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Early dawn on Tuesday, 26th August 1980,
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the normally placid Stateline community
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hugging the southern edge of Lake Tahoe
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was wiping sleep from its eyes when an
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unfamiliar delivery truck rattled up to
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Harvey's Wagon Wheel Hotel Casino. Two
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men in white jumpsuits unloaded what
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they claimed was the latest photocopier,
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something the accounting staff had
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supposedly ordered weeks earlier. It
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weighed more than half a ton. They
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steered it through the employee
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entrance, rode the service elevator, and
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parked the monstrous crate in the second
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floor executive office. A note glued to
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the top with electricians tape, warned
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everyone to stay back. Within minutes, a
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guard tried to open the office door,
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found the lock gummed shut with epoxy,
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and finally muscled his way inside. The
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crate wasn't a copier at all. It was a
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bomb holding roughly £1,000 of dynamite.
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The warning letter, typewritten with
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chilling precision, demanded £3 million
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in small bills. If even a single law
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enforcement radio transmission entered
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the building, or if any attempt was made
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to tilt, freeze, or x-ray the device,
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the hotel and its neighbors would vanish
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in flame. The extortionist promised a
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second assault if he wasn't taken
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seriously. True crime fans, brace
1:26
yourselves, investigators would later
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remark, because this incident remains
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the largest attempted bombing for ransom
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in Nevada history. A thousand
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vacationers had to be evacuated, leaving
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roulette wheels spinning unattended
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while Douglas County deputies, Tahoe
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Douglas bomb techs, and an army of FBI
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agents descended on the scene. The
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specialists unspooled portable X-ray
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film, slid sheets against the thick
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steel skin, and prayed the shutter click
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would not trigger catastrophe. The
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X-rays returned ghostly images. Twin
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metal boxes, toggle switches labeled
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from 1 through 28, triple redundant
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timing circuits, tilt switches,
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spring-loaded mercury vials. An entire
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library of underworld secrets packed
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into one malicious machine. Outside,
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locals watch from behind barricades.
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Skiers stepping off summer chairlifts
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gawkked at the column of police
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cruisers. Helicopters thuttered above
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the pine treetops, searching for any
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white van whose driver might fit the
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unknown bomber. Reporters muttered about
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organized crime. Though in truth, this
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act had been engineered by a single
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furious man, John Jack Burgess, a
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Hungarian refugee turned Fresno
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landscaper who owed Harvey's
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$115,000 in gambling markers. A
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mechanical genius and former Hungarian
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resistance fighter, Burgers had spent
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months welding the bomb inside his
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garage, while his teenage sons helped
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haul stolen dynamite from a quarry. The
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extortion instructions were elaborate.
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Burgers wanted the cash air dropped
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along a desolate stretch of Highway 50,
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then placed in yet another vehicle, then
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flown by helicopter to a second way
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point. The FBI played along, loading a
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helicopter with 5,000 genuine dollars
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and duffel bags filled with scrap paper.
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At 11 that night, the chopper skimmed
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the Black Canyon, its pilot wearing a
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hidden microphone so agents could track
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every word. Midnight passed. No beacon,
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no signal, only the rushing wind.
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Burgess lost his nerve, never appeared,
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and the pilot returned empty-handed. The
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standoff dragged into Wednesday, then
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Thursday, tension mounting by the hour.
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With no fresh contact from the bomber,
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and fearing hidden timers, they made a
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fateful decision on 28th August 1980 at
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3:55 in the afternoon. Bomb technicians
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fixed a shaped charge to the top control
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box, hoping the cutting blast would
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shear the circuitry before the main
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trouble. 5 4 3 2 1 A crack of light and
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concrete dust erupted. Windows
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throughout the valley shattered, but the
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mountain did not fall. The improvised
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procedure worked. The dynamite failed to
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sympathize. Harvey's upper floors sagged
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like a broken spine. Yet, nobody died.
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Investigators collected paint chips, a
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smear of blood on one weld seam,
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fragments of toggle switches, and spent
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the next 40 days combing every cubic
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inch of the crater, learning,
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cataloging, and vowing this dark history
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would never repeat. The extortion case
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seemed cold until the reward doubled to
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half a million dollars the following
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winter. A Fresno motel owner phoned the
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hotline. She had seen Burgess's white
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van leave her parking lot at 4:30 the
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very morning the bomb appeared. Agents
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swarmed the Sanwaqin Valley, interviewed
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Burgess's sons, recovered 600 lb of
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dynamite buried in a dry creek, and
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eventually arrested the patriarch on 16
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1981. At trial 4 years later, he smiled
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defiantly while prosecutors displayed
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the pipework, the soldering iron, the
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schematics scrolled on butcher paper. He
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received life without parole, dying of
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2005. That explosive saga could have
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been the climax of any crime
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documentary. Yet, the neon capital of
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the Mojave Desert was only warming up
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for an even wilder decade. Shift the
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calendar forward to the winter solstice,
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In glittering Las Vegas, Bank of
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America's ATM clearing center prepared
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to receive night deposits from 12,000
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cash machines across three states. Three
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custodians, husband, wife, and the
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wife's little sister arrived in their
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weathered van to wax floors and empty
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trash bins. Out of the shadows leapt two
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masked men, brandishing 9 mm pistols.
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They bound the crew with flex cuffs,
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barked orders into walkie-talkies, and
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stage managed every second. The gunman
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seemed to know the janitor's access
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code, the staggered arrival schedule of
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the Lumis guards, even the blind spots
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between security cameras. At 11:30
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sharp, the Lumis truck backed into the
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bay. One guard dialed the alarm company
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for clearance. Routine. so routine he
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never sensed danger. The vault door
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$1,188,000 stacked in bricks and the
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pounced. "Nobody be a hero!" one yelled,
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but a pistol discharged accidentally,
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the slug ricocheting into a guard's
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chest. Blood pulled on polished marble
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while the crew scooped cash into nylon
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duffles, sprinted to a white Chevy S10
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pickup, and vanished into suburban
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streets. A shaken truck driver told
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police he'd seen the switch. Two figures
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tossing bags into the Chevy, then
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abandoning it for a white GMC Julie.
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That Chevy, it turned out, belonged to
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the Las Vegas Police Maintenance Fleet,
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stolen days earlier. Now, the detectives
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had a partial tag, a make, and a
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thundercloud of rage. They issued an
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APB. By dawn, the Julie surfaced on a
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sleepy culde-sac. A neighbor recalled
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yet another vehicle rotating through the
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same curb space earlier. Three layers of
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anti-surveillance. The FBI, sensing an
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outside job rather than an employee
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$50,000 into a reward fund, keyword
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heaven, for any true crime headline. The
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break came from the strip club circuit.
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An informant whispered that dancer
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Jennifer Arden, stage name Fuzbot, had
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been showering friends with fresh $100
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bills. Agents traced her phone number to
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a trailer on the city's ragged
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outskirts. The white GMC rolled into the
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driveway like a smoking gun. SWAT burst
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in, arrested Riley Bates, Jennifer's
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boyfriend, and cracked open a brand new
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$50,000 plus bricks of marijuana. Riley
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insisted he was only a pot dealer.
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Agents smiled politely but brought in
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master interrogator Brett Shields under
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flickering strip mall lamplight Riley
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folded. He named the gunman. His older
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brother Robert Bates and Robert's
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martial arts buddy Timothy Scott
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Blackburn. Robert was partying at Luxaw
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burning cash on penthouse suites and
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designer drugs. He surrendered without a
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struggle. Too intoxicated to form
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sentences, Blackburn was not so tame.
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Metro Police and FBI Lucky 13 moved on
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his tracked house near Henderson. As
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agents approached the front door, a
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black SUV squealled into the driveway,
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then fishtailed away. Inside sat
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Blackburn's sister-in-law. The fugitive
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had volted backyard fences, vanishing
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into the desert grid. K9 units sniffed
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him out beneath a wooden deck two blocks
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away. Ankle holster empty. Ski mask in
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his waistband. Palms scraped raw from
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cinder block landings. The duff of money
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hidden in the doghouse. $900,000 soaking
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in kibbled dust. Charges piled up like
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casino chips. Armed robbery, kidnapping,
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attempted murder. Blackburn and Robert
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Bates cooled their heels at North Las
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Vegas detention center awaiting trial.
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But organized crime mythologies feed on
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desperation and Blackburn refused to be
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caged. On 11 August 1999, his wife
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Sophia visited the jail. During contact
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hours, she produced a mini tool from her
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keychain, loosened the security glass,
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and slipped her husband a small pistol
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previously stashed beneath a pay phone.
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Blackburn wriggled through the opening,
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barreled into the sallyport, and
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exploded into daylight firing. Guards
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returned shots. Sophia screeched up in
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an Isuzu Rodeo, and the couple plus
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their two young daughters blazed off
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campus. Now, Las Vegas had a family on
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the run thriller worthy of any unsolved
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mysteries countdown. Although,
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tragically, it would end in no mystery
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at all. FBI task forces raided every
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friend, cousin, and ex-sparring partner.
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They arrested Blackburn's brother for
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aiding escape, seized Sophia's sister
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for lying, and squeezed the circle
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chokehold. 17 days later, agents tracked
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the fugitive clan to a weekly rental
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complex just off Tropicana. Negotiator
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Henry Schlump phoned the apartment. He
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could hear little girls giggling, water
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running in the bathroom. Blackburn
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barricaded his daughters in the tub for
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safety, he claimed. 4 hours of pleading
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and tactical patience followed. SWAT
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snipers poised across the courtyard.
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Blackburn spoke of honor, of nightmares,
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of never going back to prison. Then a
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single shot. SWAT kicked the door, but
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arrived moments too late. Blackburn had
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murdered Sophia, shot both children, and
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turned the gun on himself. One of the
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darkest endings in Vegas crime families
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law. A horrific punctuation mark
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underscoring the cost of violent ego.
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While Clark County coroner staff
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processed that carnage, a separate wave
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of heists already threatened the strip.
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Enter Cuban immigrate Jose Viggoa,
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stocky, scar-lipped, former Soviet
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trained commando who sailed the Mariel
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1980. By 1998, Viggoa had assembled a
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tight crew. Brother-in-law Pedro Dwarte,
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sometime electrician Oscar Cisneros, and
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former box car thief Luis Suarez. Their
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spree began on 20 September 1998 at MGM
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Grand. Dressed in maintenance jumpsuits,
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Viggoa and Dwarte intercepted armored
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couriers inside the casino leveled twin
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Glock pistols, one in each hand,
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swashbuckling style, and vanished with
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$350,000. Two months later, detectives
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found the getaway truck abandoned in the
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San Remo lot. Plates stolen from a
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junked car. Vin ground smooth daredevil
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theatrics but no fingerprints. Fast
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forward to 28th June
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1999. Desert in resort. High noon.
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Tripledigit heat shimmering off asphalt.
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This time Vgoa's gang tried to jack the
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entire Lumis van in front of shoppers.
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Gunfire crackled. Two guards took
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rounds. One gunman was struck in the
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knee, yet still escaped, limping thanks
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to level three body armor. Witnesses
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watched the trio scurry into a silver
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SUV, then scramble when the key failed.
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It was the wrong Chevy. They hotwired
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the ignition under shellfire, lunged
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into traffic, and ditched the ride miles
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south. At this scene, investigators
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recovered 45 caliber casings, a plastic
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water bottle, and the surgical glove a
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shooter had used to stench his bleeding
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leg. DNA later matched Oscar Sisner.
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Even so, the case stalled until 11
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1999. At Mandandalay Bay, exactly 6:06
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a.m., Figgoa repeated the MGM blueprint,
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$888,000, while employees restocked
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slots for the breakfast crowd. Security
15:09
guards tailed the suspects, but VGOA
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shattered their windshield with an AK
15:14
round and was gone. Metro detective Dave
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Milby, rifling through evidence trays,
15:21
noticed something quirky. A storage
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facility knight watchman named Joseé
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Viggoa had inserted himself early in the
15:30
MGM inquiry. His face, body type, and
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swagger bore resemblance to Manderlay
15:36
surveillance stills. The watchers became
15:39
the watched task force agents traced
15:42
strange cash down payments on a suburban
15:46
stucco home. Though Viggoa's reported
15:48
income as a laborer barely cracked
15:51
$10,000, the mortgage they discovered
15:54
was actually signed by Oscar Cisneros,
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whose closet contained Polynesian
15:59
shirts, cash count bands, and stuffed
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behind drywall, two pipe bombs wired to
16:06
garage door openers. Cisneros folded
16:09
faster than wet tissue once cornered. He
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identified the whole syndicate, admitted
16:15
the desert in ambush, and confessed that
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the crippled knee was indeed his. He
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described how Viggoa's temper flared
16:23
after every score. How the ring leader
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dreamed of a final spectacular takeover
16:29
robbery. When SWAT captured Viggoa on 7
16:32
June 2000 after a 100 mph chase down
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Flamingo Road, the Cuban fled on foot,
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leaving his young daughter in the back
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seat. Pedro Dwarte surrendered weeks
16:45
later. Cisneros, tormented by guilt or
16:49
fear of retaliation, hanged himself
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inside Clark County Jail, leaving
16:54
prosecutors to rely on recorded
16:56
interviews and ballistic traces. Yet the
16:59
evidence was overwhelming. DNA on ski
17:03
masks, fiber transfers from Manderlay
17:06
carpet and Vgoa's fingerprint etched in
17:09
brass on a magazine spring. In 2003, the
17:13
saga closed. Viggoa avoided the needle
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by pleading to firstderee murder for the
17:19
Ross dress for less armored car
17:21
killings, plus 44 other felonies. He
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will breathe Nevada air only through a
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prison ventilation shaft. Dwarte took 16
17:31
to 70 years. Luis Suarez, captured in
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Florida, accepted 6 to 15 after
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testifying. These true crime episodes
17:41
stitched together across two decades
17:43
illustrate a verite collage of greed,
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hubris, and blood. Harvey's bomb born
17:50
from one gambler's ruin. Blackburn's
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spiraling domestic siege. Begoa's
17:56
ruthless blitzkrieg against casino cash
17:59
cages. Each story line exposes a
18:02
different corridor inside Nevada's
18:04
underworld labyrinth. Infamous
18:07
syndicates powered by hatred of the
18:09
house by machismo by dreams of easy
18:12
millions that melted like desert
18:15
mirages. The societal consequences
18:18
linger. Harvey's blast prompted
18:21
nationwide revisions to bomb response
18:23
doctrine. Las Vegas Metro modernized
18:27
surveillance analytics because of the
18:29
Bates heist, knitting realtime license
18:32
plate readers into casino alleyways. The
18:36
Viggoa rampage accelerated Nevada's
18:38
armored guard armor standards, mandating
18:41
rifle rated vests and remote sensor door
18:44
locks. Today, visitors tossing dice
18:47
under crystal chandeliers rarely sense
18:50
the invisible fortresses humming behind
18:52
the walls. Biometric vaults, silent
18:56
alarms, fusion center analytics
18:59
cross-linking every craps table to
19:02
databases. Each protocol carries the DNA
19:06
of past tragedies. Still, the Mojave
19:09
lights continue to beckon dreamers and
19:11
drifters. Some arrive seeking fortune,
19:14
others to loot it. History's ledger
19:17
reminds us that behind every jackpot
19:20
rings a shadow. Organized crime
19:23
improvisers, law enforcement adapts, and
19:25
families, innocent or complicit, tow the
19:29
fault line between luck and doom. That
19:32
tension keeps Las Vegas locked forever
19:35
in the imagination of real mafia
19:38
stories, enthusiasts, a neon theater
19:42
where unsolved mysteries might prowl
19:44
even now, waiting for the next daring
19:47
outlaw or the next tireless investigator
19:50
to step into the glare.