Secret Life Of A Radical Fugitive

BY ALL APPEARANCES, Katherine Ann Power, the vivacious, outgoing mother of a teenage boy, led a normal life. To many, she just doesn't seem the criminal type.

CORVALLIS, Ore. - After more than two decades on the run, guilt and fear and self-imprisonment were gnawing at the soul of Alice Louise Metzinger. So a year ago, she sat her closest friend in front of her and divulged the painful truth.

Metzinger wasn't just a savvy businesswoman and popular cook who liked to whip up picture-perfect cakes and other exotic dishes for her friends.

This one-time Betty Crocker contest winner was really Katherine Ann Power, an anti-war college radical who showed up on the FBI's Most Wanted List for driving the getaway car in a deadly Sept. 23, 1970, Boston bank robbery.

"I thought, `Is this for real?' " her friend, Marilyn Schwader, remembers of their conversation. "This really isn't happening. It's happening to someone else."

But yesterday, reality finally caught up with Power and with those who long knew her as "Alice" here in the Willamette Valley.

And when the 44-year-old fugitive turned herself in to plead guilty to reduced charges of manslaughter and two counts of armed robbery at a Boston courthouse, it became clear her previous life was much more complicated than people here ever imagined.

For the first time in 23 years, she was reunited with her parents, Marjorie and Winfield Power of Grand Junction, Colo., and one of her six siblings, Claudia.

"I'm proud of her for what she's done in turning herself in,"

Winfield Power, 75, told reporters outside the courtroom in Boston. "Would a parent ever forsake his child? I have never heard of one."

Power was a senior at Brandeis University in Waltham, Mass., when she joined the group of anti-war radicals. FBI officials took her off their Most Wanted list in 1984, saying they had no clues about her whereabouts.

Now, Power's attorneys say, the woman who avoided authorities for more than two decades is expected to spend more than five years in federal prison for her role in the Boston robbery, which resulted in the shooting death of policeman Walter Shroeder. Sentencing is scheduled for Oct. 6.

She also will be brought to a U.S. District Court to face charges for a Sept. 20, 1970, break-in at a National Guard armory in Massachusetts, from which 400 rounds of ammunition were stolen, and another bank robbery in Philadelphia that same month. All four of her accomplices in the Boston bank robbery were eventually captured and served time. One died in prison in 1972 when a bomb he was making as part of an escape plan exploded.

In coffee shops and at checkout stands, Power's surrender was the topic of conversation in Corvallis and the nearby town of Lebanon where she and her family lived, not necessarily because of the crimes she committed but because she was now owning up to them.

As one woman at the Benton County courthouse wondered, "Why'd she do it after all this time?"

At M's Tea and Coffee House, where Power worked as a cook and consultant, the place was abuzz with reporters and well-wishers.

Married and the mother of a 14-year-old son, Power was a well-known cook at local eateries in Corvallis. In addition to her work for M's coffee house, she helped found a successful restaurant, Napoli's Restaurant and Bakery, in Eugene several years ago.

She also had taught cooking classes at Linn-Benton Community College and was writing a cookbook.

To many people here - from the unknowing cooks who worked beside her to the self-described radical prosecutor in town who helped keep her secret for more than a year - the vivacious, outgoing woman known as Alice Metzinger just doesn't seem the criminal type.

They describe her as as a gentle, caring person who seemed no more liberal or passionate about politics than other residents in this tranquil college community.

She and her husband, Ron Duncan, a meatcutter and accountant, lived in a modest white clapboard house. Despite her success in business, both shunned material goods, opting instead to invest in cooking and their organic garden.

Last year, when Power sold her partnership at Napoli's, she donated most of her profit to a hunger-relief organization.

"I don't know her as anyone else. She's just plain Alice," said Darlene Lindgren, 62, a neighbor who lives next door. The shock still hasn't sunk in for Lindgren. She learned of Power's true identity yesterday morning when reporters started showing up.

Like others here, Lindgren speaks of the two separately. There's the Katherine Power she's heard about, and then there's the "Alice" she knows.

On the other hand, friends don't recall Power saying much about her past or about her family.

When she quit her job at M's two weeks ago, she simply told people she had to go back East to take care of some "personal business."

"This is Oregon," Schwader says, "and Oregon people don't press for details."

In her own way, Power offered some insight through metaphoric storytelling. As a strong believer in Native American spirituality, friends say, she had a knack for expressing emotions and experiences by relating magical tales about animals and other individuals.

Little did people realize, said Schwader, co-owner of M's, that storytelling, poems and cooking were Power's way of revealing herself. Not much is known about her aliases before moving to Lebanon 14 years ago, except that she lived in a commune for women and at some point took up culinary arts.

It quickly became a personal passion, one that would lead to 12-hour work days and a reputation for being a walking textbook on restaurant operations and recipes.

Although commonly recognized by her ready smile, Power had begun seeing a therapist for chronic depression last spring.

Friends say she had become extremely fearful - virtually paranoid - of maintaining any relationships, for fear they would lead to her discovery by authorities.

"She told us she'd been depressed most of her life and had lots of ups and downs and had been trying to find the right medication," Schwader said.

"I knew there was some pain there, a lot of pain."

It was her counseling with a local therapist, Schwader believes, that led her to make the decision to divulge information about the bank robbery to a handful of people and to contact an attorney to arrange for her surrender.

"She wanted to live her life with authenticity," her friend said. "I think she was tired of separating herself from her previous life. Also, the more she told people (about the bank robbery), the more chance there was that they would catch her."

Benton County's Deputy District Attorney Karen Zorn said she, too, knew of Power's identity for more than a year but fulfilled a promise to Power's local attorney "to keep my mouth shut."

The attorney, Steven Black, who is himself a Vietnam War veteran, arranged for the surrender. He notified Zorn of his client's background more than a year ago, asking her to help Black and Power work through their experiences in a mock trial.

"She needed to feel like people would accept her even after what she did. I think the (mock) trial helped her do that," Zorn said.

Power revealed her identity to Schwader and a few other friends last October 1992, not long after she married her husband, her companion of 12 years. It's not clear how long he had known of her background, although Schwader thinks he's known for quite some time.

Her son, Jaime, learned about his mother's past just last month and is now staying with friends in the Corvallis area while his parents are in Boston.

Sunday, just hours before she turned herself in, Power cooked polenta for a potluck going-away party, then broke the news of her crime to about 40 friends and co-workers.

First there was silence, then hugs and tears. "She's already served her sentence," Schwader said. "She's had a life of grief. So what's the sentence going to be? Five years in jail? What good is that going to be. She could do more good in the community where she is."

Local newspapers and television reports produced sympathetic profiles of Power and her role in this community, and a defense fund has been established for her case.

But Lebanon is a conservative town. And some residents believe she deserves to be put behind bars.

"That much time passing doesn't have anything to do with it," said Bob McCormick, owner of the Lebanon Airport Grocery, down the street from Power's home.

"The policeman's family has been suffering with this for all these years. I think what she did (in coming forward to authorities) was good, and now she can serve her punishment for whatever her involvement was."

But others - particularly those who grew up with Power's generation - disagree.

"Heck, that was (two) decades ago, and the world was different. We were all different," said Robert Dunn, 47, a hairdresser.

"Not that what she did was right. But I'm sure there are a lot of us who did things in the past that we'd rather not have people know about."

Material from The Associated Press was used in this report.