For nearly two years, the authorities reported no progress on the investigation. They answered questions, fewer and fewer over time, but offered little in the way of new information. There were no outward signs of any breakthroughs or imminent arrests. The initial intensity and outside interest had mostly died off, but Commissioner Danny Guido and Detective Dick McGuire knew a lot more than they told the press—and me.
It took a while, but they quietly got their break.
The first area of interest had always been Acme Steel Partition. Who would’ve known about the employee profit sharing fund? Someone on the inside. Only a few of us knew the details of the account, such as how much was in it, where it was held, and how accessible it was. Then again, everyone at the company knew the fund existed. They wouldn’t have known big picture details, but they were either invested in the fund or had the opportunity to do so.
We furnished the FBI and the police with a list of 600 past and present workers. They quickly began whittling off non-starters and conducted exploratory interviews with anyone who might have the thinnest of connections to the case. One former employee caught their early attention: Charles Berkley.
Berkley worked at Acme Steel Partition for fifteen years as a draftsman before leaving the company to start his own business. When he left, he withdrew $12,000 in profit sharing to fund his new venture. That was almost two years before my abduction. They asked me about him, and I said it didn’t make sense. “There’s no way Charles Berkley was involved.”
He was a family man who was married with four children. He had also served in the Korean War as a paratrooper and was a longtime stable employee. He didn’t leave on bad terms, either. Berkley wasn’t fired. He left to go out on his own. More power to him, I thought. We wished him luck and no hard feelings. People come, people go.
But apparently, things didn’t go well. Berkley was a skilled draftsman, not businessman. And curiously, the business he chose had nothing to do with drafting or anything similar. He went into real estate and closed shop in just three months. From there, he joined a competitor of Acme Steel Partition. After a period of months, he left unsatisfied and joined another competitor, Superior Fire Door Co. in Westchester County. I knew the owner. Berkley started at Superior Fire Door in late-1973 and was attempting to get re-hired at Acme Steel Partition when I was kidnapped.
I never thought twice about it. He’d tried his hand in business, and it didn’t work out. No big deal.
Nassau County police detectives, however, did think he was a big deal—not that they told me at the time. Berkley was questioned on December 12, 1974, almost three weeks after I was released from the tenement apartment. The pre-interview background investigation was impressive. His out-of-left-field real estate venture was odd, but further scrutiny showed inconsistencies and an overall lack of clarity regarding his real estate business, its location, and the partners involved.
Detectives thought it was of note that Berkley’s parents were of West Indian extraction, and that he was a shop steward who was active in employee disputes and union matters. Anonymous coworkers at Superior Fire Door also told police that he argued about controversial social issues.
But an unsettling discovery showed Berkley had a side I’d never seen. I was part owner and vice president of Acme Steel, so I didn’t know him well, but he’d always seemed nice enough. Turns out, Berkley had surreptitiously distributed “black nationalist” literature at Acme. Several workers gave investigators written materials Berkley had handed out years earlier. He authored one item called, “Black Thoughts on Green Power.” It’s a poorly reasoned anti-Semitic treatise that begins strangely and segues into the plight of German Jews.
Green Power can get you food, clothes, big or little cars, roller skates, stocks and bonds, baseball bats, dogs and cats, married, whiskey, fur coats, a Bible, marijuana, bailed out of jail, a formal education, black or white prostitutes, furniture, chocolate covered ants, steaks in the backyard, tickets to rock concerts and basketball games, a lawyer, your hair straightened, elected to public office and a head stone. Green Power can get you in the Masons, the American Legion, the Playboy Club, the Elks, the Knights of Columbus, and the Pinky Dinks and N.A.A.C.P.
It continues:
Believing the wealth and position [the Jews] had attained was sufficient to survive eternally, and blinded by the gold that glittered, most Jews refused to listen and take heed of at first the racist rhetoric and then the outright acts of terror committed against them by the Germans. There is no need to repeat the history of how the Jew in Germany was exterminated.
Today, gold is as much a part of the Jews life as it ever was, however, since the Jews tragic days in Germany, he has not been blinded by gold.
The many Black advocates of Green Power, who believe the Black Man’s only way of ‘making it’ (whatever making it is suppose to mean), reminds one of the blinded Jews. I suppose, if one is willing to stay in ones place and forget about the freedoms denied Black people in this and other lands, Green Power for them is all that matters. A prostitute sells her flesh, some people sell their souls.
Berkley also selectively gave out fliers advertising a Co-Op City, Bronx, play he starred in in 1971. The play, called “Elegy to X,” was part of a ceremony invoking “the spirit of Malcolm X.” It opens with Amiri Baraha’s “A Poem for Black Hearts”.
But what did any of this prove? That Berkley was a reliable employee with a nasty side? That’s not a crime, nor was it an evidentiary link to my kidnapping. At most, Berkley had cursory knowledge of the employee fund and shared a strain of the kidnappers’ demented ideology.
Nothing came of the interview, although Berkley was floated as an early unnamed suspect to the media. He mostly faded from interest as the months dragged on.
* * *
McGuire took it upon himself to follow up another early outlier of a detail—the odd calls Buddy received. The man who had called pretending to be a “Larry Garrett of the U.S. State Department” had wanted Buddy to meet him at the West Air terminal of the Westchester County Airport. So, with an FBI agent in tow, McGuire drove to the Westchester County Airport north of the Bronx to conduct an interview. He’d perused airport and West Air employee records looking for anyone with a criminal background and settled on a meet-and-greet subject. It was readily apparent the airport worker had nothing to do with my case. He was helpful and introduced McGuire to a fellow coworker, but he didn’t know anything either.
McGuire thanked them, and it was back to the drawing board. When escorting the two lawmen back to the main terminal, the FBI agent pointed and said, “What the hell kind of plane is that?”
“It’s a push-pull,” one of the employees said. “Beechcraft. Looks kinda funny doesn’t it? It’s got an engine in the front and an engine in the back. Some guys use them to get two licenses. It has two engines, but it’s really like flying a single-engine plane.”
It was a throw-away factoid, small talk on the way out. Then out of nowhere, the air worker said, “You know, the guy that owns it is a black guy whose kid was kidnapped.”
McGuire stopped dead in his tracks. “Excuse me?”
“The guy that owns that push-pull. His kid was kidnapped a while ago. That’s what I heard.”
McGuire hadn’t mentioned my kidnapping. He’d only probed about Larry Garrett and anything else that might’ve fit the bill for an ambush against Buddy. When they got inside, McGuire asked to review the plane records. It was registered to a Mr. Rudy Williams of Westchester County.
* * *
Detective Sergeant McGuire and FBI Special Agent Richard Staedtler traveled to Greenburgh, New York, in western Westchester County to surprise interview Rudy Williams. They knocked on his door. Williams answered.
“Mister Williams, my name is Detective Sergeant Richard McGuire. This is FBI Special Agent Richard Staedtler. Can we come in?”
Williams stood halfway behind the door, looked them up and down suspiciously, and said, “No.”
“How do I know you’re who you say you are?” he added.
An interesting response, McGuire thought. Williams was clearly irritated, but he wasn’t rejecting an interview.
McGuire, of course, had done his homework. Williams’ house was valued at approximately $100,000, which was more than mine. It sat on a hilltop in a posh neighborhood and was listed under the name Gwendolyn Dent. The home interior appeared to be expensively furnished from McGuire’s initial impression at the door.
Williams spoke after a prickly pregnant pause. “I’m calling the cops to check you out.” He closed the door abruptly and locked it.
While McGuire and Staedtler waited outside, an African-American female pulled into the driveway. She got out, walked to the house, and keyed the front door. Stares were exchanged but no words. McGuire spied a mirror reflection when the door swung open, a third person—an African-American male standing roughly five feet, nine inches, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and multi-colored clothes. The door slammed shut without the reflection revealing a face.
Williams opened the door several minutes later. “Come in,” he said with a flippant wave. He led his uninvited guests to a large sitting area where the three men sat for an awkward interview.
“Mister Williams, will you please state your place of employment?”
“I don’t have to answer that. Next question,” he responded.
“Is this your permanent residence?”
“What’s that got to do with anything. You accusing me of something? Or you want to talk about someone else?” Williams retorted.
McGuire paused and gave a brief summary of my kidnapping. He said he was interviewing Williams because of certain similarities.
“Similarities? Like what?” Williams asked.
“Similarities, Mister Williams, as in you were a victim of an attempted ransom extortion plot in May 1974, were you not?” McGuire proposed.
“Yes.”
“Can you talk to us about that? What was the nature of the kidnapping? Who were the individuals who may have been involved?” asked McGuire.
“I don’t know,” Williams said tersely.
“Look, I’m sorry this other guy got kidnapped. I hope he’s ok. But I don’t know anything about it, and that’s all I have to say,” he added.
McGuire and Staedtler looked at each other. The interview was over.
“One last thing, Mister Williams. Do you recognize any of these individuals?”
McGuire handed Williams a half-dozen portrait photographs and a copy of the composite sketch of the Penn Station ransom bag-man. One of the men in the portrait pile was Charles Berkley.
“Nope. I don’t know any of these people. Don’t know any of them at all,” he said, handing back the pictures.
McGuire studied Williams. He took in the moment knowing how he’d arranged the photos. His gut told him Williams was lying.
“When you show a guy with a past six pictures, he usually goes one of two ways: ‘No, no…maybe this guy…no, no…no.’ Or he’ll quickly say, ‘No, no, no. Got nothing for ya,’ when you put someone in there they definitely know,” McGuire later explained.
He let Williams slide and smoothly ended the interview. Then, he stood up and dropped the polite persona.
“Here’s the deal, pal. I’m gonna check on you. You’ve got a long rap sheet. Lots of gambling convictions,” McGuire started.
“You’re gonna need a favor someday, and when you do, call me. Understand? When you get in trouble again, you call me. We’ll talk.”
Williams had been played, and he knew it.
* * *
As time dragged on, the initial promise of the Charles Berkley and Rudy Williams leads fizzled into backburner persons of interest. Det. Sgt. McGuire and Commissioner Guido were frustrated. Worse, the FBI was getting ready to pull the plug on the investigation. They’d committed an unusual amount of manpower and financial resources without results.
It was a harsh reality check: the investigation could not go on forever—not actively. Some crimes go unsolved, and this just may be one of those cases. The thought burned McGuire. An FBI supervisor, Agent Leo McGillicuddy, called him early one morning with bad news. “Dick, they’re getting nervous upstairs. We’re about to start unwinding this thing, as there is no evidence of interstate involvement.”
McGuire called Commissioner Guido. “Listen boss, this isn’t looking good. They’re about to pull it.”
Guido was just as determined as his top Jacknap detective. They were kindred spirits in that they’re the type of people who never give up. Never. Some men fight the good fight and when it’s time to hang it up, they walk away. And some men never quit. That’s McGuire and Guido. I’m forever grateful to them.
Guido arranged a sit-down to discuss the future of the case. He was adamant that they’d catch the kidnappers if they just kept going. He believed it. Guido had the vision for success, and he urged decision makers not to wave the white flag at the investigation’s lowest point. Guido was a real leader. His efforts led to a compromise. An agreement was made to cut back on my home security detail and adopt a joint FBI-NCPD skeleton crew of investigators. The several FBI counterparts would work on a part-time basis, and McGuire and his partner, Det. Jim Moran, would be allowed to continue full time.
Soon after, the break came.
It was Rudy Williams. He wanted to meet with Det. Sgt. McGuire again.
“Dick, I got this guy, says he knows you.” It was an old detective friend calling from Greenburgh, New York. McGuire had helped him solve a homicide years earlier involving a multi-county burglary ring. The detective owed McGuire a favor and called to deliver.
“Says he knows something about your case. I don’t know if he’s just talkin’ to talk or—”
“Is it Rudy Williams?” McGuire asked.
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
McGuire had poured his life into finding my kidnappers for a year and half. It was his personal mission. His wife would find him awake in the middle of the night reviewing notes and journaling about possible leads. The idea that he’d randomly guess Rudy Williams was a bit irksome.
“Because I know,” he said.
Rudy Williams was one of many hooks McGuire had baited in the hopes of getting a bite. He’d been patiently waiting for these types of calls.
“Tell him to call me,” McGuire said.
They arranged an evening meeting at a Westchester County hotel bar. McGuire arrived on time and entered the darkened lounge. Teddy Pendergrass was playing in the background. He spotted Williams sitting with a young woman. He’d been drinking.
“Let’s have a drink,” Williams said.
McGuire ordered a drink to put Williams at ease. “What’s up, Rudy? How’s things?”
“Things are things. What do you got for me?” he said.
Williams had gotten busted for a gun. He was facing prison time and wanted a deal. He knew McGuire would be up-to-speed.
“That depends,” said McGuire. “Here’s how it works. You tell me everything, and I’ll see what I can do. If you hold back or lie to me, it’s over. You’re gone. This is your one shot. What do you have for me, Rudy?”
Williams paused and said, “Those pictures you showed me. Remember? I know one of those guys. His name’s Charles Berkley.”
McGuire held his gaze and stared straight into Williams’s eyes. His countenance revealed nothing. He remembered slipping Berkley’s picture in the photos. But Rudy Williams recognizing Charles Berkley didn’t prove anything. McGuire already knew about Berkley, and there’d been no movement on that front.
“What else?” said McGuire. “What else, Rudy?”
Williams sipped his drink and took a deep breath. “The other guy. I can damn near give ‘em to you.”
“Which other guy?” said McGuire.
“The drawing.”
McGuire’s heart skipped a beat. He shivered from a surge of adrenaline. It was all he could do to not give away his excitement.
“Yeah. I’m listening,” he said.
Williams paused. He was holding out for a return promise to keep him out of jail. But McGuire wasn’t having it, and he couldn’t make that promise anyway.
“Don’t dare me, Rudy. I’m telling you right now, don’t play games with me. You’re not gonna like it. I’m the only thing standing between you and prison, and I’m walking out of here in ten seconds,” he said.
Williams threw back his drink and postured. Then he said, “The drawing. That’s my brother, Richard Williams. He went to high school with Charles Berkley. They’re friends.”
If true, McGuire knew this could be it. This could be the game. It was the best lead he’d come by in countless hours of pounding the pavement and scouring files around the clock.
“Okay, Rudy. I believe you. Sit tight,” McGuire said. “Don’t leave town. I’ll see what I can do.”
* * *
McGuire dug in with renewed vigor. Richard Williams…Richard Williams…His mind churned over the new lead. Was it bullshit or the real thing? He enlisted help in checking Richard Williams’s background. The results were stunning.
Richard Warren Williams, forty-three, was born in Brooklyn, New York. He went to Needles Trade High School in the Fort Greene area. Today, it’s called Brooklyn Tech. Records showed that Charles Berkley also attended Needles, which added credibility to Rudy Williams’s tip.
Like Berkley, Richard Williams served in the Korean War after high school. But he left Brooklyn in 1959, long before my kidnapping. He wanted a better life, apparently, and decided to cast his lot in sunny California. He opened a real estate agency in Los Angeles, where he specialized in selling homes to black and Hispanic clientele in the mostly all-white San Fernando Valley. By all accounts, he’d became a successful real estate entrepreneur.
Richard Williams seemed the epitome of the American Dream—not the kind of person who would mastermind an anti-Semitic-fueled kidnapping. His firm became one of the fastest growing real estate businesses in Southern California. He hired African Americans and Hispanics at a time when those groups were often locked out of good jobs. He became wealthy. Records showed he bought a plane, obtained a pilot’s license, and lived in a $100,000 home. He was a legitimate leader in the Los Angeles African-American community.
But there were plenty of cracks beneath the surface. At the height of his success, Richard Williams veered into black militancy. Despite not having a college degree, he was invited to teach at California State University, Northridge, about twenty-five miles from downtown L.A. It was 1969, and afro-militancy was a fringe ideology that gained traction in certain corners of college campuses, the California university system being ground zero. Williams became radicalized during his teaching stint and began hanging pictures of political radicals in his office, like Angela Davis and Malcolm X. Customers and employees were put off by the overt extremism, and his blossoming real estate empire abruptly collapsed.
Williams then left the country and relocated to Guyana, on the northeast coast of South America. The small Caribbean-bordering nation had gained its independence in 1966. Since the early nineteenth century, the former British colony functioned as a smattering of large sugarcane plantations that were serviced with African slave labor. Now it was free, and presumably Williams saw an entrepreneurial opportunity. He attempted to launch an airplane shuttle service from Guyana to the United States, but the plan never took off. Ironically, Williams became frustrated with the country’s socialistic restrictions on business and returned to Los Angeles dead-broke in the spring of 1974.
As McGuire and Guido were putting these pieces of the Jacknap puzzle together from information flowing in from both coasts, another major break surfaced.
“Danny,” McGuire said to Commissioner Guido, his boss, “send me to California.”