Deep Dive
Shownotes Transcript
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Barbara Mackle feels around frantically for the light switch. She's in a blackness so dark she can't see anything. Not her feet, not her hands, not the lid of the box she's trapped in, which is screwed shut just inches above her head. Seconds ago, the only light bulb illuminating the box's interior flickered and went out.
Now, Barbara feels the same kind of panic that seized her when she was first buried here. What, yesterday? The man, the head kidnapper, took her watch, so she has no concept of how much time has actually passed. Her heart is racing, her breath coming in short, hard gasps. Her flu symptoms only seem to have gotten worse. She's so congested, she has to breathe through her mouth.
She tries again to turn on the light, inching her fingers along the plywood wall behind her head, until she finally finds the switch. She flicks it off and on. Nothing.
The kidnappers left a note explaining how the box works. The light runs on the same battery that keeps fresh air circulating in her tiny compartment. The note warned that if she kept it on, the battery life would be cut short. No battery, no air. So she tried to keep the light off for stretches of time, but she would get panicky and have to turn it back on. The darkness had been too much to bear.
Now it's off, and it's staying off. She's certain she'll go insane in this blackness. She kicks her feet and hears the rustle of a paper bag. She hooks it with her foot and drags it toward her grasping hand. She opens it and feels around the inside. There's something smooth and hard with a stem, an apple, and something small and hard wrapped in plastic.
She unwraps it and puts it on her tongue. A caramel. The note had also said something about tranquilizer pills. At this point, she'd take one if only to lose herself in sleep for a while. But she doesn't feel a pill bottle or any pills. The kidnapper probably lied about it. He's lied about everything. She's convinced of it. He definitely lied about them coming back to check on her.
She's heard nothing in all the hours she's been stuck here. She tries to stretch her legs. She's so stiff, but she can't stretch out all the way. So she lies on her side until her hip is aching against the hardness of the box. Then she feels it.
Wetness. Something is dripping on her leg. She feels it again, this time on her face. She reaches up and feels along the ceiling of the box. It's wet. She remembers something in the note about being under the water table. And now, the box is leaking. "Oh my God," she thinks. "I'm not going to suffocate in here. I'm going to drown."
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Progressive Casualty Insurance Company & Affiliates. Price and coverage match limited by state law. From Wondery, I'm Cassie DePeckel, and this is Against the Odds. In December of 1968, the FBI launched a massive operation to find Barbara Mackle, who had been kidnapped at gunpoint from her motel room in Atlanta.
Her kidnappers had buried her in an underground capsule, which was ventilated by a fan powered by a battery that would soon run out. In the meantime, agents assisted Mackle's wealthy father as he prepared to deliver the ransom, $500,000 in cash. And the kidnappers began executing their elaborate plan to collect the cash and make a keen getaway. This is episode three, The Draw. ♪
Billy Vessels rises from his chair and paces around the den of the Mackle home in Coral Gables, Florida. It's 5.30 in the morning on Wednesday, December 18th, just over 24 hours since Barbara Mackle was taken.
Vessels barely slept last night. He's just too wired. He arrived here late last night with Barbara's parents, Robert and Jane, after flying back from Atlanta. Robert and his two brothers, Elliot and Frank, spent most of the night trying to figure out which business deal could have gone so far sideways that an enemy resorted to kidnapping. They couldn't think of one.
As Vessels makes yet another circuit around the room, he glances over at his boss, Robert Mackle, sitting on the couch. His head tilted back, his eyes shut. But is he asleep? Vessels doubts it. They're not alone in the house. When they arrived from the airport last night, they found that FBI agents from the Miami office had already established a command post here.
G-men with buzz cuts roamed around the house, smoking cigarettes and having hushed conversations. Vessels can hear some of them in the next room now, chatting softly. Upstairs, Robert's wife Jane is asleep, or Vessels hopes she is. She did not want to leave Atlanta, but Robert convinced her that because the kidnappers were phoning the Mackle home in Florida, it was best that they come back here.
Barbara's older brother Bobby is also in the house. Even now, two hours before dawn, the place hums with a quiet, nervous energy. Vessels jerks his head toward a sound from outside. It must be the morning paper. He hurries to the front door, and there on the stoop, illuminated by the porch light, is the Miami Herald. He leans down to snatch it up, then glances quickly at the news vans parked across the street.
He goes back inside and shuts the door behind him. He has nothing to say to any reporters. In the light of the foyer, he opens the paper, ignoring the banner headline on the front page that reads, Miami girl abducted from Atlanta motel. He turns toward the back of the paper to the personal ads. He scans the small type and finds it. The ad they phoned into the paper last night, per the ransom note instructions.
It's their signal to the kidnapper that they've gotten together the money to pay the ransom.
It reads, loved one, please come home. We will pay all expenses and meet you anywhere at any time. Your family. The ransom note said they'd be contacted after midnight on the day the ad appears. That's 18 hours from now. In the meantime, his boss asked him to do something he never in a million years imagined he'd have to do.
drive to the bank, and pick up $500,000 in ransom money. Barbara Mackle runs her hands along the ceiling of the box. She feels beads of water there. Every few seconds, she hears a drip splash onto the plastic mat that covers the floor. She's worried the compartment has sprung a leak. She feels for the blanket that's bunched up near her feet.
She drags it toward her hands with her feet and pulls it over herself for warmth. It's wet too. Still, it's better than nothing. She listens. The drips haven't stopped, but they're not getting worse. Her breathing slows down and she thinks, that's it. It's my breathing. It's producing condensation. Thank God, she thinks. It's not a leak.
But the moisture has made her realize how thirsty she is. The female kidnapper had shown her a thin rubber tube connected to a jug of water. Barbara feels around in the darkness for the tube. She finds it and lifts it to her chapped lips. It takes a second for the water to travel the length of the tube. And when it finally hits her tongue, she gags. It tastes terrible.
She takes a few swallows, then drops the tube onto the floor beside her. A few seconds later, she feels water soaking through her cotton nightgown. Her heart skips a beat. Maybe there really is a leak. But then she remembers something else she read in the note. That if she doesn't blow the water back through the tube after drinking, it will create a siphon and drain the entire three-gallon jug. Frantic, she feels around for the tube.
She can go for days without food, but she knows she won't last long without water, no matter how foul-tasting it is. The man who goes by George Deacon slides a hacksaw against the lock of a storage locker and starts sawing. It's 9 o'clock on Wednesday evening, and he has to chuckle at what he's doing.
breaking into his own workplace. But he has to. The Institute of Marine Science in Miami, out on Virginia Key, is where he built the box Barbara Mackle is buried in. And it's also where he can most easily steal a boat.
A boat is essential to his plan. The location he's chosen for the drop is a causeway that connects Miami to a small deserted island called Fair Isle, a few hundred yards off the coast. No cars are allowed on the causeway. It's blocked off by a concrete barrier, which makes it the perfect place for the drop.
His plan is to call Robert Mackle and instruct him to go to the causeway, walk halfway out to the island with the money, and put it inside a container that he'll place there on the railing beforehand. He's already built the container. It's waterproof, and there's a light mounted on top so Mackle will be able to spot it easily. He also attached a rope to it that will dangle over the railing.
After making the call to Mackle, he'll drive the stolen boat under the causeway and wait. When he sees Mackle place the money inside the container, he'll yank on the rope and pull the container into the water below. He'll then retrieve the money, pilot the boat to shore, ditch it, and meet up with Ruth at the car so they can make their escape. It's a brilliant plan.
But first things first, he has to get the 16-foot boat in the water, and he needs to make sure it's gassed up. He finishes sawing through the lock and grabs one of the gas cans from inside the storage locker. The Institute's dock is dark and empty this late in the evening, but Deacon knows there's a night watchman, so he asked Ruth to be his lookout. Suddenly, he hears her voice. He's coming. He's coming. He's coming.
Deacon grabs his rifle and the gas can and sprints for cover, but he trips over a pipe and falls to the ground. He feels an awful pain in his back. He gets up, stumbles over to Ruth, and looks around for the watchman, but he doesn't see anyone. Where is he? I saw him over there. She points to the watchman's office, more than a hundred yards away. He can't believe it.
He tells Ruth to wait in the car. He takes the gas can to the boat, which sits atop a launching ramp.
He loads the gas into the boat, then drags it down the ramp and into the water. He moors it in a shallow area a few feet out from shore, where it's barely visible in the darkness. He'll come back for it later tonight, when it's time to collect the money. He trudges back to the car, still carrying the rifle. His back hurts from the fall, and he's exhausted.
While Ruth spent most of the day sleeping, he ran errands. He mailed Barbara's ring and the Polaroid of her to the Mackle home. He sold most of his belongings to a man he met outside a thrift shop. But as tired as he is, he can't slow down now. As he nears the car, he thinks about his wife Carmen and his two sons. Has it only been a week since he said goodbye to them? He wonders if he'll ever see them again. But he casts the thought aside.
He gets in the car and he and Ruth drive back to the mainland. As he drives, he goes over the plan in his head for the thousandth time. He glances over at Ruth. Tonight will go a lot easier if you could pick me up after I get the ransom and ditch the boat. Otherwise, I'm going to have to find my own way back to the car. George, you know I can't drive. Deacon stares through the windshield, then pulls onto an empty street.
He stops the car and turns to her. "You've been taking lessons? Come on, I know you can do it. Let's see how you do right now." Ruth sighs. Deacon slides into the passenger seat as Ruth climbs over him and takes the wheel. But she's hopeless. The Volvo is a stick shift, and she has no idea how to work the clutch. When she finally gets it into gear, she swerves all over the road.
He has to reach over and grab the steering wheel. He curses under his breath. He should have taught her to drive himself weeks ago. Now he's going to have to drive the boat and the car. It's all on him. He looks at his watch. Pretty soon, he needs to make the call to Robert Mackle. There's no turning back now. Barbara Mackle lies in the pitch black of the wooden box.
She's feeling less anxious after she finally located the water tube and stopped it from leaking. She's now trying to remember a story she heard in school about a prisoner of war. While he was held captive, the man would build a house brick by brick in his imagination. By doing that, he would escape from his horrible reality into a kind of dreamlike state. She doesn't imagine building a house. She imagines decorating a Christmas tree
Every step, starting with her father fetching the boxes of ornaments from the garage. Then she imagines opening the boxes and hanging each ornament on the tree, one by one. She drapes the tree with tinsel. She places the star on top. Then she pictures herself arranging the nativity scene, then wrapping gifts. She's aware of how dry her mouth is. The water tastes disgusting.
but she knows she needs to keep drinking to stay hydrated. She reaches for the tube and draws it to her mouth. She sucks, but nothing comes through. She realizes the other end must have gotten dislodged from the water jug. She has to get it back in, but it's so hard to maneuver in this tiny coffin-like box.
She rolls onto her side and scrunches up her knees, half sitting up, and reaches as far as she can with her right hand. She keeps trying to flip the tube back into the top of the jug, but she can't see. Then she realizes something horrible. She can't even move. She's stuck.
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Head over to Symbiotica.com and use code ODDS for 20% off and free shipping on your subscription order. Robert Mackle rubs his eyes. He got a few hours of sleep this afternoon, thanks to a bourbon and a sleeping pill. But it was a fitful sleep. His mind and his heart won't stop racing. He hears the sound of a car pulling into his driveway. It's his Lincoln Continental. Billy Vessels is back from the bank with the ransom money.
Mackle hears the garage door open, then close. He sees that FBI inspector, Rex Schroeder, has noticed Vessels' arrival too, and is already at the door that connects the garage to the house. When Vessels walks in, Mackle sees the two men exchange a few words he can't hear. Then Schroeder walks over to him. Mr. Mackle, will you come with us?
Mackle follows the two men into the garage. He can see the trunk is open. He walks around and looks in. There, in the spacious trunk of his Lincoln, is an FBI agent cradling a shotgun. Mackle is confused. He turns to Schroeder. What is this for? We think you should have some protection. Mackle shakes his head. No, get him out of there. The instructions were clear. I'm to go alone.
Schroeder pauses, then puts a hand on Mackle's shoulder.
Mackel nods. They file back into the den. The money is here. All that's left to do now is wait for the kidnapper's call.
Barbara Mackle contorts herself in the darkness of the wooden box. She's on her side, her knees scrunched up, and she can only move her right arm. Her body is lodged against the walls of the box, up and down and sideways. She got this way trying to get the water hose back into the jug near her feet. And now she's stuck inside.
But she decides to worry about that in a minute. First, she needs to make sure she can still reach her drinking water. She reaches around with her free hand and feels for the rubber hose. She's certain she's close to the water jug. Again, she tosses the tip of the hose in its direction. It misses. She takes a steady breath and tries once again.
Yes! She did it. A lucky shot in the dark. Now all she has to do is get out of this incredibly awkward position. She tries to slow her breathing to relax. She discovers she can move down a few more inches, bit by bit. Even though it's the wrong way, she does it and somehow is able to squirm around. Then suddenly, she's free again. She lies back down.
To distract herself, she tries to imagine what's going on in the outside world. What is Daddy doing? She pictures him waiting at the roadway inn for a phone call. The demand for money. How much would they want? Barbara guesses $5,000. She imagines it's wrapped up, placed in a cardboard box. She imagines him bringing the money somewhere.
She imagines him nervous and scared. She just hopes her kidnappers don't tell him that she's buried underground. It would kill him. He has claustrophobia. Robert Mackle glances at the clock on the wall of his den as FBI agents talk around him. The kidnappers said they'd call at midnight to give instructions on where to drop the money. That's just minutes from now. But in the meantime, Mackle can only wait.
It's agony, this waiting, this not knowing. He has never felt this kind of distress. He knows everyone is doing everything that can be done, but ultimately, no one can guarantee the one thing he wants more than anything, that his daughter will be okay. Everywhere he looks, he feels her presence. The ornaments on the Christmas tree that she made. The photos of her as a child.
The memories of her coming through the front door, smiling. He has to hold it together. For her. For Jane. For Bobby. He catches his reflection in the window. He's dressed all in white, just as the ransom note instructed. Mackle has gotten Agent Schroeder to promise him that the FBI will not follow his car when he sets off to deliver the ransom.
They haven't even informed the local police. It's too risky. The ransom note said the kidnappers were listening in on police communication. What matters most now is giving them what they want so they will free Barbara. Then it's the FBI's problem to track down these bastards. All Mackle wants is his daughter back. Midnight comes. He stares at the phone, but it sits quietly. Minutes pass.
He feels about ready to collapse. He looks at Billy Vessels. I think they've killed her. Vessels just stares back at him. It's the same look he's seen on everyone's face. Sympathy and pity, all useless. His brother Frank pipes up. He's holding a copy of the ransom note. He reads aloud. We will call you at your home after midnight to advise you. After? They didn't say how long after. After?
And so they wait. Minutes keep passing, then hours. And with each tick of the clock, Robert Mackle loses just a little more hope. Then finally, at 3.47 a.m., the phone rings. FBI Inspector Rex Schroeder slips on the headset that will allow him to listen in on the kidnapper's call. He notices Robert Mackle's hand shaking as he reaches for the receiver.
Hello? Robert Mackle? Schroeder nods to Mackle, who nods back. Yes? You will proceed down Bird Road to 27th Avenue. Take a right. Schroeder is pretty sure this is their guy. There had been a few prank calls earlier, but this man's voice is cold. All business. Still, they have to be sure.
So Schroeder holds up an index card on which he's written the word identify. Mackle sees it and nods. Just a minute. How do I know who I'm talking to? You know it. And how do I know Barbara's okay? You don't, but you'll have to take that chance. Now listen carefully. You'll take 27th Avenue to Fair Isle Street. The kidnapper continues with his directions.
Schroeder presses the headset to his ear while other agents pull out roadmaps and scramble to write down the elaborate instructions. Schroeder hopes the directions mean something to the Miami-based agents because they're baffling to him. The kidnapper is saying something about a wall and a causeway and a box with a blinking white light, but none of it quite makes sense. Mackle looks confused too. He's gripping the receiver so hard his knuckles are white.
Please, just tell me. Is Barbara alright? She certainly is. For now. And if I do everything you ask, you'll release her? Yes. We'll release her. Don't worry.
Mackle repeats the directions back to the kidnapper, but Schroeder can tell he's still unsure about them. So I go down Fair Isle till I come to a dead-end street? That's right. And I'll run into... You'll run into a wall at the end of a bridge. Before Mackle can ask anything else, the kidnapper hangs up. Schroeder looks around at the agents who are dragging fingers over roadmaps of Greater Miami. Mackle heads to the garage to get going.
The ransom note demanded he alone leave for the drop within one minute of hanging up the phone. The kidnapper claims to have timed exactly how long it should take Mackle to find the drop site and warned that if Mackle takes too long, he'll cancel the drop. But Schroeder is worried about Mackle going alone. He's physically and emotionally spent.
He's barely slept the past 48 hours. Now he's been given directions to a place he doesn't seem sure about. At least with a hidden microphone, the agents will be able to follow Mackle, but otherwise he'll be on his own. This is it, Schroeder thinks. The next few minutes could determine whether Barbara Mackle lives or dies. ♪♪
Robert Mackle steers his Lincoln Continental through his quiet neighborhood. Christmas lights glow from tidy lawns. All these people asleep, safe and content. God, does he envy them. He feels his pulse throbbing in his neck. With every turn, he reports his location out loud so the agents listening in can track his progress. Left onto Route 1, right onto 27th.
He passes a Royal Castle hamburger joint, still open. He's approaching Biscayne Bay. The window is open and he can smell the salt air. In the backseat is a green suitcase containing $500,000. He reaches Bayshore Drive, which runs parallel to the water. But does he take a left or a right onto Bayshore?
he can't remember. It was all so confusing. He takes a right, but there's no sign of a bridge or causeway or for anything called Fair Isle. He turns around and heads back the other way. He rubs his eyes. "Focus, Bob," he says to himself. He's a developer. He knows this area. There are at least four or five undeveloped islands in the bay.
He looks to his right, down side streets, desperate for some kind of sign that leads to a causeway. But it's so dark. He's sure he's gone too far. So he turns around again. He's lost now. He has no idea where he is. He's frantic. He yells into the hidden microphone. I can't find this place! He sees a bait and tackle shop that's open and screeches into it.
He sees a fisherman getting out of his car. He hollers out to him. Excuse me, do you know where the bridge to Fair Isle is? The man pauses for a second, then points north. It ain't far. Mackle curses out loud. That's the direction he just came from. The kidnapper had demanded he drive directly to the drop site. So with every minute he can't find it, he's worried the kidnapper will think he's not coming. And if that happens...
He can't even think about that. He's sweating now, despite the chill in the pre-dawn December air. He's angry at the one-way microphone setup. What's the point of communicating with the FBI if they can't help him? He yells again to everyone, to no one. "Somebody has got to come help me. I don't know what I'm looking for. I need help." The drop site was supposed to be no more than 15 minutes away.
But it's now been 45 minutes and he still has no idea how to find it. If the kidnappers grow impatient and leave, he may never see his daughter again.
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His fists clenched so hard he can feel his fingernails digging into his palms. Mackle has to be close to the drop location, he thinks. But with each passing minute, his boss's voice over the speaker is sounding more and more desperate. Mackle's voice breaks through again.
I'm lost. I need help. Please, somebody. Vessels can't take it anymore. He grabs the arm of an FBI agent and makes eye contact with Elliot, Robert's brother, who tosses him the keys to his Cadillac parked outside. He and the agent race out the front door. Vessels drives. He hits 90 miles an hour. He runs red lights. He doesn't care.
He turns onto 27th, then north onto Bayshore. They're close to Fair Isle Street, which leads to the causeway. At least, he thinks they are.
He slows down and sees a pair of headlights coming their way. It's Mackle's Lincoln. He's sure of it. He speeds toward the car, waving his arm out the driver's side window. It's his boss, all right. But Mackle doesn't see him. He's just staring at the side streets to his left. Vessels slams on the brakes and turns around again. He floors it. Is the kidnapper watching?
Right now, Vessels doesn't care. He overtakes the Lincoln and cuts it off, then steps on the brakes, forcing Mackle to stop behind him. He jumps out and hops into the back seat of Mackle's Lincoln.
Get going! Billy, I can't find it. I bungled it. No, you haven't. Turn there. Mackle shifts into drive and pulls away from the curb and takes the next left turn. They drive a couple of blocks down a narrow street until the headlights illuminate a waist-high concrete barrier. This must be it. The wall the kidnapper spoke of.
Vessel slouches in the backseat, trying to stay out of sight, and whispers. Take the damn thing! Go! Mackle gets out, opens the back door, and pulls the heavy suitcase out from the backseat. Vessel whispers to him once more. Look for the blinking light!
Vessels crouches lower in the back seat. He thinks of his two young sons, asleep at home. Someone could walk up to the car right now and shoot him dead. Seconds tick by. They stretch on forever.
Then he hears shoes on the gravel. It's Mackle. He gets back into the front seat. He's breathing hard. "I didn't see a light, Billy. I just put it on the concrete barrier. I just left it there." Vessels calls out from the floor of the back seat. "Don't worry about it. Let's go." Mackle backs up and starts driving away. Vessels checks his watch. It's 4:30 a.m., almost an hour since the call.
An hour for a trip that should have taken 15 minutes. He just hopes they're not too late. George Deacon balances on the stolen motorboat as it bobs in the dark water. He was sure it would take Robert Mackle no more than 15 minutes to reach the drop site. He couldn't have been more clear. Walk the money up the empty causeway toward the blinking light.
then placed the money in the container. But 15 minutes went by, then a half hour. He got so impatient, he even turned the boat around and sped to a nearby marina. He called the Mackle home again and demanded an update. They assured him that Robert Mackle was still out, making the drop. He rushed back to the causeway in the boat, worried he might have missed him. He wonders what Ruth can see with her binoculars from her vantage point.
Because she can't drive, he had dropped her off on the mainland a few hundred yards away, then parked the Volvo on a quiet street near the water.
He keys his walkie-talkie and calls her. I phoned their house. They said he's on his way, but he could have walked here by now. Ruth's voice crackles on his walkie-talkie. We should wait. Everything is fine. Deacon pilots the boat over to the rope that's dangling from the container on the causeway railing overhead. He grabs the control that will switch on the light.
He doesn't want to turn it on until he knows Mackle is there. Otherwise, it could attract the wrong attention. Looking toward the shore, he sees a pair of headlights moving toward the concrete barrier.
That must be him. Finally. He turns on the light. Then he hears his walkie-talkie crackle. It's Ruth. That's him. He's alone. Okay, I'm leaving now. Everything's fine. But it's not fine. Deacon can see that Mackle has put something down on the concrete wall. But he's not walking up the causeway. He thumbs the walkie-talkie. He needs to know what Ruth can see.
but he gets nothing but static in response. It's too risky to head straight for the mainland. He could be walking into a trap. So he starts up the boat and speeds to Fair Isle, the deserted island on the other side of the causeway. He gets out and runs up the causeway in a crouch. He's clutching his rifle, half expecting to hear shots ring out. He reaches the container at the midway point. It's empty.
The light that was supposed to be pointing up had somehow gotten loose and twisted. It's pointing down. So Mackle never saw it. He dashes another few hundred yards to the concrete barrier, and sure enough, the suitcase is there. He lifts it and lugs it back the way he came. This is not what he planned. He's lost precious time, but it can still work.
He throws the rifle and the suitcase into the boat and heads north along the coast to a small beach about a mile and a half from the Fair Isle Causeway. There, he ditches the boat and starts walking toward where he parked the Volvo a little ways inland. He tries to move quickly, but he's utterly spent. The suitcase full of cash must weigh at least 75 pounds. He may be a rich man, but all he wants to do is sleep.
And then, as he walks along the quiet residential street toward the Volvo, he sees them. Two cops. And they're between him and his getaway car.
Miami police officer William Sweeney leans on the fender of his squad car. Dawn will break soon, but right now it's still dark. He's sharing a thermos of coffee with Paul Self, the sheriff's deputy, who called in the report of a suspicious vehicle, a blue Volvo parked on this quiet street. There have been several burglaries reported in the area recently, so Self has been keeping an extra close eye on the street.
The blue Volvo stuck out. He called it in and the plates came back clean. So the car wasn't stolen. But still, the two cops decided to wait and see who might show up to claim it. Who knows? It could be a prowler. Sweeney takes a sip of his coffee and notices something moving about 100 yards down the street. He looks over at Self, who's noticed the same thing. I wonder if that's the owner of the Volvo. No.
It's hard to see in the dark. The street lamps don't provide much light, but it sure looks like a man carrying something, something heavy. They watch him draw closer, and then suddenly, he turns and takes off running. Without exchanging a word, the two men get into their squad cars and chase after him. In his headlights, Sweeney sees the man dash across someone's front yard, heading inland toward the highway.
He seems to have dropped whatever heavy thing he was carrying before. He disappears behind a house. Sweeney throws his car into park and jumps out. As he runs, he pants into his radio. Chasing a white male on foot. He's on Brickell, running towards South Miami Avenue.
Sweeney spots the man cross Miami Avenue and turn north up 28th Road. He wonders if the man knows that the road dead ends at the I-95 interstate. Sweeney keeps running. He can hear Deputy Self behind him. They're gaining on the suspect. He sees the man approaching a chain-link fence about as high as his chest. The man hurdles over it.
but then stumbles and falls to the ground on the opposite side. Sweeney gets closer, but by the time he reaches the fence, the man has run up an embankment that borders the interstate. Sweeney can hear cars whizzing by overhead. He pulls his service revolver from his holster and raises it toward the man, whose back is turned to him.
Above the noise of the traffic, he shouts, "Police! Stop or I'll shoot!" The man turns and for a second, Sweeney thinks he's surrendering, so he lowers his gun. But then he can see that the man is carrying a rifle. He raises his revolver instinctively and squeezes off two shots. Then he throws himself to the ground in case the man returns fire. When he looks up, seconds later,
The man is nowhere to be seen. Billy Vessels opens the back door of the Lincoln Continental and steps out onto the driveway of the Mackle home. They've made it back. Robert Mackle slowly gets out of the driver's seat. Vessels doesn't think he's ever seen anyone look so utterly exhausted. In the foyer, they're met by Robert's brothers, Elliot and Frank, and Inspector Schroeder.
Frank explains that while they were gone, the kidnapper called again to ask where Robert was with the money. Frank tried to reassure him that Robert was coming. Schroeder leads them into the kitchen. Okay, we'll give the kidnappers a few minutes. Then we want you guys to go back and see if the suitcase was retrieved. The men drink coffee in silence, and then Schroeder looks at his watch. Okay, it's been enough time.
"Billy, let's have you drive Mr. Mackle this time. We'll have agents follow you at a distance." Mackle doesn't object. They get back in the car. This time, since they know where they're going, the ride takes just 12 minutes. It's just before 7:00 AM. Dawn is finally breaking. They park the Lincoln in the same spot. Through the windshield, they can see the causeway rising up over the water toward Fair Isle. They walk up to the concrete barrier.
The suitcase is nowhere to be seen. For the first time, Vessels feels something like hope. Even his boss is looking better. Maybe it was the coffee, but color seems to be returning to his face. Just then, the two FBI agents following them arrive. One of them gets out of their car and approaches Mackle and Vessels. His face is grim.
Vessels feels an icy chill down his neck.
A shootout? Does that mean one of the kidnappers is wounded or dead? It can't be. He's outraged. They promise the kidnapper no cops. He looks over at his boss. Robert Mackle is falling back onto the concrete barrier, his face twisted in agony. Oh my God, Billy. They're going to kill my daughter.
This is the third episode of our four-part series, Buried Alive. A quick note about our scenes. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but everything is based on historical research.
If you'd like to learn more about this event, we recommend the book 83 Hours Till Dawn by Jean Miller with Barbara Jane Mackle. I'm your host, Cassie DePeckel. Steve Fennessy wrote this episode. Our editor is Alyssa Adams. Sound design and Dolby Atmos mix by Joe Richardson. Audio engineer is Sergio Enriquez. Coordinating producer is Desi Blaylock.
Produced by Alita Rosansky and Emily Frost. Managing producer is Matt Gant. Senior managing producer is Ryan Lohr. Senior producers are Andy Herman and Rachel Matlow. Executive producers are Jenny Lauer-Beckman, Stephanie Jens, and Marshall Louis. For Wondery. Wondery.
My name is Georgia King, and I am thrilled to be the host of And Away We Go, a brand new travel podcast on Wondery Plus, where we'll be whisked away on immersive adventures all around the world. Where we go, what we do, what we eat, drink, and listen to will all be up to my very special guest.
We've got Ben Schwartz taking us on a whirlwind trip around Disneyland. We'll eat a bowl of life-changing pasta with Jimmy O. Yang in Tuscany, Italy. And how do you feel about a spot of sugaring off with Emily Hampshire in Montreal? And away we go, we'll immerse you
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