed to know something about everything. Deacon found him delightful. Both pilots were convinced he was a technician as he claimed. From their experience, senior executives were courteous but aloof. They seldom engaged in small talk. Middle managers often put on airs and professed to be more important than they really were. They found that service people were usually chatty and down to earth. They didn’t play roles or pretend to be something more than they were. Whiteman was anything but pretentious. He was just a normal pleasant person who was very inquisitive. The lively conversation he generated helped all three of them enjoy their flight to Pembroke.
Shortly after four o’clock Whiteman asked, “Hey, do you guys have a telephone on board?”
“Yes, we do,” Milburn replied.
“Can I use it for a minute? I’ve got to call home.”
“Sure,” Milburn said, “give me the number and I’ll dial it for you.”
Whiteman gave him the phone number and a twenty-dollar bill to pay for the call. Milburn handed him the phone.
“Hi!” Robert said into the phone, “it’s me. I’ll be home in about twenty minutes. I’m calling from the sky on a chartered airplane. It’s the only way I could get home in time. Can you meet me at the airport?”
Janice was surprised to hear he was calling from an airplane. She told him she would be happy to meet him at the Pembroke Airport. They chatted very briefly about a few other things and then Whiteman said goodbye. After handing the phone back to the pilot, Whiteman launched into a new series of topics that rekindled their animated three-way conversation.
Ten minutes later Whiteman listened intently as the pilot made radio contact with the Pembroke traffic office. Milburn identified his aircraft, advised the traffic agent of his approach and asked for landing instructions. The radio crackled as the agent gave them the wind speed and direction. The Aztec was cleared for an uncomplicated landing.
For the first time, Robert was quiet as the pilots focused their attention on landing the plane. When the wheels touched down he felt a sense of relief. As the craft taxied along the runway he peered out the window to see if he could spot his car in the parking lot. It was a black Chrysler 5th Avenue with a spare tire mounted on the outside of the trunk. As far as Robert knew, it was the only car of its kind in the Pembroke area. The airplane hangers and airplanes parked on the ground made it difficult for him to get a clear view of the parking lot but Robert had no reason to suspect that he wouldn’t get a warm welcome home. Although he couldn’t see his wife he was confident she was there to meet him.
Once the plane came to a stop and the silver blades of the props stopped whirling the two pilots removed their head sets and prepared to disembark. They obligingly offered to help Robert carry his luggage into the terminal.
“Thanks. I’d appreciate that,” he said.
The three men stepped out into the humid air of the warm June afternoon and headed towards the terminal, laughing and joking as they walked. Robert was happy to be home. He had big plans for the future.