Thanksgiving eve, 1971. A man using the name Dan Cooper, wearing a suit and black tie, purchased a one-way ticket for a flight on Northwest Orient Airlines from Portland to Seattle. To the horror of passengers, he claimed to have a bomb. The plane landed in Seattle, where the hijacker demanded $200,000 in ransom, four parachutes and food for the crew. His request was granted and he released all the passengers, keeping only a pilot and stewardesses on board.
When he made the plane take off again, he waited until the aircraft was at altitude then jumped out, disappearing into the Pacific Northwest night. And with that now-infamous jump, D.B. Cooper carved out a piece of popular culture so prolific, people still find themselves fascinated with the crime 45 years after the incident.
But where did D.B. Cooper go (the media mistakenly shortened the name)? A four-hour documentary on the History Channel from Ventura, Calif.-based filmmaker Thomas J. Colbert suggests he’s living in a quiet condominium in San Diego, with a 45-foot yacht anchored on Coronado Island. Colbert claims that 72-year-old Robert W. Rackstraw is Cooper. And it makes some sense that the former army paratrooper was skilled enough, and humble enough, to make it happen. Check out Rackstraw’s reaction when Colbert questions him in b-roll used in a San Diego Union Tribune video, below (be sure and hit full screen). He doesn’t exactly make the accusations sound outlandish.
Colbert has subsequently pleaded with the FBI to re-open the case. But the Bureau doesn’t seem to want anything to do with it, having thrown countless resources at it over the years. A thousand U.S. military troops were sent in to search for the hijacker. And when a young boy found a wad of cash at Tena Bar on the Columbia River, north of Portland in 1980, the first break in the case, it sent the FBI scrambling to analyze the beach and surrounding area.
“Every time the FBI assesses additional tips for the case, investigative resources and manpower are diverted from programs that more urgently need attention,” read a statement released to the SUT. “Although the FBI will no longer actively investigate, should specific physical evidence emerge — related specifically to the parachutes or the money taken by the hijacker — individuals with those materials are asked to contact their local FBI field office.”
Translation? They’re sick of chasing this guy around and looking like idiots. The Cooper hijacking has influenced countless pieces of pop culture with references in dozens of movies and books over the years. But cases like this, which fascinate me and seemingly thousands of others, continue to capture our attention. But why? We’re basically idolizing complete outlaws? People who are sometimes responsible for the deaths of innocent people or, at best, put other’s lives in danger. Why are we so infatuated with outlaw stories?
Johnny Utah and Bodhi, Point Break.
My theory boils down to this: it has everything to do with money and freedom, which as much as we claim to have in America, sometimes we find ourselves in situations where we just don’t have much of either. We take out a second mortgage to buy a car, lose our jobs, pop out one-too many children and find ourselves at the bottom of the economic ladder looking up at what can seem like an endless rung of monetary hurdles to climb. Stress becomes us as the bills mount. We’ve all been there in some form or another.
So we long to escape, to get rich easy while giving one glorious middle finger to the man that has held us down for way too long. And if we can’t do it ourselves, we root for others to do it for us. And the good among us especially love those stories where the hero is smart enough–and quiet enough (see humble)–to not hurt anyone, make money and disappear into the night like Cooper (or Rackstraw) did.
Modern Robin Hood, John Dillinger.
That’s why movies like the original Point Break are so popular. Or why notorious criminals like Claude Dallas–who killed two Fish and Game officers in a shootout in the Owyhee Canyonlands in 1981— was able to avoid the law for a year, then another after he escaped from prison, with the help of locals in Idaho, Nevada and Oregon who were anti-federal government. Or Robin Hood, who stole from the Sheriff of Nottingham and the rotten King John to give to the poor. Robin Hood might be why people were so enamored with bank robber John Dillinger’s escapades in the 1930s, who with his gang robbed so many banks he was credited with robberies he didn’t commit. Dillinger reportedly gave small amounts of his earnings to people who helped him, which made him a folk hero. Wide-spread poverty due to the Great Depression and angst towards police oppression at the time thanks to prohibition only fueled that fascination.
We long to escape. And have a penny to our name while doing so. Stories of hero criminals who do their best to avoid harming others while getting rich and giving the one-finger salute to the man fuel that underground American fantasy. Is it okay to idolize criminals? Probably not. But wrong or right has never stopped the mind from wandering.
