The Abduction

Pearce continued, “We thought of that. We believe that if he did fly out it would be on America Airlines. Otherwise, why

meet you where he did? We checked the destination of each American flight for the next hour, there were three by the way.

We have an agent meeting each flight as it arrives and taking pictures of each male passenger. That’s the best we can do

under the circumstances but at least, with the pictures, we may be able to identify him. I should be receiving prints at any

moment.”

Somewhat mollified Wilson walked over to console his wife, who had begun to cry again as soon as the bad news was

announced.

“We need to know what kind of formula you gave him and what he will do to test it,” said Sergeant Thomas who, until

now, had been quiet.

“I gave him the procedural formula for a gas that has similar properties to the D16 gas he was trying to obtain. It’s

different in one important way. The D16 attacks the nervous system and causes areas affected by it to lose all muscular

control. The severity of it depends on the time of exposure; it could cause death or permanent paralysis if the exposure time

is longer than an hour. On the other hand, the gas he can produce from the formula I gave him acts more like a powerful

sedative. It will cause a person to be dysfunctional for a period of time. In this respect it may appear to be creating the same

effect as the D16, but it is not. It causes only a temporary dysfunction.

“Which brings up another point. Either the kidnapper is a highly trained chemist or he has the services of one. It would

take someone with a great deal of training and, I might add, a very well equipped laboratory to carry out the steps required to

produce the gas.

“You might search in your files for a rogue chemist, someone who has been involved in or suspected of illicit activities in

the chemical field.”

“That’s a great idea,” said Pearce. “I’ll have my office start on it right away.”

When the three left a few minutes later Wilson sat next to Frances and held her hand, still angry with the police but acting

calm with her and talking in an encouraging manner. This helped placate Frances but she still sat there wringing her hands

and staring vacantly into space.

Sunday, 3 A.M.

Donald Sanderson arrived at the cottage near Ottumwa after landing in Chicago and taking a taxi to the garage where

the car was stored. As was the usual case, when he arrived at O’Hare International Airport from St. Louis the airport was a

beehive of activity, even at 7:30 in the evening. If there were surveillance units at the airport on the lookout for him they would

have more difficulty picking him out of a crowd than he would in recognizing them.

After conferring briefly with Pat and Juke he went to bed, tired from the long day and long drive he had just completed.

Jimmy, lying awake in his upstairs room, heard Sanderson’s arrival and vainly tried to listen to the conversation. Most of

it was spoken quietly, the only recognizable word Jimmy understood was laboratory. His active mind was busy trying to

attach some meaning to this word when Juke opened the door to look in on him. Immediately, Jimmy feigned sleep.

They had taken no chances of his escaping again. As there was no iron bedstead to handcuff him to in this room they

had secured each of his ankles to a chain which was wrapped several times around each bed rail. This created difficulties

for Jimmy in trying to get comfortable. His buttocks was too tender from the shots he had received for him to lie on his back;

this meant he had to sleep on his stomach or his side. Each time he turned from one side to the other he had to drag a

length of chain with him. Fortunately, they had not secured his hands, yet. He would have to come up with some way to take

advantage of this situation.

Sunday, 8 A.M.

Chandler Pearce, at his office in downtown St. Louis, had a crew of agents busy on the computer following the lead

Wilson Yates had suggested the previous evening. They were searching computer files for any trained chemists whose

names had been connected with illegal activities. So far, they had drawn a blank.

Another crew was analyzing pictures they received from agents in the various cities where American Airlines flights

arrived from St. Louis Saturday evening. Altogether 39 pictures had been taken of men arriving at the three different cities

projected. Each of these pictures had to be faxed to Washington to be fed into the computer there and then an identification

made, if possible, of each man.

By 9 A.M. the computer scan had been completed with no names emerging. “If this man has been involved in some

pharmaceutical scam he hasn’t been caught,” one of the agents conjectured. “Either he’s clean or his activities have been in

something other than the chemical field.”

Sunday, 10 A.M.

Jimmy was at it again. When his captors brought him breakfast that morning he had managed to hide a spoon. That,

and a bar of soap he had sneaked from the bathroom, were the latest tools he was using in an escape attempt.

He had managed, by enduring more agonizing pain, to force the loop of each of his chains over the foot of the bed. After

massaging his two sore ankles he lay on his back and looked up to where the bed rails were connected to the foot. He

noticed that two large screws connected each rail to the foot and was soon busy using the spoon as a screwdriver. It was a

laborious process, the screws had been in place for such a long time that they were difficult to budge. More than an hour

passed before he removed the first one. Knowing he had to rest before he could continue he slipped this screw into his

pocket and went through the painful procedure of returning the chains to their original positions and lay down for a restorative

nap.

Sunday, 12 Noon

Within an hour of each other the law officers got two breaks. The police had re-canvassed the area where Jimmy was

abducted, showing pictures to residents of the area when a young black man pointed to one of the pictures and said, “I saw

that man Friday. He came into the gas station where I work to get gas for his car. The only reason I remember him is ‘cause

of the way he was dressed. You know, suit and tie and all that jazz. No one in that neighborhood dresses like that.”

Further questioning of the man failed to provide any more information. He couldn’t remember what kind of car it was,

only that it was black and fairly new. He also had not seen the license plate.

The policeman involved called his station and reported the incident. He identified the picture by a code number which

had been assigned to it. The ongoing search through the FBI files provided the name Donald Sanderson, a Kansas City

address, and the additional fact that he had a Ph.D in chemistry and at one time had taught chemistry at a small college in

Kansas. He had lost his teaching position two years ago following a court case in which he had been accused of

misappropriating funds at the college. Although there hadn't been sufficient evidence to prove his guilt the college had not

renewed his contract. Since then his whereabouts were not known.

This information was disseminated rapidly to all police networks along with an all points bulletin to observe and report but

not apprehend. Lieutenant Simon broke the news to Wilson Yates. “It the first step, we know who he is and what he looks

like. Sooner or later he’ll be seen again, then we can proceed further.”

Sunday, 3 P.M.

After Jimmy had been fed his lunch he returned to the task of removing the screws from the bed frame. He sure hoped

he would never have to work this hard again. Two more hours of manipulating his makeshift screwdriver resulted in one

more screw removed and an accumulation of blisters on his hands. This added to the sore ankles and sore butt he had

previously acquired. Also, the spoon was bent out of shape and wouldn’t last much longer before it broke into two pieces.

This didn’t deter Jimmy one bit, his determination was such that he clenched his jaw and continued.

Meanwhile, in Kansas City, the FBI had called out agents in all areas known to have been frequented by Sanderson. He

hadn’t been seen in any of his usual haunts for more than six months. Continued digging in Kansas City brought out one

additional piece of information. A bartender on the fringe of the city remembered seeing Sanderson in close conversation

with a known thug about three months prior to the kidnapping. The thug’s name was Jared St. John, better known as Juke.

Sunday, 5 P.M.

Chandler Pearce and Lieutenant Simon conferred at police headquarters. Juke St. John's file had been faxed from

Washington and they were studying his record. There had been several arrests for strong-arm robberies and two prison

terms, one a sentence of three years and one of five years. Each sentence had been commuted for good behavior so that

altogether he had served less than four years. A recent armed robbery in Omaha had resulted in the police in that city

wanting him for questioning. No previous kidnapping was listed in his file.

Police and FBI agents in other cities, principally Kansas City, questioned his known accomplices and acquaintances.

So far, no leads had developed to indicate his present location.

The search was also intensified for additional information about Donald Sanderson. One FBI agent, after several hours

with negative results, finally contacted an official at the college where Sanderson had taught. Arrangements were made for

the agent to meet the official at the college to examine Sanderson’s personal file. Hopefully, additional information could be

gleaned that would lead to his whereabouts.

Sunday, 9 P.M.

Jimmy had managed, despite two painful hands, to remove the final two screws which held the bed rails in place. He

then slid his chains off the end of the rails leaving him still hobbled but not attached to anything. His problem now became

what to do next. He could not come up with any method of removing the chains from his ankles, which meant he had to drag

them or carry them. Carrying them seemed the only solution, otherwise he would make so much noise his captors would be

sure to hear him.

His next move, in any case, would have to wait until they were in bed. The only problem would be if they checked on him

before they went to bed. It would be obvious, from the slant of the bed, what he had done. Oh well, as there was nothing he

could do for now, he lay down on the floor to rest while waiting for everyone to be asleep.

The agent who visited Sanderson’s former college had come up with another possible lead to Sanderson. His

personnel file showed he had been married at one time and his former wife had an address near Kansas City.

When the agents checked the address listed for Sanderson’s ex-wife they discovered she no longer lived there and

apparently had moved several years ago. None of her former neighbors had a clue as to her new residence.

Monday, 3 A.M.

Sanderson, in his downstairs bedroom, woke suddenly at the sound of shouting from upstairs. Instantly alert he threw a

robe on over his pajamas and ran upstairs, followed by Pat O’Hara, to find the cause of the commotion. His worst fears were

confirmed, the boy had escaped again.

“How did he do it this time?” he asked Judd who was standing at the door to the room looking bewildered.

“He took his bed apart,” was the frustrated answer. “There ain’t no way of knowing how long he’s been gone neither. I

listened at his door when I went to bed at 11 o’clock but didn’t hear nothing.”

“We’d better go look for him; with those chains on his ankles he can’t be very far,” replied Sanderson. “Juke, you go

north and search the woods; Pat can go south. I’ll drive around the roads. Each of you take an air horn with you and if you

find him blow your horn twice. Make sure you look in and under anything that might provide a hiding place.”

Sanderson ran out to the garage and got into his car. The others fanned out to search the woods in each direction.

Jimmy was a half mile away lying under the edge of a boathouse. It had been an extremely fatiguing journey to get even

that far. He was cold and hungry and was trying to decide what to do next. He had no idea where he was or in which

direction to go to find help. A nearby house, probably the one where the owners of the boathouse lived, was empty and

boarded up. If nothing else he would break into the house; at the very least he might find food there.

He heard the sound of a vehicle nearby, then the sound of a door closing. Peering out he saw Sanderson approaching.

Damn, I hope he doesn’t look under here, were his thoughts. Sanderson approached the boathouse and walked all around

it, tried the door and looked part way underneath. Fortunately, where Jimmy was hiding was dark, even the bright flashlight

Sanderson was using didn’t penetrate enough to detect Jimmy.

The house was no longer an option; they were sure to keep a close eye on it. The river wasn’t an option either; from what

Jimmy could see it was too deep and fast moving. To attempt a crossing with the chains still attached would be dangerous.

Maybe he could steal a boat. There had to be something in the boathouse, if he could find a way to open the door.

Monday, 10 A.M.

The FBI agent in Kansas City hadn’t given up on his search for Sanderson’s ex-wife. His inquiries at Sanderson’s

former college and at the wife’s last known address had reached a dead end. However, if Sanderson or his wife had lived in

the Kansas City area there might be a record of their marriage; possibly also their divorce. His next step was a search in the

various offices where records of such proceedings were filed.

At his first stop he struck paydirt. Mrs. Sanderson’s maiden name was Julia Stone and an address was listed in Kansas

City. In hopes that this was her parents’ home the agent checked the local telephone directory and again was successful.

Mrs. Stone was home and was quite willing to talk to an agent of the FBI.

Agent Burleson drove to the Stones’ house and introduced himself, showing his credentials. “We’re trying to find your

daughter’s former husband, Donald Sanderson. We hoped Julia could provide a lead but haven’t been able to locate her.

That’s why I’m here. Do you have a current address for Julia?”

“What has that man done now?” queried Mrs. Stone, a gray-haired, heavy set woman in her late sixties.

“I’m not allowed to disclose that,” Burleson replied. “All I can tell you is we need to find him.”

“That man, it’s a wonder he wasn’t put in prison years ago. Wait here and I’ll get you Julia’s present address. She’s

living in Seattle now with her new husband.”

Mrs, Stone brought agent Burleson a card on which she had written her daughter’s address. After thanking her Burleson

returned to his office and called the FBI office in Seattle.

Before noon an agent in Seattle had talked to the former Mrs. Sanderson, an attractive woman in her mid-forties. He

was able to glean additional information to add to the file being put together. Her comments to the agent were very

revealing. “Wherever Donald is you can be sure there’s a young, sexy woman with him. He was always a womanizer, which I

discovered after we had been married only a few months. We flew to Las Vegas frequently so he could indulge in his other

main vice, gambling. I don’t know where he got the money from but he always had a bankroll to flash around.

“It was the trips to Las Vegas that finally brought an end to our marriage. Every time we were there he would embarrass

me by flirting with the waitresses and showgirls. I know for sure there was more than one he had an affair with. If I were you I

would check the Stardust or one of the other large hotels there. They would know him and could probably give you some

leads.”

Las Vegas added more to the file. Sanderson had been there two months previously and had become acquainted with

one of the showgirls at the Stardust. When he checked out she left the show and apparently went with him. A picture was

obtained, along with the name Patricia O’Hara, and an address in San Jose, California. This information was faxed to

Chandler Pearce in St. Louis.

Monday, 2 P.M.

Lieutenant Simon passed all the latest information on to Mr. and Mrs. Yates and again encouraged them to be patient

and not lose faith.

In Ottumwa, Sanderson and his two aides had covered the area thoroughly and found no trace of Jimmy. “We had better

accept defeat and clear out,” said Sanderson. “It galls me that a boy could outwit us, but apparently he has. If we stay here

any longer we’ll be surrounded by John Law.”

Sanderson had rechecked each of the places he had investigated earlier in case he had missed something the first

time. When he returned to the boathouse Jimmy, who had been about to crawl out, burrowed even deeper into the shadows.

As soon as Sanderson drove off he scurried out from underneath and snaked his way to the river’s edge. From there he

worked his way slowly and quietly southeast along the bank, away from the house where he had been held captive.

In a short time Jimmy came to a wide expanse of lawn that sloped gradually down to the river from a well kept New

England style cottage. As he started to cross the lawn a man came out of the back door of the house and stood staring at

him. Jimmy wanted to run, then when he realized the man was neither Sanderson nor Juke he slumped to the ground and

began to cry.

The man rushed over at once and exclaimed, “My God, where did you come from? And what’s that on your ankles?”

Somewhat incoherently Jimmy responded, “I’ve j-just escaped from kidnappers. Please help me.”

Without further comment the man picked Jimmy up and carried him into the house. Inside he informed his wife what

Jimmy had said, then added, “Why don’t you call the police and I’ll check him out. Then you can get him something to eat

while I get my chain cutters and take those nasty things off his ankles.”

The woman picked up the phone and dialed 911. The call was answered in a few seconds and she identified herself as

Jean Solter, Dr. Solter’s wife, then gave her address. “We have a boy here who says he just escaped from kidnappers. My

husband is a physician so he’s checking the boy to see if he’s okay.” After a pause in which the other person made a

comment Mrs. Solter continued, “good, we’ll be watching for you.”

While waiting for the emergency team to arrive Dr. and Mrs. Solter were able to get a good hot meal into Jimmy and to

remove his leg irons. While they were providing the help Jimmy sat there trying to control his sobbing but was not able to do

so.

Mrs. Solter was sympathetic towards him and said, “It’s only natural that you would cry after what you’ve been through.

I’m sure I would be very upset also.”

A few minutes later an ambulance and a state trooper’s car pulled up in front of the house simultaneously. Two men

carrying a first aid kit exited the ambulance and approached the front door accompanied by the state trooper, in uniform.

“We haven’t asked him any questions,” said Dr. Solter. “But I did examine him and found him in pretty good shape. His

eyes are dilated some, indicating he’s been drugged and there are needle marks on his buttocks. Also, his pulse is a little

above normal and he has blisters on his hands and ankles. Other than that all his vital signs are in the normal range. He

should be hospitalized anyway, to be on the safe side.”

The men thanked Dr. Solter for the information and, while one of them returned to the ambulance for a stretcher, the state

trooper asked Jimmy if he could answer a few questions.

“Yes,” Jimmy replied. “My name is Jimmy Yates and I live in St. Louis at 4359 Dinerny Street.” He told the officer his

phone number and asked what other questions he wanted answered.

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