THE LINDBERGH KIDNAPPING SUSPECT NO. 1. Lise Pearlman

World-Telegram & Sun Collection. http://hdl.loc.gov/loc.pnp/cph.3c09416

      Charles Lindbergh testified as the star witness for the prosecution at the death penalty trial of Bruno Richard Hauptmann before a packed courthouse in Flemington, New Jersey in January of 1935. The jury is seated to the right behind the railing.

      ACT ONE

      Both photos courtesy of New Jersey State Police Museum

       Nanny Betty Gow and the empty crib

      1.

      KIDNAPPED!

      SCOTTISH nanny Betty Gow headed upstairs to the nursery on March 1, 1932, just before 10 p.m. to wake her twenty-month-old charge from his two-hour nap. Her routine at that hour started with taking him to the potty. Then Betty Gow would get him a snack and put him back in his crib for the night with his favorite stuffed animal. Sometimes his mother joined the nanny in this last trip of the day to the nursery. That Tuesday, when both of them had prepared the boy at 7 p.m. for his evening nap, nothing appeared out of the ordinary. But at 10 p.m. life in the Lindbergh household would erupt in chaos and never again be the same.

      The twenty-eight-year-old nanny had been working for a year caring for the first-born son of American superstar Charles Lindbergh and his wife Anne Morrow Lindbergh. The little boy was the namesake of his famous father. Everyone in America, and most places around the world, knew Lindbergh’s story by then — Minnesota farm boy turned fearless pilot. Heavily discounted as an amateur underdog in the death-defying race to complete the first nonstop intercontinental flight over the Atlantic, he outperformed the seasoned experts and accomplished the dangerous crossing before anyone else. His feat in late May 1927 heralded the dawn of a new era. After his solo transatlantic flight, Lindbergh was the object of idol worship of unprecedented dimensions, including frequent newsreel coverage of his flying exploits and his handsome likeness seen everywhere in America on envelopes. The image of his plane, “The Spirit of St. Louis,” adorned air mail stamps.

      Anything about Lindbergh was guaranteed to attract millions of readers, moviegoers and radio fans. When contemplating marriage in the fall of 1927, Lindbergh focused on the main lesson he had learned as a farmer. Being in his estimation one of the healthiest, most robust of studs, he wanted to pair himself with a woman capable of producing a dozen superior children. Yet, from the day in late December of 1927 that Lindbergh met Ambassador Dwight Morrow’s two oldest daughters, the one he found by far the most alluring was Elisabeth. Her health would not have been up to his plan even had she welcomed his courtship. With Elisabeth in Europe in September 1928, and Anne totally enamored with him, Lindbergh wooed Anne instead.

      When the couple married in 1929, press gathered outside Anne’s father’s mansion. The couple were clearly America’s royalty, and Anne’s first pregnancy became a national fixation. She spent most of the last two months in seclusion at her parents’ estate. Her father was then ending his third year as Ambassador to Mexico. One of the prime movers and shakers in the Republican Party, in 1930 Dwight Morrow would be chosen to serve in a vacant Senate seat. As they awaited the baby’s birth, publishers eager for a scoop were willing to pay $2000 (over $29,000 today) to any reliable source of information about the childbirth.

      The baby was born on Anne’s 24th birthday, June 22, 1930. The Lindberghs had already decided on a male heir’s name: Charles Augustus, Jr. Counting on his superior genes, the father had the highest expectations for Little Charlie. Lindbergh jealously guarded their son’s privacy but keeping the press at arm’s length proved difficult. As soon as word got out the telegraph wires went crazy. Congratulatory messages deluged the Morrows’ Englewood home, including some from heads of state. The note from Surgeon General Hugh Cumming expressed a sentiment many millions of people around the globe undoubtedly shared — a wish that the Lindberghs’ son “may have as useful a life as his father.”

      Visitors thronged their front gate. More presents piled up in the mansion than they could possibly use. When the press received no pictures of the newborn, rumors circulated that the boy was horribly deformed from prenatal exposure to noxious fumes. To reassure the public, Lindbergh took a few photos of his curly-haired son and distributed them to the press. That only made them impatient for more. Very few would be shared after Charlie’s first birthday.

      The Lindberghs soon began searching for a remote location for the home they planned to build for themselves. After spending the first year of their marriage largely living out of suitcases, Anne told her family that she would be happy to be far from humanity where her husband could get back to his farming roots to relax. After conducting an aerial tour of central New Jersey, Lindbergh chose hilly acreage outside the small town of Hopewell in the densely wooded area of Mercer and Hunterdon counties that locals called “The Sourlands.”

      Though not far from Princeton University and trains to Manhattan, there were only three other houses within a mile of the nearly 400-acre tract. The area was “sparsely inhabited, difficult of access, thickly wooded and clogged with underbrush and … practically without organized police protection.” The terrain was “almost inaccessible without a native guide.” The town of Hopewell, more than three miles away, had just nine hundred permanent residents.

      That fateful Tuesday night of March 1, 1932, Lindbergh was scheduled to be one of two widely advertised guests of honor at a gala in the Waldorf Astoria celebrating the hundredth anniversary of New York University. The planners panicked when he turned out to be a no show. Instead, he arrived at his New Jersey farmhouse late for dinner after having been gone since Monday morning. Anne was waiting for him at her desk in the living room, apparently unaware of the conflict in his schedule which Lindbergh would attribute to a calendaring error.

      At about 8:30 p.m. the couple were served a hearty meal in the adjacent dining room by Phoebe “Elsie” Whateley and her husband Aloysius “Olly” Whateley, the only two other members of the Lindberghs’ household staff besides nanny Betty Gow. At around 9 p.m. the Lindberghs headed briefly to the living room and then upstairs to the master bedroom. Neither then checked on their son in the nursery connected to their bedroom by the master bath.

      Just before 10 p.m. Betty ended her visit with Elsie in the Whateleys’ apartment over the garage and returned to the nursery. The lights in the nursery were off as Betty had left them just before 8 p.m. When she neared the crib, she was surprised not to hear the toddler breathing. She felt around the crib in the dark and found no child under the blanket, which was still pinned to the sheets as she had left it two hours earlier.

      Betty immediately checked with Anne to see if she had Little Charlie with her, but Anne said, “No, maybe the Colonel has him.” Colonel was the honorary title awarded to Charles Lindbergh by the government after his historic flight. Anne ran into the nursery and saw the crib was empty. By then Lindbergh was downstairs again in his study. Anne called down to her husband and chided him for taking the toddler when he knew Charlie had a cold.

      Betty descended to the study to implore Lindbergh to confess if he was pulling another one of his famous practical jokes. When she reached Lindbergh, he was reading at his desk next to one of two study windows that faced east. The absence of drapes put the lighted room in sharp contrast to the deep black night. In response to Betty’s anxious question, Lindbergh exclaimed: “The baby? Isn’t he in his crib?” He bounded so precipitously up the stairs, he now had her quite scared. Lindbergh took a quick look in the nursery and rushed through the master bath to his bedroom. There Anne confronted him again, “Do you have the baby, Charles?” Anne vividly recalled him turning away. Biographer Susan Hertog would later report, “The silence confirmed her worst fears.”

      Lindbergh immediately grabbed his rifle from his bedroom closet. On his way out, he turned to his wife and said, “Anne, they have stolen our baby.” Kidnapping of wealthy people’s children for ransom was an all-too-common