Buried Alive: The California School Bus Kidnappings of 1976

typhoonski/iStock via Getty Images
typhoonski/iStock via Getty Images

It was late afternoon on July 15, 1976, when the man in the pantyhose mask climbed aboard the school bus.

Only moments before, the children of Dairyland Elementary in Chowchilla, California, had finished their second-to-last day of summer school. Few dreaded the obligation: Dairyland’s summer program was fun and full of activities like crafts and swimming at the community pool. Some of the kids were still wet from splashing around. Many wore their bathing suits. They had all boarded Dairyland Bus Number 1 and greeted the driver, Frank Edward Ray. Monica Ardery, 5, was the youngest. Mike Marshall, 14, was among the oldest. In between were kids from all different grades, 26 children in all.

As the man waved a gun and ushered Ray to the back of the bus, two other men in masks joined him. They said little other than to prompt the children to move from the front seats. As one man stood in the aisle, the legs of the pantyhose dangling from either side of his head, Ardery had no clue she and her schoolmates would be driven for 11 hours to a rock quarry, where they would be ordered to climb inside a moving van buried in the dirt. She couldn’t know what the men wanted, or how the older boy, Marshall, would act with a courage that belied his age to stifle what would soon be one of the largest mass kidnappings in the history of the United States.

All Ardery saw were those pantyhose legs, almost comical in their appearance. They reminded her of ears. Maybe, she thought, it was just the Easter Bunny.

 

Before their photos were plastered over newspapers around the country, brothers Richard and James Schoenfeld and their friend Fred Woods were no more or less than three men in their early-to-mid-20s who had come to a crossroads. They had become intertwined back in high school—James and Fred Woods had graduated within a year of one another. All came from wealthy families in the Bay Area. The Schoenfeld patriarch was a podiatrist. Fred Woods’s father owned real estate and various businesses, including California Rock and Gravel Quarry in Livermore, California.

Despite their familial wealth, none of the young men appeared comfortable with the trajectory of their lives. James Schoenfeld worked as a busboy to put himself through college. His father had given him money to buy a Jaguar, but he was unable to afford the insurance premiums for it and had to sell the car. The men tried to invest in real estate but wound up losing, by one estimate, $30,000. James owed Fred Woods money. Fred Woods owed a cousin money. Their attempts at autonomy—to financially support themselves—were failing. As James saw his neighbors accrue more possessions, he developed envy issues. He didn’t feel he could achieve financial prosperity without making an audacious move.

Earlier, the men had discussed getting into the film business. They had conceived of a screenplay about a “perfect” crime. At some point, they decided the idea would be more lucrative if they simply committed it for real.

Later, James recalled that he had read that the state of California was experiencing a billion-dollar surplus. He told himself that meant the state could spare $5 million if it guaranteed the safe return of several children. They plotted to intercept a school bus, using Woods’s father’s quarry as a place to contain their victims until the ransom was paid. Children were selected, James later recalled, because they would provide little resistance.

Frank Ray, who went by “Ed,” was a farmer who had been a part-time bus driver for 23 years. With his young passengers on board, he was driving down the narrow Avenue 21 in Chowchilla that afternoon of July 15, 1976, when his route was interrupted by a white van parked in the road with its hood up. At first, Ray thought he might be able to go around the van. Then he decided they might need help. Before he could make a decision, one of the men wearing a pantyhose mask and brandishing a gun demanded he open the bus doors. The gunmen then climbed on, ordering everyone to the back of the bus. They traveled for roughly 15 minutes before one of the men steered the bus into a thicket of tall bamboo, obscuring it. Ray and the kids were ordered off and marched to two vans nearby, the bus left behind.

A child looks out of a school bus window
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The windows inside the vans had been blacked out, making it impossible for the children to know where they were going. All they knew was that the drive seemed interminable. An hour passed, then two, and then four. By the time the vans came to a stop, they had been driving for a total of 11 hours without any water or opportunity to use a bathroom. Older kids tried to console the younger ones by singing songs. “If you’re happy and you know it,” they sang, “clap your hands …”

If the kidnappers’ intent was to remain tight-lipped in order to keep the kids relatively calm, it worked. But once the children were led out of the vans and saw what was happening, several of them began to scream. One by one, they were led to a hole in the ground and ordered to descend a ladder. Below ground in the quarry was a moving van with an open hatch on top. It was buried in the Woods quarry so that the captives would be unable to pierce the metal walls of the cargo area and to keep it hidden from view. To the kids, however, it was nothing more than an oversized tomb.

The men demanded the names of the kids, along with their addresses, phone numbers, and a small article of clothing, like a piece of a shirt or, in Mike Marshall’s case, a cap. Under protest, they went inside, where they were confronted with mattresses and a paltry amount of food and water. When all of them, along with Ray, were inside, the men pulled up the ladder and dragged a steel plate over the opening, weighing it down with heavy tractor batteries. This was covered with plywood and dirt, which only added to the anxiety of the occupants.

Satisfied, Woods and the Schoenfelds drove away. It was 3:30 in the morning. The bus, which had long been overdue to make its final stop, had been reported missing. And the small town of Chowchilla was already in a panic.

 

The police were at a loss. Terrorism was mentioned, but Chowchilla, with its population of just 5000, seemed an unlikely target. The press reminded authorities that years prior, the Zodiac Killer in San Francisco had once threatened to kill a busload of schoolchildren. Without encouraging hysteria, the police said they were taking every possible scenario under consideration.

The empty school bus had been found around 7:30 p.m. the night of July 15, just hours after the kidnappers had intercepted it—a pilot canvassing the area had spotted it in the bamboo. Inside, police found no blood or any signs of foul play. Pieces of clothing were scattered on nearby roads, an apparent attempt to confuse anyone on their trail. From Friday night through Saturday, parents waited at home in a collective state of shock.

All the calls to police and to each other had jammed the local phone system. That proved problematic for the kidnappers, who had planned on phoning authorities with their demand for $5 million in ransom. Time after time, they tried making calls without any success. Satisfied the children weren’t going anywhere and tired from driving the 100 miles to Livermore and back to their hideout, they made a decision that would imperil their plans: They decided to take a long nap.

In the moving van, things were deteriorating. The kidnappers had put in air vents and fans to keep air circulating, but almost all of them had stopped working, leading to stifling conditions. The van reeked of urine. There was only enough food for one meal.

The side of a school bus is pictured
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Ray did his best to maintain his position as an authority figure, consoling the kids and maintaining an upbeat attitude, but it was difficult. The dirt thrown on top of the moving van was heavy and the roof was beginning to sag. In the heat of a California summer, the inside of the van was easily 100 degrees or more. Ray had no way of knowing whether the kidnappers had designs on getting money and releasing them or letting them starve and develop heat exhaustion. As the hours passed, a positive resolution was looking less and less likely.

Like the others, Mike Marshall was tired, hungry, and scared. But he was also growing indifferent to the consequences of making an attempt to escape. Ray was initially hesitant. He feared one of the men had been left to stand guard and might become violent if confronted. But Marshall persisted, enlisting a friend—whose identity is unclear—to help stack mattresses near the hatch so they could climb up and reach it. Using a wooden slat from one of the box springs, Marshall started jamming it in the small space between the van and the steel plate covering the opening. When he had enough room for his fingers, he gripped the plate and kept shoving, dislodging the tractor batteries and the dirt as his friend and Ray helped. It took hours, but he was eventually able to dislodge the plate, the plywood, and the dirt, emerging out into the sunlight around 7:30 p.m. that Saturday. The children had been missing for 27 hours.

The kids climbed up the mattresses and began running with Ray toward an office in the quarry. Marshall ran into the woods, intentionally separating himself from the group in case they ran into the kidnappers and he needed to get help. Fortunately, the men had not bothered to leave anyone behind to guard the van. At the office, a man keeping abreast of the news knew who they were immediately.

“This world’s been looking for you,” he said.

Soon, parents went from the darkest day of their lives to the brightest. All 26 children and Ray were alive and largely uninjured. Their fear disappeared, replaced with a throbbing anger. They wanted the perpetrators.

 

Ray gave the police a terrific break. Under hypnosis, he was able to recall one of the license plates on the vans used to shuttle the victims to the quarry. He even remembered most of the plate number on the other van. Authorities matched the numbers to vans found in a San Jose warehouse that had been leased by Woods, whose father owned the quarry. A search of the Woods estate revealed a draft of a ransom note.

But the kidnappers were nowhere to be found: They had learned their plot was foiled when they woke up from their nap and heard radio reports about the escape. They took off. Soon, a national manhunt was on for Woods and the Schoenfelds, who were considered armed and dangerous.

Alarmed by the all-points bulletin announcing the search, Richard Schoenfeld decided to turn himself in after roughly a week. Days later, James Schoenfeld was arrested in Menlo Park after someone recognized him driving a van. Frank Woods was located in Vancouver, British Columbia. The ensuing coverage of their respective family wealth confounded parents and media.

All three men pled guilty to kidnapping for ransom as part of a deal to drop 18 counts of robbery. They maintained a plea of not guilty to charges of kidnapping with bodily harm and passed on a jury trial. Prosecutor David Minier convinced Superior Court Judge Leo Deegan that the crime carried with it bodily harm, since three of the children reported some combination of nausea, nosebleeds, and fainting. That charge carried a mandatory sentence of life in prison without parole. All three were found guilty. Each man received 27 such sentences, one for each of the kidnap victims.

For Ray and the parents of the victims, it appeared justice had been served. Their ordeal, after all, had not ended with the safe recovery of their children. For years—and in many cases, decades—afterward, the kids of Chowchilla experienced tremendous anxiety, including nightmares. They had been locked in a dark, urine-soaked metal box for 16 hours. While the town was jubilant, throwing a parade for Ray and accepting invitations for the children to head to Disneyland, it was obvious the incident would leave permanent marks. Life without parole was not a fate anyone in Chowchilla had a second thought about.

The interior of a school bus is pictured
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Then a curious thing happened. In 1980, an appeals court determined that the judge had been wrong to declare that the crime had included bodily harm. The nosebleed, fainting spell, and nausea didn't count. The kidnappers were still imprisoned for life, but the distinction meant they were eligible for parole. Each kidnapper was denied a release dozens of times. Then, in 2012, Richard Schoenfeld was released. His brother, James, followed in 2015. Both had unblemished behavior records while incarcerated. Only Frank Woods, who had gotten into some disciplinary trouble, remained inside.

“My client was 22 at the time, and the plan was never to hurt anyone,” Scott Handleman, Richard Schoenfeld’s attorney, told the Los Angeles Times in 2011. “No one is condoning the crime, but to have taxpayers keep them in prison at this time is ludicrous. Vengeance is a luxury California can no longer afford.” Even former prosecutor Minier agreed, writing a letter encouraging the parole board to consider the release of Richard Schoenfeld in 2006. One of the lead detectives on the case, Dale Fore, dubbed them “dumb rich kids” who had “paid a hell of a price for what they did.” Fore, acting as a private detective for the Woods family, tried to get victims to write letters endorsing parole.

None agreed. In fact, they did just the opposite. In 2016, many of them signed up for a lawsuit accusing the two free men with false imprisonment and intentional or reckless infliction of emotional distress, a civil action allowed by California law for 10 years following a release on parole. (In 2017, the lawsuit entered mediation: No public announcement of any resolution has appeared.) Richard and James Schoenfeld moved in with their 93-year-old mother, with Richard serving as her caregiver and James performing architectural drafting work, a skill he acquired in prison. Woods is due for another parole hearing on October 8, 2019.

In a sense, the Schoenfelds may have endured the consequences of their actions for less time than some of the children. Now adults, some have reported continued therapy, claustrophobia, sleeping with nightlights, or refusing to let their own children board school buses, remnants of a trauma they experienced more than 40 years ago.

 

Ray went back to work for the Dairyland Union School District just two months after the incident, driving Dairyland Bus Number 1, the same one that had been hijacked. Along with Marshall, he was the one primarily responsible for keeping the kids calm. Though he did not consider his actions heroic, he was celebrated by then-president Gerald Ford, who wrote a letter congratulating him on his courage. Ray passed away in 2012 at the age of 91. He had bought the bus from Chowchilla because he didn't want to see it sent to a junkyard. He later gave it to a neighbor, who keeps it indoors on his property, an enduring testament to 27 brave individuals as well as one of the most bizarre crimes ever recorded.

Marshall, interviewed intermittently over the years for various anniversaries, also never considered himself a hero. He was not, in fact, even supposed to be on the bus that day. His mother normally picked him up but forced him to take alternative transportation because she had caught him sneaking beers with a friend. The teenager who had helped avoid a tragedy picked Dairyland Bus Number 1 more or less at random.

An Alaska Dentist Is Being Prosecuted for Riding a Hoverboard During a Tooth Extraction

LightFieldStudios/iStock via Getty Images
LightFieldStudios/iStock via Getty Images

In July 2016, an Alaskan dentist named Seth Lookhart extracted his patient’s tooth while standing on a hoverboard. After the procedure, he pulled off his gloves, glided down the hall, and threw his hands in the air in a show of (very misguided) triumph. He then texted a video of the whole affair to his friends and family, joking in at least one conversation that it was a “new standard of care.”

He’s getting prosecuted.

But it wasn’t the patient who took him to court—according to CNN, Veronica Wilhelm was sedated for the extraction, and she didn’t even know about the hoverboard incident until the state of Alaska asked her to confirm she was the patient in the video. Alaska charged [PDF] Lookhart with “unlawful dental acts,” claiming that riding a hoverboard during a procedure violates the minimum professional standards of dentistry.

Though Lookhart pleaded not guilty, his defense attorney, Paul Stockler, isn’t arguing that what his client did was fine. On the contrary, he asserted in court that Lookhart had made a “terrible lapse in judgment,” and even apologized to Wilhelm for it.

“It’s unacceptable and be assured that when I agreed to represent him, I got in his face and told him what I thought about him for doing this,” he said while cross-examining Wilhelm, according to KTUU.

Stockler maintains that however ill-advised Lookhart’s behavior may have been, it wasn’t criminal.

“Should he lose his dental license for a period of time, for forever? Is it a crime?” Stockler told CNN. “He’s not the first person to do something idiotic. I’ve seen things a lot worse and nobody’s ever had criminal charges filed against them. As the law is written, I don’t believe that’s a crime.”

It’s up to the court to decide if pulling a tooth on a hoverboard without getting permission from the patient does actually qualify as a crime. And according to KTUU, Wilhelm wouldn’t have given permission had she gotten the chance.

“I would’ve said ‘Hell no!’ No, that’s unprofessional. It’s crazy,” she said in court.

Even if Lookhart eludes conviction on this particular issue, he’s also facing more than 40 other charges. According to CNN, these include billing Medicaid for more than $25,000 in unnecessary or not properly justified procedures; engaging in a scheme to defraud Alaska Medicaid of $10,000; and diverting more than $25,000 in funds from Alaska Dental Arts.

Whatever the verdict, we should find out soon. The trial, which started on November 12, is expected to wrap up this week.

[h/t CNN]

When Theodore Roosevelt's Antique Gun Was Stolen From Sagamore Hill

Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain
Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

Shortly before hitting the battlefield on July 1, 1898, Theodore Roosevelt had a decision to make. He was about to lead a volunteer cavalry known as the Rough Riders in the Battle of San Juan Heights in Santiago, Cuba, during the Spanish-American War. In protecting both his life and the lives of his men during combat, what sidearm should he choose?

Roosevelt, an avowed arms enthusiast, had an arsenal in his personal collection as well as numerous firearms issued by the U.S. military. The gun he chose to holster on his waist was a Colt Model 1895 .38 caliber double-action revolver with six shots, a blue barrel, and a checkered wood grip. While it may not have been the most formidable weapon at his disposal, it was the most emotionally resonant. The gun, a gift from his brother-in-law, had been retrieved from the wreck of the U.S. battleship Maine, whose sinking had claimed the lives of 266 men and helped usher in the war. He considered the gun a tribute to the sailors and Marines lost in the tragedy.

Now it had become an instrument of that war. In the conflict, Roosevelt aimed his revolver at two opposing soldiers. He missed one. The other was struck—and the wound was fatal. “He doubled up as neatly as a jackrabbit,” Roosevelt later wrote.

Just a few years later, Roosevelt would be president of the United States. The gun remained in his possession until his death in 1919, and eventually came into the care of Sagamore Hill, his onetime home and later a historic site. The Colt occupied a place of honor in the property’s Old Orchard Museum, behind glass and next to the uniform that he wore during the charge.

In April of 1990, a museum employee walked past the display and noticed something unusual. The Colt was gone. The weapon used by the 26th president to kill a man would go missing for 16 years, recovered only under the most unusual of circumstances.

“This poor gun has been through a lot,” Susan Sarna, the museum’s curator, tells Mental Floss. “It was blown up on the Maine, sunk to the bottom, resurrected, goes to San Juan Hill, comes here, then gets stolen—twice.”

 

According to a 2006 article in Man at Arms magazine by Philip Schreier [PDF], the senior curator at the National Rifle Association’s National Firearms Museum, the Colt has indeed had a hectic life. Manufactured in Hartford, Connecticut, in March 1895, the firearm (serial number 16,334) was delivered from the factory to the U.S. government and wound up on board the USS Maine when the ship was first commissioned in September of that year. The gun was considered ship property and remained on board until February 15, 1898, when the Maine exploded in Havana, Cuba. Many blamed the Spanish for the explosion, and hundreds of men lost their lives.

At the time, Roosevelt’s brother-in-law, William S. Cowles, was heading the U.S. Naval Station. He and his team were sent to the site to inspect the scene. Divers retrieved bodies and other items, including the Colt. Knowing Roosevelt—at the time the Assistant Secretary of the Navy under President William McKinley—was fond of weapons and a genial warmonger, Cowles gave it to him as a gift. While it was perfectly functional, it's clear Cowles intended the Colt to serve to honor the memory of those who had died.

The Colt revolver that once belonged to Theodore Roosevelt is pictured on display at Sagamore Hill
Roosevelt's Colt revolver on display at Sagamore Hill.
Courtesy of Sagamore Hill National Historic Site

Roosevelt later took it into battle, using it to shoot at enemy forces. (He would earn a posthumous Medal of Honor in 2001 for his actions that day.) Shortly after, the weapon was inscribed to represent its participation in two exceptional events. On one side of the handle:

From the sunken battle ship Maine.

On the other:

July 1st 1898, San Juan, Carried and used by Col. Theodore Roosevelt.

Following Roosevelt’s death in 1919, the Sagamore Hill estate in Oyster Bay, New York, was home to his wife, Edith, until her death in 1948. The property was later donated to the National Park Service in 1963 and became Sagamore Hill National Historic Site. The gun went on display along with many of the former president's other personal effects, eventually settling in the Old Orchard near the uniform he wore during the Battle of San Juan Heights.

In 1963, the Colt came up missing for the first time. With no guard or contemporary security system in place, someone nicked it from the building. Fortunately, it was soon found in the woods behind the museum, slightly rusty from being exposed to the elements but otherwise unharmed. The perpetrator may have gotten spooked after taking off with it and decided to abandon the contraband, but no one had a chance to ask—he or she was never caught.

By April of 1990, the gun and uniform were in a display case borrowed from the American Museum of Natural History. While somewhat of a deterrent, it didn't offer much in the way of security. “The case could be lifted and the lock just popped open,” Sarna says.

Sarna had just started at the museum back then. According to her, the case had either been disturbed by a thief or possibly left open by someone cleaning the display, inviting a probing set of hands. Either way, the gun disappeared—but it wasn’t immediately obvious.

“No one was sure what day it had happened,” she says; the best guess was that the theft had occurred between April 5 and 7. “You’d have to walk into the room it was in and look in the case. If you’re just walking by, you’d see the uniform, but not necessarily the gun.”

It was chief ranger and head of visitor services Raymond Bloomer Jr. and ranger John Foster who discovered the theft one morning. The lock had been popped but the glass was not broken. Sarna and the other employees conducted a search of the property, believing that perhaps someone had taken the Colt out for cleaning. When that failed to produce any results, they notified the National Park Service, which is the first line of investigation for theft on government-owned park property. The NPS, in turn, contacted local authorities in Nassau County and Cove Neck, New York. Soon, the FBI was involved.

Predictably, law enforcement looked at museum employees with a critical eye. “There were all different types of people here interviewing us,” Sarna says. “In museums, the majority of thefts are an inside job.”

Theodore Roosevelt is pictured in uniform
Roosevelt in uniform while leading the Rough Riders.
Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

Park ranger and museum staffer Scott Gurney, who was hired in 1993, tells Mental Floss that the suspicion cast over employees—none of whom were ever implicated—remained a sore spot. “I found an old police report about it in a desk and asked a ranger about it,” Gurney says. “He got really mad at me and told me not to bring it up again. It was kind of a black eye for the people working there.”

As Sarna and the others set about installing a security system in the museum, the FBI started casting a wide net to locate the weapon, which was uninsured. “It was basically a shoplifting incident,” Robert Wittman, a retired FBI agent in their art crimes division who worked on the case from the mid-1990s on, tells Mental Floss. “It wasn’t all that unusual. In the 1970s and 1980s, lots of small museums were getting hit.” Worse, one of the museum staff working the front desk within view of the display was, according to Gurney, legally blind. The lack of security, Wittman says, was in part because pieces weren’t initially all that valuable on the collector’s market.

The Colt was unique in that it was so readily identifiable. Thanks to the inscriptions, it would invite questions if the thief attempted to sell the weapon. Any attempt to alter it would destroy its cultural value and defeat the purpose of taking it. The FBI sent notices to gun dealers and monitored gun shows in case it turned up. Nothing seemed promising.

“We heard things constantly,” Sarna says. “Someone said it was seen in Europe. Someone else said it was in private hands, or that a collector had it.” Later, when the museum was able to start receiving emails via the burgeoning world of the internet, more tips—all dead ends—came in. Another rumor had the gun being bought during a gun buyback program in Pennsylvania and subsequently destroyed. This one looked promising, as it bore the same serial number. But it turned out to be a different model.

A reward was offered for information leading to the gun’s retrieval, with the amount eventually climbing to $8100. But that still wasn’t sufficient for the gun to surface. “We really had no lines on it,” Wittman says.

Then, in September 2005, Gurney began receiving a series of calls while working in the visitor’s center. The man had a slight speech impediment, he said, or might have been intoxicated. Either way, he told Gurney he knew where the gun was. “He told me it was in a friend’s house, but that he didn’t want to get the friend in trouble.”

The man continued calling, each time refusing to give his name and ignoring Gurney’s suggestion to simply drop the gun in the mail. The man also spoke to Amy Verone, the museum’s chief of cultural resources. He was certain he had seen Theodore Roosevelt’s gun, wrapped in an old sweatshirt in DeLand, Florida. He described the engravings to Verone, who hung up and immediately called the FBI.

 

After more calls and conversations, including one in which Gurney stressed the historical importance of the weapon, the caller eventually relented and gave his information to the FBI. A mechanical designer by trade, Andy Anderson, then 59, said he had seen the gun the previous summer. It had been shown to him by his girlfriend, who knew Anderson was a history buff. She told Anderson her ex-husband had originally owned the firearm. It had been in a closet wrapped in a sweatshirt before winding up under a seat in the woman’s mini-van, possibly obscured by a dish towel. Presumably, her ex had been the one who had stolen it back while visiting the museum as a New York resident in 1990.

Theodore Roosevelt's Rough Riders uniform is pictured on display at Sagamore Hill
Roosevelt's Rough Riders uniform sits on display at Sagamore Hill next to his Colt.
Courtesy of Sagamore Hill National Historic Site

After Anderson contacted Sagamore Hill, FBI agents were dispatched from the Daytona Beach office to DeLand to question Anderson. He obtained the revolver from his girlfriend and handed it over, though he apparently tried to convince the FBI to let him return the weapon without disclosing the thief’s identity. The FBI didn’t agree to an anonymous handoff, however, and in November 2006 the ex-husband, a 55-year-old postal employee whom we’ll refer to as Anthony T., was charged with a misdemeanor in U.S. District Court in Central Islip, New York.

Wittman remembers that the split between Anthony T. and his wife had been acrimonious and that she had no involvement in the theft. “We were not going to charge her with possession of stolen property,” he says.

Wittman went to Florida to pick up the Colt and brought it back to the Philadelphia FBI offices, where it was secured until prosecutors authorized its return to Sagamore Hill on June 14, 2006. Schreier, the NRA museum’s senior curator, arrived at Sagamore Hill with Wittman, FBI Assistant Director in Charge in New York Mark Mershon, and Robert Goldman, the onetime U.S. assistant attorney and art crime team member who was himself a Roosevelt collector and had doggedly pursued the case for years. When Schreier confirmed its authenticity, the gun was formally turned back over.

There was no reasonable defense for Anthony T. In November of that year, he pled guilty to stealing the Colt. While he was eligible for up to 90 days in jail and a $500 fine, Anthony T. received two years of probation along with the financial penalty and 50 hours of community service. According to Wittman, cases of this sort are based in part on the dollar value of the object stolen—the weapon was valued at $250,000 to $500,000—not necessarily its historical value. “The sentencing may not be commensurate with the history,” Wittman says.

From that perspective, the Colt takes on far greater meaning. It was used in a battle that cemented Roosevelt’s reputation as a leader, one credited with helping bolster his national profile. It was used in commission in the death of a human being, giving it a weight and history more than the sum of its metal parts.

“It’s looked at as one of his greatest triumphs,” Sarna says of the Rough Riders and the U.S. victory in the 1898 conflict. “It brought us into a new century and out of isolationism.”

It’s once more on display at Sagamore Hill, this time under far better security and surveillance. (Though the museum is still vulnerable to heists: a reproduction hairbrush was recently swiped.) Sarna, who wasn’t sure if she would ever see the Colt again, is glad to see it where it belongs.

“Thank goodness they got divorced,” she says.

It’s not publicly known why Anthony T. felt compelled to take the Colt. Wittman describes it as a crime of opportunity, not likely one that was planned. After the plea, Anthony T. was let go from his job, and his current whereabouts are unknown. Prosecutors called it a mistake in judgment.

Anderson, the tipster, lamented any of it had to happen. “We’re talking about a mistake he made 16 years ago,” Anderson told the Orlando Sentinel in November 2006. “I have no regrets, but I never meant to cause trouble. I wish Anthony the best.”

If Anthony T. was an admirer of Roosevelt’s, he might find some poetic peace in the fact that he pled guilty to violating the American Antiquities Act of 1906, which was instituted to prevent theft of an object of antiquity on property owned by the government.

That bill was signed into law by Theodore Roosevelt.

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