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A listener note. This episode contains adult language. Ed Ray steers his school bus down a lonely road that runs between long rows of almond trees. He squints as he adjusts his visor to block the blazing afternoon sun. It's July 15th, 1976. Ed is driving kids home from Dairyland Elementary School in Chowchilla, California.
Summer school is in session. To Ed, that doesn't qualify as real school as far as he's concerned. Summer school is more like babysitting. He glances in the rearview mirror. There are a couple dozen kids he still needs to drop off, and all of them are hyped from a field trip they took to a local pool. Ed shakes his head and smiles. He likes the kids on his route, and he thinks they like him.
Ed is 54, with a strong build, a stern face, and sandy, receding hair. He's been driving this bus for about 20 years now. Before that, he grew corn and raised cattle. He didn't make it far in school and can't really read or write, but he's good with numbers, and he can bale hay like nobody's business. He could never imagine leaving Chowchilla.
It's a farming town in California's San Joaquin Valley, about 100 miles east of San Jose. Ed's lived around here his entire life. The population is around 5,000, and that suits Ed just fine. He likes the slow pace of living, having plenty of land to work, and the God-fearing country folk that call Chowchilla home. He hangs a right onto Avenue 21, past another endless almond orchard.
As the road opens up in front of him, he spots a white Dodge van parked in the middle of the road with its door open. That's peculiar. Ed rarely sees other cars on the road when he hits this part of the route. The van must have stalled out. He'd love to help them, but it's against school rules to stop once his route is underway. And he knows the kids' parents are expecting them home soon.
Ed slows down and angles the bus to the side of the narrow road, preparing to inch the bus around the van. A man emerges from the passenger side of the van and strides towards the bus. He's wearing overalls and has a nylon stocking pulled over his head. In one hand, he's holding a tiny revolver. In the other, a shotgun. Both guns are pointed straight at Ed.
Ed stops the bus. The masked gunman walks towards the driver's side window and motions for Ed to open it. Ed's hands are shaking as he flips the latch and opens the window. The man in the mask steps forward. Would you open the door, please? Ed hesitates, but he knows he doesn't have a choice. He pulls the lever and the door of the bus flips open. Agonizing seconds pass, but the man doesn't board the bus. He just stands there,
Ed looks at the van and sees two more men emerge from it. They have nylon stockings on their heads. They're armed, and they're heading straight for his bus. Ed feels his pulse accelerate as he tries to imagine what these men have in store for him and for the children in his charge.
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From Wondery, I'm Mike Corey, and this is Against the Odds. Chowchilla is a quiet farming town in California's San Joaquin Valley. But on July 15th, 1976, the town became embroiled in a crisis that captured the world's attention. A school bus carrying 26 children and their driver was hijacked by three masked gunmen on an isolated road on the outskirts of town.
The bus and its passengers disappeared without a trace. Within hours, the vanished school bus was headline news. The press mobbed the town, and the story spread like wildfire. With 27 victims, it was the biggest kidnapping in American history. But no one knew who had taken the children, or why. This is our two-part series, Chowchilla School Bus Kidnapping. And this is episode one.
Fred Woods grabs a pitcher and pours himself a beer. He's sitting at a picnic table outside the Alpine Inn with his friend David Boston, watching the sun disappear behind tree-covered hills. Fred leans back with a grin. Sorry I flaked last night. Dirty Harry was on TV. I don't blame you. Hey, you hear they're making another sequel? Man, I wish I was working on that one.
The year is 1975. It's a balmy summer evening in Portola Valley, California, a small community about eight miles west of San Francisco Bay. David's a film major at San Jose State with a big idea for a new action thriller. He's been bending Fred's ear about it all summer long. It's about a massive crime, bigger than anyone's ever done. What, like a Guinness Book of Records-level heist? Exactly.
Fred sips his beer and glances around at the other patrons. The Alpine Inn is a casual joint that dates back to California's gold mining days, though nowadays it attracts more computer scientists than cowboys. Fred likes that some people still ride horses into the parking lot. These riders aren't cowboys. They're just rich locals.
But so was Fred. Both his parents are sitting on Bay Area fortunes that date back to the 1800s. Fred's only 23, but someday he'll inherit untold millions from his family's empire. But it's not his money yet. He's just been fired from a paint store in Palo Alto, and he's afraid to tell his dad. He's hoping he can make up the money with his side hustle, the one he started with David. Their business plan is simple.
Fred and David buy old cars and Fred fixes them up to resell. He uses the proceeds to buy his two favorite things: guns and more cars. He also wants to buy an abandoned Victorian mansion he spotted out in the country. As for David, he just wants to finance his screenplays, which he never shuts up about. David's latest idea centers on a heist that ends with the criminals extorting a ransom and getting away scot-free.
The idea is very interesting to Fred, and not just because it would make for a fun movie. After all, Fred needs money, and he's open to lots of possibilities for how to solve that problem. Fred starts thinking out loud. A kidnapping could be cool. No one gets hurt. Everyone gets paid. Yeah, the kidnapper would have to spend a whole lot of time preparing. I mean, in the movie. Right, right, right. In the movie. In the movie, of course.
David's script is a shameless Dirty Harry rip-off slash unauthorized sequel, but Fred has no problem with that. It's their favorite movie. In Dirty Harry, a remorseless killer hijacks a school bus full of children to extort money. Of course, the bad guy is shot to death by Dirty Harry Callahan, played by Clint Eastwood. Fred smiles. He knows one thing for sure. Clint Eastwood characters don't exist in real life.
James Schoenfeld watches Fred practice his aim on a couple of old cars. Fred's bought yet another handgun, and he wanted James to come see it in action. James' little brother Rick is there too, leaning back in a chair, sipping a bottle of beer. They're on the grounds of the 79-acre estate that belongs to Fred's family, in the field behind Fred's garage apartment.
It's fall, and the air in Portola Valley is getting pleasantly crisp. James notices a few horses in the distance, grazing between the rusted hulks of old beaters that Fred bought and abandoned. Uh, Fred? Aren't you worried about those horses? They're police horses. They don't spook.
James dimly recalls Fred saying something about how his grandma liked to buy retired police horses and put them out to pasture. She lives in the old mansion across from the garage, the one that's practically falling down. Fred's parents have a newer house somewhere else on the property. James hasn't even seen it. He shakes his head, even for old Bay Area money. This family is cuckoo.
James comes here often to work on cars with Fred or help him with accounting for his various businesses. Fred is always trying to talk money, always trying to bring James in on a scheme to fix up or sell a car. Sometimes James wonders if Fred thinks of him as a friend or an employee. James thinks about asking Fred if he can practice a few rounds but decides to get back to writing in his notebook.
He loves that notebook. He uses it as a diary. He uses it to record his brainstorms. Sometimes he writes in code. He likes codes and secret plans. It's an escape from his boring life, where even though he's 24, he's still financially under the thumb of his dad, a wealthy podiatrist. Of course, Dr. Schoenfeld is nowhere near as rich as Fred's family.
James has been asking his dad for more money, but Dr. Schoenfeld doesn't want to fund James's lifestyle anymore. And that's gotten James pretty frustrated lately. He's got to get more money so he can get a Ferrari like his friends. If he has a cool car and plenty of cash, he thinks he'll finally be able to attract a girlfriend.
His brother Rick is two years younger, with no real job or college prospects, though he does have a lot more luck with girls and friends. Fred finally lands a satisfying shot, shattering the window of a distant truck. He puts down his gun and walks over to the Schoenfeld brothers. David's movie idea is pretty cool, right? James tries not to roll his eyes. Fred is always talking about David Boston, the film major he flips cars with.
Sure, just like Clint Eastwood. What if someone actually did it? Did what? Made a movie? No. Pulled off the perfect crime. For money. A lot of money. Like, at least a million dollars.
Something sparks in James' memory. "Well, I saw on the news that Governor Reagan announced a $5 billion budget surplus." "$5 billion? Whoa, someone needs to get some of that money." James watches Fred's face carefully. He can tell that his friend is enjoying the attention. Drawing out the anticipation, Fred steps closer. "We could get some of that money." Rick looks from Fred to James, confused. "What do you mean? Stealing?" "No, Rick.
Kidnapping? James wonders if Fred is serious. It's hard to tell sometimes. Fred shrugs. I'm not talking about actually doing it, necessarily. Just planning it. Just to see if someone could pull it off. James is interested. Could someone pull off the perfect kidnapping for ransom? It's worth thinking about. Worth planning for a while. With the help of his notebook.
He watches as Fred reloads his handgun and fires off a few more rounds, his aim improving shot by shot. Fred takes his seat in the bleachers and watches as James and Rick sit down next to him. With their 1970s California uniform of tight western wear and cowboy boots, they blend in fine at the Chowchilla Rodeo.
It's the spring of 1976. For months, they've been hard at work plotting the perfect kidnapping. And they're on one of their last steps: finding the right place to do it. They've cased towns all over the northern half of California's Central Valley, a cluster of agricultural communities miles inland from the Bay. They've driven back roads, taking notes, figuring out the best way to kidnap a bus full of kids without getting caught.
Fred looks around and pulls Rick close. This is our town. One main street, a couple honky tonks, and a bunch of run-down farmhouses. Total cow town. Uh huh. And I haven't seen a police car since we got here. Look at these people, Rick. They won't even know what hit 'em. Fred turns to see James is deep in his notebook again. He's kept a record of all their brainstorms. And now the brainstorms are real plans.
He's been filling it for months, sometimes in code, sometimes not. They've concocted a brilliant scheme, although Fred knows Rick will still need a bit more persuading before he comes around to actually doing it. Fred leans back in his seat and props his feet up. Once again, he mentally congratulates himself about just how damn smart this plan is. There simply aren't any holes in it. Fred scans the crowd one more time. Chowchilla.
Yeah, this is the place. Mike Marshall walks along a row of school buses, trying to figure out which one to get on. He's standing outside Dairyland Elementary School. It's after 3.30 on July 15th, 1976. The hottest part of the day, the hottest part of the year. Summer school has just let out for the afternoon, and Mike's ready to go home.
Mike is 14, older than the other kids here. They all look like they're between 5 and 10, pretty much babies. And Mike never takes the bus. His mom picks him up. But last night, she caught him drinking cheap beer with a friend and told him to ride the bus home as punishment. All in all, Mike doesn't feel great. Some little kids shove past him. Mike clenches his fists. "Hey, watch it!" The kids look like they've been swimming.
He guesses there was a field trip today. As they all rush past him to their buses, he recognizes one of the drivers. Ed Ray. Ed's farm is near his parents' place, way out in the fields. Ed's smiling as usual, welcoming the kids onto the bus. He knows all of them by name. Ed waves in his goofy, friendly way. Howdy, Mike. Hey, Ed. Can I get a ride back to my house? Sure. Hop on.
Mike climbs the stairs of the bus, slumps into his seat and sighs as the bus rolls out of the parking lot. Mike leans back and unscrews his snuff tin. Dad's a real cowboy and he drinks beer. One day, he's going to be a rodeo rider like his dad. He closes his eyes and tries to lose himself in that fantasy as the bus rolls along past rows of almond trees.
James Schoenfeld peers out the windshield of the white van. His hands are sweating as he grips the steering wheel. His knuckles are turning white. He checks his watch. Almost 4 p.m. He closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them again.
A plume of white dust is visible far down the lonely road they're parked on in Chowchilla. Thanks to months of careful planning, James knows what's kicking up that dust. It's Dairyland Elementary School Bus Number One, driven by Frank Edward Ray. James senses Fred tensing up beside him. His little brother is in the back seat with the guns. Rick leans forward. "We all ready?"
James is quiet. It's do or die time. He knows that he has one last chance to not do this. Fred turns to him. "Think of it like a job you only have to do once. That bus is almost here. We all know what to do." He knows his friend is right. It's too late to back out. James reviews the plan written in his notebook to calm himself, flipping past crossed out drafts and half-finished thoughts to get to the final version.
They've whittled down the plan to the essentials: a bus full of children, vans for transport, and a certified genius-level hiding place. What more does one need? James exhales, pulls a pair of nylons over his head. Fred does the same, then grabs his rifle. Lock and load. The stalking mask distorts Fred's features, flattening his nose and turning his eye sockets into blank flesh-colored holes.
Remember to ask nicely. James puts his glasses on over his stocking. Through the windshield, he can see the bus pulling up, slowing down. Rick passes him a small revolver and a shotgun. James cocks his guns and jumps out of the van.
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He's never had a gun pointed at him before, but it doesn't take long to figure out the drill. Don't do anything stupid. Play along. Don't take any chances. The last thing Ed wants to do is agitate these guys. They're crazy enough to hijack a bus with kids on it, which means they're crazy enough to do anything.
He steals a quick glance out of the back window of the bus. The white van is following them. He looks out the side window as they roll past orchards and cotton fields. No one else is on the road. Before long, the bus lurches off the road and skids to a stop, sending up a cloud of dirt. They've pulled into a bamboo thicket next to a second van, a green one. One of the kidnappers motions towards the door. "Everyone off the bus."
Let's go. Ed exits the bus and watches helplessly as 12 of the kids are escorted two by two to the back of the white van. One of the kidnappers opens the back door of the green van and steps towards Ed and the remaining students. Please get in.
Ed follows the 14 remaining kids and climbs inside the back of the windowless van with them. He sits on the floor and leans against the wood-paneled wall as the door slams shut. The engine starts. Ed can't see a thing. Can't see his watch. Can't see where they're going. Can't see the kids, who are dead quiet now.
can't see the kidnappers who are sitting in the front seats behind a partition. With no windows or ventilation, it doesn't take long for the air to get hot and stuffy. Hours pass, and Ed and the kids keep rolling along in the dark. In all of his life, he's never felt so powerless. Madera County Sheriff Ed Bates steps out of the front door of his house.
It's a little before 6pm, and Bates is on his way to dinner with his wife. He's in his usual duds: cowboy hat, cowboy boots, leather gun holster. This is cowboy county, and the sheriff has the clothes and attitude to match. Bates holds open the door of his squad car for his wife. After you, darling.
It's baking hot when they get in. They're both looking forward to a quiet dinner with a generous helping of air conditioning. Suddenly, the radio crackles to life. Sheriff, come in. Sheriff. The sheriff gives his wife an apologetic look and picks up the receiver. Bates here? We've been checking the route of this bus-napping case out in Chowchilla. Bus-napping? What are you talking about? Sir, we have a school bus carrying 26 kids that's gone missing.
Bates is stunned. He listens as the deputy shares the latest information. The bus was last seen about two hours ago. The families of the kids are starting to panic. As the deputy continues, Bates knows what he needs to do. "I'm sorry, honey. Some other time." Bates' wife shakes her head as she hops out of the car.
Bates grips the steering wheel tight as he floors it down to the station. Whoever did this, he thinks, is about to deeply regret it. Madera County Deputy Charlie Rearing drives his squad car slowly through the outskirts of Chowchilla. After a long, hot day, it's 8 p.m. and the sun is finally setting. Rearing is working with a search plane that's flying overhead, looking for the missing bus in the fading light.
Like everyone else in the department, he's been working on the bus napping case since late afternoon. No one knows anything, rearing struggles to comprehend how something like this could happen. What kind of monster kidnaps a school bus? Could they be terrorists? What would they want with kids from Chowchilla? A mile or so ahead of him, the search plane starts circling, dipping its wings. It's a signal from the pilot that they've seen something from the air.
Rearing accelerates until he reaches the area the plane is circling. It's a bamboo grove. He parks on a little bridge near the grove and gets out of his car. Slowly, he works his way down the bank toward the bamboo. Well, I'll be damned. That didn't take long. It's the Dairyland Elementary School Bus, half hidden behind the bamboo. Rearing climbs inside and finds the bus is empty.
He heads back to the car and radios the station with the news. His sergeant quickly lays out a plan. Set up a perimeter. Keep people away from the area. More deputies and a detective will be there shortly.
Rearing gives the bamboo grove a once-over. He spots tracks from the bus that show how it veered off the road and down the bank. He peeks inside the bus again. The seats already have a visible, unbroken layer of dust on them. In the Central Valley, dust is always in the air, settling on every surface, indoors and out. There's enough dust here to tell Rearing that no one's been inside the bus for hours. He heads back outside.
A few feet away from the bus, there are two more sets of tire tracks. Both lead out of the gully and back onto the road. Rearing shakes his head. The bus was easy enough to find, but now they have two new vehicles to track. Make and model unknown. At the present time, we know that there's 27 people missing since about...
Ronnie Ray is sitting in the living room of his uncle Ed and aunt Odessa, glued to the TV news. The family members gathered there are speechless, paralyzed as they watch the news reports about the school bus driven by Ronnie's uncle Ed. The bus may have been located, but as of now, there are still no clues as to where the children have been taken.
Ronnie turns to his aunt Odessa. Her face is pale and her eyes are locked on the screen hoping for positive news about her husband. Ronnie wants to do something, but what can he do in this moment besides wait and pray and suffer? The evening wears on and the news reports continue. An out-of-town reporter is on the scene outside the Chowchilla police station and he's starting to talk nonsense.
One wonders what the bus driver's role in this was. Could he have had something to do with this horrific tragedy? Ronnie is stunned. Who is this two-bit reporter? And does he have any idea what a good man his uncle is? Odessa slams her hand down on the sofa. How dare you ask that? How dare you? Ronnie lowers his head and grits his teeth. He stands up, kisses his aunt on the forehead, and walks towards the front door.
The screen door slowly sways shut behind him as he steps outside. Ronnie breathes in the night air and wonders yet again if there's anything he can do. Could he form a search party? Would that even do any good? Or should he just stay here and support his family? He stares up into the evening sky as his mind races. He realizes he can't see any stars. The sky is filling up with clouds.
Sheriff Ed Bates cringes as he looks around at what used to be an orderly police station. It's midnight and the station is swirling with TV cameras and hot lights, ringing phones, clanking typewriters, reporters tripping over themselves for scoops that don't exist. None of this is helping anybody.
Bates is tired and pissed off. Solving a crime is a process. Evidence gathering, interviews, forensic analysis, ruling out a million possibilities. It takes how long it takes. And you have to be patient. It also helps if you can find some quiet so you can think. But Bates, he's getting none of that. And then there's the press conferences where he has to tell people the same thing every five minutes.
We don't know anything yet. Bates spots an officer entering the room. He's been working the site where the bus was found. Bates approaches him. Alright, finally. What do we got? Eight sets of fingerprints on a bus door and two sets of tire tracks. Not much. Bates shakes his head. Alright, go ahead and tow the bus to Melvin's garage. As the officer walks away, Bates inhales and steals himself for his millionth press conference.
He walks through a doorway and into a wall of light and noise. Do you have any idea what happened here? Shit. Sorry for cussing. The kids are gone. That's our only fact at this point. He hears hard rain starting to tap on the roof of the station. If there's any evidence left in that thicket where they found the bus, tire tracks or footprints, it's gone now. He hears a boom.
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Their ordeal has gone on for so long that he's lost track of time. He's not sure where Ed Ray or the other children are. They've been parked in one spot for at least half an hour, he thinks. Maybe longer. It's impossible to tell with the windows blacked out. Some of the younger children have been grabbing onto him for comfort. He hugs as many of them as he can. "Shh, it's okay. It'll be okay." Suddenly, the van doors burst open.
A kidnapper with a nylon stocking on his head peers inside. "Wake up!" The kidnapper instructs the children to come out one at a time. "Come on, yeah, come on. Come on. Oopsy-daisy. Come with me." Mike shivers as he looks through the open door. He can't get a gauge on where he is exactly. Looks like the middle of the night.
in the middle of nowhere. No sign of the other children or of Ed Ray. Finally, it's Mike's turn to exit the van. He relishes the fresh night air as he steps onto the gravel. As he looks around, he sees piles of dirt and rocks surrounded by dry brush. He's led over to the other two kidnappers. One of them is holding an empty paper bag from Jack in the Box.
He asks Mike for his name, his age, his parents' names, and their address, and scribbles it all onto the bag. Mike understands. This is roll call. Take your cap off. Mike removes his baseball cap and hands it over. One of the other kidnappers grabs it and throws it into what looks like a pile of dirty rags.
Mike looks closer and sees child-sized t-shirts, shoes, hats, an item taken from each kid on the bus. He recognizes Ed Ray's big work boots off to one side. He suddenly realizes none of the other children are there and neither is Ed Ray. His stomach drops. He wonders if there are bodies piled up somewhere nearby and if he will be the next to die.
The lead kidnapper holds a gun in one hand and points to a hole in the ground with a ladder sticking out of it. "Okay, Mike Marshall, please climb down." Every muscle in Mike's body screams at him not to go down there. Not to lose his freedom. Not to lose his life. But he does it anyway. Mike's palms are sweating as he grips the ladder. Below him, the shaft leads into darkness.
Mike descends through a short wooden shaft in the dirt, then through a second hole cut into a sheet of metal. Down, down, down. Maybe 12 feet, judging by the length of the ladder. As he reaches the bottom, he hears a familiar sound. "Who is it? Is that Mike?" "Mike!" "Mike!" It's the kids. Mike steps off the ladder and sees the other kids in the light of Ed Ray's flashlight.
His first thought is a happy one. They're all alive. But then he looks around. He's in a dark space of some kind. It's not a cave, not a box. It looks like the inside of a truck, a moving truck buried underground with the hole cut in the roof. No way out except for the ladder. And then the kidnappers pull the ladder up.
Fred watches James and Rick pull the ladder out of the shaft to the underground chamber. It's 4am now and a quarter moon hangs in the sky. The van's headlights shine like a spotlight on the brothers as they carry the ladder away. Fred's feeling good about the plan, about the location he chose. Everything is on track.
They drove almost 12 hours to get here, the California rock and gravel quarry in Livermore. It's only 100 miles away from where they hijacked the bus, but they took their time on purpose so the passengers wouldn't know where they were going. They meandered through pitch black country roads and occasional rain showers, and even made random U-turns to make it seem like they were going further.
Fred bought a CB radio and a police scanner, and throughout the lengthy drive, he and Rick listened to the chatter coming through it. They avoided the roads taken by law enforcement and citizen posses. Fred feels good about the location. His family owns this rock quarry, and Fred knows it well. He had his dad get him a job here over the winter.
Around Christmas, he, James and Rick drove a small moving truck onto the premises. They borrowed an excavator to dig a massive hole. Then they buried the truck. It's been waiting underground for months, sealed under several feet of dirt. It's away from the busier parts of the quarry, where the jaw-crushers, bulldozers and dump trucks rumble and roll.
As Fred surveys the scene, he can't help but admire his own craftsmanship and foresight. His hands are sore from earlier, when they dug out a shaft leading down to the roof of the moving truck and reinforced it with slats of wood. After they cover up this entrance shaft, you won't be able to see a thing from ground level.
Fred checks the paper bag with the kids' names and addresses written on it. 26 kids and one bus driver accounted for. Time to close up shop. He spots James and Rick peering down into the shaft.
Hurry up! We gotta close this up and go get our money. Before letting everyone out of the vans, the kidnappers prepare their security measures for keeping the entrance to the underground chamber sealed. A sheet of metal, a sheet of plywood, and two 100-pound industrial batteries. Fred, Rick, and James pick up the metal sheet and carry it to the hole in the ground. They carefully maneuver it down into the shaft and place it over the hole in the roof of the moving truck.
Was that the roof?
I thought you reinforced it! The roof of the truck is already supporting the weight of the dirt used to bury it. The weight of three grown men and the metal plate must be putting extra strain on it. But Fred's not worried. It's just a little squeak. The roof's gonna be fine. Get out here and help with the batteries. Over the winter, they noticed the roof starting to buckle. So Fred shored it up with a few pieces of timber.
So far, it's held, but they haven't tested it under the full weight of all the stuff they're using to seal the entrance. Fred's arm and back muscles are screaming with effort as he lugs over one of the hundred pound batteries. The three of them work in tandem to get the two batteries into the shaft and position them on top of the metal sheet.
The truck creaks again. James shakes his head. Shit, this head better hold. Now there's over 200 pounds of weight holding down the inner trapdoor. Fred, James and Rick climb out of the shaft and back onto ground level. They drop a heavy sheet of plywood over the upper entrance to the shaft, creating a second trapdoor. Then they cover the plywood with plenty of dirt and pack it down hard.
The entrance to the underground container is now completely hidden. There's just one last thing to do. When they buried the moving truck, they cut out a second, much smaller opening and dug out a ventilation shaft. Inside the shaft is a fan meant to ensure airflow from the surface. It's powered by another industrial battery that should spin for 48 hours. As Fred powers up the fan though,
I can tell James is starting to worry. Um, if that fan stops working, those kids are gonna die. You know that, right? James, relax. I'll come back tomorrow or the day after to check on them. We aren't killers. Hopefully, the batteries powering the vent fan will last till then. Hopefully, the roof won't cave in. After all, they need everyone down there alive to get their five million dollar ransom.
For now, they're headed back to the bay to stash the vans and watch the news coming out of Chowchilla. If everything goes well, they'll be negotiating their ransom by this afternoon. Ed Ray watches helplessly as the roof shifts again, dislodging dirt and emitting a frightening creak. Over their heads, the moving van is reinforced with odd pieces of timber and wire. A couple of big beams run from floor to ceiling in the center of the chamber.
Ed guesses that the kidnappers worried that the ceiling might not hold and this is their half-assed solution. Suddenly, the wires on the ceiling start to snap. The center of the roof buckles, caving into a V-shape. "Help! The roof! Help me!" Ed holds his breath in horror. Some of the kids shout. Several agonizing seconds pass. The roof doesn't cave in, but farther above, Ed can make out a horrible sound.
Shovels of dirt hitting the trap door. Ed tries to ignore it and swings the flashlight around, taking stock of the situation. The floor is covered in dirt. So are the children, their faces streaked by tear tracks. A few dirty mattresses are pushed against the walls. Two holes cut out of the wheel wells are evidently meant to be toilets. A few jugs of water, a loaf of bread, some Cheerios, minuscule rations.
even for children. They have one flashlight, one extra set of batteries, one candle thrown in like an afterthought. No matches. The flashlight won't last. And Ed's heart breaks as he gears up to tell the kids he'll need to turn it off soon to conserve the battery. There's a fan blowing, but the air is already hot and stale. When the July sun comes up in a few hours, they'll roast.
Ed doesn't know what else to do, so he slumps down against the wall and he prays. This is the first episode in our series Chowchilla School Bus Kidnapping. A quick note about our scenes. In most cases, we can't exactly know what was said, but everything is based on historical research. If you'd like to learn more about this event, we highly recommend The Ballad of the Chowchilla Bus Kidnapping by Caleb Horton on Vox.com.
I'm your host, Mike Corey. Caleb Horton wrote this episode. Our editor is Sean Raviv. Our audio engineer is Sergio Enriquez. Sound design is by Joe Richardson. Produced by Matt Almos and Emily Frost. Our managing producers are Tonja Thigpen and Matt Gant. Our senior producer is Andy Herman. Our executive producers are Jenny Lauer-Beckman, Stephanie Jens, and Marshall Louis for Wondery. Wondery.
I'm Dan Taberski. In 2011, something strange began to happen at the high school in Leroy, New York. I was like at my locker and she came up to me and she was like stuttering super bad. I'm like, stop f***ing around. She's like, I can't. A mystery illness, bizarre symptoms, and spreading fast. It's like doubling and tripling and it's all these girls. With a diagnosis, the state tried to keep on the down low. Everybody thought I was holding something back. Well, you were holding something back intentionally. Yeah, yeah, well, yeah.
You know, it's hysteria. It's all in your head. It's not physical. Oh my gosh, you're exaggerating. Is this the largest mass hysteria since The Witches of Salem? Or is it something else entirely? Something's wrong here. Something's not right. Leroy was the new dateline and everyone was trying to solve the murder. A new limited series from Wondery and Pineapple Street Studios. Hysterical.
Follow Hysterical on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can binge all episodes of Hysterical early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery+.