TIME: Almanac 1995

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<text id=93HT1318> <title> King: Who Killed King? </title> <history> TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--King Portrait </history> <article> <source>Time Magazine</source> <hdr> April 26, 1968 Who Killed King? </hdr> <body> The world had hardly learned of Martin Luther King's murder in Memphis before speculation began that the civil rights leader had been the victim of a well-planned conspiracy. The rumor mills were lubricated in part by the assiduously cultivated doubts that some still entertain about the killing of John F. Kennedy. In this case, however, the conspiracy theorists could point to the fact that, though the gunman was clearly identified, he remained--for all the far-flung resources of the FBI--mysteriously at large. While the hows and whys of the murder continued to elude the authorities, amateur assassinologists assumed from the start that King's death had been engineered by a group of white Southern racists. The plot, said some, was hatched in Birmingham; others maintained that it was a made-in-Memphis undertaking. The latter theory was given some support last week by a Memphian who told TIME and later the FBI that he had overheard a local businessman giving an unknown triggerman urgent orders to kill King on the balcony of his motel, and even specifying the price for the job ($5,000) and the pickup point for his fee (New Orleans). Threading through the cloud of gossip and guesswork, the authorities managed to assemble the basic jigsaw puzzle from which the killer's identity--if not his motive--emerged. How It Began. The first putative name broken out of the FBI was that of Eric Starvo Galt. This, it soon became clear, was a pseudonym built up to throw pursuers off the trail. Fingerprints found on the rifle left in the street when the killer fled belong to James Earl Ray, an escaped Missouri convict who has spent prison time for four major crimes, including armed robbery, burglary, forgery of U.S. money orders and car theft. The prints were painstakingly checked against the FBI's bank of 53,000 sets of records on wanted men; it took 13 days to find them. According to several current theories, the death of King was plotted about three months ago in Memphis. At least one witness reported seeing a man roughly matching Ray's description in Memphis last fall. He was thin, neatly dressed, with short, dark hair; his face and neck were marred by the scars of acne or smallpox. James Earl Ray had fled the Missouri State Penitentiary in April 1967, hiding in a big wooden breadbox to get from the prison bakery to the outside world. He had twice before tried to escape, once placing a dummy in his stead and hiding in a ventilator shaft; once be broke a makeshift ladder trying to scale the wall. Ray's youth in Alton, Ill., had been full of tangles with the law. Son of a laborer who had the same name, Ray dropped out of school in the 10th grade, spent two years in the Army, where he served a term for drunkenness and "breaking arrest," was discharged in 1948, and turned to civilian crime. He was convicted of burglary in Los Angeles in 1949, of robbery in Chicago in 1952, of forgery in Missouri in 1955, and in 1960 had drawn the 20-year term for armed robbery and car theft that he was serving when he made his escape. How He Looks. Ray is 40, stands 5 ft. 10 in. tall, weighs about 175 lbs., has blue eyes and brown hair. There is a small scar in the center of is forehead and another on the palm of his right hand. His left ear sticks out farther from his head than does his right. He habitually tugs at the left lobe. Sometimes he wears his hair in an unkempt burr; at other times it is longer and looks darker. His prison record was unremarkable except for his penchant for escape attempts. The Missouri warden, Harold Swenson, called Ray "extremely dangerous, cold-blooded and ruthless. There is no doubt in my mind that Ray could be a paid assassin." The FBI warns that Ray must be considered armed and dangerous. At week's end--somewhat redundantly--his name was added to the list of the nation's ten most-wanted men. After Ray escaped from prison, the name Eric Galt first appeared in late summer 1967 in Birmingham, where he rented a room from Boarding-House Operator Peter Cherpes. On Aug. 30, Galt bought the used white Mustang found abandoned in an Atlanta parking lot after King's death. The man who sold him the car, Lumber Company Official William Paisley, was surprised to get his $2,000 initial asking price--and in cash. Early in September, Cherpes drove Galt to get an Alabama driver's license, and then Galt began to put the first of 19,000 miles on his car. Shyness & Lies. Galt kept the room in Birmingham until Oct. 7, living so quietly that he built a reputation as a shy introvert, an uncommunicative loner who talked little, drank nothing and mixed not at all. His few references to himself were apparently lies. He said he had worked in a Louisiana shipyard and that he had been a merchant seaman, but union records do not show the name of Eric Galt. By December, Galt was in Los Angeles, where he presented two distinctly different personalities. From here he also took at least one trip to New Orleans, coming back with enough money to spread it around. He bought 50 hours of dancing lessons, plunking down $465 in big bills. And he took a short course in bartending, paying $250 in advance. Dance Studio Manager Rod Arvidson remembers Galt's alligator shoes, lack of coordination, and quiet disposition. Others add that he loved hillbilly music and spoke in Southern-accented, ungrammatical speech. Instructor Andreas Jorgensen said: "Every time the conversation got personal, he became quiet. He was a clam." Galt refused a bartending job upon his graduation from the course. Manager Tomas Reyes Lau recalls Galt's saying, "I have to see my brother. I'd better wait until I return to town." The day before the course ended, Alabama's license bureau issued a duplicate driver's permit to Eric Galt, mailing it to a Birmingham address after a telephone request from Galt. It was not forwarded; the agency got its 25 cent fee March 6. Trip to New Orleans. If Galt was remembered as shy and pleasant by most of his acquaintances, the Hollywood drinking crowd in the area of an apartment he rented and at the St. Francis Hotel, where he also stayed, recall him as an obsessive racial bigot, an abrasive patron who belted screwdrivers, dozed on the bar stool and bickered with anyone around. Everyone at the Rabbit's Foot Club remembers Galt's big dispute. A young woman had the temerity to tell him that Negroes were "good people." This so enraged Galt that he grabbed her arm and hauled her to the door, shouting "I'll drop you off in Watts and we'll see how you like it there!" When another customer followed, Galt fled. About the time Galt flashed his money at the dancing school, he took a songwriter named Charles Stein on a two-day trip to New Orleans in the Mustang. While passing through Texas, Galt made several long-distance telephone calls from pay booths, and so insistent was he on repeating his name that Stein surmised that "he was establishing a fictitious identity." Once they returned to Los Angeles, Stein saw little of Galt, but is certain that he made at least one more trip to New Orleans. Advocate of Wallace. From Galt's relationship with Stein came hints that Galt had at least a speaking acquaintance with Hollywood supporters of the presidential bid of former Alabama Governor George Wallace. Stein said Galt agreed to take him to New Orleans only after Stein had agreed to sign a Wallace petition. Galt took him to the Wallace North Hollywood headquarters, and so well-known was Galt there that Stein presumed him to be some kind of politician. Wallace headquarters aides say that their files list no one named Galt. Galt-Ray disappeared from Lost Angeles in March, and on March 29 he bought a .243 Remington rifle at a Birmingham sporting-goods store. Next day he returned to exchange if for a .30-'06, explaining that "my brother" had decided they needed a different weapon for a planned hunting trip. He also bought a telescopic sight and had it mounted by the store. The Fatal Day. On April 3--the day before King was murdered--Galt registered at Memphis' Rebel Motel, and his Mustang was seen parked near Room 34. Clerks said that Galt made no telephone calls through their switchboard, but the lights in the room stayed on all night. Next day John Willard--an alias used by Galt--rented Room 5 in the sleazy rooming house across the street from the Lorraine Motel, where King was shot. After the shooting, the man called Willard was seen rushing out of the rooming house; the rifle and a ditty bag were found on the street; witnesses reported that the white car tore away at top speed. Amid the confusion, a mysterious radio call described a continuing police chase after the Mustang. The chase went one way, the Mustang another, and the broadcast later was discovered to have been a fake. The killer had been given his chance to escape. Next day the car was abandoned in Atlanta, 382 miles away. Galt had managed the long drive unhindered, and disappeared after taking a taxi ride; the driver later recognized him from an FBI sketch. From this point on, Eric Starvo Galt ceased to exist. So, far all practical purposes, did the trail. By week's end it seemed likely that the fugitive was outside the country--or still inside it, and safely dead. </body> </article> </text>