As
the media furor over the Ice Box Murders subsided, the consensus was that while
Charles Rogers was missing, he wasn’t necessarily lost.
Frustrated
homicide detectives, not being able to identify any other suspects or come up
with any other motive, defaulted to looking at Charles as nothing more than a
murderous psycho as public attention waned and the trail went cold. Scarcely a hint of his existence could be
detected, and yet there was an uneasy sense that he was just beyond their
grasp.
There
wasn’t a lot to help them. The Rogers
home contained no recent photos of Charles.
Most of the ones they found were of Charles as a child or of him as a sailor
on home leave during World War 2. The
picture which ran in the newspapers and appeared on the evening newscasts was
nearly a decade old. It was from his last
employee ID with Shell Oil. It showed a thin-faced
man with an inscrutable expression and a slightly receding hairline. Hardly anyone knew for sure what he looked
like now.
This
ambiguity worked to Charles’ advantage. No
one noticed him on the street in hours after he drove away from 1815
Driscoll. Charles was seen by a
bartender that evening at the Morningside Club, a private club frequented by
petroleum industry professionals.
Charles was having a quiet dinner and drinks with his sometime girlfriend Jean. Jean seemed visibly upset, even tearful, to the bartender who served them. The bartender, who respected his patrons’
privacy, had never learned the couple’s names even though they were familiar
faces at the Morningside Club.
Charles
probably spent that night at Jean’s apartment.
The murders had made the evening news and now Charles was a wanted
man. She was doubtlessly shocked at what
Charles had done, but she was also well aware of the lifetime of abuse he had
suffered from his parents. Through the
night they hammered out a plan. It had
its risks, but as long as Charles kept a low profile it would work. However, his hastily revised escape plan
required at least one last semi-conspicuous public appearance.
Charles
decided that since the authorities expected him to flee by plane, he would have
to obtain a car. Knowing the popularity
of American luxury cars in Mexico, Charles and Jean thought a late-model Cadillac
would be a quite suitable vehicle that could be sold or bartered away if
anything went awry.
Charles' choice of an escape vehicle would puzzle a lot of people today. The
Cadillac marque has lost much of its luster over the years, though automotive
journalists have periodically touted its resurgence. High-end European and Japanese makes are more
appealing to the contemporary driver. At
one time, however, Cadillac was what every upwardly mobile American family
aspired to. In 1965, Cadillac was the self-proclaimed
“Standard of the World.” Corporate
debacles such as the 8-6-4 engine, the Cimarron (basically an overpriced,
gussied-up Chevy Cavalier), the Allanté, and the Catera were all in the
future. In 1965, a Cadillac was still the
car to own.
Charles
had money to make the purchase, but even if he used an alias there was a huge
risk of being recognized if he went to an authorized dealer. Jean could make the buy, but she would also
face raised eyebrows. She was a single
woman at a time when most single women (and women generally) were relegated to
low-paid work and thus would be an unlikely Cadillac customer on her own. If she said she was married, the salesman
would insist upon speaking with her husband before making a sale.
Fortunately,
several things were working in Charles’ favor.
Through the ever-shady Anthony Pitts, Charles knew an auto shop owner
who refurbished used Cadillacs. Even
more fortuitously this garage was within walking distance of Jean’s office at
the Fluor Corporation. If a buyer had
the cash, the owner, a man named Al Jarvis, wouldn’t be finicky about who that
buyer was.
Jean
was to make the purchase the following day.
She would then drive the car back to Fluor and park it in the employee’s
lot. Charles would stop by the
office under a pretext, pick up the keys from Jean, and drive off to freedom.
Charles
would need to disguise himself, though.
Not so much as to be obvious, but just enough of a change to his
everyday appearance so as to not arouse suspicion. He had grown a scraggly mustache over the
past few days, but it hadn’t filled in yet.
Jean would apply light makeup to his face, experimenting through the
night until she was sure he wouldn’t be recognized right off.
In
a time where we need picture ID for everything it’s hard to imagine another
element working in Charles’ favor. Most
states issued driver licenses without photos in the mid-1960s, Texas among
them. California had started issuing
photo licenses a few years earlier but it was an exception. It would be another decade before Texas
drivers carried licenses with their pictures on them. Even as late as the 1990s, some states still
issued laminated licenses which were ridiculously easy for even an amateur to
alter.
It
so happened Charles was not bearing Charles Rogers’ identification when he left
his house for good. He was Anthony Pitts
of Kerrville, Texas. Charles fit Pitts’ written
description on the license. They were
years apart in age, but that didn’t matter much as the middle-aged Charles was
still quite boyish looking. He could
pass.
As
planned, Jean visited the Jarvis garage in the morning. Al in fact did have a suitable chariot on
hand. It was a cream colored 1959 model. Jean, a methodical sort, inspected the car to
make sure it ran well and had nothing to arouse a traffic cop’s suspicion like
a faulty taillight or broken turn signal.
She closed the deal and drove off, but not until after Al Jarvis had thrown
in a five gallon can of gas for good measure.
Sometime
in the early afternoon, a slightly built man calling himself Anthony Pitts
dropped by Fluor asking about job opportunities for welders. Jean politely handed him an employment
application and was about to send him on his way when her boss, the HR manager,
unexpectedly walked in. A sociable guy,
he struck up a conversation with Pitts.
Pitts kept his cool and disengaged himself as soon as he could without
arousing suspicion.
“Pitts”
made his way through the parking lot as nonchalantly as he dared to the 1959
Cadillac. Charles Rogers would make good
his escape. The next afternoon he
crossed into Mexico and eluded the long arm of the law for good.
To
be continued…
©
2019 The Unassuming Scholar
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