Our 2024 Releases
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Randy Hubbard
The Laney Gwinner Effect
$17.95
$19.95
The Laney Gwinner Effect releases on November 22, 2024. Order yours now!
The Laney Gwinner Effect: How One Cold Case Mobilized a High School to Make a Difference explores the unsolved murder of 23-year-old Alana “Laney” Gwinner and the ripple effect it had on a small community. When Laney disappeared in 1997, her case became a haunting mystery, with her body discovered weeks later in the Ohio River. Though her killer remains at large, her story continues to inspire.
This book chronicles the journey of high school teacher Randy Hubbard and his students as they delved into Laney’s cold case, sparking a classroom movement that brought forensic science to life in ways no one could have predicted. Through their dedication, Laney’s case took on new meaning, giving birth to a phenomenon that challenged minds and ignited passions.
More than just a true crime story, The Laney Gwinner Effect highlights how one life, tragically cut short, can still have a profound impact, creating waves of change and inspiring future generations.
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James A. Flood
The Maritime Art of James A. Flood: Passenger Ships
$55.00
$75.00
The Maritime Art of James A. Flood: Passenger Ships will be releasing on December 6, 2024. Order yours now!
Embark on a voyage through history with The Maritime Art of James A. Flood: Passenger Ships. This stunning hardcover collection features 50 breathtaking paintings by James A. Flood, a celebrated artist and former Navy sailor with a lifelong connection to the sea. From his days working on tugboats to painting majestic ocean liners, Flood brings his passion and expertise to every page.
Each painting—featuring legendary vessels like the RMS Titanic and RMS Queen Mary, along with other storied liners—is accompanied by rich historical details and personal reflections from Flood. Through its vivid artwork and engaging insights, this book offers readers a glimpse into the artistry, innovation, and history of these remarkable seafaring marvels.
Perfect for art lovers, ship enthusiasts, and history buffs alike, The Maritime Art of James A. Flood: Passenger Ships is more than a book—it’s an invitation to explore the beauty and grandeur of maritime heritage.
From the artist:
Born near the bustling docks of Philadelphia, it’s no surprise that I was captivated from the very beginning by the magnificent ships that sailed by. Their beauty and engineering perfection held me spellbound, an obsession that became a lifelong passion.
I painted ship after ship, tirelessly capturing their elegance on canvas for more than 70 years. In this selection, I present my favorite passenger ships. I hope you enjoy them as much as I have cherished painting them.
-James A. Flood
Dr. Ashley Baker
The Furious Others
$18.95
In typical serial killer novels, the victims are a footnote. In this book, they’re the whole story.
Betty. Tina. Sarah. Leslie. Chrissy. Sheena. Sherry. Lena. Debbie. Ashley.
The ten victims in The Furious Others lived ordinary lives until serial killer Jason LeDown entered stage left, knife in hand, with a belly full of bad intentions. That’s where fear is found, in the space between a typical Friday and a man intent on murder. The fictional characters in The Furious Others depict real people: mothers, lovers, hip-hop aficionados, and green thumbs, united by the tragedy of lost lives.
Author and clinical psychologist Dr. Ashley Baker PSYD envisions a fictional world where the murderer is not the main character in the serial killer trope. Instead of exploring Jason Le Down’s methods of madness, Dr. Baker chooses to honor the victims rather than romanticize monsters.
As a condition of Jason’s LeDown’s purgatory, those he harmed reflect on their humanity, proving they’re more than crime scene photos or roadside crosses. In this multiple point of view novel, the deceased blaze a fast-paced trail, recounting their last moments, with tentacles of grief stretching across timelines.
In The Furious Others, Dr. Baker, drawing from her own experience of devastating loss, paints a vivid picture of collective trauma and sorrow. The quest for closure drives the story to its gripping conclusion, making The Furious Others a powerful testament to the strength of the human spirit.
Richard Wickliffe
Don't Be Home For Christmas
$17.95
Kyle Colbert just wants to go home for Christmas. He savors his train commutes from Manhattan to his idyllic hometown. But as he arrives on Christmas Eve, his family tries to murder him. His neighbors and entire community suddenly want him dead. He can’t run to the authorities, because the FBI is also in a deadly pursuit. With a $1,000,000 reward for his “Death or Whereabouts," Kyle is running out of time to discover what's really going on to stop an even greater tragedy.
Ted Clark
Reverberations: 21 Classic 1950s Rock 'N' Roll Songs That Still Reverberate
$22.95
Reverberations: 21 Classic 1950s Rock 'N' Roll Songs That Still Reverberate is a journey through the golden age of rock and roll. This book dives into the stories behind twenty-one iconic songs from the 1950s that have left a lasting impact on music and culture.
From the rebellious energy of "Hound Dog" to the infectious rhythm of "Rock Around the Clock," these tracks defined a generation and continue to inspire artists today. You'll discover how "Tutti Frutti" brought Little Richard's flamboyant style to the forefront and how "Johnny B. Goode" became a rock and roll anthem thanks to Chuck Berry's groundbreaking guitar work.
The Beatles, in their early days, played almost all these songs, showcasing their timeless appeal and influence. Ted Clark's meticulous research and insight offers a fresh perspective on these classics, revealing their origins, the numerous subsequent artists who covered these songs and/or included them on their concert set lists, the movie soundtracks they have appeared on, and why they still resonate with listeners around the world.
The book explores in detail the tremendous impact that songs like “Rock Around the Clock,” “Be-Bop-A-Lula,” “That’ll Be the Day,” and “Summertime Blues” had in the UK. And Clark explains why the artists who sang these songs—Bill Haley, Gene Vincent, Buddy Holly and The Crickets, and Eddie Cochran respectively—are more revered across the pond than they are in the U.S.
Whether you're a lifelong fan of 1950s rock and roll or new to the genre, this book provides a rich and engaging look at the music that started it all. With each chapter, you'll gain a deeper appreciation for the songs that shaped the course of popular music and continue to reverberate through the decades.
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<div class="element-number case-upper"><span class="element-number-term">CHAPTER</span> <span class="element-number-number">1</span></div>
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<h1 class="element-title case-upper">JOHN COLTRANE</h1>
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<h2 class="element-subtitle case-upper">“MY FAVORITE THINGS”</h2>
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<p class="alignment-block-content alignment-block-content-center"><a class="content-external-link text-is-url" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qWG2dsXV5HI"><b>https://<wbr/>www.<wbr/>youtube.<wbr/>com/<wbr/>watch?<wbr/>v=<wbr/>qWG2dsXV5HI</b></a></p>
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<p class="first first-in-chapter first-full-width first-with-first-letter-j"><span class="first-letter first-letter-j first-letter-without-punctuation">J</span>ohn Coltrane cured my headache. I listened to “My Favorite Things,” and before the cut had finished, my headache was gone. Don't be surprised. People have made all sorts of miraculous claims for Coltrane's music; some even claim to have seen God while listening to Trane. This would have made Coltrane very happy, for that's exactly what he was after— nothing less than the vision of God.</p>
<p class="subsq">Coltrane, nicknamed Trane, didn't start his musical career looking for God. He just wanted to play music. The Vision appeared later. First came the years of struggle. Trane, by jazz standards, was a slow developer. Many who believe he was one of the greatest jazz musicians (if not <i>the</i> greatest) forget how many years it took him to master his art. He was almost 30 years old before most people heard of him, when he joined the Miles Davis Quintet in 1955.</p>
<p class="subsq">A musician who decides on a life in jazz is like the monk who dedicates his life to unending prayer and takes a vow of poverty. You hear about gold records ($1 million in sales), platinum (one million units), and even multi-platinum. A jazz album is a big hit if it moves 10,000 units. And jazz gigs are so few that most musicians have day jobs—sometimes as music teachers but often any sort of work they can get. If they strike it lucky, they might be offered a fairly steady job in a club but often they take whatever there is.</p>
<p class="subsq">A fellow sax player walking into a club in Philadelphia was horrified to see the very studious, shy, almost introverted John Coltrane “walking the bar.” This occurs when a musician, usually a tenor saxophonist, is supposedly gripped with such passion that he loses control of himself, jumps up on the bar and begins to honk and wail on his horn, head bobbing, eyes closed, shuffling from one end to the other, while the drunken patrons yell encouragement. No doubt, Trane needed the bread. Critics write about musicians as artists, which is fair enough. They forget these musicians are also out to make a living. Almost every jazz musician has had his time “walking the bar,” or its equivalent. Musicians say: “You got to pay your dues if you want to play the blues.”</p>
<p class="subsq">John Coltrane spent more time than most paying dues. He spent six or more hours a day practicing. If a musician friend came by his home to visit, Trane would invite him down to the basement to practice for a few hours. He would even practice in his dressing room between sets at a club. When you hear Coltrane and maybe think he plays like a man possessed, you're right. He was on a quest: first for Excellence, then for Beauty, then finally for The Love Supreme.</p>
<p class="subsq">If you want to hear Coltrane's Excellence check out the album <i>Giant Steps</i> or a number like “Chasin’ the Trane.” If you want to hear Coltrane's Beauty, I highly recommend “In a Sentimental Mood” off his album with Duke Ellington or “My One and Only Love” with singer Johnny Hartman. For his Vision, go directly to the album<i> A Love Supreme,</i> which I love supremely. I've taken the easy way out and selected his most famous song, “My Favorite Things.” I believe it illustrates Coltrane's excellence, beauty, and vision.</p>
<p class="subsq">Jazz has always taken music composed in another style and done something different with it—“jazzed” it up. “My Favorite Things” comes from the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical <i>The Sound of Music</i>. It's a fine little tune and fits nicely within the context of the overall show, but does it really qualify as the all-time greatest Richard Rodgers composition? Coltrane turned it into a classic. He did this on three levels: sound, rhythm, and interpretation.</p>
<p class="subsq">The sound on “My Favorite Things” is—for want of a better word—haunting. It stays in your head long after the track has finished. This haunting quality comes from Coltrane's choice of performing the number on a then-recently acquired soprano saxophone. In 1960 when Coltrane's version of “My Favorite Things” came out, the soprano was seldom heard. Only a few musicians played it. The most notable was New Orleans jazz great Sidney Bechet, a contemporary of Louis Armstrong’s. After Coltrane, many sax players began using the soprano as a second horn. The soprano produces an “oriental” sound absolutely right for the trance-like meditative mood Trane wishes to convey.</p>
<p class="subsq">However, even before you hear Coltrane's soprano, the rhythm sets you up. McCoy Tyner (piano) and Steve Davis (bass) introduce the number in waltz time. But this is not your ordinary waltz. I had trouble convincing a friend of mine who plays classical music that “My Favorite Things” is really done in 3/4 time. Maybe she was expecting something by Strauss for students at the Arthur Murray Dance Academy. This is no Bavarian oom PAH PAH or Viennese DUM dah dah waltz. Davis on bass acts as the rhythmic anchor. He starts off accenting the first beat but not exactly on the beat. Sometimes he's ahead, sometimes he's behind. After the first few minutes, he moves the accent all over the place. Elvin Jones would probably rather poke a drumstick in his eye than go oom PAH PAH. No sir, Elvin does what he does best—cross-rhythms. He plays clear and for Elvin, known as a power drummer, rather subdued, relying on his cymbal and snare drum with some subtle bass drum accents here and there. Meanwhile Tyner lays out easy-going block chords (chords played simultaneously with both hands). The combination of Davis-Jones-Tyner creates a hypnotic meditative mood. Simultaneously they provide a fluid rhythmic reservoir for Coltrane to float in, pleasant musical waves on a calm, clear lake.</p>
<p class="subsq">And in floats Coltrane. He plays the first 16 bars pretty much the way Richard Rodgers wrote them. Well not exactly because Coltrane plays jazz so the notes don't fall exactly on the beat and since no one is playing on the beat; anyhow, it all blends together. Anyway, you know right off what you're listening to—“My Favorite Things.” And you also know right off this is no ordinary version of “My Favorite Things”; something special is happening. Coltrane is one of the most lyrical ballad musicians in all of jazz. He played only ballads he loved and had the ability to convey that love to the listener.</p>
<p class="subsq">Tyner-Davis-Jones does eight bars of what is now becoming hypnotic rhythm and back comes Coltrane for a repeat of the first half of this 32-bar song. In fact, you won't hear the second 16 bars of the Rodgers melody until the ending of Coltrane's version. After this second statement of the theme, Trane flashes some of his fantastic technique at you for 24 bars. Then two more repeats of the theme where he begins to unwind with a few flurries of notes at the end, after which comes another 16 bars of technique.</p>
<p class="subsq">All this, at its most elementary level, is building and releasing tension. You hear the intro in a minor scale with beats falling every which place and the tension starts rising. What is this all about, you wonder. Coltrane plays the melody in a major scale and you begin to relax. Then the minor scale and cross-rhythms—tension. Statement of the melody— release. Then Trane does some serious BLOWING—tension. Restatement of the melody— release. And so it goes.</p>
<p class="subsq">Coltrane turns it over to McCoy Tyner's piano. Tyner’s job is to put you in a euphoric trance. At one point Tyner plays the same right-hand note for 16 bars while his left hand keeps the chords going. Then 16 bars of moving off that note and returning: up and back, down and back, up and back, up and back, down and back. Tyner builds and builds with his blocks. Builds and builds; four and a half minutes building and building. You're in no state to ask what he's building to. You know he's building to something.</p>
<p class="subsq">Coltrane returns with a fairly straight run-through of the 16-bar melody. And then he lets loose with six minutes of the most beautiful sounds you can possibly imagine. Trane soars, glides, dips, climbs, circles. Flurries of notes, “sheets of sound” (writer Ira Gitler’s term): These come flying at you. Trane does some flat-out amazing interval jumps at triple speed. He plays so wildly, and so wonderfully, it is beyond my limited ability to describe these six minutes in words. I can call it a musical ecstasy. Only once during his solo does Trane restate the theme to remind you that this ecstasy is about “favorite things.”</p>
<p class="subsq">What favorite things? <i>His</i> favorite things. <i>Your</i> favorite things. The things you love. The things that have the most meaning in your life. Somehow Trane knows. And you know that he knows. How can he know? Elvin Jones, many years later, said Coltrane was “... like an angel on Earth. This is not just an ordinary person. I've been touched by something greater than... than life.” It seems to me Trane knows that although our favorite things are different, we all have our favorite things. And this unites us to him and to each other. And realization of this unity of us all is Trane's ecstasy.</p>
<p class="subsq">Finally he plays the entire 32-bar melody and ends it… slowly, beautifully. We come out of our trance and float lightly down to earth. What an experience—all 13 minutes of it. Now you know why “My Favorite Things” is one of my favorite things and how John Coltrane cured my headache.</p>
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Joel Strauss
Noble Sounds
$18.95
Noble Sounds offers a friendly journey into the world of jazz and blues. Author Joel Strauss shares his love for these uniquely American musical styles, guiding readers through their rich history and cultural impact. The book introduces key artists and important recordings, helping newcomers understand what makes this music special.
Strauss writes in a clear, conversational style that's easy to follow. He explains musical concepts without getting too technical, making the book accessible to those without formal music training. Personal stories and experiences add color to the narrative, bringing the music to life.
From Louis Armstrong to B.B. King, readers will meet the legends who shaped jazz and blues. The book explores how these styles evolved over time and influenced other forms of music. Strauss also offers listening recommendations, allowing readers to experience the sounds firsthand.
Noble Sounds is more than just a history lesson. It's an invitation to discover soul-stirring music that has moved people for generations. Whether someone is curious about jazz and blues or wants to deepen their appreciation, this book provides a welcoming starting point for exploring these enduring musical traditions.
sale
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Brian Blauser
See the Music
$50.00
$65.00
Dive into the electrifying world of live music through See the Music, the latest photo book by renowned concert and backstage photographer, Brian Blauser. This stunning collection of photographs offers an exclusive glimpse behind the scenes, capturing the raw, unfiltered moments that define unforgettable performances. From the high-energy chaos of the stage to the intimate, candid shots backstage, Blauser’s lens reveals the passion and artistry that pulse through every concert.
Not only does Blauser share his extraordinary photos, but he also invites you into the stories behind the shots. Through personal anecdotes and behind-the-scenes tales, he shares the unforgettable experiences and vibrant personalities that bring each performance to life.
Whether you're a music enthusiast, a photography lover, or simply curious about the inner workings of live performances, See the Music is a captivating journey into the heart of the music scene. Each page pulsates with the energy found only in live shows and the emotions of intimate moments, making this book a must-have for anyone who treasures the magic of music. Feel the beat, see the artistry, and own the experience with Brian Blauser’s remarkable vision.
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<h1 class="element-title case-upper"><span class="element-number-term">CHAPTER</span> <span class="element-number-number">1</span></h1>
</div>
<h2 class="element-subtitle case-upper">ENCOUNTERING THE ZODIAC</h2>
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<div class="text" id="chapter-1-text">
<p class="first first-in-chapter first-full-width first-with-first-letter-i"><span class="first-letter first-letter-i first-letter-without-punctuation">I</span>f my family tree were an actual living plant, it might appear as an unbalanced tangle of weird-shaped limbs. It’s not that my ancestors suffered from an excessively high rate of mental illnesses, or represented innumerable unstable families, though those are certainly present. For the most part, the people who make up my ancestry are simply unique individuals with their own idiosyncrasies. I am the product of an odd assortment: champions and charlatans, community pillars and misfits. I have often wished I had an average relative. Just one, single ancestor who could provide a role model to inspire me to some level of normality. Instead, my genealogy expresses itself as a stunted bonsai in sections, and wild, runaway overgrowth in others. Whimsy and eccentricity are everywhere in this obscure corner of the gene pool, such that no standard piece of lumber could be milled from any single branch. Throughout my childhood, I gained valuable lessons as a result of the people who came before me, and who would become my parents, grandparents, and beyond.</p>
<p class="subsq">My own family of origin was unique in its favored topics of conversation. Many families discuss politics and current events. Others talk about friends and neighbors, or whatever is happening in the lives of its members. In my family, while I was growing up, my parents shared interesting tales that have been passed down from generation to generation. They engaged in their fair share of gossip, and even ranted about the government at times. They more often related stories of ancestors they knew, and others about whom they had only heard. I eagerly enjoyed connecting with my roots and discovering my ancient past as I listened carefully to everything that was shared with me.</p>
<p class="subsq">I am, and always have been, an avid collector of interesting and compelling tales. Especially when it does not contain a complete ending, or in which a conclusion is not forthcoming, it will have my undivided attention. The open gestalt tantalizes me.</p>
<p class="subsq">One night at Bark Lake Summer Leadership Camp when I was a teenager, for instance, a fellow camper began to tell a shaggy dog tale, a genre consisting in a long, complex story that ends with a disappointingly dull pun. So great was my joy in listening, that at the end of my fellow camper’s lengthy recitation, I was the only other camper still awake, possibly emblematic of obsessiveness in my personality. Brian, the storyteller, called out to the darkened cabin once his pun had been delivered. It was about 1 a.m., and he had been talking for more than an hour. All the other teenagers were fast asleep, some quietly snoring. I, however, was wide awake. It didn’t even seem to matter to me that the tale went nowhere in the end. It was a story, and even told by a 15-year-old it captivated my imagination enough to put off much-needed sleep and restoration from a long day in the sun.</p>
<p class="subsq">For better and for worse, each of my family stories and each ancestor has played a part in shaping me. They poured content into my character, for as I grew, I learned what was important to my parents—and their parents—what professions were worthy of pursuit, and what lifestyles were unacceptable. My values were therefore forged in part by the light of those who went before me, and the lessons my ancestors learned through their own life experiences helped create the man I am today.</p>
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<p class="ornamental-break-as-text">* * *</p>
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<p class="first first-in-section first-full-width">My beginnings in the Zodiac serial killing case can be traced back to 1987, directly, as well as indirectly to times and places many years earlier with events that even predated my life. In 1987, an innocuous gathering of a few college students—possibly only two—began to discuss the topic of true crime. The words would conspire to shape my future in ways I could never have fathomed. In that interaction, I learned about a serial killer who called himself the Zodiac. In time—and many years would pass before I became fully engaged—I would become obsessed with this one, cruel criminal, ultimately dedicating 11 years of my life in the pursuit of answers to lingering questions. The case became a compelling story that eventually wrapped its tentacles around me, and, at some point, removed my ability to separate myself from it. After initially dipping my toe in the water a few times, one day I took the irreversible plunge, and would not look back.</p>
<p class="subsq">Obsession—the correct word to describe my participation in the Zodiac case—can be described as the state in which someone is overtaken or overwhelmed by another person, idea, or activity in such a way that there is a loss of control over future choices. It can also refer to the object of the obsession—the person, idea, or activity over which someone has lost all control; the word can define an obsessiveness or the target of such obsessiveness. Since no degrees are assigned, there is no clear line drawn to tell us when a hobby has grown into a passion or a passion has devolved to an obsession. How many drinks does it take to move a social drinker into the category of an alcoholic? What is the exact dosage that marks the dividing line between a dabbler in narcotics and a full-fledged drug addict? In actuality, it’s many shades of gray along the descent.</p>
<p class="subsq">Obsession traces a familiar line in my life. I acquired the addictive personality honestly through the example of my family, whether by genetics or behavior. My mother was an alcoholic and died of it in her 70s. Her brother was similarly given to drink, and passed away in his early 50s, alcohol contributing to the early demise of both of the siblings.</p>
<p class="subsq">I am not an alcoholic, as some of my ancestors were. I have never been held hostage to drugs or to drink, and I know my personality too well to allow myself to venture too far down the rabbit hole of casino gambling. I have instead become addicted to a variety of people, hobbies, and activities over the past decades. My overwhelming passion for 11 years, from 2007 to 2018, was the criminal case of the Zodiac serial killer, though this was not my first love.</p>
<p class="subsq">Chess was my passion as a teenager, possibly initiating me into my first bout of obsessive behavior. I was 7 or 8 when I learned the rules from my dad as he instructed my older brother, Andrew. As the second born child, I was shielded from some of the ridicule, criticism, and steep demands that my father expressed in my early years. I incorporated the ancient game into my life as an enthusiastic spectator, without the expectations that were heaped on my brother.</p>
<p class="subsq">I remember asking my dad to play chess one evening when he was home from work. Despite the fact that my mother urged me to approach him, or maybe because of it, my dad yelled at me. He raged that the set was incomplete, a red checkers masquerading as the missing bishop. I didn’t play him that day. I also recall one childhood chess game loss to an adult at a community center in Moosonee, Ontario, one summer during a family vacation. I was around 10 years of age when I boldly asked my opponent for some pointers to improve my game, following my speedy defeat. It may have been the four-move checkmate, the “scholar’s mate,” or some variation of it, to which I had succumbed.</p>
<p class="subsq">In elementary school, I made some friends who were similarly drawn to the game. Classmate Andrew Smith in grade five taught me some strategy that he had learned from a relative or family friend. We often lingered after school to challenge our teacher, Mr. Hikola. We competed in a bicycle-decorating competition for which we taped a chess board and a handful of pieces to the frame of his three-speed. We did not win, but the experience cemented our friendship over the shared hobby.</p>
<p class="subsq">I joined the Scarborough Chess Club, a gathering of young and old men who stared at plastic pieces in a rickety, wooden community hall, and later competed in a few area tournaments during my middle and high school years. I entered an Ontario Open Chess Tournament and a Canadian Open Chess Tournament. In the public competitions, I generally won as many games as I lost. In the final round of one event, my opponent paid me $5.00 to concede an obviously drawn game so he could earn an age-related prize for which I did not qualify.</p>
<p class="subsq">One snowy day in January, when my high school classes were cancelled due to the inclement weather, I took advantage of my freedom and worked through the chess moves recorded in one of the many books I had acquired. (My schoolmates thought it strange that I played the game by myself.) Over time, I built a chess library of more than 50 volumes. I soon began to collect chess sets, specifically one from each country or region of a country I visited, eventually amassing more than 60, including ones made of onyx, ivory, and many different textures and shades of wood.</p>
<p class="subsq">With concerted effort over a decade, I learned to play at an advanced level, nearly achieving the status of Chess Master. I was listed as a top 10 Canadian junior player before I turned 16. When I played a bearded street hustler who wore shabby clothes and loudly broadcast the strength of his “kill-as-you-go gambit” one evening under the watchful eye of my father who had put up $2 for the game, I nearly won. Joe Smolij, a colorful character and fixture of Toronto nightlife, looked me straight in the eye at the end of our open-air match and proclaimed in his thick, Russian accent, “You play like master!” “You play like master!” I was 14 or 15. Later, my father took me to the Café Montmartre, an urban meeting place of chess players. My opponent for the evening, a man who must have been 25 years my senior, forced a draw by a repetition of moves. The game should have been an easy win for me, as I had battled to a large lead. After the game, I exclaimed to my dad, “I’ve never played against the Sicilian Defense in a serious game!”</p>
<p class="subsq">A move to Michigan for college pulled me away from the chess club, and the game I had grown to adore. By that time, I had graduated to another passion that also would grow to another obsession. I would continue to play chess socially, eventually buying an early chess computer and competing with other players online, but never would I pursue the game with the same fierceness and determination. By the time I graduated high school, I was focusing on my spirituality.</p>
<p class="subsq">A series of summer camp positions during my teen years introduced me to Christians who arranged their lives around their faith in Jesus Christ. At the time, I considered church attendance and my Christian school enrollment an important component of my identity, but not something that particularly aroused any passion. I did not question or attempt to understand my inherited beliefs with any depth, but that was about to change for me in the late 1970s.</p>
<p class="subsq">It was the melting pot of Camp Ke-Mon-Oya, a summer scrum of a hundred energetic children and a mixed-aged staff of 30 that challenged any assumptions I had previously held about church. On the scenic property at Lake Chandos, north of Peterborough, Ontario, during long, bright summer days for ten summers in the late 1970s, and 1980s, I rubbed shoulders with, and lived among, Christians from a wide variety of denominations and faiths, including Catholics, Pentecostals, Baptists, and a few smaller denominations. I feared any disagreement—eager to please everyone at that stage in my life—so I accepted most of what I heard regardless of its source.</p>
<p class="subsq">In addition to scurrying from one area of the lush 260-acre camp property to another as we barked orders at distracted children, we swam, played soccer, and assembled masterpieces in the arts and crafts building. I balanced the challenges of being obedient to the camp rules with the hijinks of raids to the girls’ cabins after dark. It was exciting to develop crushes, begin lifelong friendships, and test the physical and emotional limits of my developing body. The entire process was magnified by the long, sunny days, and the close quarters that foster intense relationships. Throughout the experience, I also learned many ideas about which I had never heard.</p>
<p class="subsq">I witnessed staff members who were excited about spiritual things. They enjoyed reading the Bible, and seemed to want to talk about its stories at all hours of the day or night. As a teenager, I was soaking up new concepts like a dry sponge thrown into dishwater. One autumn, upon my return from the camp’s property, I covenanted to read through the entire Bible because I wanted to know its contents for myself. I also began to read books about the Bible.</p>
<p class="subsq">When I moved to Michigan, I matriculated into the engineering program of Calvin College (now Calvin University) on the strength of my math and science ability. By contrast to my father who had earned his bachelor’s in engineering, I did not last long in the department.</p>
<p class="subsq">I was soon feeling unhappy with my provisional career choice. The loneliness I felt for being a great distance from my family was compounded by a seasonal depression brought on by the cloudy, gray Michigan weather. I recall crying in bed one evening, then wandering about the darkened campus in complete despair. I repeated a mantra to myself, “I am nothing; I have nothing.” I felt desolate and empty. In an attempt to assuage the pain, I carefully memorized the words to Psalm 84. Late one Friday afternoon in drafting class, a group of young people gazed in upon me and my peers from the back of the classroom. They apparently spotted their friend who they had traveled to visit, and began to wave their arms wildly. I noticed them and assumed with a deep longing that their attention was directed at me; they were facing me as they eagerly gestured. It was a sad realization for me that they were looking toward a classmate of mine, beyond me, and likely perplexed by the strange student who was waving back at them. I became keenly aware of how little enjoyment I derived from the solo activity of huddling over a drafting table, or working my way through problem sets in mathematics and physics.</p>
<p class="subsq">When asked what type of engineering I intended to pursue, such as chemical or electrical, on more than one occasion, I answered, “theological engineering,” with tongue firmly planted in my cheek. I was less interested in the subjects taught in my classes, and was drawn instead to dorm bible studies and campus fellowship gatherings. Soon, my passion for theology thrust my academic career in a new direction.</p>
<p class="subsq">I signed up for a four-week interim course in eschatology, the study of “the last things” or “the end times.” In preparation, I gathered and read a pile of library books on the subject before the first class even commenced. The lectures and assignments turned out to be weak and uninspiring, because I had covered far more material in my personal reading than the professor even attempted. Additional, after-class discussions were not much more enlightening. While he taught from a decidedly a-millennial perspective, I had become well versed in numerous theological positions, including pre-millennial and post-millennial.</p>
<p class="subsq">After some soul searching, I switched my major to theology. I was now studying in the classroom the passion I had contracted at summer camp.</p>
<p class="subsq">Upon graduation from Calvin with a B.A. in theology in 1983, I had no specific, long-range plans. I considered teaching at the high school level, or engaging in mission work, but the prospect of both of these left me rather cold. I wrestled with an education class where the professor reminded the class that most teenaged students were not grateful for teachers and their assistance, and made it apparent that teaching in high school would never provide me a meaningful and rewarding career. I meandered for about six months weighing my life options. Writing was already on my mind by this time because I was captivated with films and plays. I wanted to create my own screenplay, but at the time I was not equal to the challenge.</p>
<p class="subsq">In the fall of 1983, I returned to Grand Rapids, Michigan from my parent’s home in Toronto to pursue a relationship, and to write the great American screenplay. Unfortunately, neither went as planned. While biking home from campus one fall evening as darkness enveloped the autumn-tinted trees, a plastic bag containing my written material flew from my hands. Dozens of 3 X 5 treatment cards fluttered away from me and covered an intersection in East Grand Rapids like snowflakes on an open field. It was late enough, and absent of traffic, so that I was able to collect most of the cards without incident. The streaks of dirt across my labor bore witness to me of the poor quality of my writing, and my complete dearth of understanding of what I was attempting.</p>
<p class="subsq">That same fall, I made a decision, and received a “call” from God. I enrolled in seminary to embark on a career as a protestant minister in the Christian Reformed Church, the denomination of my college, and the church of my upbringing since 6<sup>th</sup> grade. I now had the certainty I sought—or so I thought. The rigors of seminary spared me from continued effort on the screenplay, and from great embarrassment had I ever attempted to see it through to completion. My girlfriend and I soon parted ways, a painful renting of boundary-less hearts that took me years to accept.</p>
<p class="subsq">During my study at seminary, I first encountered what was destined to become one of my greatest passions, though 20 years would pass before it would take root in the fertile ground of my imagination. I was pursuing a Master of Divinity degree at Calvin Theological Seminary on the same property as my college. In late 1987 or early 1988, I was relaxing one evening with my newest true crime book. My housemate Eric had come up from his basement hermitage to engage me in the living room area where the two of us, and two other students, shared a rented home.</p>
<p class="subsq">It was the custom of the mysterious Eric to emerge from his secluded habitation in the early evening. After a trek to the local convenience store for beer—typically two oversized cans—he would spend the rest of the night plying himself with his purchase until his speech was slurred, and he presumably descended into sleep back down in his basement room. Most nights, he disappeared from sight to enjoy his beer. On occasion, he lounged upstairs to interact with others. I do not now recall whether my odd housemate was also a student, or whether he had already entered the workforce. What I do vividly remember was his eager excitement when he noticed my book.</p>
<p class="subsq">Or perhaps <i>he</i> was the one reading true crime that evening and I was questioning him about his book, which sparked his excitement. The details are dimmed now in the misty corridors of distant memory. However it arose, the topic was of keen interest to the both of us. I would have similar exchanges with many friends and acquaintances over the following decades, but this was one of my first. Since many neither approve of, nor understand, a profound interest in true crime, especially within tight-knit conservative communities, it can be a real joy to find someone who revels in the genre. Today, with the thousands of documentaries and podcasts dedicated to the field, it is much more socially acceptable to be fascinated by, and challenged to understand, the deviant criminals in our society.</p>
<p class="subsq">I shared my reading list with Eric. In that era, I was frequently detouring into the true crime section of bookstores to examine the latest releases. At some point in the conversation, Eric turned to me and asked a question that would change my life forever, “Have you heard of the Zodiac?” (The query may have followed a question about other interesting titles that I could add to my library.) When he learned that I had not, he proceeded to educate me about the San Francisco Bay Area killer of five victims—and possibly many more. I learned the diabolical perpetrator had also written letters to the police, sent ciphers to the press, and had threatened school children with bomb sketches. And he was never caught.</p>
<p class="subsq">I responded with an amalgam of surprise and anger. Not so much because of the appalling deeds—I was by then rather inured to the actions of the most depraved in our society—but because I knew the Bay Area very well and had never heard of the Zodiac.</p>
<p class="subsq">I had just completed a nine-month internship with a medium-sized suburban congregation in Hayward, a Bay Area community to the south and east of San Francisco. I had lost my preaching virginity in the process, even though I did not possess the required preaching license to satisfy the rules of the denominational administrators. Vern, the affable senior pastor under whom I worked at the West Coast church, blithely told me, “It’s a long way to Grand Rapids (the headquarters of the Christian Reformed Church) from here.” Accordingly, during my stay in the region, I delivered a total of five sermons. The disjointed organization of my early efforts, together with my weak delivery as I cowered behind the lectern, left much to be desired. The congregation was very encouraging and infinitely patient.</p>
<p class="subsq">My job description with the church required that I engage with people in the neighborhood. I was the Outreach Pastor, responsible for inviting others to join our worship services, for enfolding new members into the full life of the congregation, and for functioning as a bridge between longstanding families and the church’s newly emerging members. My job enabled me to meet and talk with many, many area residents. Of the hundreds of fascinating and unique Californians I encountered that year, through thousands of conversations, not one single person mentioned to me the name of the serial killer who held court and terrified citizens in every corner of the Bay Area from 1968 to 1974. By 1986, apparently, the murders no longer hung in the air, even as a fleeting memory. The killer was either dead, incarcerated on unrelated offenses, or had moved to greener pastures, as far as most were concerned. No killings had been committed in the prior 17 years, and it had been at least a decade since the last authenticated Zodiac letter arrived by U.S. mail. The fear had evidently dissipated, and was no longer fodder for casual conversation. My position in the church may have made it uncomfortable for others to mention the appalling activities that had tarnished the region’s reputation. They may have falsely assumed that I as a preacher carried no interest in the horrendous actions of a deranged criminal.</p>
<p class="subsq">Now engaging Eric as his speech began to slow, my interest was piqued in a topic that would become near to my heart. The failure of Californians to even mention the events did not deter me from an obsessive quest to engage the crime spree—or from a desire to resolve it. The silence may even have heightened the case’s intrigue.</p>
<p class="subsq">Eric filled me in on as many details as he could recall, and told me about the one publication available at the time. Within three decades of our conversation, there would be three serious motion pictures that would inspire more than 100 books on the subject. The case would spawn television shows, documentaries, podcasts, and magazine articles, in addition to innumerable newspaper stories, a seemingly endless parade of Zodiac products. In the absence of any firm resolution to the case, some believed that anyone’s speculative guess was as good as anyone else’s. The marketplace ensured that any minor piece of circumstantial evidence could and would be packaged by someone bent on bringing a new product to market.</p>
<p class="subsq">Eric’s words penetrated far deeper into my psyche than I realized at the time, and for far longer than I ever would have ever guessed. I was captivated by the details he shared in part because the serial killing case was unsolved. Most of the true crime I was reading at the time covered criminals who had been caught by the time of publication, and whose life was an open book for scrutiny. Following the carefully described details of the murders and the extended investigation, my chosen reading material inevitably lingered long on the tale’s conclusion—an arrest and a successful prosecution usually covered in excruciating detail. The idea of a “modern” high profile-killer that had eluded capture, like Jack the Ripper in London’s East End back in the late 1800s, overtook my imagination. And it had occurred in the United States. And it had happened in California, a region I love.</p>
<p class="subsq">When I finally determined to tackle the case with a conscious and concerted effort in 2007, there were still only a handful of books that even remotely covered the topic, some fictional, the others loose with the case’s facts. I committed myself to reading all that had been written—an exercise that would occupy a few months of my time—and to viewing all the documentaries that had been produced. It took somewhat longer to wade through the hundreds of pages of police reports made available to the public.</p>
<p class="subsq">There have been other passions in my life, but none that ever challenged the huge monoliths of chess, theology, or the Zodiac. I at various times pursued Canadian coins and currency (hoarding the world’s largest collection of 1948 Canadian 10-cent pieces), the acoustic guitar—later, also the electric guitar—and table tennis (ping-pong). I recently found an autobiography I wrote in grade six, which reminded me that I also went through phases of breeding guppies, completing paint by number oil paintings, and learning to play the piano. I also indulged a passion for jogging and competitive long-distance running, which I received from Andrew, my taciturn older brother.</p>
<p class="subsq">One day when I was in grade six, out of the blue, Andrew informed me that he was going for a run with a friend, using a term that I had never heard before: “jogging.” The two had mapped out a course in the neighborhood, and were going to trace its four-mile perimeter. I now suspect that there was a classmate of Andrew’s along the route, some girl who had captured his attention, though I didn’t know about any current love interest, and never saw any young woman that night.</p>
<p class="subsq">When I asked to join them, they warily accepted me, not certain that I could keep up with their pace since I was a full two years younger. The distance proved not to be arduous, and I was barely winded by the time we returned home. It was a great challenge for me to match my brother step for step. In the end, I had succeeded.</p>
<p class="subsq">Andrew and I each began our own regiment of jogging. I assumed that he felt the same joy in the physical activity and the pride of accomplishment that I did, but we never discussed it at any great length. At first, I didn’t track my mileage, or set any goals. Soon, my competitive nature emerged, and over the course of a few years, I bought a bright red jogging suit, received a professional stopwatch for Christmas, and acquired some books about running. I was particularly drawn to the long distances that enabled me to set an easy pace, and lose myself in imagination as I worked through any emotional or intellectual challenges of the day.</p>
<p class="subsq">Soon even very long distances felt comfortable to me. The private elementary school I attended, Immanuel Christian School, which consisted of four classrooms and a couple dilapidated portables, held annual walk-a-thons to help raise tuition money. I spent many hours canvassing our neighborhood to gather sponsors, generous families who would agree to pay even a small amount for every mile I covered. Each fall beginning in grade seven, I ran the entire walk-a-thon course to see if I could complete the distance more quickly than the other participants. It became an annual competition among fellow runners.</p>
<p class="subsq">One year, I was the first person back at the school, having completed the 16-mile course (the distance was also listed as 25 kilometers, as Canada transitioned from the British system to the metric system); the following year, as I tried to match my accomplishment, I made a wrong turn and ran four more miles than required. I had pulled so far ahead of the other runners at the beginning of the course that when I detoured, I was unable hear the shouts of my classmates and the teachers directing me to return. I ran on, oblivious to those who sought to help me. I did not realize that the route had been altered from the previous year. I arrived at the final check point, the school itself, about 15 minutes after the first runners, having covered the few more miles than the “winner.”</p>
<p class="subsq">In high school, at the end of each year, the physical education teacher awarded a small trophy—smaller than a hand and not much bigger than a thumb—to each student who ran 125 miles over the course of the previous school year. It was a ritual designed to encourage physical activity among members of the student body. I dutifully recorded all my jogging sessions, and qualified each of the four years I was enrolled. In my senior year, grade 12, I pushed myself in the final weeks to accomplish the lofty total of 500 miles, four times the necessary distance. Janet, the teacher who awarded the trophies that year, and my colleague at summer camp—we awkwardly transitioned each summer from a teacher-student relationship to that of fellow staff members, then back again—simply announced that some students had run more than the required mileage, some “many more miles.” I was downcast that my name wasn’t specifically mentioned or the details of my effort. I may have hoped to impress my female classmates but I remained anonymous; my long hours unrecognized apart from the tiny trophy that I and a dozen other students were awarded.</p>
<p class="subsq">Three times that school year, I attempted to jog home from my high school, a distance of more than 19 miles. On my first try I only ran for about 10 miles before I acceded to public transportation for the remainder of the journey, hopping on a public bus that was going in the correct direction. I covered 13 miles on my next attempt. It was not until my third and final run that I was successful, and completed the entire 19.5-mile trek without stopping. On one of those runs, one of my school’s buses passed me, a handful of students staring out of the back window as it drove away. I wondered whether the students realized I was bound for Scarborough, and a Plato-like Odyssey.</p>
<p class="subsq">Also in my senior year, I competed in the second annual Toronto Marathon. Partly because I carried no food or sugar—and the checkpoints provided only water—I was only capable of running for the first 20 miles. I walked most of the remaining 6 miles for an elapsed time that exceeded four hours. I was pleased with the certificate that arrived in the mail a few weeks later.</p>
<p class="subsq">That fall, as I began my first semester at Calvin, I sauntered into the office of the track and field coach, hoping to share my running skills with my new school. As I sat in a waiting room and listened to a fellow athlete discuss his strategy for an upcoming event—the runner was worried that two races on the same day would prevent him from posting a good time for the second one, I heard him note, “Sometimes in a second race on the same day, I <i>do</i> run my best time.” When my turn came to speak with the coach, I learned that the upperclassman who had just left competed at a pace that approached a four-minute mile. My times were far too slow to provide any help to the team. I listed my track times, and the coach politely thanked me for visiting.</p>
<p class="subsq">My disappointment in not being fast enough, and the depression brought on by the gray skies of West Michigan, both led me to set aside my sneakers. Running, like table tennis and chess beforehand, had lost a prized place in my life, and was relegated to sporadic eruptions in my usually busy life. But I would never completely forget the tug on my heart that was induced by Eric and his intriguing details of an unidentified California serial killer.</p>
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Mark G. Hewitt DBA
Obsessed: My Relentless Pursuit of the Zodiac Killer
$19.95
In Obsessed: My Relentless Pursuit of the Zodiac Killer, Dr. Mark Hewitt invites readers into his gripping journey of unraveling one of America's most enduring mysteries. Dr. Hewitt, an expert on the Zodiac case, shares his transformation from a pastor to a dedicated true crime investigator.
This memoir details Dr. Hewitt's meticulous research, personal encounters, and the profound impact of the Zodiac case on his life. Moving to California reignited his passion, leading him to explore crime scenes and connect with other enthusiasts. His relentless pursuit is not only about the Zodiac but also about understanding the complexities of human nature and the quest for truth.
Obsessed: My Relentless Pursuit of the Zodiac Killer provides a unique blend of personal narrative and investigative insight, offering readers a compelling look at the determination and challenges faced by those who seek to solve cold cases. Join Dr. Hewitt as he navigates the twists and turns of this enigmatic case, shedding light on his life's work and his unwavering commitment to uncovering the truth.
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<h1 class="center" id="c3">Chapter One: The SIU</h1>
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<div>Imagine you’re at a neighborhood party. Stan, the nondescript neighbor you never talk to, approaches. Unsure what to say, you attempt, “Hi… Stan. How’s work?”</div>
<div class="indent">“My work?” Stan beams. “I got a great insurance story!” He moves into your space to drone on about his days navigating the rigors of risk management.</div>
<div class="indent">At that point, you either plan to fake a phone call or pray your significant other shouts, “It’s time to heat your casserole.” Anything but being cornered with insurance stories. Is anything more boring than an insurance person talking about their job? After all, it’s a product that’s only used when you’ve experienced a terrible loss—perhaps a car crash, fire, theft, injury, or death. Who wants to dwell on that?</div>
<div class="indent">I’m hoping to change that perception. My decades of combating insurance crimes have revealed a fascinating investigative niche unknown to most of the public. Our cases were filled with creativity, amusement, and sometimes pure evil. And even more significant, the cases financially impacted every one of our lives.</div>
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<div class="indent">For a quarter century, I investigated insurance fraud, based out of Miami—which, as you may or may not know, has had a small fraud problem.</div>
<div class="indent">Former Governor Rick Scott described “Florida’s embarrassing problems” with its insurance system. While describing a $910 million scheme, he coined the term “fraud tax” to describe the financial burden these crimes place on all consumers.<sup><a href="ypft_0054.html#n1-2" id="r1-2">[2]</a></sup></div>
<div class="indent">For the first five years, I investigated a broad range of fraudulent property and injury cases. For the following twenty, I managed diverse teams of insurance investigators for the largest property/casualty insurer in the United States, representing over 9 percent of the market, and a global top-ten carrier based on revenue.</div>
<div class="indent">Not for one moment was the job boring or routine. What other career could possibly lead to dealing with organized crime rings, art and jewelry theft, staged accidents, human trafficking, and faked deaths? We had to investigate without having a badge, a gun, or any real authority. Law enforcement had no duty to help us, though many times our cases intersected. We were the unsung heroes of the company’s SIU (Special Investigation Unit).</div>
<div class="indent">I must pause the swelling orchestra to issue a disclaimer that none of the following statements, narratives, or opinions reflect those of my former company. I will not disclose any confidential or proprietary information or trade secrets or name any specific carrier unless notated, and I have changed the names of parties and companies unless otherwise cited. The described scenarios are all true, and I will discuss how to avoid being a victim of the same crimes in our personal lives.</div>
<div class="indent">So, what is an SIU? It is a division within an insurance company that investigates potentially fraudulent insurance cases. SIUs are at the forefront of the ongoing fight against insurance crimes. Their job is to detect, deter, and pursue actions against fraudulent activities. SIU professionals who investigate insurance crimes are also employed by federal, state, or local law enforcement and anti-fraud organizations such as the NICB (National Insurance Crime Bureau).</div>
<div class="indent">Insurance fraud is probably as old as the carpenters who inflated repair costs after Noah’s flood, but the first formal SIU was established in Massachusetts by Kemper Insurance in 1976.<sup><a href="ypft_0054.html#n1-3" id="r1-3">[3]</a></sup> The primary concern at the time was auto-related fraud. Next, with larger property losses, arson became the focus of most SIU teams. Then came the shift into injury, medical, healthcare, and even organized crime.</div>
<div class="indent">Today, virtually all insurance companies worldwide have established SIU teams to help protect the financial integrity of their businesses. Most states have passed legislation mandating that insurance companies establish SIUs, as well as requiring anti-fraud training, essentially asking the carriers, “So, what are you doing about it?”</div>
<div class="indent">For the state in which I was housed, Florida Statute 626.9891, also known as the Fraudulent Insurance Act, mandated every insurer admitted to the state shall create anti-fraud units to investigate and report fraudulent insurance acts, or contract with a third party to investigate possible fraudulent acts. <sup><a href="ypft_0054.html#n1-4" id="r1-4">[4]</a></sup></div>
<div class="indent">With the creation of SIU teams, carriers needed to staff them with experienced people trained to investigate, take statements, and knock on doors, sometimes in unsavory areas. Therefore, employees couldn’t be easily intimidated and would have to work professionally with attorneys and law enforcement.</div>
<div class="indent">SIU teams also serve as liaisons to law enforcement including local and state police, FBI, fire marshals, Coast Guard, and ATF, as well as attorneys, surveillance experts, forensic analysts, and private investigators. Their relationships with experts in those fields are their greatest assets.</div>
<div class="indent">SIU representatives are not any sort of law enforcement. There are no badges, and they can’t make arrests. They are employees with specialized investigative training who represent the carriers. Many times, fraud is committed by people who aren’t the policyholders, such as medical clinics, unscrupulous attorneys, organized crime rings, body shops, dishonest agents, or our newest class of perpetrator: cybercriminals.</div>
<div class="indent">Regrettably, there’s job security in the field of fraud investigation—and it’s on the rise. According to 2022 data from the Insurance Information Institute<i>,</i> about 75 percent of insurers stated fraud has increased significantly, with an 11-point increase since 2014. <sup><a href="ypft_0054.html#n1-5" id="r1-5">[5]</a></sup></div>
<div class="indent">To keep up, a cottage industry of fraud detection firms has grown at a similar pace. The insurance fraud detection market, an entire industry of fraud analytics, is estimated to be a $912.3 million market in the U.S. alone, expected to grow 13.7 percent from 2019 to 2025.<sup><a href="ypft_0054.html#n1-6" id="r1-6">[6]</a></sup></div>
<div class="indent">Here are some facts to enlighten you on the crisis:</div>
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<div class="margin">Right now, you and every one of your family members are paying over $932 per year in increased premiums just to fund insurance fraud. That’s nearly $3,800 for a family of four.<sup><a href="ypft_0054.html#n1-7" id="r1-7">[7]</a></sup></div>
<div class="margin">Fraud occurs in about 10 percent of all property/casualty losses.<sup><a href="ypft_0054.html#n1-8" id="r1-8">[8]</a></sup></div>
<div class="margin">Non-medical insurance fraud is estimated at $45 billion per year. <sup><a href="ypft_0054.html#n1-9" id="r1-9">[9]</a></sup></div>
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<div class="indent">In the following chapters, I’ll describe various cases, categorized by type and escalating in severity. Most are cases that our SIU teams or I investigated; others are from our colleagues in the industry.</div>
<div class="indent">I’ll begin with routine burglaries, including “art theft on the high seas.” It’ll escalate into arson for profit, the monstrous acts of some arsonists, and even ritual sacrifices gone wrong. Then we’ll move on to organized crime, including the Russian mob’s varied enterprises. I’ll illustrate boat theft schemes and their use in human trafficking. We’ll shift to the rise of illicit medical clinics. Then we’ll recover sunken cars that contain haunting secrets. I’ll explain how not to fake your death, and I’ll conclude with my team’s role in the terrifying Pain & Gain double murder case (complete with robbery, extortion, and torture). I told you there was never a boring day.</div>
<div class="indent">Bottom line: Greed and opportunity continue to increase insurance crimes. Laws and corporate responsibility have hardened the need for SIU investigators as the schemes grow more creative, complex, brazen, and sometimes deadly.</div>
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Richard Wickliffe
You Paid For This
$17.95
Embark on a gripping 25-year journey delving into the author's investigation of insurance crimes in Miami, spotlighting Special Investigation Units (SIU) –an investigative world invisible to most, yet one for which we all pay.
In YOU PAID FOR THIS, Richard Wickliffe takes the reader from routine burglaries to art theft on the high-seas, arson for profit, and even failed ritual sacrifices. He describes a variety of cases he encountered, including the Russian mob and organized crime, boat thefts linked to unconscionable human trafficking, sunken cars that conceal deadly secrets, and the pitfalls of faking one's death. The book culminates with the SIU's involvement in Miami's harrowing Pain & Gain double murder case, featuring kidnapping, extortion, and mutilation.
With an informative yet witty tone, YOU PAID FOR THIS exposes the creative and chilling facets of insurance crimes, cautioning and advising readers on how to protect themselves from potential victimization in their own lives.
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<div class="element-number case-mixed"><span class="element-number-term">Chapter</span> <span class="element-number-number">1</span></div>
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<h1 class="element-title case-mixed">Not Just Another Day…</h1>
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<p class="first first-in-chapter first-full-width"><span class="first-phrase">U.S. Marshal Stephen Monier</span> arrived at his desk at approximately eight a.m. on Friday, January 12, 2007. This was going to be the fourth day of the trial for Ed and Elaine Brown of Plainfield, New Hampshire, on felony charges for conspiracy to commit federal income tax violations. The government had a very strong case, and the Browns were representing themselves.</p>
<p class="subsq">A friend sympathetic to their cause, Michael Avery, from the suitably named Outlaw Legal Services of Florida, was serving as a “paralegal.” He had helped Ed and Elaine prepare all their pre-trial motions. He was seated at the defense table to “advise them.” The Browns had rejected any representation by an attorney.</p>
<p class="subsq">It wasn’t going well for the Browns. Ed Brown’s spurious arguments against having to pay federal income taxes were rejected by the court, and his theories on the federal tax laws were shut down by presiding Judge Steven McAuliffe at several points. The government’s witnesses were showing that Ed and Elaine had stopped paying their taxes in 1996 and owed more than $625,000 in unpaid income tax. They were also charged with structuring, the intentional manipulation of financial transactions to evade reporting requirements.</p>
<p class="subsq">As was his custom on getting to the office, Marshal Monier checked in with the control room upon arrival and spoke with the two court security officers manning the cameras and other systems monitoring courthouse activity that day. All was quiet, they said.</p>
<p class="subsq">Marshal Monier and his chief deputy, Gary DiMartino, were both concerned about this trial. The U.S. Marshals Service (USMS) had deemed that the trial was “high risk” given that Ed Brown, a self-described “retired exterminator,” had become a leader in the militia group, U.S. Constitution Rangers. Membership in the rangers had grown in the aftermath of federal law enforcement’s attempts to serve arrest warrants at Ruby Ridge in Idaho and at the Branch Davidian compound in Waco, Texas. Chief DiMartino and Inspector Brenda Mikelson had ordered extra courtroom security and intelligence gathering for the trial. They had ensured that court security officers were being extra vigilant in screening people involved with, or attending, the trial in the U.S. District Court in Concord, New Hampshire.</p>
<p class="subsq">Marshal Steve Monier and Chief DiMartino had worked together for the past five years in the District of New Hampshire. Chief DiMartino was a career deputy U.S. marshal who had risen through the ranks to become a chief deputy in the Marshals Service, the number two person in every one of the ninety-four district offices of the USMS.</p>
<p class="subsq">Deputy U.S. marshals are highly trained federal law enforcement officers, not unlike career FBI, ATF, and IRS agents. They apply for open positions in the Marshals Service, take written and physical exams, and are subjected to background investigations prior to being hired. They attend, and must successfully complete, the USMS Academy and other advanced training programs throughout their career.</p>
<p class="subsq">Gary DiMartino began his law enforcement career in a Rhode Island police department before applying for, and beginning, his calling with the USMS.</p>
<p class="subsq">Because he had served in several supervisory positions on both the East and West Coasts during his long tenure with the agency and had taught at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Academy in Glynco, Georgia, he was a highly respected and well-known chief in the USMS. Marshal Monier considered him a very qualified, competent, and professional member of the service and was pleased that when President George W. Bush had nominated him to become the U.S. Marshal for the District of New Hampshire, Gary was his chief deputy.</p>
<p class="subsq">Unlike the deputy U.S. marshals, who form the corps or “backbone” of the USMS, each U.S. marshal (USM) who heads the district offices of the USMS is nominated by the President of the United States and must be confirmed by the U.S. Senate before taking the oath of office. This has been the case since the U.S. Marshals Service was created in 1789 by the 1<sup>st</sup> Congress of the newly formed United States government.</p>
<p class="subsq">When the 1<sup>st</sup> Congress of the United States stood up the federal judiciary, they realized there was no agency to enforce court orders, apprehend offenders, or help run the court system. In the Judiciary Act, the 1<sup>st</sup> Congress created the United States Marshals Service, with each marshal in each district to be appointed by the president with the “advice and consent” of the United States Senate.</p>
<p class="subsq">President George Washington swore in the first thirteen U.S. marshals, including the first marshal of the District of New Hampshire, in 1789. The U.S. Marshals Service is our republic’s oldest federal law enforcement agency, with the broadest of authority in enforcing federal law and orders from the U.S. courts. For over 234 years, the U.S. Marshals have done everything from protecting the courts, to taking the census, to protecting the President of the United States.</p>
<p class="subsq">In the twenty-first century, their core mission is the protection of the U.S. courts, enforcing court orders, apprehending fugitives, running the witness protection program, finding missing or abducted children, and taking the lead on enforcing the provisions of the Adam Walsh Act to track and monitor convicted sex offenders.</p>
<p class="subsq">Congress and the U.S. Department of Justice made several legislative and administrative changes to how the work of the USMS was conducted over the decades, and in particular, in the twentieth century. Originally, each U.S. marshal could appoint his own deputies as needed, to carry out orders from the court.</p>
<p class="subsq">As David S. Turk, the official historian of the Marshals Service, noted in his seminal work entitled <i>Forging the Star</i>,<i> </i>“[L]ong after gaining their Old West reputation with personnel such as Seth Bullock, Wyatt Earp, Bass Reeves, Bat Masterson, and Heck Thomas, U.S. Marshals and their deputies followed a winding trail of transition.”?<sup class="main-text-refnote-cue"><a href="notes.xhtml#chapter-1-endnote-1-text" id="chapter-1-endnote-1" class="refnote-marker marker-format-roman-lower endnote-cue roman-lower-i" role="doc-noteref" epub:type="noteref">i</a></sup></p>
<p class="subsq">At approximately nine-thirty on that Friday morning, Chief DiMartino stuck his head into the marshal’s office and said, “Marshal, Ed and Elaine failed to show up this morning for the continuation of their trial.”</p>
<p class="subsq">It was a decisive moment in the long run-up to this point in the case of the <i>United States v. Edward L. Brown & Elaine A. Brown</i>. Their failure to appear was long feared by both Monier and DiMartino.</p>
<p class="subsq">Both had had uneasy feelings about this case, since the district court’s magistrate judge released them on conditions, at their arraignment on May 24, 2006, on the income tax and other charges.</p>
<p class="subsq">Among the conditions of release were that the Browns surrender all weapons to the USMS and the U.S. probation officers who would accompany them back to their Plainfield home. Further, they were to cooperate with, and report regularly to, the U.S. probation officers at the U.S. district court and appear at all future court proceedings.</p>
<p class="subsq">Deputy U.S. marshals and U.S. probation officers drove Ed and Elaine back to their home in Plainfield to remove their weapons that day in May of 2006. Sharp-eyed deputy marshals noted the layout of the Browns’ home on the property, took photographs, and later sketched out the interior layout of the home. This proved to be pivotal in what ensued in the continuing Brown saga.</p>
<p class="subsq">The deputies who went there also told Chief DiMartino that they didn’t believe Ed Brown had surrendered every weapon in his possession to the U.S. probation officers. The property, they reported, was simply too large and the house and outbuildings had too many places where firearms could be concealed.</p>
<p class="subsq">Within a few hours of the morning the Browns failed to appear for the continuation of their trial, the news got worse. The USMS learned that heavily armed militia members and supporters of Ed Brown had gathered at the end of their long driveway leading to their hilltop home in Plainfield. Judge Steven McAuliffe issued warrants for the Browns’ arrest on failure to appear.</p>
<p class="subsq">Initially, at the USMS and the prosecution’s request, the warrants were sealed. Chief Gary DiMartino counseled that the best course immediately was to call the Browns and convince them to return to court for the remainder of their trial. The marshal and Judge McAuliffe concurred, as Gary had carefully established a rapport with Ed and Elaine while they were detained in the Marshals Service’s detention facility at their arraignment in May.</p>
<p class="subsq">“I had faith in Gary’s ability to use his considerable communications skills to convince the Browns that they should return to court to finish the trial,” Monier reported. Instead of immediately attempting to arrest the Browns at their home, where Ed’s armed followers had gathered, he consented to Gary’s suggestion that he try and convince them to return for the remainder of the trial.</p>
<p class="subsq">Gary DiMartino spent the next three days talking with Ed and Elaine via telephone to do just that. The fact that the Browns took every one of his calls over that weekend was a positive.</p>
<p class="subsq">At one point, it looked like the chief would be successful and that both Ed and Elaine would return to the court on Tuesday morning. Elaine was more noticeably willing to do that given the chief’s convincing arguments that this was a financial crime and that they need not take this to any further level.</p>
<p class="subsq">Gary argued that it would be hard for them to continue to mount a defense if they weren’t in the courtroom to do so. The jury, he said, “will only hear the government’s side, and not yours.” As it turned out, Chief DiMartino was only partially successful.</p>
<p class="subsq">Chief DiMartino continued to speak with them directly over the phone throughout the weekend and into the day on Monday, which was a holiday. On Tuesday morning, January 16<sup>th</sup>, Gary had brokered the return of the Browns for the remainder of their trial. Elaine Brown got into the car to return to the courthouse in Concord. At the last minute, however, Ed demurred and refused to get in the car.</p>
<p class="subsq">This was a partial victory for the Marshals Service. While it isolated Ed Brown from Elaine, Ed was not alone. He was left with some die-hard armed militia supporters who shared his belief about the “corruption of the federal government.” Soon thereafter, others joined the group, including members of the “Free State” movement in New Hampshire who, while not professing violence themselves, joined in the discussion about the “overreach” of the federal government into the lives of ordinary Americans. A select number of the New Hampshire Free Staters, who preached an extreme form of libertarianism, supported the Browns.</p>
<p class="subsq">In a letter posted on the internet shortly after Ed Brown’s public announcement that he would not be returning for the remainder of his trial, New Hampshire native William D. Miller wrote on a blog posting, “I am going to see Judge McAuliffe and U.S. Attorney Colantuono and various other officials hanged for treason for these actions.” In response, the U.S. Marshals Service issued a “be on the look-out” (BOLO) to area law enforcement in an attempt to locate Miller.</p>
<p class="subsq">Miller, a New Hampshire resident who was living in Florida at the time, had a history of local law enforcement contacts. He was also an early disciple of Ed Brown and the Constitution Rangers and had been one of Ed’s followers for some time.</p>
<p class="subsq">When Bill Miller learned of the trial, and Ed’s vow to fight any attempt to force him to return to the courtroom, Miller got in his car and drove nonstop from Florida “to protect Brown” at all costs. Miller was armed and ready to take on the role of “chief of staff” to Ed Brown when he arrived in Plainfield, New Hampshire, twenty-four hours later.</p>
<p class="subsq">With Miller’s help initially, Brown made use of the internet, emails, blog postings, and media interviews almost immediately upon deciding that he was going to fight any attempts to arrest him or force him from his property.</p>
<p class="subsq">“I will defend my property, and I am willing to die before going to jail…” Ed Brown told his followers. Apparently, Ed had concluded that he and Elaine were likely to be convicted at the conclusion of the trial. He was publicly critical of Judge McAuliffe and his rulings and, in interviews with the gathering media, called it a “kangaroo court.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Word was quickly spreading through the militia, U.S. Constitution Rangers, and the sovereign citizen communities that things were heating up in Plainfield. Comments on blogging websites and emails about the federal government unfairly targeting the Browns were spreading hourly. Supporters were calling for all good patriots to stand up for them. One message being spread on anti-government websites was titled, “<i>Will Plainfield be another Waco?</i>”</p>
<p class="subsq">Local and state media also began covering the Ed and Elaine Brown story. The <i>NH Union Leader</i>, New Hampshire’s only statewide newspaper, and the <i>Concord Monitor</i>, published in New Hampshire’s capital and widely distributed, and the <i>Valley News</i> (covering the Hanover, Lebanon, and Plainfield region) all took note. The marshal and chief assigned a deputy, who was particularly adept at high tech, IT, and the internet, to begin monitoring all activities related to the Browns. In a call to HQ, they asked that the Investigative Services Division (ISD) and the Intel Unit do the same.</p>
<p class="subsq">On January 12, 2007, Margot Sanger-Katz, a reporter for the <i>Concord Monitor </i>(a prominent New Hampshire newspaper covering the capital city region)<i> </i>wrote one of her first news stories about the Browns’ trial when she reported on the first two days of it. The trial had already gained a local interest amongst the state’s papers and the statewide ABC-affiliated TV station, WMUR-TV 9, as supporters of the Browns demonstrated in front of the U.S. district courthouse.</p>
<p class="subsq">Dave Ridley of Keene, New Hampshire, a member of the “Free State” movement in the state, held a sign reading “Ministry of Torture” in reference to “government-sanctioned torture with taxes.” “That’s why I support Ed,” Ridley told the <i>Concord Monitor</i>. “He’s standing up to the federal government.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Ironically, Sanger-Katz’s article about the trial’s proceedings appeared on January 12<sup>th</sup>, the same day Ed and Elaine Brown both refused to return to the courthouse. The government was close to resting its case against the Browns after the testimony of the lead IRS agent handling the investigation and testimony from several postal service employees about the Browns’ habit of purchasing multiple postal money orders just below the $3,000 limit required for notification to the government of the transaction.</p>
<p class="subsq">According to the government’s witnesses, this “structuring” of money orders is a common method to avoid paying income taxes. Over a two-year period, the Browns purchased more than $300,000 in money orders. Ed and Elaine, according to postal service investigators, would separately each wait in line and purchase a money order for $2,800.</p>
<p class="subsq">At the close of the court’s proceedings on January 11<sup>th</sup>, both Browns told the court that they would begin their defense in the morning, and both told the judge that they planned to testify in their own defense.</p>
<p class="subsq">Both, however, failed to return to court on Friday, January 12<sup>th</sup>.</p>
<p class="subsq">On Tuesday, the 16<sup>th</sup> of January, 2007, the day that Elaine agreed to Chief DiMartino’s entreaties to return to court, she also agreed to have a court-appointed attorney, Bjorn Lange, represent her. Michael Avery, the paralegal, continued in his role and sat in on the plea negotiations between the government prosecutor and Attorney Lange.</p>
<p class="subsq">Learning of the plea negotiations, Judge McAuliffe agreed to postpone the couple’s trial for another day when it appeared that Elaine Brown would be willing to reach a deal with the prosecution. That is, if she pled guilty to the extent of her criminal liability and conduct. As a dentist, Elaine Brown earned most of the couple’s income. She also had been charged with failing to collect employment taxes from the staff at her dental office in Lebanon.</p>
<p class="subsq">The judge continued the trial for another day so that the government could calculate what they expected Dr. Brown would pay in back taxes and penalties and the terms of a prison confinement. Elaine was given until ten o’clock the following morning to make a decision on whether to accept a plea deal. If there was no deal, the judge ruled, the trial would continue with or without Ed Brown in the courtroom.</p>
<p class="subsq">Because Elaine had failed to appear on Friday, the judge ordered new bail conditions for her. He ordered Dr. Brown to stay with her son in Worcester, Massachusetts, and not to return to her Plainfield, New Hampshire, home. She was only allowed telephonic contact with her husband, and she was ordered to wear an electronic ankle bracelet so that U.S. probation officers could monitor her whereabouts.</p>
<p class="subsq">The Waco Branch Davidian standoff lasted fifty-one days. When both the Browns failed to appear on January 12, 2007, it set in motion what would become a nearly nine-month standoff, the longest armed standoff in the 234-year history of the U.S. Marshals Service. Would Plainfield, New Hampshire, join the lexicon of American history as another Waco or Ruby Ridge?</p>
<p class="subsq">District of New Hampshire Chief Gary DiMartino, U.S. Marshal Steve Monier, and USMS Chief Regional Inspector Dave Dimmitt were determined not to let that happen.</p>
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Steve Monier
No One Has To Die
$19.95
On January 12, 2007, what began as a felony tax trial for Ed and Elaine Brown in Plainfield, New Hampshire, spiraled into the longest armed standoff in U.S. Marshals history. Refusing to appear in court and surrender to federal authorities, the Browns transformed their home into a fortress, drawing support from militia groups and anti-government activists nationwide.
No One Has To Die offers an in-depth look at the tense and perilous nine month standoff that tested the resolve and tactics of the U.S. Marshals Service. Steve Monier, with contributions from Gary DiMartino and Dave Dimmitt, recounts the meticulous planning and tactical negotiations aimed at resolving the situation peacefully, against a backdrop of rising militia activity and public scrutiny.
This compelling narrative dives into the Browns' extremist beliefs, the challenges faced by law enforcement, and the strategies employed to prevent another Waco or Ruby Ridge. Through detailed accounts and personal insights, the book highlights the importance of communication, patience, and strategy in averting violence and ensuring that no one has to die.
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Chapter 1
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<h1 class="element-title case-mixed"><span class="element-number-term">Chapter</span> <span class="element-number-number">One</span></h1>
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<h2 class="section-title subhead keep-with-next paragraph-follows case-mixed" id="subhead-1">Oh brother, what have you done</h2>
<p class="first first-in-chapter first-full-width first-after-subhead first-with-first-letter-t"><span class="first-letter first-letter-t first-letter-without-punctuation">T</span>he smell of death rode on the wind. John Altar crested the hilltop and brought his horse to a stop. He’d smelled it a ways off, but the breeze had all but stilled some time ago. The stink remained. He whistled low and the dog that had been his companion for a while, some kind of wolf half-breed, sat on its haunches close on his left. The fat gray clouds overhead threatened rain, and no wind stirred the thick expectant air, which was hot.</p>
<p class="subsq">As he stared down the slope, he cut a hunk of tobacco from his plug, sliding it off the blade directly into his mouth. The leaf was hard and dry. It had been wrapped in a cloth in his saddlebag for a time. Spit washed over the scrap and the bitter flavor crept into his senses.</p>
<p class="subsq">Below, at the bottom of the slope, a series of double tracks had been worn into the earth by scores of wagons over the years. Upon that trail were the remains of some homesteaders who had been on their way to what they’d hoped to be a better life. Nothing moved down there, except the black flutter of buzzard’s wings as they fought over bloated corpses. He couldn’t tell how many settlers there had been, and by the butchery, he figured more scavengers than just the buzzards had visited this site.</p>
<p class="subsq">Being that it was going on late summer, this seemed kind of late in the season for pioneers to be this far down the trail. Unless of course, they were Mormons. They wouldn’t be going all the way to Oregon or California.</p>
<p class="subsq"><em>Still don’t see many Mormons moving west this time of year</em>, Altar thought, but there were always those late to the party. Seemed like most who’d wanted to migrate had already done so, no matter how austere the conditions might be.</p>
<p class="subsq">He had to wonder if he was going to find Bobby down there. He’d been dogging his younger brother, and the collection of dirty, low-down, no-account Johnny Rebs Bobby had taken up with, for weeks. Could those ne’er-do-wells be responsible for the carnage down below?</p>
<p class="subsq">Could Bobby?</p>
<p class="subsq">Or his brother might be among the dead.</p>
<p class="subsq"><em>Only one way to find out</em>, he thought.</p>
<p class="subsq">Altar steered his horse forward, despite the animal’s reticence to approach the field of death. He reached out and patted the horse’s neck in reassurance.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Easy, boy. I’m not liking this any more than you do, but we got to go down there.”</p>
<p class="subsq">The inevitable dread of what he might find weighed as heavily on him as an anvil around his neck.</p>
<p class="subsq">He yanked his blue handkerchief from his back pocket. Unfolding it, he rubbed the cloth on the horse’s sweaty flesh and got it good and wet. The lather smelled strong, but it probably wouldn’t help much gauged on the putrid odor lingering in the air from this distance.</p>
<p class="subsq">He gave the chaw a grind with his molars to break it apart and moistened the results with spit. Then he spat some of the ground tobacco and juice onto the blue fabric and roughed it in hard. He fastened the cloth in place around his head, bandit style. He was hopeful, as the mixture of animal and tobacco odors made him wrinkle his nose, that the powerful smell would somehow mask the overwhelming stench of the charnel house below. But as he made his way closer, he knew it wasn’t going to be much help.</p>
<p class="subsq">The only sound was the buzzing of insects, the swish of his horse’s tail, and the not-so-distant rumble of thunder.</p>
<p class="subsq">A storm must be coming.</p>
<p class="subsq">He looked at the dog. “Stay.”</p>
<p class="subsq">The dog settled onto its belly and laid its head on crossed forelegs, ears ever alert.</p>
<p class="subsq">Altar drew his Henry repeating rifle and laid it across his lap as his horse started forward with the slightest nudge from his knees. Nothing was moving on the horizon, no dust clouds. He wove his horse all the way down the incline through the scrub, all the while watching everywhere, alert for any movement or sound out of place.</p>
<p class="subsq">Safe at the bottom of the slope, Altar studied the gruesome scene. The settlers had apparently taken no defensive posture, no circled wagons, no firearms strewn about, though those could’ve been stolen to be sure. Not much of value remained after a massacre. The area was a wide-open expanse. They sure should have been able to see the attack coming. Why hadn’t they at least circled their wagons?</p>
<p class="subsq">But his gut spoke to him, and he suspected he knew what had happened here. God knows he’d seen its like in the war. <em>Looks like they got bushwhacked</em>.</p>
<p class="subsq"><em>Bobby, what have you done?</em></p>
<p class="subsq">As he neared, the reek grew worse, and he could practically taste it. Lots of distended green-blue bottle flies buzzed nearby.</p>
<p class="subsq">He dismounted at the end of the carnage and looped his reins around a broken fragment of wagon wheel jutting from a groove in the dirt. The horse snorted and bucked at the pervasive odor of nearby death. Altar patted the animal once more and scanned the horizon again.</p>
<p class="subsq">Nothing yet, besides the approaching clouds every bit as bloated at the feasting flies. His ever-alert dog was still quiet up on the ridge.</p>
<p class="subsq">The clouds, and the flashes of lightning, were the only things that looked threatening. He pulled his slicker from his saddle and unrolled it. The heat was stifling, but he put it on anyway.</p>
<p class="subsq">Prairie schooners, mostly covered, had been overturned, their canvas torn, and the cargo, what wasn’t worth taking, was strewn across the trail. Oxen had been killed; and in a couple of instances, steaks had been cut from their flesh. There was even a dead dog. A horse or two had been killed, which was unusual, but he suspected most of the quality animals had been stolen.</p>
<p class="subsq">A smattering of rough arrows, fletched with feathers he didn’t immediately recognize, were prominent on some of the dead animals. Men lay dead, too, the tops of their blond heads shorn to the bone, and their soft bellies torn open.</p>
<p class="subsq">He came across an old woman’s body. She lay on her back with her skirts up around her head. She’d also been scalped, and her lady parts had apparently been mauled, probably by some wild critter. They were only doing what any hungry critter would do, and he couldn’t really fault them for that. Might as well get mad at the clouds for raining.</p>
<p class="subsq"><em>But it wasn’t no animal that hiked her skirt up like that</em>, Altar thought. <em>That was done by a two-legged kind of varmint.</em></p>
<p class="subsq">A baby lay under her. It was dead too, but from what he couldn’t tell.</p>
<p class="subsq">These were among the worst killings he’d ever seen, but he couldn’t really hold no ill will with the animals.</p>
<p class="subsq">A fat raindrop splattered on the back of his hand, and then another. It wasn’t until the moisture brought his mind round back to the present that he realized he was gripping his Henry so hard his scarred knuckles were white. The skies unleashed a torrent of rain as he stood and stared at the butchery that lay before him. Even the cold rain didn’t divert his attention from the slaughter.</p>
<p class="subsq">He reckoned no amount of water would wipe away the stain of this massacre from the earth. At least nothing short of the forty-days and forty-nights rain that his momma read to him and Bobby about from the Bible. He stowed his rifle back in its saddle boot and covered the Henry with his blanket, even though some blue sky was already visible over the hills to the west. He turned back to the trail and set his teeth. He had a grisly task ahead of him.</p>
<p class="subsq"><em>Oh, Bobby</em>, he thought, <em>were you a part of this? Am I gonna find you?</em></p>
<p class="subsq">Would it be better if his brother were among the dead, rather than having participated in this slaughter?</p>
<p class="subsq">Perhaps so.</p>
<p class="subsq">But on to the task—time to bury the dead.</p>
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<p class="first first-in-section first-full-width">He hadn’t stopped for anything but water until the sun was about set, then he cobbled together a fire halfway to the top of the rise, upwind from the dead. The material for burying them all had been almost conveniently close thanks to the nearby rocky expanse, but any appetite he’d worked up was long gone. He settled for some pan coffee and hardtack soaked some in the dark liquid.</p>
<p class="subsq">All of the dead looked to be pilgrims. At least none had been his brother, nor had any of the others appeared to be the ne’er-do-wells he’d heard Bobby was now running with. While that was a relief, it also made him ask what the hell had happened to his brother. The boy he once knew would never have participated in anything like this. What had happened to him in the war?</p>
<p class="subsq">The war.</p>
<p class="subsq">The damn war… So many lives ruined.</p>
<p class="subsq">Altar had served with the Union, and Bobby had gone with the South.</p>
<p class="subsq">The brutal conflict between the states had divided his family and how many others?</p>
<p class="subsq">He fished the oilcloth-wrapped locket from his saddlebag. He cradled the bundle in his hand for a long moment, and then opened it. The orange-red flames flickered in the reflection on the small metal oval. He thumbed it open and gazed at the shadowed picture within, not really seeing her likeness as much as some remembrance, though those had faded, like the picture, to near nothing.</p>
<p class="subsq">How many times had he opened this same locket in the field?</p>
<p class="subsq">When he fought in Missouri or out west, after some battle or skirmish, when his thoughts were dark with death and dying, he’d found comfort by opening it. At one time, memories of her had driven some of the horror from his mind. Though the time apparently had driven memories of him from her mind as well. She’d married someone else while he was away fighting.</p>
<p class="subsq">Married some farmer with a hundred head of dairy cattle or some such. Why couldn’t those images fade with time, as was the case with his memory of his love?</p>
<p class="subsq">That thought brought him back around to the massacre. He hadn’t found anything that led him to believe the wagon train had been herding any livestock, other than a few oxen. That was strange. Most of the wagon trains he’d known had at least a hundred head of cattle or sheep with them.</p>
<p class="subsq">He replaced the locket in his saddlebag and went to sleep with his freshly oiled rifle next him and his revolver tucked partially under the saddle upon which he laid his head.</p>
<p class="subsq">The wind shifted in the night, and he awoke with the death stench heavy in his nose and mouth. He rose and hiked up to the top of the hill. The sun’s rays were breaking over the hilltops in the east, but the bottom of the slope was still obscured in darkness.</p>
<p class="subsq"><em>A shadow for the dead</em>, he thought. <em>Just as well</em>.</p>
<p class="subsq">The dog loped up to him and sat, its tongue lolling out. Altar stood there and let the rays reach him, warming him against the chills of the past night. When he turned to go back to his makeshift camp, he gazed again at the ruins below, now basked in radiant sunlight.</p>
<p class="subsq">The way he read the signs<span class="strikethrough">,</span> these homesteaders had died with their killers most likely hiding among them. And not like they were overrun by Indians or butchered by marauding men on horseback. Even though scavengers had been at the bodies, they hadn’t done enough harm to make it look any different than it was. It didn’t seem as if these people had time to even panic, let alone run, just die.</p>
<p class="subsq">And what about the smattering of random arrows?</p>
<p class="subsq">Indians?</p>
<p class="subsq">Some of the folks had been scalped, but the arrows in some of the animals hadn’t been what killed them. The feathered shafts weren’t driven in deep. It was more like they were stabbed in by hand, not shot from a bow. No, this hadn’t been the work of Indians, although measures had been taken to make it look that way. All the tracks of the living he’d found had been wearing boots, nary a moccasin among them. And the horses that had rode off were all shod. He’d never known an Indian to ride a shoed horse.</p>
<p class="subsq">Altar knew what had really happened. And he had a real good idea of who was responsible. It made him sick to his stomach. He reckoned these pilgrims had been killed by the men he’d been tracking, and they’d tried to make it look like savages had done it.</p>
<p class="subsq">The men he’d been trailing… The men his brother had joined up with after being released from the prisoner of war camp in Chicago. Up until now, he’d only thought of them as outlaws, stealing and the like, not murderers. The tactics were like what he’d seen the guerillas in Missouri use during the war, infiltrate and destroy from within.</p>
<p class="subsq">As he stared at the debris a while longer, the way the wagons had been overturned seemed more suited to men doing it deliberately as opposed to panicked animals. The battleground didn’t look like any Indian attack he’d seen in his years in the army. But it sure did look like how the Confederate guerillas had burned some communities to the ground in and around Missouri. And the people killed.</p>
<p class="subsq">“These folks got bushwhacked,” he said aloud. The dog looked up at him. Altar nodded as if the animal understood.</p>
<p class="subsq">“A damn shame,” he said. “But there’s something eviler if men make it look like someone else done it, getting people all riled up at the wrong folks.” He started down the incline, back to his fire and bedroll.</p>
<p class="subsq">“If we hadn’t of happened along, Dog,” he said, “whenever this here got discovered the Indians would’ve been blamed. And people would’ve been happy to believe it.”</p>
<p class="subsq">He shook his head as he kicked dirt onto the coals.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Talking to a damn dog, guess I been on my own too long.” He grinned. “But it ain’t like them homesteaders been talking much.”</p>
<p class="subsq">He looked in the direction the tracks led off. It didn’t seem right that no one was doing nothing about these people.</p>
<p class="subsq">Hell, once he left here, would anyone even know?</p>
<p class="subsq">Altar sighed and placed the blanket and saddle onto his horse’s back. The nagging question remained in his gut like solid stone.</p>
<p class="subsq">Had Bobby been a part of this?</p>
<p class="subsq">When Altar had begun this journey, he’d just been looking to bring his brother back home to their farm in Missouri while their mother was still alive. But now, he didn’t know what to think. The little brother he knew before the war would never have been involved in anything like this, but the war did strange things to people. Still, he didn’t want to think it had turned Bobby into the kind of man that could do what he’d seen these last two days.</p>
<p class="subsq">He took his hat off and wiped his brow with his shirt sleeve and looked at the dog.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Mama always said I looked for trouble, even when it wasn’t none of mine to begin with.” He twisted in his saddle and looked back at the site of the carnage. “I know it would kill her, for certain, if she thought Bobby was involved in some way. So would his hanging for it.”</p>
<p class="subsq">A grim smile suddenly overtook him as he mounted his horse.</p>
<p class="subsq"><em>There I go talking to that mutt again</em>, he thought.</p>
<p class="subsq">But as he rode away, his mother’s reproachful voice kept echoing in his mind: <em>Go find your brother, John. Bring him back to me before I die.</em></p>
<p class="subsq"><em>I’ll do my best, Mama</em>, he thought.</p>
<p class="subsq">Altar pulled his reins over and set off after the tracks of the killers, including his little brother.</p>
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Dave Case
Stand for the Dead
$17.95
The stench of death hung in the air as John Altar studied the massacre and tried to convince himself that his younger brother, Bobby, couldn’t have been part of this. Torn apart by the Civil War, the two brothers had fought on opposite sides, and in defeat, Bobby had fallen in with a group of Confederate raiders when released from a prisoner of war camp. Their mother’s wish was for her wayward son to be brought back to her, and Altar has sworn to do it. But how much had the war changed his brother? Riding into the Dakotas, Altar must face an unsavory lawman with a rapacious posse, rampaging Indians, and finally battle the brutal renegades in a climactic showdown.
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<h1 class="element-title case-upper">ONE</h1>
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<h2 id="subhead-1" class="section-title subhead keep-with-next paragraph-follows case-upper">FINDING MY FOOTING</h2>
<p class="first first-in-chapter first-full-width first-after-subhead"><span class="first-phrase">I grew</span> up about two miles from Possum Trot, a rural community in Western Kentucky. I was a shy, awkward kid who was not particularly good at sports, nor was I a good student. I was average at best. I didn’t have a lot of friends in school. I just tried to blend in. It was 1970 when I graduated from North Marshall High School. Most of us were just hanging out waiting to see if we would be drafted. My first job out of high school was as a riverboat deckhand. It was good money, but it wasn’t for me. In fact, the job was not the adventure I thought it would be. It wasn’t long before I decided I needed to do something else with my life just in case I wasn’t drafted. I enrolled in a community college where I had to really study and apply myself just to make average grades. I guess this was because I had not learned much in high school.</p>
<p class="subsq">After two years in community college, I enrolled in Murray State University, where I earned a bachelor’s degree in psychology. I attended one year of graduate school, but I was burned out. I was tired of being so poor and living on student loans. When I finally got my draft notice, I went for my physical and was turned down because I had flat feet.</p>
<p class="subsq">Probably the biggest influence in my life was my practice of Karate while I was in college. I had a knack for it. I would practice every day for hours. I became obsessed. When I earned my black belt in Wado Ryu–style Karate, I started entering tournaments. One of my instructors was Sensei Vic Milner. I became an instructor and taught Karate at the university. I also taught in several local Dojos. I had won tournaments in the black belt division in Kentucky, Tennessee, and Arkansas. I only lost two times, once in a full-contact event in Alabama and once in a “Battle of Champions.” Some of my students were guards and supervisors from KSP. I had a standing offer as a guard if I ever needed a job.</p>
<p class="subsq">I graduated from college in the Jimmy Carter years while the economy was stalled. There were no jobs. Finally, I decided to give the prison a try. What did I have to lose? I didn’t have any other prospects for a job unless I wanted to go back on a riverboat or go back to graduate school. So I applied for the job and was hired as a correctional officer. I never looked back.</p>
<h2 id="subhead-2" class="section-title subhead keep-with-next paragraph-follows case-upper">THE BELLY OF THE BEAST</h2>
<p class="first first-after-subhead">My first day at KSP (Kentucky State Prison) was July 3, 1978. And I was nervous. As I rounded the curve and drove down the road from Pea Ridge, there it was, looming like a medieval fortress on the banks of Lake Barkley. The Castle on the Cumberland River. What had I gotten myself into? I could only imagine what convicted inmates might think when they see the Castle for the first time. The prison itself resembles something out of the Middle Ages, with its soaring walls, stone parapets, and heavily guarded watchtowers. An imposing place, with a reputation to match.</p>
<p class="subsq">As I started up the crumbling steps to the main entrance, I heard a grumpy voice say, “HALT! State your business.” I stopped dead in my tracks. The command to halt sounded threatening—as if I might be shot if I didn’t obey.</p>
<p class="subsq">I looked up and saw a middle-aged man peering down at me from the gun tower. I responded, “I am Philip Parker, and I am reporting to work.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Go ahead,” was all he said. I didn’t know what to think about this first encounter, but I knew I was about to enter a strange, new world.</p>
<p class="subsq">As I approached the front gate, I stepped aside as several uniformed men with shotguns came running from the armory located at just off the top of the steps. Startled, I stepped aside and froze as they passed. I thought to myself, <i>What in the hell is this about?</i></p>
<p class="subsq">I learned later that there had been a mass escape from Four Cell House. My very first day. Three inmates, Joe Craig, James Hatfield, and Charles Murphy, had cut through their cell bars and made their way down the short distance from the opening to the ground using bedsheets fashioned into a braided rope. As with every prison escape, their luck was fleeting; the men were apprehended a few days later. As first impressions go, this was a lot to take in for a new corrections officer.</p>
<p class="subsq">I stood at the entrance, waiting to be ushered in. There was no control center at the time to automatically open prison doors. After the front gate officer keyed the lock, I crossed the threshold and entered the belly of the beast. One of the things I never quite became accustomed to after all my years in the Castle was the smell. The Castle has an odor unlike anything I have ever experienced: an ungodly combination of cigarette smoke, body odor, sewer gas, death, and history. It still smells that way to me. Some five decades later, I still notice that odor as I walk up to the prison gates. Half-jokingly, I always say it is the smell of the Castle Beast, the one that trolls the front entrance, taunting all those who sense its presence.</p>
<p class="subsq">After filling out employment paperwork with two other new hires, we were told to go to the receiver’s basement to get our uniforms. I thought to myself, <i>What the hell is the receiver’s basement?</i> Turns out it was a warehouse in the basement of Five Cell House with an outside entrance. I learned my first lesson on the job: prison workers have their own language to describe the Castle’s twisty, cavernous interior. I knew we had to learn fast or we would not find our way around. KSP is enormous, with five large cell blocks that housed 1,200 inmates in 1978. In subsequent years, two new cell blocks were added, even as the overall population decreased to around 980, because inmates no longer shared cells.</p>
<p class="subsq">With uniforms in hand, the new hires were directed to report to the hospital for a physical. The hospital, I later learned, was a state-licensed facility complete with infirmary beds, a surgical wing, a pharmacy, and an emergency room. But we had no idea how to get there. After wandering around the sprawling prison yard for what seemed like an eternity, one of the older guards took pity on us and pointed to where we had to go.</p>
<p class="subsq">A man in a lab coat with a stethoscope led me into an exam room and asked some standard questions about my health. I filled out a medical history as he listened to my heart and lungs, took my blood pressure, pulse, and temperature. I thought he was a doctor. Several weeks later, I saw him in the canteen line and realized the man I mistook for a doctor was actually a convict.</p>
<h2 id="subhead-3" class="section-title subhead keep-with-next paragraph-follows case-upper">SOMETHING FISHY</h2>
<p class="first first-after-subhead">A “fish” is a term used to describe a newly hired officer or a new inmate who just got off the bus. Why, I don’t know. It is just prison slang. The “fish tank” was a row of cells in One Cell House used to house inmates until they had been given an orientation and a list of the rules. They would also meet the Classification Committee to be assigned a job and a cell.</p>
<p class="subsq">A fish <i>officer</i> is a new hire who has not attended the academy or learned the ropes. These rookie officers are basically useless and treated accordingly. You remained a fish officer until you became familiar with all the ins-and-outs of daily prison operations and earned a small degree of respect. You had to prove yourself, meaning you would not run from trouble and you would back up your fellow officers. You also had to follow orders to the letter.</p>
<p class="subsq">I was hired in with two middle-aged female employees, Betty Blackwell and Rosy Mitchell. In the late 1970s, only a handful of females were hired as correctional officers. It was still a man’s world, but that was rapidly changing for the better. Nora Aldridge was the first female hired as a correctional officer sometime around 1976. Soon after, Judy Groves was hired and had already made sergeant by the time I came aboard. I try to imagine how they must have felt entering such a hostile, male-dominated environment, where danger and violence were the norm. These were courageous and brave women.</p>
<p class="subsq">As the three of us made our way out to the receiver’s basement, we had to traverse a sidewalk just below Four Cell House then Five Cell House. Inmates could stand at the barred windows in the hallways of Five Cell House and look down at the walkway we were on, the cars in the parking lot, and the boat traffic on Lake Barkley. We were about to learn our next lesson.</p>
<p class="subsq">Betty Blackwell, walking next to me on the winding sidewalk, was a middle-aged blond with an attractive figure, and Rosie Mitchell, a middle-aged person of color, strode alongside Betty as we made our way to the receiver’s basement. As we passed under Five Cell House, we could hear a whistle and catcall from somewhere above us on one of the four floors of Five Cell House. “Shake it, baby, shake it!” I was street smart and did not look toward the direction of the voice. Betty reflexively glanced up, however, and that same voice yelled, “Not you, Bitch. HIM.” I thought, <i>Oh my God, they are talking to me!</i> Another lesson for a fish guard.</p>
<h2 id="subhead-4" class="section-title subhead keep-with-next paragraph-follows case-upper">TRAINING</h2>
<p class="first first-after-subhead">Training consisted of a two-week academy at Eastern Kentucky University, the training center for all correctional officers and police officers in Kentucky. After the academy, we endured a week of firearms training at KSP, followed by on-the-job training. Before could be scheduled for the academy, I had to shadow more experienced officers. I was not allowed to work by myself until I graduated from the academy.</p>
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Philip W. Parker
Guard
$22.95
Guard: A True Story of Duty, Sacrifice, and Leadership in Kentucky's Maximum Security Penitentiary
In 1978, Philip Parker started his decades-long career as a prison guard at the Kentucky State Penitentiary, a place known as "The Castle" for its medieval look. On his first day, a mass escape set the tone for the dangerous and intense journey ahead. Over the years, Parker faced numerous challenges, from federal court allegations to life-threatening situations, including a dramatic hostage crisis with a notorious inmate.
Parker's memoir takes readers through the emotions and realities of prison life. From handling daily violence and suicides to witnessing murders caused by racial tension and other conflicts, Parker describes the harsh environment of the prison. Guard includes detailed accounts of harrowing events, like the highway crime spree where two of his colleagues were shot.
The book also covers the evolution of the prison itself, from its early days with medieval punishments to modern-day improvements. Parker shares his experiences as a warden, dealing with staff corruption, inmate violence, and the heavy responsibility of carrying out court-ordered executions.
Guard is a vivid and honest account of a life spent managing the worst in human behavior while finding moments of compassion and redemption. It highlights the dedication and resilience required to maintain order in such a challenging environment, and offers a unique perspective on the sacrifices made by those who work in the prison system.
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<body>
<div id="chapter-1" class="element element-bodymatter element-container-single element-type-chapter element-with-heading" role="doc-chapter" epub:type="chapter">
<div class="heading heading-container-single heading-size-full heading-format-full heading-alignment-flexible heading-without-image">
<div class="heading-contents">
<div class="title-subtitle-block title-block-with-element-number">
<div class="element-number-block">
<div class="element-number case-upper"><span class="element-number-term">CHAPTER</span> <span class="element-number-number">1</span></div>
</div>
<div class="title-block">
<h1 class="element-title case-upper">THE MURDER OF GINA MARIE TISHER</h1>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="text" id="chapter-1-text">
<div class="alignment-block alignment-block-align-center">
<div class="text-block">
<p class="alignment-block-content alignment-block-content-center">Friday, January 2, 1976</p>
<p class="alignment-block-content alignment-block-content-center">Whittier, California</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class="first first-in-chapter first-full-width"><span class="first-phrase">The rapist knew exactly</span> what he was looking for. He always knew when he had found the right one. Until he found her, he continued to walk aimlessly through the Whittier shopping center. He followed one young woman, but she never left the security of the crowded center. He followed another younger girl and thought she might be the one, but she kept looking back at him nervously. He would stop and look in the shop windows pretending to be interested in the merchandise. Finally, he gave up on her and went back into the parking lot to look for another.</p>
<p class="subsq">He knew he should be at work. He had just gotten the job at the Chevron Station and had promised his common-law wife Mollye he would stay with it this time and not lose this job as he had the others. But when the urge came over him to follow a girl, he could not seem to help himself. He had to do it again, as he had many times before. He couldn’t remember exactly when it started, but it had been going on for a while now. He couldn’t stop. It used to be he could go for weeks before the impulse came over him, but lately, it seemed to happen more often. He couldn't explain why.</p>
<p class="implicit-break scene-break"></p>
<div class="alignment-block alignment-block-align-center">
<div class="text-block">
<p class="alignment-block-content alignment-block-content-center"><b>From the transcribed confession of the killer:</b></p>
</div>
</div>
<div class="blockquote-container prose without-attribution within-prose-element">
<blockquote class="prose without-attribution within-prose-element">
<p class="first blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose blockquote-position-first">I was supposed to be at work, but that urge came over me, and something was driving me to go look for a girl. I was talking to myself. I drove around for a long time, and then I was at the Whitwood Shopping Center in Whittier. I was hanging around there a long time also. I was about to give up and go home, and I was walking through a rear exit or something. There was a dry cleaner by a Vons or an Albertsons. It’s a shopping center, and there was a grocery store there, and there are a couple of little businesses there, and there’s a dry cleaner. And she was putting her clothes in [the car] from the dry cleaners, and I walked on by her, and I started to go around her car, and I looked back and she was having a hard time. And I turned around, and I looked, and there wasn’t anybody watching. She had long dark hair. She was wearing a dress, and I think a sweater, nylons, and shoes. She was pretty, young, and I think she was about twenty or twenty-two years old. She was sophisticated looking, but not the kind of sophisticated where they have an air about them. She was driving a newer gold or brown-colored Granada.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">So, anyway, she was putting the clothes in, and I turned around, and I walked back around her and walked right up to her, and by then she had gotten into the car. I was standing there, and then I turned around, and I walked back behind the car, and just as I got behind it, I turned, and I looked into the back window, and she was just about started up, and she reached around and messed with the clothes again or something and she saw me. I pointed to her left rear tire and said, “Ah, you aren’t gonna get far with that tire like that.” Or something, and she said, “OK.” So, I started to walk away, and I turned around, and I looked at her, and I said, “Did you hear what I said?” And she said, “What?” I was yelling at her or something. I walked back around to the driver’s side of the car, and I reached down, and I kicked the tire or something, and I said, “You’ve got a flat tire here.” She said, “I do?” And she cracked the door open.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">As soon as she got the door open, I pulled the gun out and stuck it in her face. I said, “Scoot over.” She said, “What?” I said, “Scoot over, right now, quick. Don’t give me no shit, just scoot over, scoot your ass over.” And I pulled the door open, and I jumped in, and half pushed her over, and she slid over. I said, “Give me the keys.” She said something like, “What the hell is going on?” I told her, “Just shut up and give me the keys. Put the keys in the ignition.” She put the keys in the ignition, and I started the car up. I think it was about five-thirty or six. Yeah, because the banks were still open until six. I drove out of the parking lot across into a tract of homes due east of Whitwood Center, and I pulled around the corner, and I said, “OK, take all the money out of your purse. You haven’t got any weapons or anything? Knives or guns or anything like that?” She said, “No, I never had one.” “What’s in the back seat?” I asked her. She said, “Laundry.” And I think she had a present or something for someone. I’m not sure. Anyway, she told me what was in the back seat, and she gave me the money she had. I told her it wasn’t enough, and she said they were newlyweds, and they just had a vacation and spent most of their money on vacation or something or other. And I said, “Well, what about a bank account?" She said the car was a rental from the place where her husband works because her car was being worked on or something and that they really didn’t have any money. They spent it on their honeymoon. The only thing she had was ten or twenty bucks that she gave me and her paycheck, her paycheck that she had to cash.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">She showed the paycheck to me, and I jumped on it, and I said, “OK, we’re going to go cash it.” Anyway, she told me what bank she banked at, and I said, “Well, where is one of those?” And she said, “Well, where are we?” And I pulled back out to the main street. I don’t know the name of it, but anyway I saw the name of it, and I told her, and she said, “OK, well, we’ve got to go that way.” And she named the place. I was going to go to a drive-up window or a walk-up window without going inside the bank, and I told her that. She said, “Well, the only one I know like that is my bank. It is on the other side of town or something. It’s a quarter to six now and closes in fifteen minutes so we’ll have to hurry.”</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">So, I said, “OK, in the meantime, climb over into the back seat and get on the floor.” And it had bucket seats. She got on the floor, and I took off. I was driving with my left hand. I had my gun stuck in the back seat pointed at her in my right hand. I had it stuck between her legs. I took off. I said, “OK, we’re coming to (so-and-so) street, which way?” She said the bank was on Imperial. So, I took what I thought I knew was a shortcut or something. Somehow, we got off on a side street and went all over the goddamn place and didn’t ever come out. We just kept getting deeper and deeper.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">Finally, I told her to get up in the front and show me the way out, and she didn’t know where we were. It was about five minutes to six. She said if we go back to Whitwood Shopping Center the bank there was open. I told her that was no go—that there had to be somewhere, a store or some grocery store or somebody that knew her that would cash it. She said she knew of a place or two that had cashed her checks. I said, “For how much?” “Well, for ten or twenty dollars or for the amount of purchase only,” and that she didn’t know of any place that would take, I think it was a two-hundred-and-forty-dollar check, or something like that, a payroll check. We drove around trying to find a place for a half hour or an hour where she could cash the check, but we never stopped anywhere. And so finally I got pissed off and told her.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">Well, she was in the back all that time. She got back in the back from Whitwood before we took off. So, we took off and drove around and looked at these places. Nothing. I got pissed off. I kept sticking … I had the gun between her legs up her skirt, and I kept sticking it into her, poking her, and poking her with it. I drove off up Hacienda Boulevard up over the hills somewhere. I drove back, and I turned off a side road and went halfway back up it—parked underneath this bank that there was a house up on. I told her to get back up in the front seat. I started asking her questions about her family, and when her husband got home from work, where did her parents live. They live in Anaheim; I think—Anaheim or Santa Ana. Did they have any money to buy her back? No, they didn’t have much money, but her mom had a turquoise necklace that was worth a thousand dollars or something. I told her, “Well, I could only get ten percent on that. That’s only a hundred bucks, and I need five hundred dollars.” She said, well, she thought they had a hundred or a hundred and fifty dollars in cash. I told her that was still two hundred dollars short.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">I turned back north on Hacienda and got going up over the hill, and she said she didn’t know where she could get the money. And so, we got up over the hill, and we started coming down the hill, and I turned right off into the tract of homes again and was driving around in those homes and telling her she had to come up with more money, she had to come up with more money. And she couldn’t do it. I said, “Well, you’ve got to come up with some collateral or something to make up for the money.” “Well, you can have the car,” she told me. I said, “Well, I already planned to take the car. I can get five hundred bucks for it, but I need a thousand. We’re still two hundred and fifty short. You gotta come up with two hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of something.”</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">So, we went around and around and around for a while, and finally, I drove up to the City of Industry. I think that is where we ended up, back there in some factories or something. In the meantime, I had convinced her that she could give me two hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of sex, and I’d call it even. I had her unbutton her clothes while I was driving, and somewhere along the line I undid my fly, and I’m beating off while she was undressing, I mean while she was undressing, and I was driving.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">I went down in front of this factory and pulled behind it. There was a whole row of factories, and I went down to the last one, and I went behind it and parked. I told her just to open up her dress. I think it was a one-piece dress. I told her to open it up and to just climb in the back seat, and she said the seats recline. I told her to show me how to recline the seat, and she did. I told her to take off her shoes. She took off her shoes. Then she took off her nylons. I know she took off her underclothes anyway, and so I started screwing her in her seat. Her back was on the seat. I kept telling her, “Faster! Faster!” She kept going faster and harder. “I want my money’s worth; I want my money’s worth.” She kept working harder and harder. I was playing with her all the while we were doing that, and she started panting and getting in rhythm. She started liking it. I said, “You really like this, don’t you? Have you ever been screwed in the ass?” She said, “No.” She said, “I think it will hurt.” I said, “No it won’t. Come on.” So, I pulled it out, and she turned over, and she laid across the seat. And I rammed her really hard, and she jerked away, and she said it hurt too much—do it the other way.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">So, I said, “OK,” and she turned back over. She started going again. I was playing with her tits. We went for about five minutes, and she started coming, and I was chewing on her neck or something. She was saying, “Yeah, yeah,” and I was saying, “Yeah, yeah.” Tighter and tighter. I started squeezing my muscles tighter and tighter, and I kept squeezing my hands tighter and tighter. I just kept squeezing, and she kept squeezing, and it felt good. She kept squeezing harder and harder and harder, and I come. As soon as I come, she stopped. I took my hands off her, and she just lay there. I felt her neck, and she didn’t have any pulse. I felt her wrist, and she didn’t have any pulse. I yanked her off me, and I jumped back over in the driver’s seat. I started the car back up. I tried to get my pants on, but I couldn’t get them on. I jumped out of the car and got dressed, and I got back in the car, and I just kept looking at her, and she was dead, but I couldn’t believe she was dead. I just kept expecting her to do something. But she didn’t do shit, she just laid there.<sup class="main-text-refnote-cue"><a href="chapter-001.xhtml#chapter-1-footnote-1-text" id="chapter-1-footnote-1" class="refnote-marker marker-format-arabic footnote-cue arabic-1" role="doc-noteref" epub:type="noteref">1</a></sup></p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">So, I put the car in gear and started to drive away, and she fell over against me. I pushed her off me, and I just stopped the car, and I picked her up, and threw her over in the back seat, threw her down on the floor, and I was looking at her, and she didn’t do nothing. I took off, and I drove somewhere. I don’t know. I drove for a while. I drove, and I drove, and I kept looking at her and driving and looking at her and driving, and nothing happened. I finally ended up on some freeway somewhere. I ended up on the Pomona Freeway. Yeah, the Pomona Freeway going east. I had all the windows pulled down, and I was going about eighty-five or ninety. I was sweating and going faster, and I had the tape deck turned up full blast. She just lay there. I saw this sign saying the Orange Freeway, or the 57 Freeway or whatever it is, and I turned onto it, and I thought home, I gotta get home. Oh man, I must have done ninety or a hundred down that freeway all the way home.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">I got to what I think was Imperial. No, maybe it was Lambert Road. I pulled off, and I stopped. I tried to collect myself. What was I going to do? I reached back, and she was cold. I was sure she was dead then, and I had to get rid of her.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">I pulled off on Lambert Road, on the off-ramp, and I just sat there for a second. I turned the tape deck down. I thought, “I gotta wipe my prints off and get out of here.” I was really pissed because she was dead. I was really pissed! I reached back, and I hit her. I hit her hard on the chest. I hit her right in the sternum because I remember she, ah, gasped or something, and I thought, oh wow, maybe she’s going to come back alive. I remember that I got back on the freeway, and I got to Yorba Linda Boulevard, and I got off there. I turned left, and I went over to K-mart. You know the K-mart on Yorba Linda Boulevard and Placentia?</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">And I drove around the K-mart parking lot for a while, and I parked in there. I just sat for a while, and I smoked a cigarette. Then I tore all the clothes down and the clothes hanger and covered her up. I got out of the car, and I locked it up, and I went into the K-mart, and I bought—what did I buy? Oh yeah, I forgot about the jewelry. I took the jewelry from her when we were parked in Hacienda Heights. She told me it wasn’t worth much, and I told her, “I could get something for it.” It was a wedding ring set. She told me she didn’t know how much her husband had paid for it. I told her it looked like it was worth something. She said there was a green class ring or something. She told me it was jade or an emerald or something and was valuable. So, I took it, and I think she had a watch. I think she had post earrings or something. I took all of that back in Hacienda Heights somewhere.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">I went in the K-mart, and I bought something. Shit, I don’t know what the hell it was, and I went back to the auto supply section, and I bought some brake fluid. I remember the brake fluid was something somebody told me about, that brake fluid was good for cleaning things. I thought, well, I’ll clean up the car with the brake fluid. I bought a can of brake fluid, and I know I got something for, I think I bought a toy for Unity, my daughter, a little mouse, or something.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">I went back out to the car, I got in the car, and I was going to wipe it down right there. Then somebody drove into the parking lot that I knew that I thought I knew or that they thought they knew me, or I don’t know, and they were driving around and looked at me weird. I thought, “I think I know those people. That must be why they’re driving around me wondering what I’m doing in this nice car.”</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">I started the car up, and I hauled ass out of there and went over to Gemco. It was kind of catty-corner. I drove around the Gemco parking lot for a couple of minutes, and I forgot about what I was doing, and then I followed this girl out to her car, and I was going to get out of the car and go rob her or something, but then I remembered that I had to clean that car up.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">So, I drove over by the cleaners and parked in front of a liquor store. The cleaners and the liquor store are by each other in the Gemco parking lot. And I parked there, and I took some kind of rag and dumped brake fluid on it. I spent about five or ten minutes wiping the car down. And I started the car up, and I drove across the parking lot towards Yorba Linda Boulevard, and I stopped again and got the check. I wiped the dash down a couple of times and the steering wheel and a couple of other things down.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">Then I drove around, and I got out of the car again in a garage area of some apartments. I poured some of the brake fluid on a rag. I then tried to stuff the can into her vagina, but when I found it wouldn’t go, I think I stuffed the rag in. I think I wiped down the outside of the car. I know I locked the car up though, and I walked back up the alley towards State College, and I took the can of brake fluid and chucked it up on the roof of one of the carports, and I got to the end of the carports, back to the parking lot where the taco and pizza places are. I had the car keys, and I threw the keys in the trash. Then I thought, I might want them, so I took ‘em back out of the trash, and I chucked ‘em up on the corner of the roof.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">Well, I walked out of there around Shakey’s [pizza restaurant] and started walking. I had cut between the Tic Toc, the gas station, and the pizza place, right through Nutwood, and turned right around the Emporium. I turned right on Nutwood, and I walked along the north side of Nutwood under the underpass, and then I cut across a field or a parking lot. There’s a field and a parking lot there or something, and I cut across it into a fraternity house or whatever that is there. I cut across there and then over to Commonwealth up off of Nutwood Street, then across Commonwealth through some more fraternity houses or something, and came out almost across the street from some type of camping store or, there’s a ski shop there and the Sav-On parking lot, cut across the street behind it, that is on Chapman, then I went behind it, came back around it, went around the front, walked in the Sav-On, and was eating an ice cream or something when I saw Winchell’s over on the corner. I decided to go to Winchell’s instead, so I walked over to Winchell’s.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">I called Ruby<sup class="main-text-refnote-cue"><a href="chapter-001.xhtml#chapter-1-footnote-2-text" id="chapter-1-footnote-2" class="refnote-marker marker-format-arabic footnote-cue arabic-2" role="doc-noteref" epub:type="noteref">2</a></sup> on the phone from there. I told her that I’d been kidnapped. I said I’d been kidnapped by four black guys that morning, and they dragged me around in the trunk all day and dumped me out in Irvine, and I’d just gotten this far, and that I needed a ride the rest of the way home. I think it was either nine-thirty or ten-thirty. She asked me, “Well, what do you need, an alibi?” I said, “No, I’m telling you what happened.” She said, “What have you been drinking?” I said, “Forget it, Ruby, I’m telling you the truth. Just get in touch with Mollye and tell her I’m on my way home and that I’m OK. I’ll walk from here, and it’ll be a little while till I get home. Tell her not to worry.” She said, “OK,” she’d get in touch with her.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose blockquote-position-last">So, then I called up a Yellow Cab from Winchell’s. Then I went over, and I sat and had a jelly donut and a cup of coffee. While I was drinking the coffee, the taxi pulled up. We went up to Commonwealth. I told him I had three or four bucks or something, and he took me as far as Gilbert and Commonwealth to a McMahan’s gas station and let me off there. It was twenty cents under what I told him I had. That wasn’t what I had, but that’s what I told him. And I got out from there, and I walked home.</p>
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<div id="chapter-1-footnote-1-text" class="refnote footnote marker-format-arabic" role="doc-footnote" epub:type="footnote"><p class="first"><span class="refnote-marker-container" hidden="hidden"><a class="refnote-marker marker-format-arabic arabic-1 refnote-backlink" href="chapter-001.xhtml#chapter-1-footnote-1">1</a> </span>Even in his confession of this cold-blooded murder, Hulbert attempts to minimize his acts by saying that the victim was “starting to enjoy it” and she kept squeezing, when in fact he was strangling her to death. He also fails to mention the fact he bit her breast so severely the criminalist was able to cast the bite after her death. Throughout these interviews, he never showed any remorse or compassion for his victims or their families.</p>
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<div id="chapter-1-footnote-2-text" class="refnote footnote marker-format-arabic" role="doc-footnote" epub:type="footnote"><p class="first"><span class="refnote-marker-container" hidden="hidden"><a class="refnote-marker marker-format-arabic arabic-2 refnote-backlink" href="chapter-001.xhtml#chapter-1-footnote-2">2</a> </span>Ruby Rose Patterson, the owner of the home the suspect was renting in southwest Fullerton, and the woman who had cared for him when he was a child, after the death of his mother.</p>
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Lee DeVore
The Parking Lot Rapist
$15.50
In The Parking Lot Rapist, retired detective Lee DeVore recounts the harrowing investigation that led to the capture of a serial rapist and killer who terrorized Los Angeles and Orange Counties in the 1970s. This gripping true crime narrative begins with the tragic murder of nineteen-year-old Gina Marie Tisher and delves into the relentless pursuit of justice by the Fullerton Police Department.
DeVore provides his insider's view of the complex and meticulous investigation, revealing the strategies, challenges, and breakthroughs that ultimately led to the arrest and conviction of Kenneth Richard Hulbert. Through detailed accounts of key moments, including transcripts of Hulbert's chilling confessions, collaboration with various law enforcement agencies, and the emotional toll on the victims' families, DeVore paints a vivid picture of a community united in its fight against a monstrous predator.
The Parking Lot Rapist is more than just a detective's tale; it is a testament to the dedication, teamwork, and unwavering commitment of an entire police department. This compelling story captures the essence of true crime, highlighting the painstaking efforts and sacrifices made to bring a dangerous criminal to justice.
Whether you are a true crime enthusiast or simply seeking an authentic account of law enforcement's pursuit of justice, The Parking Lot Rapist offers an unflinching look at the resilience and determination necessary to protect and serve.
Michael Cohen
The Golden Age of Sherlock Holmes And His Contemporaries
$15.50
In 1891, a new London magazine, The Strand, decided to publish short mysteries in connected series. Arthur Conan Doyle’s short stories about Sherlock Holmes nearly doubled the magazine’s circulation, and Doyle became rich. Other magazines searched for tales with the same kind of appeal. Dozens of men and women began to write detective stories in the series format of the Holmes Adventures.
An enormous flowering of this kind of tale followed, with stories that featured women and men detectives, professionals and amateurs, young and old, aristocrats, gentlefolk, and plain folk. Detectives went rogue and became burglars and conmen. Others developed occult powers. It was a Golden Era of detective fiction, and it lasted for two and a half decades until the First World War. Nothing of its variety had been seen before.
Michael Cohen’s The Golden Era of Sherlock Holmes and His Contemporaries is a guide to this trove of stories that fascinated readers a century and a quarter ago. In clear and crisp prose, Cohen takes you through the variety of stories with brief descriptions, and he shows you where to find the stories online in their original, illustrated magazine versions. Here you’ll find names you knew such as Chesterton’s Father Brown, and less well-known ones such as Ernest Bramah’s blind detective Max Carrados, Anna Katherine Green’s debutante detective Violet Strange, and Gelett Burgess’s “Seer of Secrets,” Astro.
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<h1 class="center" id="c4">LAST CALL</h1>
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<h2 class="center sigil_not_in_toc"><i>December 1943</i></h2>
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<div>Private First Class John Rondello closed the door behind him and turned to face the barroom. As he stamped snow from his shoes, he allowed his eyes to scan the smoky dimness before him. The place was small for a soldiers’ bar, barely forty feet across with the actual bar running down the side to Rondello’s right. To his left, scattered indifferently, were eight small, round tables, and he was relieved to see that only two were occupied. The room’s flooring consisted of worn, wooden planks under a sprinkling of pale yellow sawdust, the bare grey walls scarred with sporadic spottings of water damage. An oddly pleasant odor of beer, whiskey and cigarettes wafted in the warm air. A scrawny Douglas fir stood in a corner, its needles already drying, growing brittle against red and green Christmas lights.</div>
<div class="indent">Ten G.I.s stood at the bar, scattered and clumped in small groups along its length, a few looking up from their drinks or conversations as Rondello entered. Two hookers sat at the far end, one sipping without pleasure at a flat looking beer, the other engaged in tee-hee chit-chat with a red-faced soldier of about nineteen.</div>
<div class="indent">More than an hour to kill in this dive, thought Rondello.</div>
<div class="indent">Moving toward one of the empty tables at the rear, he slipped the overseas cap from his head, unbuttoned his green uniform overcoat and tucked the folded cap into his belt. He could feel the appraising eyes of the beer sipping hooker as he crossed the room. Rondello imagined she liked what she saw. He kept his eyes purposely from her and sat at a table with his back to the bar facing a small, snow encrusted window which looked out to the Wrightstown Bus Depot directly across Main Street. He glanced at his Timex. Ten forty. The bus to New York City was due in from Philadelphia after midnight. He sighed and gazed into his watery reflection in the darkened window glass.</div>
<div class="indent">At twenty-three, Rondello was the oldest man in his platoon. His sergeant was only twenty-two, although in many ways he seemed much older. The rest of the guys were eighteen and nineteen with a sprinkling of twenty-year-olds. Rondello had been drafted late, and he knew exactly who to thank for that. Or blame.</div>
<div class="indent">Good old Willie Cosentino, Rondello thought. Willie the Widow Maker. There hadn’t been much Willie couldn’t get done even before the war, but once the conflict produced depression-busting paychecks for everyone and a thriving black market, Willie had grown godlike within the old Brooklyn neighborhood known as Red Hook.</div>
<div class="indent">It was Willie who had arranged Rondello’s gig at the Alimony Prison, a popular Manhattan night club. Sure, he deserved the spot, but hell, there were lots of guys deserving of that job; it was Willie himself who spoke to the owner, an ex-prize fighter and bootlegger who had founded the Alimony Prison as a speakeasy many years earlier and then taken it legit once prohibition was repealed. When Willie spoke, people tended to listen. Willie the Widow Maker had grown up on President Street, just off Fourth Avenue, with another kid everyone called “Allie Boy.” The grapevine wise guys never tired of relating how it had been Willie who suggested a more fitting nickname for a tough kid like Alphonse Capone: “Scarface.”</div>
<div class="indent">“‘Allie Boy’ sounds like one of them new peanut butters they’re selling,” Willie reportedly told Capone.</div>
<div class="indent">Now Rondello smiled at the legend. He had never particularly liked Willie, but had always been pragmatic; if a guy wanted to amount to anything on Red Hook’s mean streets, working for Willie was the best way to do it. And if a guy dreamed of being a big-time singer like Sinatra, he needed someone to grease the wheels a little. Hell, thought Rondello, his Alimony Prison performance was reviewed by <i>The</i> <i>Times</i> just last year, <i>The</i> <i>New York Times</i>, for Pete’s sake. “Promising young crooner,” they said. “Dark, sensual good looks,” the guy had written. Johnny Rondello was a big hit.</div>
<div class="indent">Rondello had been living on Sixteenth Street in Manhattan at the time, just a few blocks from the Alimony Prison’s Greenwich Village location. He was booked there for a long-term engagement. And then came the telephone call from Brooklyn.</div>
<div class="indent">“Hey, Johnny, how ya doing?” Willie had said. “You with any a’ that high class Manhattan tail at the moment?”</div>
<div class="indent">Rondello laughed. “No, Willie, not right at the moment. What’s up?”</div>
<div class="indent">“I need you to go take care of sumthin’,” Willie said casually. “Nothin’ heavy, just the usual.”</div>
<div class="indent">Rondello had stiffened. He’d been hoping these little instances of “taking care” of something were finally behind him. How long, he wondered, would he be in Willie’s unrelenting debt?</div>
<div class="indent">“What’s that?” he asked, forcing a mirroring casualness into his tone.</div>
<div class="indent">“Matty the Milkman. He’s inta me for almost two c’s, and he’s been duckin’ me. Time he gets a little message.”</div>
<div class="indent">“What kinda message?”</div>
<div class="indent">Willie’s chuckle came through the line. “Relax, kid, I know you’re lightweight. Just go and see ‘im, that’s all. Smack ‘im around a little. Warn him next time it won’t be <i>you</i> comin’.”</div>
<div class="indent">“Sure, Willie. I can put a little scare into him. He still live over on Dean Street?”</div>
<div class="indent">“Yeah. He leaves for work at two-thirty in the morning. That’d be the best time to catch him. Give ‘im the whole day drivin’ around in that milk wagon a’ his to think about the position he’s in.”</div>
<div class="indent">“Consider it done, Willie. Anything else ya need?”</div>
<div class="indent">“Well, kid, I got some bad news. My guy at the draft board called. Seems he’s lost his nerve; he thinks the FBI is hidin’ under his friggin’ bed. Says he can’t keep misplacin’ your draft call up notice. He read about ya in the newspaper, the whata-ya-call-it…”</div>
<div class="indent">“<i>The Times</i>?” Rondello suggested.</div>
<div class="indent">“Yeah, yeah, <i>The</i> <i>Times</i>. He says pretty soon somebody’s gonna start wonderin’ why a gettin’ famous guy like you ain’t humpin’ around shootin’ at foreigners like the other losers. So we gotta get you fixed.”</div>
<div class="indent">“Fixed?”</div>
<div class="indent">“Yeah, fixed. By some doctor up on the Grand Concourse, up in the Bronx.”</div>
<div class="indent">Rondello shook his head and frowned. “Willie, what do you mean, ‘fixed’? I ain’t a Cocker Spaniel, for Pete’s sake.”</div>
<div class="indent">For a moment there was silence on the line. Then Willie laughed. “Oh, I get it. No, Johnny, relax. It’s your ear, just your ear.”</div>
<div class="indent">“You wanna cut my ear off?”</div>
<div class="indent">“No, but now that you mention it, I did cut a guy’s ear off once. With one of my old man’s barber razors.”</div>
<div class="indent">“Willie,” Rondello said, his stomach knotting a bit, “What’s this about <i>my</i> ear?”</div>
<div class="indent">“The doc owes Jimmy Buttons, a friend of mine. Jimmy says no problem, he’ll just squeeze him a little and he’ll help us out on this.”</div>
<div class="indent">“On what, Willie? What are we doing here?”</div>
<div class="indent">“Well, you go see this doctor, he’s a’ ear doctor, and he pokes a hole through your eardrum. Then you go for your draft interview. You tell them at the board, you say, ‘Hey, it’s about time you guys called me. I been waitin’. Where are those Nazis, I’m gonna kill them all.’ Then they say, ‘What a nice boy this one is. Set up his physical.’ You go for the physical, they find the punctured eardrum and bingo! Four-friggin’-eff. It’s back to the Alimony Prison and all them Manhattan Protestant broads you been bangin’, thanks to your buddy, Willie.”</div>
<div class="indent">Rondello didn’t like the sound of this. “And what am I? Deaf then? A deaf singer? I have to know tone, I have to know pitch, I have to—”</div>
<div class="indent">“Oh, pipe down,” Willie said. “Listen, kid, you ain’t gonna be deaf. Is Sinatra deaf? Can he tone and pitch and whatever the hell? He got the same condition, he’s four-eff just like you gonna be.”</div>
<div class="indent">Rondello felt himself relax. “Sinatra? Sinatra’s got a punctured eardrum?”</div>
<div class="indent">“Damn right. Probably got it the same way you gonna get yours.”</div>
<div class="indent">And so Willie would make the arrangements. Rondello would be 4-F and skip this war. Sorry, folks, too busy. Maybe next time.</div>
<div class="indent">“One more thing,” Willie said, “you been a little out of touch with the neighborhood lately. You should get to Brooklyn more often. The guys are startin’ to mumble about it.” Rondello thought about “the guys”—the dreamless, imagination-less pool shooters and card players, boozers and bums and skirt chasers, chain-smoking Luckies and greasing back their hair.</div>
<div class="indent">“Yeah, sure, Willie, as soon as I get some time. Maybe next week sometime if I can—”</div>
<div class="indent">Willie’s voice cracked like a pistol shot through the phone. “No,” he said. “No, kid, not maybe. And not next week. You get here in a day or two, and you do the right thing, act like ya supposed to act, like a man. Don’t get fancy on me, Johnny, don’t play with me.”</div>
<div class="indent">Rondello paled. “Yeah, sure, Willie, tomorrow’s good. Tomorrow night’s good, after the late show, tell the guys. I’ll see ‘em down at the hangout, okay? Then after that, I’ll walk over to Dean Street and see Matty the Milkman.”</div>
<div class="indent">Willie sounded placated. “Okay.” He paused. “One more thing. I guess you should hear this from me.”</div>
<div class="indent">Rondello frowned into the phone. “What?”</div>
<div class="indent">Willie’s voice softened. “Your friend. Your friend Bobby. He ain’t coming home, kid. I’m sorry. I just heard about it this morning.” Rondello could feel his head begin to swim. Bobby Arena, his childhood best friend from the neighborhood. Bobby, like Rondello himself, had been a little different, a little smarter, maybe, than the other kids. In their special friendship, Bobby had once confided his deepest, darkest secret: Bobby liked poetry. He liked to read it. He even liked to write it.</div>
<div class="indent">Bobby had flushed red when he told Rondello. “You think maybe I’m like some kind of sissy, Johnny?” he had whispered, his eyes welling with tears.</div>
<div class="indent">“Bobby’s… <i>dead</i>?” Rondello asked.</div>
<div class="indent">“Yeah, kid. I’m sorry. But he should never have gone and joined up. He got all pissed off after Pearl Harbor, remember? He took it real personal—like those Japs had bombed the Brooklyn Bridge.”</div>
<div class="indent">“How? Where?”</div>
<div class="indent">“How-where what?”</div>
<div class="indent">“How’d he die? Where’d he die? What happened?”</div>
<div class="indent">“Oh. I think he got shot. A place called Tarawa, some island somewheres. Too bad, the kid was okay. And I gotta give ‘im this much. He was tough. Hard as nails.”</div>
<div class="indent">“Yeah, a tough guy,” Rondello said dully.</div>
<div class="indent">“‘Arena the Cleaner,’ the terror of Guadalcanal. Every Jap mother’s nightmare. Whata ya gonna do? Nobody gets outta here alive. I’ll see ya, kid.” Willie hung up.</div>
<div class="indent">Two nights later Rondello found himself standing in the second floor walk-up foyer of a battered Dean Street tenement. He dropped his cigarette butt, crushed it out against the black-and-white tiled floor, and he waited.</div>
<div class="indent">Matty the Milkman was forty-two years old. He lived alone in a three-room apartment. Each morning, he woke at one-thirty a.m. and fixed a breakfast of farina, jellied toast, and black coffee. He then donned his white uniform and walked two blocks to the BMT subway on Fourth Avenue. He rode to the sprawling dairy in Long Island City where he would load his milk truck with thick, heavy bottles of cold milk, cream, orange juice, and cardboard boxes of butter. By mid-morning his day’s work was done, freeing him to return to the neighborhood and purchase a racing form. By seven p.m. Matty would retire for six hours of sleep before repeating the same daily routine.</div>
<div class="indent">As Rondello waited, he found himself pondering the pointlessness of such an existence. It was why, he supposed, Matty took his scant earnings and wagered them on horses and baseball or anything offered by the local bookie, an associate of Willie the Widow Maker. Anything, Rondello supposed, to provide some excitement would be preferable to doing nothing. A sad choice made by a sad, lonely man.</div>
<div class="indent">At precisely two-thirty, Rondello saw the apartment door swing open. The foyer where he stood was ten-by-ten-foot square, a steep staircase to the left. An anemic twenty-five-watt bulb was affixed to a far wall, Rondello positioned away from it in shadow. He watched as Matty locked his door and turned toward the stairs.</div>
<div class="indent">Rondello stepped forward. He wore a dark trench coat and a black Fedora pulled low on his brow. His hands were jammed into the coat pockets, his shoulders hunched. He had done this before. He knew how to stage it.</div>
<div class="indent">“Hey, Matty,” he said, lightly touching the man’s shoulder, a slight snarl to his voice. “You got a minute?”</div>
<div class="indent">Matty, deeply startled, gave a gasp and turned toward the voice. Rondello stepped closer, manufacturing an evil smile. Matty took a quick step back in fear.</div>
<div class="indent">Rondello sneered. “Willie says hello,” he snarled, then lashed out a backhanded slap, catching Matty hard across his right cheek.</div>
<div class="indent">And that was it. John Rondello, aspiring radio star, headliner at Manhattan’s swinging Alimony Prison—now a murderer.</div>
<div class="indent">Matty the Milkman fell backward from the top of the stairwell. Halfway down the steps, his neck broke. When his tumbling body finally slammed onto the tile entryway floor, his skull split with a sickening, wet sounding thud. Dead because John Rondello needed to keep Willie the Widow Maker happy; appease him in order to ensure the continued success of his own career.</div>
<div class="indent">Rondello, initially frozen in terror, had finally fled. A death occurring during the commission of a felony is legally classified “felony murder.” It carries the same penalty as first degree murder: life imprisonment or death by electric chair; in mob-related cases the latter usually being the punishment of choice.</div>
<div class="indent">When Rondello told him what had occurred, Willie was displeased but not particularly concerned. “Stuff happens, kid,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll just write off Matty’s debt and set you up with an alibi. If the cops ever figure this for somethin’ more than an accident, which I doubt will ever happen, you’ll have three witnesses ready to say you were with them. Forget about this.”</div>
<div class="indent">Now, sitting in the New Jersey bar, Rondello lit a cigarette and tried to force thoughts of Matty the Milkman from his mind. Instead, he thought of Bobby Arena. Poor, pale, skinny Bobby. Sometimes Rondello believed it was Bobby’s secret love of poetry that had propelled him to the Marine Corp recruiting office that December day two years earlier. Bobby Arena, “Arena the Cleaner,” the street guys nicknamed him after Guadalcanal. Bobby had used a flame thrower on the Canal, moving under fire from rat-hole to rat-hole, burning to death the pitiful, half-starved Japanese kids who huddled down in those holes, chained to their machine guns. Bobby had sprayed the liquid fire into the holes then listened for screams. He cleaned them out alright, scores of them, and thus the nickname “Arena the Cleaner,” for the gentle, quiet boy who proved to himself and everyone else that he was no sissy.</div>
<div class="indent">Rondello shook his head to clear it of the haunting ghosts and ordered beer from the slight, pimply-faced waitress who had suddenly materialized next to his table. He watched her shuffle away.</div>
<div class="indent"><i>And I’m no different</i>, thought Rondello. What am <i>I </i>trying to prove? Here I sit dressed in this costume waiting to catch a bus from Fort Dix to New York City for thirty days’ Christmas leave. And then what? Europe for sure. Rondello had heard the rumors. He had sized up the situation. The Wehrmacht was collapsing. The Russians were already kicking them back to Germany. An allied invasion was imminent, the glory-seeking generals had figured out a surefire way of getting themselves into the history books. Invade Europe, probably from England and probably soon<i>. God almighty why didn’t I just have my damn eardrum punctured?</i> he thought. <i>What was </i>I<i> trying to prove?</i> His thoughts slipped back to Willie Cosentino’s reaction when he told him he hadn’t gone through with the procedure. While Rondello attempted to explain that which he couldn’t fully understand himself and most likely never would, he had seen the fury ablaze within Willie’s muddy brown eyes.</div>
<div class="indent">“You didn’t do it?!” Willie had screamed. “You stupid moron, you didn’t do it!”</div>
<div class="indent">“Willie, I… I couldn’t. Everybody else is going. I gotta go, too. I don’t know why exactly, maybe for Bobby, I don’t know. It’s just bad luck that I’m draft age in nineteen forty-three and there’s a war going on. I <i>gotta</i> go.”</div>
<div class="indent">Willie reached out a stub-fingered hand covered with coarse black curly hair. He took hold of Rondello’s shirt front.</div>
<div class="indent">“You stupid sucker!” he hissed, his eyes slit and his breath sour and foul. “You just don’t get it. You think they won’t have a war for slum kids to fight in 1953? 1963? 1973? Didja check out Ford’s profits last year? Kaiser’s? General Electric’s? They found their answer, kid, same as we found ours. <i>Our</i> future is dope: heroin. It’s the new bootleg, the future gambling and prostitution, ‘cause that’ll all get legalized someday. But never heroin. That’s <i>our </i>future, and we’re gonna eat up and spit out dead a whole bunch of slum kids with that dope. And Ford and them others, they do the same thing with the same slum kids. War, Johnny, that’s <i>their</i> answer, that’s their future. War.” He pushed Rondello away from him. “Go fight for them, kid. Go get killed. But believe me, if you survive it, you can forget about singin’ in <i>this </i>town. You wanna kiss up to the citizens, kid, you go ahead. But I’ll see you dead before you ever get a job in this town again. You’ll be finished. Now beat it.”</div>
<div class="indent">“Listen, Willie,” Rondello pleaded, “this war, it’s the defining event of my lifetime. Of my whole generation. Twenty years from now, what am I going to say, what do I tell people? Bobby went and died—what do I tell people <i>I</i> did?”</div>
<div class="indent">Willie shook his head. “You ain’t no different from the politicians who started this mess, Johnny. You’re just looking for a place in history, and you’re too damn stupid to see that it don’t make a rat’s ass bit a difference to nobody what you do.”</div>
<div class="indent">“But Willie…”</div>
<div class="indent">“No!” he hissed. “No. Save it. I had big hopes for you, kid. You’re with me or against me. You do this, if you go, you’re against me. End of story.”</div>
<div class="indent">Rondello leaned his head back and brought both hands to his forehead. He slowly massaged his brow before lowering his eyes back to Willie’s stone chiseled face.</div>
<div class="indent">“Why, Willie? Why does it have to be like that?”</div>
<div class="indent">Willie sighed. “You really don’t know, do you?”</div>
<div class="indent">“No. I don’t.”</div>
<div class="indent">“Because, kid, you were gonna make me legit. You were gonna be a star, a big star. On the radio. All the best joints, gigs with the real big-timers—Dorsey, Miller, all a’ them. You were gonna go places I could never go, meet people I could never meet. That’s why I helped you, that’s why I used up favors and promised out favors, leaned on people. You were gonna make it real big, kid, and it would be because a’ me. And then someday maybe I’d live in some big house out on Long Island somewheres, and all my neighbors would have their noses up in the air every time they seen me. But then I’d call on you, Johnny Rondello, the big star, and you’d be right there for me. Maybe sing at my daughter’s wedding even. And all them people, all them white bread bastards, they’d all know I was <i>somebody. </i>They’d know I was somebody <i>big</i>! Somebody they would have to respect.”</div>
<div class="indent">“Willie, please…”</div>
<div class="indent">“No, kid, that’s it. Beat it. You was selling shoes when you came to me for a break, and I set you up in Sally’s club in Flatbush. Remember? You was sellin’ shoes. And if them krauts don’t kill ya first, which I hope they do, then that’s how you’re gonna die—selling shoes.”</div>
<div class="indent">The waitress’ reappearance pulled Rondello from his memories. She set the bottle of Pabst down in front of him.</div>
<div class="indent">“Twenty-five cents,” she said.</div>
<div class="indent">He dropped a dollar on her tray. “And bring me a double shot of J & B, too,” he said, realizing a sudden need for harsh liquor in this throat.</div>
<div class="indent">After she had come and gone a second time, Rondello drank the scotch quickly, washing it down with the cold beer. There had been a time when he avoided hard liquor, fearful of its ravishing effect on his vocal cords, but those days were long gone.</div>
<div class="indent">Now his fear was of the future, a steeped, utter fear, and it was a new experience for him. His future had always seemed so bright, so promising, and now it loomed black and bleak before him. He had been so very much afraid lately. It was hard for him to sleep even after long, grueling days of Advanced Infantry Training. The nights would enhance his terror, and it would creep across him with an icy liquidity, stirring loosely in his bowels, knotting the muscles of his jaw.</div>
<div class="indent">Because he knew what was coming. His imagination had often been cruel to him growing up as he had on the streets of Brooklyn, and now that imagination stabbed at him without mercy. In the senses of his mind, he heard the combat, smelled it, even tasted it. He was just too imaginative for the infantry. It was that simple.</div>
<div class="indent">He sipped at his beer and thoughts of Bobby Arena returned to him. They had grown up together, sharing a magical secret bond of imagination. They dreamed their dreams together, each one separate, different, yet so alike and so sweet. Bobby with his dreams of poetry, Rondello with his dreams of singing, performing, becoming a star on the radio. And now Bobby lay rotting, buried raw and bloody in some distant volcanic ash of a grave, his poetry silent, dead forever on his decaying, maggot-ridden lips.</div>
<div class="indent">The other kids had no idea about the poetry—not Jake or Zoot or Little Danny. Bobby’s eyes had often twinkled with their secret as he and Rondello moved into their teens, cocky and swaggering, exploring the girls, testing the waters…</div>
<div class="indent">Rondello shook the memories from his head and drained his beer. He called to the waitress and sat blank eyed as she brought the second round. He lifted the scotch to his mouth. “For you, Bobby,” he said, and knocked the liquor back into his throat.</div>
<div class="indent">And now it was his own dream which lay dead and gone. Even if he did come away from the war undamaged, which he seriously doubted, there’d be Willie to deal with. Willie the Widow Maker did not make idle threats; he did not change his mind. He had the means to make good his threat to Rondello. If Willie got on the phone to Manhattan, Rondello would be through in New York. Not one club, not the Copacabana, not the Latin Quarter, certainly not the Alimony Prison would touch him with a ten foot pole. Not if Willie said no. Not if they wanted their linens cleaned, their waiters at work, their liquor delivered. No, Johnny Rondello was finished in New York, even if he managed to survive long enough for it to matter. And if he dared re-locate to Chicago or Los Angeles or anywhere, the ultimate threat still existed: Matty the Milkman and that horrible tenement staircase.</div>
<div class="indent">Rondello’s thoughts then turned to his last show at the club. A scout from NBC had been there watching, listening, assessing him. The guy had come away impressed.</div>
<div class="indent">“Call me,” he had said. “When you get out of the service, call me. I really like your style.” Rondello smiled a bitter smile and drank his beer dry. Would the guy still like his style when some bent-nose walked into his office and asked for a special “favor” for “the boys”? When a police detective came in voicing allegations and alluding to murder? No, style wouldn’t be enough then. There were plenty of guys with style, and they would come with no strings attached.</div>
<div class="indent">He called for yet another round and glanced again at his Timex. It was just after eleven, and he was drinking much too fast. He shrugged away the thought. So what? Maybe he’d manage to get some sleep on the bus ride if he were drunk enough.</div>
<div class="indent">He was just finishing off another scotch when the shadow fell across his table. He looked up to his right and saw her standing there. It was the hooker from the bar, the beer sipper. She smiled at him.</div>
<div class="indent">“Hiya, Johnny,” she said. He frowned. They always call a guy Johnny, these bimbos. An unfortunate coincidence in his case.</div>
<div class="indent">“I’m not interested, sister, beat it,” he said, reaching for his beer and dropping his eyes from her.</div>
<div class="indent">She didn’t move. Rondello let five seconds pass then looked back at her face. He saw that she was about his age, slightly younger. She had short, strawberry-blond hair that was almost natural and high cheek bones. Her nose was small and cute, and she had nice green eyes. It came as a surprise to him that she was pretty. He blinked the surprise away.</div>
<div class="indent">“Look, honey,” he said in low, cold tones. He wanted to hurt her, drive her away, make her leave him to his scotch and beer and dead friends and dead dreams.</div>
<div class="indent">“Look,” he repeated, his eyes hard, “it ain’t my problem you’re all dressed up with no one to screw, okay? Just leave me alone. There’s fifteen other guys in here for you to impress. You don’t need me.”</div>
<div class="indent">He could see hurt come into her face and waited for her anger. He had dealt with pushy whores before, ever since he was seventeen and just starting to work the bars and clubs. He knew the routine. He figured now she would curse him and call him queer and then buzz off. But the hurt remained. There was no anger in her eyes. He frowned. What the hell…?</div>
<div class="indent">“You don’t remember me, do you?” she asked in a tiny voice, a girl’s voice. “I thought maybe you just didn’t see me when you first came in, but that’s not it. You <i>really</i> don’t remember.” Rondello slid his chair back and looked at her hard. His memory stared back at him blankly as he scanned her features, her mannerisms. She stood still before him almost like a child, clutching her purse against her stomach, eyes wide.</div>
<div class="indent">“Look, sister, let’s not waste each other’s time,” he said, using a softer tone than before. “If this is some kind of hustle, let me tell you, you ain’t in my league. You’re a small-town kid playing dress-up, okay? So if it’s a hustle, you better just forget about it.”</div>
<div class="indent">The girl looked at him, and he could see a slight defiance come into her face. He felt a sudden deepening of his sadness and wondered why and tried to push it away. He knew he was already drunk.</div>
<div class="indent">“I’ll go, Johnny,” she said, and this time he realized she knew his name, he wasn’t just another john to her. “If that’s what you want. But you should remember. You said you would.” She seemed to brace herself then, throwing back her shoulders. “And anyway, I don’t care if you forgot. I almost forgot, too. I woulda forgot except for, ‘I’ll Never Smile Again.’ Except for that, I woulda forgot, too.” She began to turn from him.</div>
<div class="indent">He reached out a hand, grabbing her arm.</div>
<div class="indent">“Wait,” he said. “Wait a minute. What, ‘I’ll Never Smile Again’? What does that mean?”</div>
<div class="indent">She turned to face him again. He could tell that although she was trying not to, she began to smile at him.</div>
<div class="indent">“You sang it for me, Johnny,” she said softly. “You sang ‘I’ll Never Smile Again’ just for <i>me</i>.”</div>
<div class="indent">His face remained blank while his thoughts swirled behind his eyes. If he had a nickel for every broad he had sung to…</div>
<div class="indent">The girl slipped her arm from his light grasp.</div>
<div class="indent">“I’ll ne-<i>ver</i> smile a-gain until I smile at you.” She sang slowly and off-key in low tones as he watched and listened. He found himself beginning to remember.</div>
<div class="indent">He stood up slowly. “I’ll never laugh a-gain—what good would it do?” he crooned in a barely audible voice.</div>
<div class="indent">“You’re… Linda, right?” he said. She slapped lightly at his chest. “Lucy,” she said. “Not Linda, Lucy.” She put her hands on her hips and glared at him.</div>
<div class="indent">“Well, hell,” he said, pulling out a chair for her, “don’t get mad. At least I had the right letter of the alphabet.”</div>
<div class="indent">Lucy laughed and sat down. “I’ll bet that’s better than you usually do,” she said happily.</div>
<div class="indent">Johnny sat and looked across the table at her. Lucy was smiling serenely. It was as though nothing unpleasant had just occurred between them. She appeared totally pleased, completely at peace with being there with him. Rondello called for the waitress, and while Lucy ordered beer, he took the opportunity to remember her more fully.</div>
<div class="indent">Although he couldn’t quite place the face, and indeed the woman across from him could very well be a complete stranger, he had at least recalled the particular event. It had been about two months earlier, while he was in Basic Training. His company had received a twenty-four-hour pass for high performance on the rifle range, and Rondello, like most of the others, headed for this small town nestled just beside the sprawling Fort Dix.</div>
<div class="indent">He remembered drinking quite a lot, something he rarely did. It seemed to him now, thinking back, that he had been trying to drink away his need for a woman. By that point he had been confined to one or another Army post for a long time and was thoroughly sick of unrelenting male companionship. In retrospect, he found his logic questionable; he wondered if it was, in fact, even possible to drink away the need for a woman. It certainly seemed unlikely at best, counterproductive at worst.</div>
<div class="indent">And so he had found a woman, and they had a pretty good time in whatever bar they were in. He felt fairly certain that it hadn’t been this bar, the one they were in now, but he couldn’t be sure. They wound up in a room somewhere, and he vaguely recalled some discussion about price and nature of services. Now he fought to push away the blanketing dark fog on his memory.</div>
<div class="indent">“Lucy,” he said as he watched her sip at a fresh beer, “I’m a little shaky on the details, you know, about that night, but I do remember I had a good time.”</div>
<div class="indent">She smiled around her glass. “So did I, Johnny,” she said.</div>
<div class="indent">Johnny had heard enough tactful chatter from pros to smile at her answer. “Yeah,” he said, “I’ll just bet. But what I want to know, if you don’t mind me askin’ is, well… did I <i>pay</i> you?”</div>
<div class="indent">Lucy laughed. “Well, we weren’t exactly on a date, you know. I <i>was </i>working.”</div>
<div class="indent">“Oh,” he said. The information disturbed him. He had only paid for sex once. He was sixteen and he and Bobby had gotten themselves hooked up with two older guys from the neighborhood. He remembered the stark tenement on Pacific Street and the haggard, bleached-out old whore that had taken the four of them. He shuddered. Damn shame he hadn’t been blind drunk <i>that </i>night.</div>
<div class="indent">“Oh,” he repeated and drank more scotch.</div>
<div class="indent">Lucy looked across at him. Her eyes were twinkling. “You really don’t remember much about it, do you?”</div>
<div class="indent">He shrugged. “I do remember singing to you. ‘I’ll Never Smile Again,’ one of my big numbers.”</div>
<div class="indent">Lucy giggled. “Oh, I shouldn’t even tell you, you’re so silly. But I will anyway.”</div>
<div class="indent">Johnny cocked his head to one side. He could never remember a hooker using the word ‘silly’ before, and it had an innocently appealing ring to it. He suddenly began to worry. <i>How lonely am I? </i>he thought.</div>
<div class="indent">“Tell me what?”</div>
<div class="indent">“Well, you did pay me. Three dollars.” She shook her hair and brushed a strand from her forehead. “And then I paid you. Three dollars.”</div>
<div class="indent">“What?” he asked, his brows arching.</div>
<div class="indent">Lucy laughed. “It was <i>your</i> idea. You said, ‘I’ll pay you for sex, and you pay me for a song. You’re a pro, I’m a pro.’” She began to giggle. “Then you said, ‘Tit for tat, tit for tat,’ and got all hysterical laughing. You were so <i>silly.</i>”</div>
<div class="indent">He shook his head. “Remind me never to switch to a comedy routine.”</div>
<div class="indent">Lucy was still giggling. It seemed the more they talked, the more animated her features became, the prettier she seemed to become.</div>
<div class="indent">“You were really nice,” she said. “A real gentleman. At first I was a little scared, you know. When we went into the room, you led me right to the bed and made me sit down. Your hair was all messed up, and you kept muttering about something and then you would laugh. I knew you were from the city, from New York, and some of you guys from <i>New York</i>! Well, I could tell you some stories, believe me. But you turned out to be nice. Really swell. But so <i>silly</i>!”</div>
<div class="indent">“Yeah, that’s me, nice guy all the way.” He looked at her. “But don’t you get scared lots of times? I mean, with some of these guys?” he jerked his head towards the bar and the sullen, hunched shouldered group of G.I.s. “Some of these guys are really animals, especially these rebel rouser characters from Ole Miss’ or wherever.”</div>
<div class="indent">Lucy shook her head. “The worst are you New York guys. Believe me, I could tell you some stories.”</div>
<div class="indent">They sat and drank for a while. Johnny could feel a strange conflict developing within himself as he grew more drunk. There was such an easy lack of tension between them; it was so comfortable to sit in silence with her that he ironically found himself beginning to tense up. He didn’t <i>want </i>comfortable silence; it seemed dangerously intimate to him. What he wanted was slick conversation and false bravado, the phoniness he usually brought to his always transient female relationships. It was what kept him free and in charge and out of danger. Yet, he found himself enjoying this. His thoughts suddenly returned to Bobby. He and Bobby had spent much time together in comfortable silence. Sometimes, when they were kids, they would hop on the Third Avenue trolley and ride up to Shore Road and the Brooklyn neighborhood of Bay Ridge. They would climb down the ridge to the edge of the Narrows and sit with their backs against huge rocks and gaze across the flat water to Staten Island. Sometimes they would smoke two-for-a-penny cigarettes, and Bobby would read silently from his battered book of Whitman poetry. When was the last time he had thought about Walt Whitman? It seemed very long ago.</div>
<div class="indent">Now he sat and drank for a while longer before leaning slightly forward across the table toward Lucy. He felt the sudden rush of the beer and scotch envelop him. <i>Damn</i>, he thought, <i>I’m scared and very drunk and lonely and sitting with a whore that could be somebody sweet. Careful, careful, don’t talk, don’t speak.</i></div>
<div class="indent">But he did. He seemed to be observing himself from somewhere off in the corner beside the sad Christmas tree. He imagined Bobby there in the corner with him, amused. “Go ahead, Johnny,” Bobby whispered to him, “go ahead, Buddy, open up. Open up. It won’t <i>kill</i> you.”</div>
<div class="indent">“Lucy,” he said softly, his eyes pleading. “Lucy, I’m scared. Really scared.”</div>
<div class="indent">Lucy saw the change come over him. She put her glass down. Her face grew serious, yet, at the same time remained oddly soft. “I think maybe you’re pretty drunk, Johnny,” she said into his sad brown eyes.</div>
<div class="indent">“Yeah, okay, I know, I’m drunk. But I am scared, Lucy, scared real bad.”</div>
<div class="indent">She reached out a hand and gently touched his cheek. “I know, baby, I know. All you guys are scared. It’ll be okay. The war can end soon, real soon, maybe even before you get there.”</div>
<div class="indent">He shook his head. “Not without an invasion, Lucy. They won’t let it end without that. It’s what they want, a big, flashy invasion for the newsreels and the history books. These guys, these presidents and generals and premiers and kings, they don’t live for their <i>lives</i>—they live for history, for some scatterbrained idea of immortality. They don’t care about people’s dreams, your dreams, Bobby’s dreams, my dreams. They just care about history, <i>their</i> place in history, nothing else.” Through the banging now suddenly sounding in his head, Johnny could hear an echoing of his words, an echoing of Willie the Widow Maker’s words.</div>
<div class="indent">Lucy didn’t know who Bobby was, but she knew about dreams. She had her own dreams once, and they hadn’t included whoring in some run-down bar in New Jersey.</div>
<div class="indent">She couldn’t think of anything to say that would be comforting and still carry truthfulness. It occurred to her that truth rarely held comfort for anyone anyway; certainly not for her. So she remained silent, taking his hand and rubbing it gently between her own.</div>
<div class="indent">Johnny raised squinted eyes to meet hers. “Lucy,” he said softly. “Do you believe in fate? Some intervention from God or the universe or something—some force that evens up the score? Do you think there’s an ultimate justice to everything, like we all get what’s coming to us?”</div>
<div class="indent">She pondered it, instinctively aware of, without fully understanding, the deep need in him, the sudden importance of her opinion.</div>
<div class="indent">“I don’t know,” she said after a moment. “But—from what I’ve seen so far in life—I’d have to guess, no. No—there is no ultimate justice.” She found herself tensing, her throat seeming to close on itself. “No justice at all.”</div>
<div class="indent">He gave a slight head shake. “I’m not so sure about that. I think, maybe… I’m gonna get what’s comin’ to me.”</div>
<div class="indent">“You’ll be okay, Johnny, you’re not going to get killed.”</div>
<div class="indent">He looked deeper into her eyes. “Killed?” he asked as if the thought had never occurred to him. “Killed? It’s okay if I get killed, Lucy. If I get killed, the show’s over, that’s it, goodnight Irene. I can get killed, that’d be okay; I’m not leaving anything behind. But there’s worse things than that, things I’m <i>really</i> scared of. What if they blow my legs off or shoot my arms off? What if they burn me up, Lucy? I saw a guy back in the neighborhood, some kid I never liked, he’d been a tank gunner. They cooked him in that tank like a roast pepper. He came back lookin’ like a monster. He had no eyelids, Lucy, no eyelids! He had to wear special glasses that made him look like a giant house fly.”</div>
<div class="indent">Lucy felt her eyes tearing up. “I know, Johnny, I know,” she said. “It’ll be alright, you’ll be alright.”</div>
<div class="indent">He sat back in his chair. Johnny could feel his heart racing. He looked quickly at his watch. It was nearly time to go across to the depot, catch that bus, get out of here. Get back to the neighborhood, maybe go see Willie. Yeah, he thought, that was it. Go see Willie. Tell Willie that he made a mistake, what a fool he had been not to listen. Get me out of this, Willie, please get me out of this! All I wanna do is sing, that’s all, I got nothing against the krauts, the Japs, or those Italian clowns! Just let me stay home and sing. The bartender suddenly cleared his throat harshly. “Okay, folks, drink up, drink ‘em up. Last call, this is it, last call. Closin’ time is midnight, and this here is the last call.”</div>
<div class="indent">Johnny looked at Lucy with panic in his eyes. She forced a smile across to him.</div>
<div class="indent">“It’ll be okay, Johnny. You’ll see, it’ll be okay.”</div>
<div class="indent">He shook his head. “No,” he said. “It won’t. I’m not afraid to die, Lucy, ‘cause I’m already dead. My <i>dream</i> is dead. All I got left are my arms and my legs and my eyes, but no dream. Just like Bobby has no dream left. It’s over, Lucy.”</div>
<div class="indent">Lucy felt a flutter of fear and pity in her heart and believed he was right, sensed somehow he knew what was coming. Her eyes over-brimmed with moisture as she leaned across the table and squeezed his trembling hands.</div>
<div class="indent">“It’ll be okay. You’ll have your dreams, Johnny. It’ll be okay.”</div>
<div class="indent">But cool, hip, smooth-talking Johnny Rondello knew better. It wouldn’t be okay. Maybe it had never been okay.</div>
<div class="indent">He pulled his hand away from Lucy’s and drained his beer glass. As he set it down with trembling fingers, he could feel tears running freely down his cheeks.</div>
<div class="indent">Lucy stood and moved to his side. She took hold of his arm and helped him to his feet. He was unsteady, very drunk.</div>
<div class="indent">“Come on, Johnny,” she said gently. “It’s last call. Let’s get out of here.”</div>
<div class="indent">She took a final look around the barroom.</div>
<div class="indent">“It’s last call,” she repeated.</div>
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Lou Manfredo
A Dozen Ways To Die
$17.95
Step into the gritty world of crime and consequence with award-winning author Lou Manfredo's first collection. "A Dozen Ways to Die" offers twelve meticulously crafted tales that span the breadth of American history and the depths of human nature.
From the smoky speakeasies of Prohibition to the neon-lit streets of modern cities, Manfredo's stories peel back the layers of morality, justice, and the human condition. Meet a cast of unforgettable characters: hardboiled detectives, conflicted soldiers, cunning gangsters, and ordinary people facing extraordinary choices.
Among the twelve stories in this collection, "The Alimony Prison" is a Prohibition-era tale of corruption and survival; "Last Call" is a poignant exploration of a World War II soldier's moral struggle; and "Soul Anatomy" is a contemporary story that delves into the complexities of police shootings and ethical dilemmas.
Manfredo's prose crackles with authenticity, drawing on his extensive experience in law enforcement to paint vivid, realistic portraits of crime and its consequences. His unique blend of classic noir sensibilities and modern storytelling creates a collection that is both timeless and timely.
"A Dozen Ways to Die" is more than just a collection of crime fiction – it's a journey through the darker corners of the American experience, where the lines between right and wrong blur, and every choice has a price.
Perfect for fans of Raymond Chandler, Dennis Lehane, and anyone who appreciates finely crafted crime fiction that goes beyond the surface to explore the complexities of the human psyche.
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<h1 class="center" id="c2">Prologue</h1>
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<div class="indent">Jolo, Sulu Archipelago</div>
<div class="indent">The Philippines</div>
<div class="indent">The Battle of Bud Bagsak</div>
<div class="indent">July 15, 1913</div>
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<h2 class="center sigil_not_in_toc">Day Four</h2>
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<div>It was like being wide awake and being caught in the middle of a nightmare.</div>
<div class="indent">How many hours had it been?</div>
<div class="indent">He wished he knew. It was as if time itself had stopped.</div>
<div class="indent">The sweat poured out of Jim Bishop so copiously that it felt like a steady stream of water being poured over his face. His eyes burned and he had to keep blinking to try and clear his vision, but it was no use. The cloying moisture clung to his eyelids. His lips tasted the constant saltiness. It was their third trip up the mountain that day, and once again, their advance stalled as the crater came alive once more. One moment it was all green bushes, thick shrubbery, and clusters of trees and temporal placidity, and the next instant it gave way to a surging wave of brown men dressed in red loincloths and accompanying red headbands, their veins bulging out in bas-relief along limbs bound tight by constricting ligatures and vines. The Moros, or the <i>pulajans</i> as the Filipino Scouts called them, seemed to rise up from behind every bush, every tree, virtually from the dark earth itself. The surge of humanity descended from the lip of the crater, brandishing their razor-sharp <i>talibongs</i>. The rhythmic chant, “<i>Tac-tac, tac-tac, tac-tac</i>,” sounded in unison like an advancing drumbeat.</div>
<div class="indent">Tac-tac, tac-tac, tac-tac—Tagalog for Cut-cut, cut-cut, cut-cut.</div>
<div class="indent">And that’s what they did.</div>
<div class="indent">Jim stopped and raised the muzzle of his Winchester 1897 shotgun, racking the slide back and then forward to chamber a round.</div>
<div class="indent">The man next to him, a young lieutenant who’d just arrived in the country two weeks ago, turned and darted to his right toward the cover of a cluster of trees perhaps ten yards away. From the corner of his eye Jim saw the young officer’s foot snare the elongated vine trigger.</div>
<div class="indent">“Sir,” Jim yelled, taking his eye off the enemy for a split second. “Don’t move!”</div>
<div class="indent">But his warning was a millisecond too late.</div>
<div class="indent">The vine trigger snapped and released a twisted branch in a horizontal arc, sending a row of sharpened spikes into the lieutenant’s body with a sickening thump.</div>
<div class="indent">The officer cried out, but the sound was reduced to a pathetic gurgle as he went limp, bouncing off the branch and flopping down onto his back. A trio of gaping holes, already filling with blood, was stitched across the front of his brown uniform shirt. His legs convulsed, like he was still on his feet, still trying to move away, but with each movement more blood and slithering intestines seeped out of his wounds.</div>
<div class="indent">Jim ran to the man, but could tell he was dying.</div>
<div class="indent">He wanted to offer some comfort, some assurance that it would be all right, but he couldn’t bring himself to lie. A few seconds later, he saw that it didn’t matter anyway. Vacuous eyes, still wide open from the shock, stared directly upward, unflinching under the unbearably bright sun as it shone down.</div>
<div class="indent"><i>Dead</i>, Jim thought.</div>
<div class="indent">There was no time for sentiment or mendacious words</div>
<div class="indent">The ominous mantra continued unabated: “Tac-tac, tac-tac, tac-tac . . .”</div>
<div class="indent">The Moros were almost upon them. The sons of bitches were savages, fighting with bows and arrows and spears and traps. They had some guns, but not a lot, and those huge talibong knifes could chop you apart with one solid swing. They gave no quarter, nor did they expect any. Worst yet, they kept the families with them like human shields—old men, women, children. It was sickening.</div>
<div class="indent">Shots rang out to Jim’s left.</div>
<div class="indent">From his kneeling position by the dead lieutenant, he raised the shotgun, aimed at the nearest advancing <i>pulajan</i>, and pulled the trigger. The double-aught buck load ripped into the Moro’s side, tearing a large swath of skin and a hunk of meat away. The Moro stumbled for two steps as his mouth twisted into a scowl, the talibong still raised above his head.</div>
<div class="indent"><i>Damn, these Moros are tough</i>, Jim thought as he worked the slide and chambered another round. The oblong blade caught a glint of sunlight for a moment before descending in an oblique arc.</div>
<div class="indent">The shotgun discharged again and this time the pulagam went down, enveloped in a crimson mist.</div>
<div class="indent">Jim felt the flecks of blood and body tissue dapple his face as the world suddenly went silent for several seconds.</div>
<div class="indent">Another one came at him.</div>
<div class="indent">A shotgun boomed off to his left.</div>
<div class="indent">Larry Rush was next to Jim now, the trail of smoke trickling upward from his shotgun muzzle as the advancing Moro’s head exploded like a muskmelon struck by an axe handle. The man did an awkward, headless pirouette as he went down. Rush chambered another round and moved next to Jim.</div>
<div class="indent">“The lieutenant dead?” Rush asked. He was shouting, but his voice still sounded far away.</div>
<div class="indent">Far away . . .</div>
<div class="indent">If only they could all be far away.</div>
<div class="indent">Jim grunted a response as he sighted in on another rushing Moro and fired.</div>
<div class="indent">Three more advanced from the left. Rush swiveled and blasted one, but the second one did a stutter-step, leaned back, and hurled a long bamboo spear. It sailed toward them. The next instant Rush dropped his weapon and grabbed his thigh as the pointed tip of the spear tore through the inner part of his pant leg. He toppled over, his eyes rolling back into his head.</div>
<div class="indent">Jim turned and fired. The rounds took down the assailant, but two more were closing in on them. He fired once more. One of the oncoming Moros took the hit in the side, but kept advancing, taking three slack steps before collapsing. Jim racked the slide back and then forward, chambering what he knew was his last remaining round, and fired again. The blast hit the closest man. He jerked forward, then curled into a fetal position as he fell to the ground.</div>
<div class="indent"><i>No more ammo</i>, Jim thought, gripping the Winchester’s hot barrel and stock. Despite the overheated metal searing his skin, he managed to bring the rifle up just in time to block the descent of another Moro’s two-foot-long talibong. The solid blade chunked into the wooden slide, splintering it. Jim twisted the rifle free and simultaneously rammed the base of the stock into the Filipino’s face. The man’s jaw jerked out of alignment and he paused just long enough for Jim to kick him in the groin as hard as he could. The Moro grimaced but drew back the large knife, ready to take another deadly swing.</div>
<div class="indent">A split-second burst of fire and smoke whipped between them, and the Moro’s head snapped to the side as a shot rang out. Rush had managed to pull out his long-barreled Colt .45 revolver and fire it. Jim dropped the Winchester and drew his own revolver. Cocking back the hammer, he fired at the next group of advancing Moros. A burst of red blossomed on one man’s upper torso, just under his clavicle, but that didn’t stop him. A diagonal constricting loop of twine bisected the man’s chest, limiting the bleeding and enabling him to keep moving. Jim adjusted his aim, lining up the rear, M-shaped sight on the revolver with the single bar of the tip of the barrel.</div>
<div class="indent">“Keep them damn sights flat across the top,” his drill sergeant had yelled at him in basic training.</div>
<div class="indent">He squeezed the trigger. His next round pierced his adversary’s right eye.</div>
<div class="indent">He fired four more times with undetermined results. The short, sweaty bodies kept coming, like a brown tidal wave capped with red. Jim turned to reach for Rush’s gun but saw his was empty, too.</div>
<div class="indent"><i>The lieutenant</i>, Jim thought. He sidestepped to the right and knelt beside the fallen officer. His fingers scrambled to undo the dead man’s flap holster before feeling a textured grip. He pulled the weapon out and saw it was one of those new 1911 semiautomatic pistols, something only a few of the officers had. They were supposedly sitting in crates in New York Harbor or someplace, their distribution to the troops in the Philippines delayed by yet another layer of bureaucratic inefficiency. It was rumored that a few, a very few, of the officers had managed to sneak a special shipment in, and that was apparently true. The magazine purportedly held seven rounds, but Jim had never fired one.</div>
<div class="indent"><i>No time like the present to learn</i>, he thought as he brought the pistol up, aimed, and squeezed the trigger.</div>
<div class="indent">Nothing.</div>
<div class="indent">In desperation he cocked back the hammer and tried again.</div>
<div class="indent">The next trio of Moros was almost on top of them.</div>
<div class="indent">The hammer clacked down and still the weapon didn’t fire.</div>
<div class="indent">Was it a dud?</div>
<div class="indent"><i>No</i>, he thought. <i>It’s just like a shotgun.</i> <i>There’s no round in the chamber.</i></div>
<div class="indent">Gripping the row of vertical lines on the rear of the slide, he racked it back, felt it catch, and then whip forward.</div>
<div class="indent">The Moro was raising his talibong over Rush’s supine body when this time the Colt’s round pierced the area just under the pulagam’s left armpit. The Moro fell like a marionette whose strings had been abruptly severed. Jim adjusted his aim and fired two more rounds, putting one into each of the advancing would-be killers. He dropped to one knee and frantically searched the dead lieutenant’s pouch for more magazines.</div>
<div class="indent">Suddenly the sound of distant thunder rumbled accompanied by a screaming sound. Another set of rumbles along with more whistles and a burst of explosions echoed further up the ridge, by the mouth of the crater.</div>
<div class="indent"><i>Artillery</i>, Jim thought. <i>Blackjack’s got the 40th zeroed in on them</i>.</div>
<div class="indent">He felt a surge of hope as the area along the lip of the crater, where he knew the last Moro stronghold was, erupted in more roiling clouds of dust.</div>
<div class="indent">The Moro advance suddenly halted, their heads rotating back toward the spiraling dust clouds farther up the hill, their eyes widening in horror.</div>
<div class="indent">Jim knew their families, the women, the children, the elderly, were all up there in this last cotta. They had nowhere left to run. Orders were to wipe them all out.</div>
<div class="indent">A company of Filipino Scouts, their brown uniforms drenched with sweat, streamed forward from the right flank and the left, their rifles barking fire, their bayonets fixed. They’d taken the brunt of the Moros’ attacks before and now they’d regrouped. From the look on their faces, no quarter would be given.</div>
<div class="indent">Nor none expected.</div>
<div class="indent"><i>Thank God</i>, he thought. <i>Maybe this nightmare is going to be over with now.</i></div>
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<div class="center">***</div>
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<div class="indent"><i>Historical Note</i></div>
<div>The final siege then started at seventeen-hundred-oh-five hours. Three hours later it was over.</div>
<div class="indent">Or was it?</div>
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Michael A. Black
Where Legends Lie
$17.95
1913. Veteran Jim Bishop takes a job with a motion picture company that is filming a movie based on a famous western gunfight. As the filming proceeds, Jim begins to wonder what really happened in Contention City, Arizona, those thirty-three years ago.
1880. In the actual Contention City, Sheriff Lon Dayton is contacted by the notorious Dutch Bascom regarding the territorial governor’s proclamation of amnesty for Bascom and his gang. Dayton has no choice but to walk the tightrope balancing the alleged intentions of the outlaws against the promises of the unscrupulous politicians and railroad men who claim to be in favor of the outlaw’s surrender. But are they really?
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<h1 class="element-title case-mixed"><span class="element-number-term">Chapter</span> <span class="element-number-number">One</span></h1>
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<p class="first first-in-chapter first-full-width first-with-first-letter-t"><strong><span class="first-letter first-letter-t first-letter-without-punctuation">T</span>HE SIGN SAID WELCOME to Sunnyvale.</strong></p>
<p class="subsq">It was a large sign, the size of a family car, and it was showing its age. The passing vehicles had kicked up the dust from the road, which had reacted with the rain and trickled down its façade in little rivers, leaving a trail of sediment behind. Some of the kids from the village had taken potshots at it with their BB guns, leaving angry welts in the surface of the metal. It was plastered with bird shit and the facility’s cartoon mascots—all animals, of course—looked like they were suffocating beneath the weight of it all. Sunnyvale’s tagline was right there beneath it: <em>The Home of Good Food</em>.</p>
<p class="subsq">Tom Copeland stared at the sign as it grew larger in the windscreen, floated softly past on the passenger side, then disappeared as the path rolled away beneath them. Calling it a road would have been like comparing a burger van to a McDonald’s. At best, it was a narrow dirt track that had been worn into the grass by the passage of vehicles and time. Copeland was glad he was in the back of a Land Rover and not on foot or bouncing up and down in his Vauxhall Corsa.</p>
<p class="subsq">It had been an unusual day so far. This was his first time visiting the facility, and he was following the strict instructions that John MacDonald had given him when he was offered the job. He’d met the three men he was sharing the Land Rover with in the car park of the Red Lion.</p>
<p class="subsq">“You’ll need to hitch a lift until you’re given security clearance,” MacDonald had explained. “If you don’t have a key card, you can’t get in.”</p>
<p class="subsq">The Land Rover hit a bump in the road and the driver, a dour-faced Scot with a bristly ginger beard, smacked the steering wheel with the palm of his hand and shouted, “Come on, ya bastard.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Copeland turned his face to the window again. He was sitting in the back behind the passenger seat because it was the only seat left when they’d picked him up. There had been no time for introductions. That had come later, once the Land Rover had started to worm its way through the back roads and, eventually, the countryside. Sunnyvale was tucked away in a natural dip in the Chiltern Hills, a good ten miles away from the nearest major town or village. There had been plenty of time for them to talk during the commute.</p>
<p class="subsq">The driver had introduced himself as Big Jim Benton, and Copeland had made an immediate mental note not to mess with the guy. Big Jim had a mess of scars poking out from beneath his fiery beard, deep, sunken eyes, and a fat face. He was built like a brick shithouse thanks to twelve years of professional hooliganism and ten years before that of amateur street fights in downtown Leith. His right arm was a mesh of tattoos, and they caught and reflected the sunlight when he hung it out the window. His hair had started to recede and he had a small mole on the left side of his face. He was a little overweight, but he was far from obese. The excess was from the cheese, the beer, and the kebab meat, and it clung mostly to his face, his waist, and his stomach. It was the kind of bulk that belonged to professional wrestlers, a slowly cultivated weight that came in handy when he needed to use it. He could turn it into a weapon when he got in tussles with unexpected vandals or trespassers. It’s what his job was all about.</p>
<p class="subsq">The passenger seat was taken up by Big Jim’s second-in-command, an Irishman called Darragh O’Rourke. He wasn’t as muscular as Big Jim, but he had the look of a wiry street dog with a bruised muzzle. He wore his greasy brown hair down to his shoulders, where it grazed his skin and brought blackheads and spots out in angry welts. He had a disconcerting habit of reaching beneath his Kevlar jacket and scratching at his skin, then bringing his hands back out and investigating his fingernails for blood and pus. He also bit the damn things, which Copeland thought was nothing short of cannibalism.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Darragh’s from Belfast, ye ken,” Jim said.</p>
<p class="subsq">“That’s right,” the Irishman confirmed. “I came over to Liverpool during the recession and ended up moving here for work.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Ah worked with Darragh afore Sunnyvale,” Jim continued. “Eh’s a good lad, ye ken. Eh’s goat a dog. Ye’ll like tha, Mr. Vet Man.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Yeah?” Copeland said, raising an eyebrow. He’d never much cared for dogs, but he was socially adjusted enough to know when he was expected to say something more. “What breed?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“She’s a little Jack Russell called Milly,” O’Rourke said. “She’s got a lot of energy. The missus says it’s good practise for when we have kids.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Take mah advice,” Jim grunted. “Git yeself tha snip afore it’s too late. Ah cannae stand wee bairns. Ah’d rather stick ma dick in a blender thun huvtae raise some wee shite ah didnae want in tha first place.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I’ll bear that in mind,” O’Rourke replied, but he was laughing.</p>
<p class="subsq">The Land Rover’s final passenger sat to Copeland’s right, slouching back against the leather seats. He couldn’t have been out of his teens. He was an Englishman from Bootle with a thick accent who looked as out of place in his security gear as a bum in a shirt and tie. He had short black hair with zigzags shaved into the back of it, as well as big lips, big ears, and a massive nose that looked as though it had been broken a dozen times. The kid’s face reminded Copeland of a cross between a cauliflower and a bowling ball.</p>
<p class="subsq">The young man nodded at him. “First day?” he asked.</p>
<p class="subsq">Copeland nodded, then flashed a glance at the man’s name badge. “Sure is, Chase,” he said. “The first day of the rest of my life.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Yeah,” Chase replied. “Something like that. What are you doing here, anyway? You working the line?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I’m a veterinarian.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Jesus,” O’Rourke said. “What the shite are you doing at Sunnyvale?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“What do you think?” Copeland replied.</p>
<p class="subsq">That killed the conversation, at least until Big Jim hit a button on the radio. He’d matured into adulthood while grunge was on the rise and was still listening to Pearl Jam and Alice in Chains all these years later. Kurt Cobain was dead. Layne Staley was dead. Chris Cornell was dead. And in a lonely hotel room somewhere, Eddie Vedder was shitting himself at the prospect of being next.</p>
<p class="subsq">As they cruised towards the entrance to the complex, they were listening to L7, an all-female riot grrrl band. Benton was nodding along to the beat, the feminism wasted on a man with a Hibs tattoo and a history of casual domestic violence, but O’Rourke was lying back in his seat with his eyes and ears closed, and Chase looked like he’d tried to swallow a pickled onion without bothering to chew it.</p>
<p class="subsq">Tom Copeland looked at himself in the rear-view and took stock of what he saw there. Back in the day, when he’d been running his own practice instead of “working for the man” on a factory farm, he’d shaved every morning and gone to great lengths to make sure that he smelled of expensive cologne. But he’d lost all that when he’d been dumb enough to steal ketamine from storage. His partner had called him out on it and given him two options: either sign over his share in the company or be reported to the police. For Copeland, that was no choice at all.</p>
<p class="subsq">A shadow passed across his face as he stared at the mirror. It was an ordinary face with a large forehead and a receding hairline. He had short black hair that flicked up from his head because of the way he slept, and he had thin, weedy eyebrows that looked like he waxed them, although he didn’t. He also had big, flat ears that hung to the side of his head like two strips of bacon, but his face wasn’t fat and neither was his body. He kept himself in shape, but it didn’t come easy to him. And he’d let himself go since Linda had left him all alone in the big, empty house that he could no longer afford.</p>
<p class="subsq">When he thought about stuff, he started squinting, and he saw from the mirror that he was squinting then. He was a good guy. He <em>knew </em>he was. But he’d made some bad decisions, and sometimes he felt like an asshole. But he did his best, especially for the animals. His fellow humans chose to be evil and corrupt. The animals had no choice.</p>
<p class="subsq">Copeland had only stolen the drugs because a very unpleasant man had forced him to do it. He recognised the man by sight—he’d seen him in the practice’s waiting room—but he didn’t know his name. The name didn’t matter too much when he had his metaphorical knife to Copeland’s throat and his mouth full of threats against his family. The irony was that when he’d been caught in the act and kicked out of his own veterinary practice, Copeland had lost his family anyway. But at least no one had lost their life.</p>
<p class="subsq">Copeland looked away from the mirror. A stilted silence hung heavy on the air. He fiddled uncomfortably with his seatbelt and shifted position to try to get comfortable.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Jim,” O’Rourke said. “Be a top man and put something else on.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Like what?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“How about some grime?” Chase said.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Fuck ya grime, ye wee gobshite,” Big Jim snapped. He flashed a glance at Copeland in the rear-view. “Chasey boy thinks eh’s a rapper, ye ken.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Copeland smiled. “Is that so?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Yeah,” Chase replied. “Opened for Devilman a couple of months back.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“And how come you’re working at Sunnyvale?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“I’ve got no choice,” Chase said. “I need the money. Used to work as a labourer, and before that I was at a warehouse. Then I saw Sunnyvale was hiring and I thought I’d give it a shot. Besides, women love the uniform.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Aye,” Jim conceded. “That’s true. But ah’d appreciate it if ye could keep yer trap shut fae a while. Ah cannae be dein wi yer chat today, ye ken? Ah’ve goat a hangover. If ah hear another peep, ah’m gonnae drop ye off and let ye walk tae work.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Chase opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it. Copeland stepped in to fill the silence. “An Englishman, an Irishman, and a Scotsman,” he said. “What is this, some sort of joke?”</p>
<p class="subsq">Big Jim fixed him with another penetrating stare in the rear-view, but said nothing. A hundred yards or so in front of them, two of Jim’s men were working a checkpoint. A high chain-link fence stretched to the left and the right of the checkpoint as far as the eye could see, disappearing into the trees and following the curve of the land. The fence was festooned with “danger of death” signs, their black lightning bolt insignias popping out from their bright yellow backgrounds. Other signs, white ones this time, warned of guard dogs patrolling the premises. Curlicues of barbed wire lined the top of the fence. Copeland spotted the feathered remains of a bird—a pigeon, perhaps—caught amongst the metal.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Welcome to Sunnyvale,” O’Rourke murmured.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Aye,” Big Jim added. He glanced at Copeland in the mirror again and caught his eye. “Ah’m guessin’ this’ll be yer first look at the place. It’s a shithole, but it’s our shithole.”</p>
<p class="subsq">He idled the car to a stop at the barrier and leaned his head out of the window. “Open the gate, ye whoresons,” he shouted. “It’s me, Big Jim.”</p>
<p class="subsq">One of the men on the gate shouted an acknowledgement and held his thumb up. The other raised the gate and waved them through. Copeland got a good look at the gatekeepers while Jim was revving the engine and easing the vehicle back into its slow, inexorable crawl towards the complex. They were wearing army greens with Kevlar vests and heavy truncheons on their belts.</p>
<p class="subsq">Chase caught Copeland’s eye and said, “Sunnyvale’s got the best security this side of the Mersey. Top lads.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Why so much security?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“It’s more than my job’s worth to tell you that,” Chase said. “Especially not with Big Jim at the wheel.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Aye,” Jim said. “Eh’ll find oot fae hisself soon enough.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Copeland nodded. “I’m looking forward to it,” he said. “I love a challenge.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Is that why you’re here?” O’Rourke asked. “The challenge?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Something like that,” Copeland said. He sighed. “Ask me about it some other time.”</p>
<p class="subsq">The Land Rover was slowing again, and Copeland peered over O’Rourke’s shoulder and out through the windscreen. They were approaching something else, another mess of metal. As the vehicle drove closer, scattering dusty pebbles every which way across the dead ground, the terrain levelled out. At the same time, a wave of brutal fragrance pierced the vehicle and Copeland started coughing.</p>
<p class="subsq">It was the kind of smell that lingered in the nostrils. There was a certain stickiness to it, like second-hand cigarette smoke. It reminded Copeland of a kid he’d gone to school with who reeked of starch, fat, and vinegar because his parents owned a chip shop. Sunnyvale didn’t smell like starch or vinegar, but it did smell like fat. It also smelled like sweat and fear, blood and bile. There was a not-so-subtle hint of rotting flesh and a fishy aroma that put Copeland in mind of bad sushi. It also smelled like desperation. It was a depressing smell, and Copeland couldn’t help turning his nose up at it.</p>
<p class="subsq">“That’s the famous Sunnyvale stench,” Chase said.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Do people get used to it?”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Nah,” Chase replied. “They just accept it. Ain’t no use holding your nose, pal. You’ve just got to get on with it. It’s part of the job. It‘s what we get paid for.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Smells like shit,” Copeland observed.</p>
<p class="subsq">O’Rourke laughed from the passenger seat. “Smells like a whole lot more than that,” he said. “But Chase is right. That smell won’t go away no matter what you do.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“It gets in yer heid,” Jim said. This time, he didn’t look back at Copeland in the rear-view. His eyes were firmly on the road ahead. They’d reached the second mess of metal, and now they were closer, it was clear what they were looking at.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Is that another checkpoint?” Copeland asked.</p>
<p class="subsq">“Aye,” Jim replied. “It’s like Chase seid. Sunnyvale’s goat the best security this side ay the Mersey.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Big Jim reached forward and turned the music off. The atmosphere in the Land Rover had changed, probably because the great facility was looming in front of them on the other side of the formidable fence. It blocked the sun and cast the approach into shadow, reminding Copeland of a Transylvanian castle in some old vampire movie.</p>
<p class="subsq">The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. <em>It’s a far cry from the old practice in Chalfont St. Peter</em>, he thought. It was followed by a second, more urgent thought, something that came from somewhere deep within him. It was a primal thought, like the urge to eat or drink or ejaculate, and it came on suddenly and without warning.</p>
<p class="subsq"><em>We’re being watched</em>.</p>
</div>
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Dane Cobain
MEAT
$17.95
Veterinarian Tom Copeland takes a job at a factory farm called Sunnyvale after a scandal at his suburban practice. His job is to keep the animals alive for long enough to get them to slaughter.
But there are rumours of a strange creature living beneath the complex, accidents waiting to happen on brutal production lines and the threat of zoonotic disease from the pigs, sheep, cows, chickens and fish that the complex houses.
Suddenly, disaster rocks Sunnyvale and cleaners, butchers, security guards and clerical staff alike must come together under the ruthless leadership of CEO John MacDonald. Together, they’ll learn what happens when there’s a sudden change to the food chain.
Bon appétit.
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<h1 class="center" id="c1">PROLOGUE:<br/>Brookline, Massachusetts 1960</h1>
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<div class="indent">“Mrs. Simon, can Billy come out and play?”</div>
<div class="indent">Kathy and Lizzie Napolitano lived directly across the street from the Simon Family. Beautiful twin blondes, the girls were four years older than Billy, age five. But since there were no other young boys for him to play with in their neighborhood at that time, June Simon replied, “Sure, of course. Billy! Your little girlfriends are here!”</div>
<div class="indent">The Brookline, Massachusetts, suburbia that housed the Simons, the Napolitanos, and dozens of other similar middle-class families living within a stone’s throw of Boston proper was an idyllic setting for young parents planning to start their families within range of several, top-notch elementary schools. With the region serving as a commuter’s mecca for teachers working at Boston’s myriad colleges and universities, the setting made for the ideal location for Jeremy and June Simon – science and art teachers, respectively, at Boston University – to raise their only child in peaceful surroundings.</div>
<div class="indent">“Billy, stay close to Kathy and Lizzie, now, okay?” June advised. “Girls, be sure to keep an eye on him. And don’t run off too far from our street… no further than the corner, okay?”</div>
<div class="indent">“Yes, Mrs. Simon, of course,” Lizzie responded.</div>
<div class="indent">The three children proceeded down the steps in front of the Simon house, then began walking west on the sidewalk. Billy turned to wave. “Bye, Mommy!” he shouted. “I’ll see you soon!”</div>
<div class="indent">Robbins Rexall was the popular drugstore at the corner of Adams Street and Poplar Place. Not only did the neighborhood adults get their prescriptions filled there, but the store also offered an aisle of small, rather inexpensive toys for the area’s kids. Lizzie, Kathy, and Billy made their way inside the store, browsed the toy aisle, then strolled along to the candy shelves. “Let’s take these!” Kathy whispered, grabbing three sticks of strawberry Turkish Taffy, then handing one each to her sister and Billy.</div>
<div class="indent">“Hey you kids! I see what you’re doing!” shouted Scott Robbins, owner of Robbins Rexall, from behind the pharmacy counter. “Put those back immediately!”</div>
<div class="indent">Thrilled but concurrently frightened to death, Kathy, Lizzie, and Billy quickly fled the store and ran outside. Turning around, Lizzie saw that Mr. Robbins was bringing up the rear. “Kathy, he’s coming!” she cried to her sister, now in a panic. Kathy, the craftiest of the lot, said, “Come on… follow me!”</div>
<div class="indent">Kathy led the others outside to the enormous, three-story tall billboard sign that promoted Robbins Rexall. The trio scurried behind the public-facing side of the sign—entering the interior wooden lattice comprising the sign’s skeleton. “Up here! Hurry!” Kathy called to her cohorts as she began climbing the dozens of cross-beams that suspended the sign, moving at the speed of a Doberman Pincher chasing a squirrel. Lizzie and Kathy were world champion climbers—there wasn’t a fence, tree, or post anywhere in sight they hadn’t previously conquered with their mountaineering skills. And not wanting to be caught by the angry pharmacist, Lizzie and Billy began to climb the wooden beams on the opposite side of the billboard from where Kathy had perched.</div>
<div class="indent">And thus, the entirety of the remainder of Billy’s life was decided in that moment.</div>
<div class="indent">Now livid, Mr. Robbins scurried behind his own sign and looked up at the three thieves who’d just robbed him of 15 cents worth of Turkish Taffy. “You kids are in BIG trouble, do you understand me?” he shouted. “I know your parents, and believe me they’re going to be hearing about this!”</div>
<div class="indent">Billy and Lizzie began trembling in fear, while Kathy simply scoffed. “Mr. Robbins, my mom says you always stare at her big boobies every time you see her! She calls you a ‘perv,’” the child shouted mockingly. Now mortified, Robbins slid his proverbial tail between his legs and silently slithered away from the scene. The kids laughed.</div>
<div class="indent">“Kathy that was so cool!” Lizzie called to her sister. “That should take care of old man Robbins for a while.” The three kids were now comfortably situated nearly thirty feet off the ground, sitting on prominent sections of wood where the beams naturally presented logical seating.</div>
<div class="indent">“I’m hungry. Can we eat this now?” Billy asked his co-conspirators, his stomach growling. “Sure, that’s a good idea,” Kathy responded.</div>
<div class="indent">The children sat inside the billboard sign for a good ten minutes, chewing their taffies and rejoicing in their victory over the scary Mr. Robbins. After they finished eating, they sat in silence for a little while longer.</div>
<div class="indent">“Hey, Billy. You wanna hear a secret?” called Kathy. “Okay,” the young lad responded innocently. Lizzie, however, had a quizzical look on her face.</div>
<div class="indent">Kathy smiled broadly and blew a kiss in his direction. “I love you so, so much, Billy! You are SO cute! I’m gonna marry you one day and you’re gonna make babies inside my belly!”</div>
<div class="indent">Startled, shocked, and embarrassed beyond measure, Billy began to slip from the static position he’d secured on the crossbeams. Realizing he was going to fall, he reached up to grab a lower beam with his right hand, but the pull of gravity quickly overcame him. His hand never made the connection.</div>
<div class="indent">Kathy and Lizzie screamed while they watched their closest, dearest friend, delightful little Billy Simon, plummeting to the ground. His face looking skyward, Billy silently realized there was nothing his girlfriends could do now to save him.</div>
<div class="indent">He hit the dirt with a loud, sickening thud.</div>
<div class="indent">The girls quickly made their way back down to Earth, and simply stood over Billy’s now limp, lifeless body. Raised as strict Catholics, Kathy and Lizzie each kneeled beside their friend and began to pray. “Dear Sweet Baby Jesus, please help our friend Billy in his moment of darkness. Please don’t let him die. He’s our special little friend and we love him. Please bring him back to us. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen.”</div>
<div class="indent">The girls crossed themselves, stood, held hands, then slowly began to walk back home in silence.</div>
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Dan Harary
FIVE: A Novella
$14.95
Meet Billy Sorrows, the gifted young singer who makes women cry...
An orphan living in 1860s London, Feival Vados, has been taken in by an ogre of a man after the young boy’s parents—famed Hungarian actors—perish in a mysterious fire. When ten-year-old Feival, nicknamed “Five,” is summoned to the deathbed of his charge, the heinous old man orders the young boy to become his sin-eater. What Five learns that day will change the course of his adult life, giving rise to a monstrous thirst that even his own death does not quench.One hundred years later, young Boston native Billy Simon, a music prodigy, makes his way into Manhattan, where he is soon discovered. Through the machinations of his legendary talent agent, Billy quickly becomes a pop music superstar. However, after Billy’s beloved girlfriend is brutally murdered by one of his female fans, he is devastated to his core. Billy’s overwhelming sorrow leads him to commit a series of brutal murders, mysteriously connecting him to the late Feival Vados in ways the gifted singer/songwriter could never possibly come to understand.
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<h1 class="center" id="c3">CHAPTER 1</h1>
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<h2 class="center sigil_not_in_toc">The Early Years</h2>
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<div>I graduated from the Philadelphia Police Academy in class 294 on March 25, 1991. My grandmother—“Nan,” as I liked to call her—threw a party for me at her home in the Mayfair section of Philadelphia. There was a big cake with my badge number, 4487. As I observed family, friends, and loved ones celebrating this turning point, I couldn’t help but reflect on what led me there.</div>
<div class="indent">Lexington Park, Philadelphia, is where I grew up with my parents. But some of my fondest memories are from Nan’s summer home. In the summer of 1977, I was a skinny seven-year-old kid. The Wildwoods were, and still are, known as one of the most popular places along the South Jersey shoreline. Nan’s place was right next door to the North Wildwood Police Department, and from the time I was about four years old, I would watch the police officers from our front porch. I loved spending summers at my Nan’s because it was much more fun than the neighborhood in Philly. You can always enjoy five miles of beach and boardwalk rides, arcades, and shops.</div>
<div class="indent">On a typical hot and humid summer day at the Jersey Shore, I was riding my bike in front of Nan’s house when I fell. Two officers saw me and got out of their patrol car to help. They recognized me as the kid who lived in the house next to the police station. From that day forward, the same two officers always waved at me when they passed by. They were genuinely good guys. I remember seeing their cruiser up close with the door open, and hearing the crackle of the police radio amazed me. Day in and day out, summer after summer, I watched the officers of the North Wildwood Police Department protect and serve their community.</div>
<div class="indent">Fast forward ten years later to May 7, 1987, the day of my junior prom. My beautiful daughter, Caitlin, was born. Needless to say, I didn’t go to the dance. I was seventeen and in eleventh grade, so I had another year until graduation. I attended Catholic school, and some priests broke my balls over being a teen parent. They had to play the role, after all. They felt they were doing the right thing. We named our daughter after Caitlin Davies from the popular 1980s television series <i>Miami Vice</i>. Actress and singer Sheena Easton played this role of Sonny Crockett’s wife on the show.</div>
<div class="indent">Caitlin’s mom, “Marie,” and I met through mutual friends in the spring of 1986. I’ve decided to use a false name in this bio for her and her family’s privacy. I was sixteen years old. My parents were divorced, and I lived with my father in Northeast Philadelphia. For the record, I didn’t choose my father over my mom; I didn’t want to leave home. My father refused to leave our house in Northeast Philly for years. Because of this, my mother had no choice but to move out.</div>
<div class="indent">One summer night, when I was eleven or twelve years old, my parents and I were driving to the shore in my dad’s ‘76 Cadillac Coupe Deville. I fell asleep in the backseat because it was late and dark. When I woke up, my parents were arguing but trying to keep it down so they wouldn’t wake me. They could have been more successful. I didn’t sit up; I just lay there pretending to be asleep in the back seat. I was afraid if I sat up, I’d get yelled at. I could feel the tenacity and anger in my mom’s voice as they went back and forth at each other; she was practically spitting venom at him. My father was driving and didn’t say as much, but he clearly was disgusted as it radiated through his voice when he responded. Have you ever heard two people try to argue quietly? It doesn’t work. That was the first time I heard the song “Hearts” by Marty Balin, and now, any time I hear it, it reminds me of that night in my dad’s car—it has stuck with me forever.</div>
<div class="indent">When Marie and I got together, she lived in the nearby Mayfair section, and her parents had split up by then too. It was my first real relationship. When she got pregnant, our lives changed forever. I remember she had a pregnancy test done at the local free clinic, and, as it turned out, she was nineteen weeks along. It was clear she had been holding out on me. I panicked initially; I knew I had to tell my parents.</div>
<div class="indent">Thanksgiving Eve 1986, we told my father about the pregnancy—he was the first to know. He was disgusted with us and called my mom first, then Marie’s parents. Everyone gathered at my father’s house, and our mothers were very emotional; they both cried and fell apart. Our fathers were even-tempered yet heavy-handed. They laid down the law and told us we would put the baby up for adoption. They didn’t ask or suggest; they just told us. I disagreed with the “plans,” but we were too afraid to speak up against them. We were kids; we couldn’t provide for a baby and hadn’t even graduated high school. I only agreed to the adoption to get them off our backs. I told Marie to play along with them, and she did. Workers from the adoption agency visited us every week, but we never met the people who planned to adopt Caitlin.</div>
<div class="indent">Nan was the only person I could talk to in our family. She knew I didn’t want to give up the baby, but I was scared. I didn’t know how we would take care of a baby. Where would we live? How could I pay the bills? I’ll never forget the day my Nan turned to look at me and said sternly, “We will pay the bills. Don’t let that be a reason to give up the baby.” I had no intention of going through with the adoption, but I dreaded facing our fathers over it.</div>
<div class="indent">Each of our mothers showed up at the hospital the day Marie went into labor, but our fathers were absent. We were at the hospital all night as she gave birth to a beautiful baby girl, Caitlin. Our decision to keep the baby caused a huge wedge between my dad and me. Eventually, I moved out to live with Nan in the neighboring Mayfair section of Philadelphia. Caitlin stayed with her mother, who lived just two blocks from Nan’s house.</div>
<div class="indent">I <i>attended</i> Father Judge Catholic High School in Northeast Philadelphia. I emphasize “attended” because I didn’t learn a thing there, except how to talk my way out of detention, aka JUG—“Justice Under God.” I was a terrible student and went to summer school two out of my four years there. The nuns at St. Hubert’s High School wouldn’t let Marie attend school once she started showing. But after Caitlin was born, she returned to school and graduated on time.</div>
<div class="indent">Father Kilty, academic dean, and my English teacher was very good to me while the other priests looked down on me. He was the kind of guy who would sit me down with a cigarette in his mouth and have casual heart-to-heart talks. Occasionally I’d bum a smoke off him too.</div>
<div class="indent">He also baptized Caitlin. That day played out interestingly with my dysfunctional family. Imagine: My mother and Nan weren’t talking to my father. My father and his girlfriend sat on the other side of the church. On top of that, Marie’s parents were separated and didn’t want to sit next to one another. It was so awkward that at one point, Father Kilty announced, “Let’s remember Caitlin is here for a purpose.”</div>
<div>Twenty years later, Caitlin was attending nursing school while Nan was dying. Caitlin jumped in and took fantastic care of Nan. My mother and I would never have been able to go through it without Caitlin. Father Kilty’s declaration ultimately rang true.</div>
<div class="indent">Father Kilty was different from the other priests—he never lectured or shamed me in any way. He didn’t speak down to me as an adolescent. Instead, he was honest with me. I always knew where I stood with him and never left the room confused. When I learned I would be a father, I sat down with him and said, “I fucked up.” And he replied, “Yeah, you did fuck up. But you fucked up once, and you could’ve fucked up twice by getting an abortion, and you didn’t.” I felt like a man in his presence, not an irresponsible teenager who got a girl pregnant.</div>
<div class="indent">Father Kilty would tell me stories about my great-uncle, who was in the priesthood. Monsignor Joseph McMullin died when I was four years old. I have no memory of him, but he did baptize me. He taught at Saint Charles Borromeo Seminary in Wynnewood, Pennsylvania, just outside Philadelphia.</div>
<div class="indent">Monsignor McMullin, or “Holy Joe The Hammer,” as they called him, spoke thirteen languages. Father Kilty was one of his students at the seminary before he was ordained. I understood the nickname “Holy Joe,” but I asked Father Kilty why they called him “The Hammer.” Kilty laughed and said my great-uncle enjoyed telling jokes and was known for knocking a firm elbow into the recipient’s arm and saying, “Did you get it, did you get it, did you get it?” Hence, “The Hammer.” Years later, Father Kilty transferred to a different school, and we eventually lost touch. However, he left a lifelong impression on me, and I will always be grateful for the time we spent getting to know each other.</div>
<div class="indent">When I graduated high school, I knew I wanted to become a police officer. All those years sitting on the front porch in North Wildwood lit a fire in me, and I no longer wanted to watch the cops; I wanted to be one. My father and I were now on good terms, although he didn’t like where I was in life. Nan still had her summer house in North Wildwood and her primary home in Mayfair. I was able to live with her while going to college part-time. I worked at the Friendship Pharmacy and Spitzer’s Mobil Station. I also mowed lawns to help support Caitlin financially.</div>
<div class="indent">In the summer of 1989, I interviewed for a seasonal dispatcher position at the North Wildwood Police Department (NWPD) with Captain Gary Sloan. He was in his forties and stood about six feet tall. He had a calm demeanor about him. During the interview, he questioned why I wanted to be in law enforcement, and I replied, “I want to help people.” Captain Sloan then asked, “Do you have any relatives in law enforcement?” I answered, “None that I’ve ever met.” Nan had told me about relatives I never knew in New York City who were on the job. She once mentioned that I had a great uncle, Mickey Finnigan, who was in the NYPD and walked a beat in Harlem.</div>
<div class="indent">“Are you ready to work for the North Wildwood Police Department?” asked Captain Sloan. I smiled and said, “Yes, I am.” Captain Sloan emphasized the importance of getting to know the town’s citizens and, in his words, stated, “Do little things, too… like helping little kids up when they fall off their bikes.” He smiled, then told me I had the job. If you haven’t caught on yet, he was one of the police officers who helped me when I fell off my bike in 1977. He remembered me, and I began working as a seasonal dispatcher for the NWPD.</div>
<div class="indent">The second officer who helped me when I fell off my bike that day was Anthony J. Sittineri. He had since become the chief of police. He was an old-school street cop described by other cops as “a cop’s cop.” One evening, I was working in dispatch and received a call from Chief Sittineri’s youngest daughter, Sharon. Her older sister had just given birth to her first child. Sharon asked if I could announce over the police radio that Chief Sittineri had just become a grandfather.</div>
<div class="indent">I was the new guy and hadn’t been working there long. I didn’t know if I should make a broadcast over the police radio about the chief’s family, but on the flip side, I didn’t want to refuse a request from the chief’s daughter, so I told her I would do it. I figured he would either be pleased or fire me. I keyed up the mic and said, “Two to 200.” (NWPD was District Two, and the chief’s call sign was 200). He responded, “200.” As you may have guessed from the name Sittineri, he was Italian and had that old-school Italian way about him that I loved. I replied, “Your youngest daughter called; congratulations, you’re a grandfather.” He didn’t acknowledge the announcement immediately, and I got scared, thinking he would fire me or have me whacked out. After a few seconds, he finally replied with a typical “Ten-four.”</div>
<div class="indent">A few minutes later, Lieutenant Jake Stevenson walked into HQ, and I again thought I was toast. Instead, he approached the dispatch window and commented, “That’s great!” As it turned out, he, and more importantly, the chief, was happy I had broadcast the news.</div>
<div class="indent">One year later, I began working as a part-time police officer for the NWPD. May 14, 1990 marked the day I started training at the Cape May County Police Academy as a North Wildwood Class II Officer cadet. Being a cadet was a whole new ball game compared to working as a dispatcher. I had no idea what I was in for. It was grueling, military-style training, six days a week for seven weeks. The course was not as long as full-time police officer academies, but it was strict with a military atmosphere.</div>
<div class="indent">We were required to have crew cuts, be clean-shaven, and wear khaki uniforms. We marched and got yelled at by the drill instructors constantly. I laugh about it now but was not too fond of it back then; actually, I hated it.</div>
<div class="indent">Day one at the academy started with seventy-two cadets from all over the tri-state area assembled as the 5th Special Class. Only forty-two of us made it to graduation day. Thirty cadets washed out for a variety of reasons. Some couldn’t handle the physical training. I recall one guy who failed the drug screening. Some couldn’t qualify with their firearms. The rest quit.</div>
<div class="indent">The physical training was demanding. The instructors pushed and ran us until we fell or puked, sometimes both. I was never a star athlete but managed to hang in there. I refused to give up and forced myself to suck it up. If you’ve ever watched the movie <i>An Officer and a Gentleman</i>, I adopted the dialogue and mentality portrayed by Richard Gere’s character, Zack Mayo: “You can kick me out, but I ain’t quitting!”</div>
<div class="indent">During our workouts, we wore white T-shirts with our last names in black lettering on the front and dark blue sweatpants with our last names in white lettering on our asses. That way, no matter which direction we were facing, the drill instructors could yell at us by name, and they did so constantly.</div>
<div class="indent">In the gym, we had a formation to abide by, and we each had a designated spot to stand in. At any given time, a drill instructor would yell out your name, and you would have to respond loud and clear, “Yes, sir!” If he ordered you to “take the stand,” then you would run like hell to the front of the class. Then he would say, “McMullin, lead the class in squat thrust exercises.” The proper way to do this would be to address the class loudly and say, “Class, squat thrust exercises, starting positions… move! Ready… by the numbers… exercise! One-two-three, ONE! One-two-three, TWO! One-two-three, THREE!” and so on. If whoever was on the stand did not give the exercise order using those exact words, the instructors would punish the rest of the class with additional exercises, which sucked! I was in excellent physical condition by the time we graduated—I wish I were in such good shape now.</div>
<div class="indent">When the time came to go to the shooting range, I was nervous. I had never fired a handgun in my life. My father had taught me how to shoot shotguns and rifles before, but handguns were a new experience. By the grace of God, I shot well enough to score a passing grade.</div>
<div class="indent">Later that September, I was hired by the Philadelphia Police Department. One good thing about the intensity of the Cape May County Academy was that it prepared me for the Philadelphia Police Academy. Since my new job would be in a different state, I had to attend their academy before I could work there.</div>
<div class="indent">I began my training at the Philadelphia Police Academy in October. Although Philly was hard, it was not nearly as grueling as Cape May. The stressful environment they created at the Cape May County Academy was so much harsher. Drill instructors constantly scrutinized and yelled at the cadets to try to break us down. They were shaping us into rugged individuals, mentally and physically.</div>
<div class="indent">The day after I graduated from the Philadelphia Police Academy, I bought a house in the Holmesburg neighborhood of Philadelphia. I moved Caitlin and her mother in with me. Marie wanted to get married even though we weren’t getting along. Our parents knew we didn’t belong together, but, despite their opposition, we got married at a courthouse. It was for all the wrong reasons—mainly so Marie could have medical coverage under my health benefits. She had recently sustained a life-threatening asthma attack that had put her in the hospital for ten days, and I wanted to provide her with the best medical care possible.</div>
<div class="indent">The marriage lasted less than a year. Marie later met another guy, who she married and settled down with. They’re still together, and I’m happy for them.</div>
<div class="indent">During the graduation party Nan threw for me, I found my mother on the second floor of Nan’s house, crying. She was afraid something terrible would happen to me as a police officer. At first, I didn’t understand. But I soon realized that my two summers as a seasonal cop in North Wildwood didn’t concern her nearly as much as me working in Philadelphia. She grew up in the Bronx, New York, and my dad is from Philadelphia. When they were engaged, my dad got accepted into the NYPD and made plans to move to NYC. But my mother didn’t want him to be a cop, so they moved to Philly instead, and my dad kept his job as a machinist at the Philadelphia Navy Yard.</div>
<div class="indent">So there I was, doing exactly what she had kept my father from doing, which devastated her. From that point on, I understood why it bothered her so much. I could only assure her I would be safe, and I’ve kept that promise so far.</div>
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Chris McMullin
3 Decades Cold
$15.50
Detective Chris McMullin's career of finding missing people and solving murders wasn't just his job. It was his passion and dedication to helping victims.
For thirty years, Chris worked at the Bensalem Police Department in Pennsylvania. He started as a patrol officer and became a detective in the Special Victims Unit, where he handled cases involving murderers, sexual predators, and violent criminals. Some of his most important cases included Lisa Todd, Christian Rojas, Tracy Byrd, and Barbara Rowan, a 14-year-old girl who was murdered in 1984 and whose case wasn't solved for 31 years. The Rowan case was especially important to Chris and motivated him to work on cold cases.
3 Decades Cold tells the story of Chris's impressive career, from joining the police academy in 1991 to his retirement and beyond.
Today, Chris McMullin works as a Lieutenant for the Bucks County Sheriff's Office in Pennsylvania. He now leads a nonprofit organization to work on cold cases and has a true crime TV show in development.
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<h1 id="c1">Case Briefing</h1>
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<div>Welcome to the incident room. This is your case briefing.</div>
<div class="indent">“Congratulations on your promotion to homicide detective,” the Detective Major tells you. “You and your partner will be assigned to our major cases. As a team, you will uncover evidence, interview suspects and witnesses, and, if there’s enough conclusive evidence, send the case to the DA. Good luck, we’re all counting on you.”</div>
<div class="indent">As a reader in the role of a member of the somewhat fictionalized investigative team, you will face several challenges. You will uncover the evidence based upon historical crimes as an actual investigator would—as they present themselves in the course of the investigation. The crimes are real, and the evidence comes from the actual case files. Your partners are fictional characters based on a composite of real detectives and others who investigated these crimes. All the evidence that is uncovered is based on police reports, interviews, court transcripts, and contemporary news reports.</div>
<div class="indent">These cases are truly a collaboration between you, the reader, and the rest of the investigative team at the crime scenes. At the conclusion of each case, you will provide an assessment of the evidence and decide for yourself where the evidence leads you.</div>
<div class="indent">As you work your way through these crimes, keep in mind there was a diligent endeavor to maintain important interviews and the evidence for these real cases as accurate as possible. Most of the conversations of the individuals involved were taken from actual interviews and transcripts of the cases. The conversations between you and the fictional detectives are, of course, invented to propel the story forward.</div>
<div class="indent">The evidence discovered is based on diligent research. Some of the specifics may surprise you, as they have not been highly publicized, such as new suspects or a new approach to analyzing the evidence.</div>
<div class="indent">The stories have been adapted to allow you, as the main character, to uncover pertinent evidence. All other aspects of the real cases have been maintained for accuracy.</div>
<div class="indent">As you read through the case and follow the evidence, remember that each step in a criminal investigation is a conscious choice. What is the evidence telling you? Would you have proceeded as these detectives did? Does the totality and circumstances of the case warrant the steps taken by these detectives? Are there any bits of evidence that you would have given more weight to than these detectives did?</div>
<div class="indent">In these stories, you are also challenged to consider some new approaches that have not been previously presented before. See if you agree with the conclusions of the detectives you are “partnered” with.</div>
<div class="indent">You are also challenged to test your knowledge of true crime and use the evidence, locations, and crime scenes to name the actual cases behind the re-creations. The names have been changed but, again, the evidence from these true crimes reflects the actual evidence.</div>
<div class="indent">In many true crime cases, there can be a definitive turning point in the investigation that alters the judgment of the investigating detective. A piece of evidence that changes the trajectory of the case. It flips the switch on the case, it is the ignition point. It changes the case from questionable to convincing in the mind of the detective, and clearly points to the one perpetrator. Since you are the detective in all the cases that are contained in this book, an additional challenge is for you to find that ignition point that will help you solve each of these cases.</div>
<div class="indent">As you become more experienced as an investigator, your partners, first starting out as your trainer, gradually gives you more freedom to explore the evidence on your own. As your expertise grows, your partner more frequently asks your advice about the evidence and the suspects you will encounter. You will learn the value of not jumping to conclusions. Even if you are familiar with the suspects, you only go where the evidence takes you. You often contribute suggestions during the investigation but, like every great investigator who has come before you, you always wait until all the evidence has been tested and the investigation concludes to render your opinion on the case.</div>
<div class="indent">You are not required to agree with your team. You are encouraged to take notes along the way and come to your own conclusions about which suspect, if any, should be sent to the DA for prosecution.</div>
<div class="indent">Now get to work.</div>
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Steve Scarborough
True Crime in Real Time
$15.50
“Welcome to the Incident Room. This is your Case Briefing.”Congratulations on your first day as a police detective. You have been partnered with an experienced detective who will walk you through some of the toughest and most infamous crimes in American history. You will visit the crime scene, review the evidence, search for clues, interview witnesses, read the news reports, and decide with your partner who’s the most likely culprit and send the case off to the DA’s office. This is true crime in real time.As you gain experience, you will be given more autonomy in investigating the cases. Your partner will be there to guide and observe you, but it will be up to you to not only decide who to prosecute, but also name the famous case based on the facts and circumstances. Your investigative skills will be challenged, and so will your knowledge of historical cases throughout the decades, from the late 19th century to the present.Follow the evidence wherever it takes you, don’t jump to conclusions, and use the experience you gain through these investigations to make your case. Even if you recognize the case and think you know the answers, think again. These cases were selected to challenge and surprise you.Now get to work.
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<h1 class="center" id="c3">CHAPTER 1: <br/>WAIT, WHAT? (JURY SELECTION)</h1>
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<div class="indent">When I got the letter in the mail kindly suggesting that I show up for jury duty, I had no idea what the trial would be or how big it was. I still didn’t even suspect it when I showed up at the courthouse. I was put in a room with a lot of other people, and I guess I should have had a clue then, but I just thought it was business as usual at the Ada County Courthouse in Boise, Idaho. There were trials to be tried and they needed jurors to try them.</div>
<div class="indent">I was given a number. My number was 1864, but I didn’t think that meant I was number 1864 out of what someone later said was 2400 total jurors called in for this case. I’ve heard there were 1800, 2400, and 2600 initial calls out to potential jurors. All three of those numbers came from people I thought should know. Whichever number it was, it was a lot of people called for jury service in this case. Serving on a jury was my duty as a citizen and I would do as they asked.</div>
<div class="indent">What they asked of me first was to fill out a questionnaire. It was pretty generic and still didn’t clue me in to what I might be in for. That was it for Day One. A few days later, I received a message that I was again to show up at the courthouse at a given time. I showed up and again sat in the same room with a whole bunch of other people. Potential jurors were being called into the courtroom around 50 at a time. Still not having a clue but wondering what case I might be called in for, I waited for my group to be called. Let me tell you, if you haven’t experienced it yet, things in the judicial system don’t move along very fast.</div>
<div class="indent">When I was finally called to go in, I lined up with the rest of the people in my group waiting to be escorted into the courtroom. Here I should say I was only vaguely familiar with Lori Daybell. I knew her kids had been missing for a long time and that they were eventually found dead. I knew what she looked like from news clips that I really didn’t pay much attention to. (I know it sounds strange that anyone wouldn’t be very familiar with the case, especially someone living in Idaho, but I spent a lot of the Covid years building a cabin in the mountains up close to the continental divide between Idaho and Montana where I had no internet, cell service, or even electricity.) Two bailiffs escorted us into the courtroom and there she was, sitting between her two attorneys! It hit me like a brick in the face. And she was looking right at us.</div>
<div class="indent">A lot of emotions were coursing through me at this moment. The first thing I felt as I walked into the courtroom was the weight of the responsibility I would have serving as a juror in this court. I could feel it. It was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop, and there must have been close to 100 people in that courtroom.</div>
<div class="indent">After the trial was over, I heard people say they felt pure evil emanating from the defendant. Whether it was something real that actually existed or just an emotion people felt, I’m not sure. But that first day, there she was, sitting right across from me, and she was looking at each of us in turn. When her eyes came to me, I refused to let myself look away until she did, but man was it hard. I didn’t want to look at her. I didn’t even want to admit to myself that people who were accused of what she was accused of existed on this earth or that they were real. It’s not that I was assuming she was guilty. It was just that people had been murdered and it was sad. Her situation was sad. I hadn’t thought about it before, but before that, I guess I just thought of her as someone on TV. Separated from me by that. But not anymore. This was the first time during this trial that I realized I was being confronted with realities I would rather have avoided.</div>
<div class="indent">At this point, the judge, Hon. Steven Boyce, announced to us what the case was, so now there could be no doubt—but the reality still hadn’t totally sunk in.</div>
<div class="indent">My first impression of Judge Boyce, which was reinforced over the next several weeks, was that he was a kind and thoughtful man. Possibly it was because of his position, sitting above us all in his robes, but he seemed fair. He seemed like the kind of person I would want trying my case, if I were on trial. One thing I noticed right away is that he did not have a gavel. I was kind of disappointed by that. I wanted him to have a gavel. I guess maybe it’s a thing of the past, but in all the movies I’ve ever watched there was a gavel and at some point it was used by the judge to bring order in the court.</div>
<div class="indent">Judge Boyce was appointed by Idaho Gov. Brad Little in 2019 to the Idaho Seventh Judicial District. He is a member of the LDS Church, as are most people from southeast Idaho. I learned later that some people didn’t think he would be up to the task. How could any judge be? This case was so convoluted. I think he did well though. Not just because he was able to wind his way through it all without making any critical mistakes, but also because I think he stood firmly on the law and didn’t allow himself to be backed into a corner. There are many decisions a judge has to make daily in a trial like this and any wrong decision can lead to a successful appeal of the verdict.</div>
<div class="indent">Still though, there were up to 2600 potential jurors, so what were the chances of me actually sitting on the jury? I calculated the odds in my head while I sat there, something to take my mind off the heaviness of the moment. One chance in 144.4 to be exact. That is using 2600 as the number of potential jurors.</div>
<div class="indent">Judge Boyce asked us a lot of questions and we were given the opportunity to say why we shouldn’t serve on this jury. It was pretty obvious to me what I should say if I wanted to get out of it. Basically, they were looking for people who were not aware of what had been all over the news in Idaho, and the whole world for that matter, for over two years.</div>
<div class="indent">He asked if it was a hardship for anyone and my mind was racing thinking about everything I would have to put off, all of my plans I would have to change to serve for a trial he said might last for eight weeks. By the time he came to me, I had heard some real hardships that some people would be facing if they had to serve on the jury and mine seemed pretty weak. My work is somewhat seasonal and springtime is when I usually start painting, replacing fences, fixing broken sprinkler systems, and things like that. None of it is critical. Putting it off for two months would just mean it would pile up and I would have to catch up later, but I could certainly do that.</div>
<div class="indent">One young woman was a single mom of two kids and worked two jobs. She was afraid she would lose her jobs if she had to serve on the jury. At the very least, she would lose the pay she would have received, and she said she would not be able to pay her rent, among other things. Another guy had his own business and was required to travel. He would lose his contracts and the income associated with them. He would have to lay off some of his employees. Judge Boyce did not release either of these people, at least not right then. After hearing these stories and others, I would have been embarrassed to say mine out loud. There went my first opportunity to walk away. I wasn’t too concerned though, because my chances of being chosen to serve were still very slim.</div>
<div class="indent">Before being released for the day, Judge Boyce admonished us potential jurors, as he would at the end of every day: We were not to talk to anyone about the trial or watch, listen to, or read anything related to the trial. So, not only were we going to be in court every day for up to eight weeks, but we couldn’t tell anyone what we were up to.</div>
<div class="indent">Eight weeks is a long time and there were people wondering what I was up to. Because this case was so prominent in Idaho, some figured it out on their own, which was fine, and they were curious but respectful when I explained I wasn’t able to talk about it. Well, I can talk about it now!</div>
<div class="indent">I was called back the next day for mostly the same long, boring drill. This time when my group was called in, the attorneys questioned us individually. The most common question was basically: What do you know about this case? Then: How do you <i>not</i> know about this case? Have you watched the series about the case on Netflix?</div>
<div class="indent">Like I said earlier, I didn’t know much. I was honest when asked how I didn’t know much. I just said I found the story depressing and sordid, so I didn’t pay attention to it when I saw it on the news. It was true, but I thought the defense might be offended by my answer. Apparently they weren’t, or I suspect they were grasping to find 18 jurors who knew as little as I did. As for the prosecution, they told me later they were looking for people who they thought would be able to follow such a complicated case. That was it for Day Three—after the admonishment from Judge Boyce, of course.</div>
<div class="indent">Day Four was kind of bizarre and I wasn’t exactly sure what was going on. There were 42 of us in the courtroom and I didn’t know we had been boiled down to just those 42. Had I known, I would have calculated my chances of serving on the jury at 1 in 2.33. Considerably worse than the 1 in 144.4 of the previous days. The attorneys kept looking at individual jurors and passing papers back and forth, through the bailiff, from the defense to the prosecution and vice versa.</div>
<div class="indent">I found out later after the sentencing, when I interviewed the prosecution team, that the prosecution and the defense each had the opportunity to release 12 potential jurors without having to have a reason. They would look over the jury, write something down, and hand it to the bailiff. The bailiff would walk the paper over to the opposing counsel. Opposing counsel would look at it and write something down, hand it to the bailiff, and the bailiff would make a return trip. This took hours and was excruciatingly boring, especially since I had no idea what they were up to.</div>
<div class="indent">Finally juror numbers were called out and those jurors whose numbers were called were thanked for their time and dismissed. We were down to 18. I still didn’t understand we were the final 18 and I was on the jury! After being admonished by the judge, we left the courtroom and were escorted into the jury room.</div>
<div class="indent">Randy, the court’s jury administrator, started giving us instructions and it slowly dawned on me. Holy crap, I was on the jury for the Lori Vallow Daybell case! Everyone was kind of looking around at each other, realizing we would be spending a lot of time together, and I imagine wondering where we all stood. According to Judge Boyce’s admonition, we couldn’t even discuss the trial with each other. I noticed some people had a kind of stunned look on their faces and I imagine I did too.</div>
<div class="indent">We were told we would be picked up at an as yet undisclosed location and driven to the courthouse in vans. We would be notified when and where to be, and the pickup location would be changed regularly.</div>
<div class="indent">Now I was a little nervous. According to the charges filed against her, Lori Daybell had either murdered or conspired to murder people she knew. Was I in danger? Was my family in danger? Would the pickup location be secure and guarded? Maybe I’ve watched too many movies. At the time, I didn’t know who Alex Cox was or that he was dead. I didn’t know who the players were, and I didn’t know whether some of them might still be out there. I wouldn’t say I was afraid, but I did ask my wife to keep the doors locked when I wasn’t home, and to be aware of what was going on around her, something we’re not used to in Boise.</div>
<div class="indent">Looking back, I realize they were more concerned with the media hunting us down than any danger we might be in. Of course, I wouldn’t have talked to a reporter if they had found me, but the court didn’t know that for sure and there was a lot at stake. The media did try to contact me after the trial was over, but I didn’t answer their calls. I simply didn’t answer if the call came from someone not in my contacts. Once I figured out who in the media were legitimate, I talked to those people well after the verdict was in, but even then, I was careful about what I said, not wanting to take the chance of saying something the defense could use in an appeal.</div>
<div class="indent">As it turned out, I was right to be careful. One juror innocently said something to Nate Eaton, a reporter who had covered the case extensively since the beginning. Neither the juror nor Nate Eaton would have intentionally done anything to endanger the verdict, but something was said by the juror that the defense tried to use to call for a mistrial. Fortunately that didn’t go anywhere, but why take the risk?</div>
<div class="indent">We live in a very quiet neighborhood with only one way in and out and only two short streets that both end in cul-de-sacs. We all know each other and if there is ever a police car or fire truck in the neighborhood it’s big news. We started noticing police cars going by regularly or sometimes parked just down the street from our house. I never did find out for sure, but I suspect they were patrolling the neighborhood just to make sure we weren’t being harassed. I wasn’t sure at the time whether to be reassured by the security, or more nervous.</div>
<div class="indent">You’re probably wondering why “juror number 18.” We all know that according to our U.S. Constitution, a criminal trial jury consists of 12 jurors. In this trial there would be 12 jurors, plus 6 alternates. The kicker was, that no one would know who the 6 alternates were until their number was literally pulled out of a hat after the prosecution and defense rested and the judge gave his instructions to the jury, just before the jury went into deliberations. Judge Boyce told me later they did that because it would be such a long trial and surely some jurors would have to drop out due to health, family, or something. But not one juror did.</div>
<div class="indent">I was proud of the other jurors (and myself) for seeing it through to the end. It wasn’t easy for any of us, and I think it was very hard for some. Not just because of time away from family and work, but also emotionally. Some of the subject matter we were exposed to was not for the faint of heart. It definitely took a toll on all of us. There were a few who I thought would crack, but they stuck it out.</div>
<div class="indent">I had the opportunity to meet with the ones I was concerned about a few weeks after the trial and they seemed okay but are seeing a counselor. I hope they are okay. They are good people and didn’t deserve to be confronted with what we had to see and hear in that courtroom. Eighteen more victims of Lori Daybell—although I’m sure my fellow jurors wouldn’t admit that.</div>
<div class="indent">Talking to some of the other jurors after the trial was over, I found out some of them actually cried when they learned they were on the jury. Not only because of the enormity of the case, but because of the hardship it would cause them serving for up to eight weeks, financially and otherwise. A few were moms with young children at home and I know at least one was a contractor with contracts to keep. Some were shocked and confused as to how they suddenly found themselves on the jury for this case. Some had mixed emotions, being excited to serve as jurors on such an important case, but at the same time feeling the weight of the responsibility.</div>
<div class="indent">I know some of the jurors weren’t sure if they and their families were safe from Lori Daybell and her “friends.” Remember, we didn’t know much going into the trial. We didn’t know who the people were in the courtroom gallery. For all we knew, the people who were looking us over constantly could have been Lori Daybell’s supporters.</div>
<div class="indent">At least one of us was followed home by the media during the trial. The idea that someone could do that must have been terribly unnerving. They would have had to follow our jury van from the courthouse to our parking lot, and from there, they would have had to follow the juror home. This was something our drivers were very careful to avoid, so they must have been quite stealthy about it.</div>
<div class="indent">The other jurors I talked to after the trial was over all said they felt the police investigating this case did an amazing job. They felt sad the police had to experience the things they had to go through, and their hearts went out to the officers. I know I felt that way.</div>
<div class="indent">When I asked one of the other jurors what they thought about the defense not calling any witnesses her response was: “Who could they call?” I thought that was a great answer and I had to agree because it was so true. By the time the kids’ bodies were found, Lori and Chad Daybell had lost the support of everyone, even Lori Daybell’s mother who had supported her right up until the bodies were found in Chad Daybell’s backyard.</div>
<div class="indent">I think we jurors universally felt proud of the system we became a part of. I can say for sure I was proud to have served with 17 other people who I feel now were more than up for the task. Of course we all had different personalities, different political views, and different backgrounds, and that is as it should be, but I think we were respectful of each other and worked together well.</div>
<div class="indent">After the trial was over, we were offered counseling and I did consider it, and still might take advantage of the offer. We’ll see how it goes. I’m hoping writing this book will help set my mind at ease.</div>
<div class="indent">I’ve had some weird dreams and full-on night terrors since the trial, which hadn’t happened to me in years. One of the night terrors featured the bat Charles supposedly used to hit Alex in the head. Who knows why; nothing else in the dream made sense. It took me a minute after waking up to realize everything in my world was okay. It did make me terribly sad thinking of the terror Tylee and JJ must have felt.</div>
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Tom Evans
Money, Power, and Sex: The Lori Daybell Trial
$17.95
$19.95
When Tom Evans reported for jury duty, he had no idea he would be assigned to one of the biggest and most notorious cases in Idaho history, if not the nation. The Lori Vallow Daybell trial turned his life upside down. By the time the trial was over he was changed in ways he’s still struggling to understand. He knew two things for sure: He was overcome with the need to find some way to make something positive out of his involvement as a juror, and he needed to tell his story. Money, Power and Sex does both of these things.
Tom’s jury experience started out being dark, heavy, and downright depressing. By the end of the trial, other, more positive emotions overcame the darkness. Despite all the horror he was exposed to and all the victims, living and dead, who he empathized with, by the end of the trial, he was filled with pride in the judicial system and honored to have done his part.
As this book covers the horrible events as they were presented to Tom in the trial and the history that led to those events, he offsets the disturbing nature of the case with his firsthand exposure to the dedication and hard work on the part of the police, the FBI, the prosecution, the defense, the court, and the bravery of the survivors and their family.
After the trial was over, Tom was given exclusive access to some of the key people in the trial. This book follows Tom’s journey through the trial and the unexpected good he found along the way.
Proceeds from this book will go to Hope House, an organization that helps children in need.
Tom Evans is a first-time author, and plans to follow this book up with part two, which will include new information the prosecution has promised to expose in the upcoming Chad Daybell trial.
D.E. Bristow and Ryan Katzenbach
TITANIC: Sinking The Myths
from $34.95
Thirtieth Anniversary Edition of the first book to expose the Titanic cover-up.
Over 500 pages, illustrated, thoroughly indexed, with a full color hardcover option, this is the book TITANIC aficionados have been waiting to own for 30 years.
In over 100 years there have been literally thousands of books written on the catastrophic maiden voyage of the RMS TITANIC. And yet, questions, myths, and lies still persist about that fateful night.
Why was the TITANIC on a route that put her in the most perilous of ice-congested sea lanes?
Why did TITANIC choose not to launch regulation distress rockets in her effort to summon help?
Why did TITANIC turn away a German ship in favor of a British rescuer?
How did a fire in the ship’s forward bunkers impact the structural integrity of the ship?
Above all, how did an impending World War and the deteriorating relationships between Britain, Germany, and the United States—largely over the merchant domination of the world’s shipping lanes—set forth an unbreakable chain of events that put the TITANIC two and a half miles beneath the surface of the North Atlantic, taking her captain, her logbook, and the truth with her?
As TITANIC: Sinking the Myths meticulously demonstrates, the real root cause of the disaster was greed, multiplied by an imperative schedule, and wrapped up in a conspiracy to cover up White Star’s policy to put profits over the lives of the passengers.
Thirty years ago, in this book’s first edition, Diana Bristow unraveled the myths to give the original, no-stone-unturned account of the events that led up to—and followed—the sinking of the TITANIC. Bristow goes right to the heart and source of the campaign of deception that served only one purpose, to protect J.P. Morgan, the White Star Line, and all their investors from astronomical liability and financial ruin if the captain, crew, or management were found negligent in the events that led to the sinking of the TITANIC. Never before had any researcher ever so deeply studied the rules, laws, regulations, and economic and political factors that ultimately led to the deaths of 1,500 people.
Bristow’s long-sought-after book, out of print for thirty years, is now presented here in an updated edition.
Once you’ve read TITANIC: Sinking the Myths, you will understand why it’s the first—and last—book you ever need to read about the most infamous maritime disaster in peacetime history.
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<h1 id="c2">Chapter 1: Back to December</h1>
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<div>A sense of dread tugged at my heart as I pulled into the narrow parking space of the Bowling World parking lot. I turned off the ignition as retired detectives Jay C. Rider and Chris Boyd looked up, acknowledging my arrival with a wave. “Well, here I am,” I said out loud as my shoes hit the pavement with a loud thud. I slammed my Suburban door shut and slowly made my way toward them. Even from across the parking lot their somber expressions told a story: The two men were standing in the very spot where Melissa Witt had parked her white Mitsubishi on that fateful December night in 1994.</div>
<div class="indent">“Let’s get started,” Rider directed. He pointed at the stained and worn asphalt as we made eye contact. “This is it. This is where Melissa parked that night.”</div>
<div class="indent">I scanned the pavement, almost expecting to see the bloodstains left behind from the blitz attack that had left Melissa Witt critically injured. I let out a gasp at the thought, and then immediately turned away from the detectives. I yanked at the oversized sunglasses that were perched on top of my head and quickly put them on in an attempt to hide the tears that were forming. “I’m…” my voice trailed off as I rapidly surveyed the expansive parking lot. “I’m stunned.”</div>
<div class="indent">Boyd nodded. “It’s hard to believe that the son of a bitch attacked her in such close proximity to the building, isn’t it?” he barked.</div>
<div class="indent">“He was bold,” I offered back.</div>
<div class="indent">“That he was,” Rider added.</div>
<div class="indent">As Rider and Boyd dove into a serious discussion about the details surrounding Melissa’s abduction and murder, I slipped away quietly. There was something I needed to do. With my head down, I slowly made my way to the entrance of Bowling World. “Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen…” I counted. How many steps had separated Melissa Witt from safety on the night she was attacked? “Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two.” I needed to know. At “forty-five” I stopped abruptly in front of the glass doors of Bowling World. “Forty-five steps away from safety.” My thoughts shifted into overdrive. Forty-five was also the number of days between the date of Melissa’s abduction—December 1, 1994—and the date her body was recovered in the Ozark National Forest—January 13, 1995.</div>
<div class="indent">Unsettled by the strange coincidence, I bypassed the retired detectives and hurried back to my Suburban. Inside the safety of my SUV, I slumped down in the driver’s seat and reached for a notebook resting on the dashboard. Months earlier, I had carefully written the title “Witt Case” across its cover. I flipped through the pages before landing on what I was looking for—a crude outline of events from December 1, 1994:</div>
<div class="indent">6:30-6:40pm—Witness hears a woman shouting “Help me” in the Bowling World parking lot. A young boy, Jeremy, was with his mother at the bowling alley that night. Jeremy reported leaving Bowling World to retrieve a book from his mother’s car. He heard a woman scream “Help! Help me!” Underneath the words “Help me” I had written: MELISSA WITT CALLS FOR HELP WHILE SHE IS ATTACKED in bold, red ink.</div>
<div class="indent">Directly under those words I had also jotted down this note: Melissa Witt’s car keys were located in the parking lot of Bowling World at approximately 7:45pm. The keys were immediately turned in to the front desk inside the building. In the column to the left of these notes I had written: NOBODY noticed the blood spatter on Melissa’s keys.</div>
<div class="indent">I stared at the words, willing an answer to suddenly appear among my copious notes. “Back to the beginning,” I whispered to myself. “If we want answers to this case, we need to go back to the beginning.”</div>
<div class="indent">A knock on my window interrupted my train of thought. I rolled down the window when I saw Rider standing there. As usual, the exceptionally dressed retired detective was all business. “You coming?” Rider asked. “I want to walk through the timeline of events once again,” he said.</div>
<div class="indent">I leaned across the console to place the notebook back in its original place on the dashboard.</div>
<div class="indent">“I’m coming,” I assured him.</div>
<div class="indent">“Good. I want to go back to the beginning.” My head snapped quickly back in Rider’s direction at the sound of his words.</div>
<div class="indent">Astounded by the second strange coincidence of the morning, I responded by slowly repeating Rider’s own words back to him as I nodded: “Back to the beginning.”</div>
<div class="center">?</div>
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<div>As I drove home, Rider’s words continued to echo in my head. When I arrived at my office, I decided to once again take a closer look at the events that unfolded on the day Melissa disappeared. From all reports, the day started off routinely. She spent the first part of the morning with her mother, Mary Ann. The honor student would head to Westark Community College next. After that, she went to lunch at the Chick-fil-a in Central Mall with her friend, John, then off to her job as a dental assistant.</div>
<div class="indent">Before she left that morning in 1994, Melissa had a minor disagreement with her mother. She had asked to borrow money, and Mary Ann, in an effort to teach her daughter money management, had told her no. Melissa and her mother were especially close. They shared the same beautiful smile, kind heart, and innocent outlook on life. So this argument, while minor, was unusual for them.</div>
<div class="indent">Panged with guilt, before Mary Ann left for work that morning, she left a note for Melissa reminding her she would be bowling with her league that evening and offered to buy her a hamburger. She signed the note, “<i>Love, Mom.</i>”</div>
<div class="indent">At five o’clock that evening, after clocking out of her job as a dental assistant, Melissa discovered that her 1995 Mitsubishi Mirage wouldn’t start. After trying to start the car a few times, Melissa gave up and waited with a co-worker until a local businessman, later dubbed the Good Samaritan, gave her car a jump.</div>
<div class="indent">Police reports explain how Melissa’s dome light was left on by mistake, draining the car battery. Investigators tracked down the Good Samaritan and interviewed him multiple times before ultimately clearing him in the teenager’s disappearance and murder.</div>
<div class="indent">“<i>People ask about the Good Samaritan all the time because those events leading up to Melissa’s abduction seem suspicious</i>,” Rider once explained.<i> “I mean, the Good Samaritan seems suspicious until you realize how many times he was questioned</i>. <i>He was cleared of any suspicion in Melissa’s murder</i>.”</div>
<div class="indent">We know that, once Melissa’s car started, she went home to change out of her uniform. Those clothes were found crumpled on her bedroom floor. Mary Ann Witt was able to determine that her daughter had then donned a white V-neck sweater and jeans.</div>
<div class="indent">Melissa must have seen her mom’s note, because authorities believe she headed to Bowling World, arriving between 6:30 and 7:00pm. She parked in the northwest corner of the lot, but she never made it inside. There were no cameras to record the events that unfolded in that parking lot that night. Witnesses would later tell police they heard a woman screaming “<i>Help me!</i>”</div>
<div class="indent">Since Melissa never entered the bowling alley that night, her mother simply thought she had decided to go out with friends instead. Mary Ann went home expecting to see her daughter later that evening. Hours passed and Thursday slowly turned into Friday.</div>
<div class="indent">At nine o’clock on Friday morning, Mary Ann reported Melissa as a missing person. When the patrolman took the report that December morning, one of the very first things he asked Melissa’s mother was if she and Melissa had argued. Mary Ann told him there had been a small dispute over money. Once he knew about the argument, according to Jay C. Rider, the officer chalked it up to a routine missing person situation. After all, Melissa was considered an adult and it wasn’t illegal for her to decide not to come home.</div>
<div class="indent">However, Melissa’s friends and family knew that it was not like Melissa to take off without telling her mom where she would be. So by Saturday, Melissa’s friends and family were frantically passing out flyers, blanketing the River Valley with over 6,000 pleas for help in finding the missing teenager.</div>
<div class="indent">Once news stations picked up the story on the search for Melissa Witt, the Fort Smith Police Major Crimes Unit, led by Jay C. Rider, asked to see the missing person report that had been filed. The report had little information. The patrolman knew little more than a 19-year-old girl didn’t come home after an argument with her mother. There was no evidence to suggest that Melissa had been abducted. The officer had seen this type of scenario play out hundreds of times before. He was certain Melissa would return home soon. Three days after the initial report of the teenage girl affectionately called “Missy” by her friends and family was marked as a “runaway case,” the tide shifted and the Fort Smith Major Crimes Unit had boots on the ground actively searching for the missing teen.</div>
<div class="indent">Almost immediately, investigators received a shocking phone call from a bowling alley employee. This call would turn the Witt case upside down. The employee described how at approximately 7:45pm, a set of car keys were found in the parking lot and were turned in to the front desk of Bowling World. The keys held an important clue. The name spelled out on the keychain was “Missy.” Even more shocking, no one had noticed the spatters of blood that were slowly drying on the metal keys.</div>
<div class="indent">Immediately, investigators began a search to find the person who turned in Melissa’s keys on December 1, 1994. After making repeated pleas in partnership with area news stations, after nearly two months, the construction worker who found the car keys came forward. Curtis McCormick had been working at a Tennessee construction site since he had turned in the keys and he had no idea about Melissa’s abduction until he returned home to Arkansas.</div>
<div class="indent">After his arrival, McCormick’s brother was discussing the Witt case with him and that’s when the two realized that Curtis was the person police were looking for. When interviewed by investigators, McCormick described how he had spotted the keys when he was distracted by a car with its headlights left on when he arrived at the bowling alley sometime between 7:30 and 8:00 p.m. with his wife and teenage son. According to McCormick, he found the keys laying on the pavement where police later found Witt’s car abandoned.</div>
<div class="indent">As I reviewed the details of Melissa’s disappearance over two decades later, I sat on the floor of my living room, poring over the news footage that captured Melissa’s friends and family distributing flyers with her smiling photo and identifying information. I could feel their sorrow. <i>Where is Melissa? </i>That question loomed with each news piece. I watched what started out as hopeful interviews with friends and family slowly turned into desperation, despair, and sadness. The answer to their most pressing question “Where is Melissa Witt” had an answer. Her friends and family just didn’t know it yet. December would slip quietly into January before the Ozark National Forest would give up the secret that was hidden amongst its dense trees and thorny undergrowth. Melissa Witt was dead. But the smiling faces of her friends and family in this early December news footage had no idea of the horrors that awaited.</div>
<div class="indent">I closed my laptop and wondered aloud if Melissa’s killer had watched this same footage in the days after her disappearance. I envision him huddled on his mother’s expensive couch that cold December weekend, glued to the television, wondering if his terrible secret was safe. When I close my eyes, I can see his smug face, reliving every gruesome detail of Melissa’s murder. I imagine him running his murderous fingertips along the steel of her Mickey Mouse watch. I opened my eyes and reached for my iPhone. I opened the Facebook app and scrolled briefly until I found the profile of the man I believe is responsible for killing Melissa Witt. “There you are,” I say out loud as I enlarge his profile photo on my phone. I stare at his smiling face and steely eyes. <i>Did you do it?</i> I think to myself. <i>Did you kill Melissa Witt?</i></div>
<div class="indent">I close the Facebook app as Jay C. Rider’s words from our meeting in the bowling alley parking lot flood my mind. “<i>Back to the Beginning</i>,” he had said. Instinctively, I grabbed one of my notebooks. This one, titled “December 2016,” stored a wrinkled copy of an email I had received on December 28, 2016. The one sentence email packed a punch: “<i>Probably not relevant, but my old college roommate told me he was meeting Melissa the night she disappeared.” </i>He had no way of knowing it at the time, but this email was beyond relevant. It turns out, his college roommate knew Melissa Witt. Stranger still, his college roommate had actively been contacting me about the Melissa Witt case.</div>
<div class="indent">I sank back into the worn and cracked leather of my black office chair and thought back to a description of the Bowling World parking lot given by law enforcement regarding that cold December night. Despite the fact that the dark bowling alley was teeming with cars, there was very little activity happening outside. Inside, however, Bowling World was bustling with bowlers, friends sharing a beer after work, and kids playing video games or pool. The empty parking lot provided the perfect opportunity for a 19-year-old girl to be spirited away under the cloak of darkness.</div>
<div class="indent">Like a predator carefully stalking his prey, he watched and waited. His eyes intensely focused on her every move as an unsuspecting Melissa parked her 1995 Mitsubishi Mirage, turned off the engine, and stepped out into the shadows of the Bowling World parking lot. Suddenly, Melissa is caught off guard. She looks up in a mix of fear and surprise. But it’s too late. His sharp eyes are locked on the target. He is ready to strike. And then, it happens. The hunter makes his move.</div>
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LaDonna Humphrey
Connected by Fate
$15.50
$17.95
Connected by Fate unfolds against the haunting backdrop of the Ozark National Forest, where the unresolved murder of Melissa Witt has cast a long shadow over the dense woodlands for almost three decades. The mystery, woven into the fabric of the remote mountaintop, has become a part of the lore of the land, with the true identity of the murderer eluding capture, concealed by the forest's imposing presence.
Enter LaDonna Humphrey, driven by a profound sense of justice and a personal commitment to uncovering the truth, despite never having met Melissa Witt. LaDonna's connection to the case transcends the ordinary, fueling her with a relentless determination that has defined her life for almost a decade.LaDonna's investigation is a riveting narrative of courage, resilience, and an unwavering pursuit of truth in the face of overwhelming odds. Each breakthrough and setback, each clue unearthed and lead followed, draws her deeper into a web of intrigue that extends far beyond the initial crime.Connected by Fate is more than a true crime story; it's a testament to the power of human spirit and determination fueled by the knowledge that solving Melissa's murder is not just about bringing a killer to justice—it's about restoring dignity to a life cut tragically short, and offering closure to a community haunted by the specter of an unsolved crime.
Mark Arnold and Charles F. Rosenay!!!
Not Just Happy Together: The Turtles from A-Z (AM Radio to Zappa)
$30.00
It’s time to get “Happy Together” again! Discover the songs and the history of one of the most successful pop rock bands ever, The Turtles, who had many, many Top 40 hits including “It Ain’t Me Babe,” “Let Me Be,” “You Baby,” “She’d Rather Be with Me,” “You Know What I Mean,” “She’s My Girl,” “Elenore,” “You Showed Me” and of course, the iconic “Happy Together!” All of their Golden Hits!Authors Mark Arnold (Long Title: Looking for the Good Times; Examining The Monkees Songs, One by One and Headquartered: A Timeline of The Monkees Solo Years) and Charles F. Rosenay!!! (The Book of Top 10 Beatles Lists and The Book of Top 10 Horror Lists) have joined forces to cover the entire careers of The Turtles from their early days as The Crossfires, through their hit-filled years, into their break-up that led to most of The Turtles’ members joining forces with Frank Zappa’s Mothers of Invention, to Mark Volman and Howard Kaylan’s years as solo artists under the guise of Flo & Eddie, and even their forays into children’s records. Arnold and Rosenay!!! have reviewed every song and album, and interviewed many of The Turtles’ friends and associates along with most of The Turtles themselves, who have given startling new revelations that will surprise even the most hardcore fan.Open the doors to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame and to your library to add this book. This definitive Turtles compendium is as unique as The Turtles themselves.
Our 2023 Releases
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100% of the profit from each sale is donated to the Maui United Way Fire Disaster Relief Fund.
MĀLAMA: The value of stewardship. To take care of. To serve and to honor, to protect and care for.
“If you do follow your bliss, you put yourself on a kind of track that has been there all the while waiting for you, and the life you ought to be living is the one you are living. When you can see that, you begin to meet people who are in the field of your bliss, and they open the doors to you.” —Joseph Campbell
Sarah Sharaf-Eldien arrived in Maui in 2015 searching for purpose in her life and career as a photographer. A chance encounter with the manager at Mick Fleetwood’s restaurant, Fleetwood’s on Front Street, landed her the kind of job most photographers dream of. For seven months she worked alongside Mick Fleetwood, legendary drummer of the band Fleetwood Mac, documenting the day-to-day life at his restaurant and the intimate, electrifying concerts he held there.
From live performances by Hawaiian musical legend Uncle Willie K and the most talented local musicians on the island to internationally renowned rockstars like Steven Tyler and Sammy Hagar, Fleetwood’s was a vibrant musical oasis like no other anywhere in the world.
Mālama Maui is a story of self-discovery, synchronicity, and Hawaiian spiritual values, vividly illustrated with photographs that reflect her unique experience. Along the way, she learned from iconic music photographer Henry Diltz, who deeply influenced her artistic vision.
With a collection of over 100 captivating photos celebrating the island and the musicians who played there, Mālama Maui serves as a visual and cultural tribute to the island and Lahaina Town, preserving it for future generations to come.
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The Amsterdam Lawyer is translated from the Dutch by Josh Pachter.
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Those Old School Records
$18.50
Ever wonder about who the backing musicians were on Jackie Brenston’s 1951 classic, “Rocket 88”? Or how Joe Turner’s “Honey Hush” got its title? Or what legendary blues songwriter and bass player Willie Dixon had to say about Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley joining Chess Records’ lineup? And what about the story behind how “My Boyfriend’s Back” was written? Maybe you didn’t know the origins of Marlow Stewart and His 4 Guitars “Riptide”.
Those Old School Records takes you through the history of rhythm and blues, rock ‘n’ roll, soul and more from 1946 to 1987 through the lens of top-charting 45 RPM singles. With over 1,000 songs, labels, release dates, suggested pairings, remakes, answers, and other detailed information, Those Old School Records leaves no musical stone unturned.
At over 400 pages, Those Old School Records will answer many of your questions about the origins and history of these chart-topping songs.
new true crime
sale
Randy Hubbard
The Laney Gwinner Effect
$17.95
$19.95
The Laney Gwinner Effect releases on November 22, 2024. Order yours now!
The Laney Gwinner Effect: How One Cold Case Mobilized a High School to Make a Difference explores the unsolved murder of 23-year-old Alana “Laney” Gwinner and the ripple effect it had on a small community. When Laney disappeared in 1997, her case became a haunting mystery, with her body discovered weeks later in the Ohio River. Though her killer remains at large, her story continues to inspire.
This book chronicles the journey of high school teacher Randy Hubbard and his students as they delved into Laney’s cold case, sparking a classroom movement that brought forensic science to life in ways no one could have predicted. Through their dedication, Laney’s case took on new meaning, giving birth to a phenomenon that challenged minds and ignited passions.
More than just a true crime story, The Laney Gwinner Effect highlights how one life, tragically cut short, can still have a profound impact, creating waves of change and inspiring future generations.
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<h1 class="element-title case-upper">ONE</h1>
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<h2 id="subhead-1" class="section-title subhead keep-with-next paragraph-follows case-upper">FINDING MY FOOTING</h2>
<p class="first first-in-chapter first-full-width first-after-subhead"><span class="first-phrase">I grew</span> up about two miles from Possum Trot, a rural community in Western Kentucky. I was a shy, awkward kid who was not particularly good at sports, nor was I a good student. I was average at best. I didn’t have a lot of friends in school. I just tried to blend in. It was 1970 when I graduated from North Marshall High School. Most of us were just hanging out waiting to see if we would be drafted. My first job out of high school was as a riverboat deckhand. It was good money, but it wasn’t for me. In fact, the job was not the adventure I thought it would be. It wasn’t long before I decided I needed to do something else with my life just in case I wasn’t drafted. I enrolled in a community college where I had to really study and apply myself just to make average grades. I guess this was because I had not learned much in high school.</p>
<p class="subsq">After two years in community college, I enrolled in Murray State University, where I earned a bachelor’s degree in psychology. I attended one year of graduate school, but I was burned out. I was tired of being so poor and living on student loans. When I finally got my draft notice, I went for my physical and was turned down because I had flat feet.</p>
<p class="subsq">Probably the biggest influence in my life was my practice of Karate while I was in college. I had a knack for it. I would practice every day for hours. I became obsessed. When I earned my black belt in Wado Ryu–style Karate, I started entering tournaments. One of my instructors was Sensei Vic Milner. I became an instructor and taught Karate at the university. I also taught in several local Dojos. I had won tournaments in the black belt division in Kentucky, Tennessee, and Arkansas. I only lost two times, once in a full-contact event in Alabama and once in a “Battle of Champions.” Some of my students were guards and supervisors from KSP. I had a standing offer as a guard if I ever needed a job.</p>
<p class="subsq">I graduated from college in the Jimmy Carter years while the economy was stalled. There were no jobs. Finally, I decided to give the prison a try. What did I have to lose? I didn’t have any other prospects for a job unless I wanted to go back on a riverboat or go back to graduate school. So I applied for the job and was hired as a correctional officer. I never looked back.</p>
<h2 id="subhead-2" class="section-title subhead keep-with-next paragraph-follows case-upper">THE BELLY OF THE BEAST</h2>
<p class="first first-after-subhead">My first day at KSP (Kentucky State Prison) was July 3, 1978. And I was nervous. As I rounded the curve and drove down the road from Pea Ridge, there it was, looming like a medieval fortress on the banks of Lake Barkley. The Castle on the Cumberland River. What had I gotten myself into? I could only imagine what convicted inmates might think when they see the Castle for the first time. The prison itself resembles something out of the Middle Ages, with its soaring walls, stone parapets, and heavily guarded watchtowers. An imposing place, with a reputation to match.</p>
<p class="subsq">As I started up the crumbling steps to the main entrance, I heard a grumpy voice say, “HALT! State your business.” I stopped dead in my tracks. The command to halt sounded threatening—as if I might be shot if I didn’t obey.</p>
<p class="subsq">I looked up and saw a middle-aged man peering down at me from the gun tower. I responded, “I am Philip Parker, and I am reporting to work.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Go ahead,” was all he said. I didn’t know what to think about this first encounter, but I knew I was about to enter a strange, new world.</p>
<p class="subsq">As I approached the front gate, I stepped aside as several uniformed men with shotguns came running from the armory located at just off the top of the steps. Startled, I stepped aside and froze as they passed. I thought to myself, <i>What in the hell is this about?</i></p>
<p class="subsq">I learned later that there had been a mass escape from Four Cell House. My very first day. Three inmates, Joe Craig, James Hatfield, and Charles Murphy, had cut through their cell bars and made their way down the short distance from the opening to the ground using bedsheets fashioned into a braided rope. As with every prison escape, their luck was fleeting; the men were apprehended a few days later. As first impressions go, this was a lot to take in for a new corrections officer.</p>
<p class="subsq">I stood at the entrance, waiting to be ushered in. There was no control center at the time to automatically open prison doors. After the front gate officer keyed the lock, I crossed the threshold and entered the belly of the beast. One of the things I never quite became accustomed to after all my years in the Castle was the smell. The Castle has an odor unlike anything I have ever experienced: an ungodly combination of cigarette smoke, body odor, sewer gas, death, and history. It still smells that way to me. Some five decades later, I still notice that odor as I walk up to the prison gates. Half-jokingly, I always say it is the smell of the Castle Beast, the one that trolls the front entrance, taunting all those who sense its presence.</p>
<p class="subsq">After filling out employment paperwork with two other new hires, we were told to go to the receiver’s basement to get our uniforms. I thought to myself, <i>What the hell is the receiver’s basement?</i> Turns out it was a warehouse in the basement of Five Cell House with an outside entrance. I learned my first lesson on the job: prison workers have their own language to describe the Castle’s twisty, cavernous interior. I knew we had to learn fast or we would not find our way around. KSP is enormous, with five large cell blocks that housed 1,200 inmates in 1978. In subsequent years, two new cell blocks were added, even as the overall population decreased to around 980, because inmates no longer shared cells.</p>
<p class="subsq">With uniforms in hand, the new hires were directed to report to the hospital for a physical. The hospital, I later learned, was a state-licensed facility complete with infirmary beds, a surgical wing, a pharmacy, and an emergency room. But we had no idea how to get there. After wandering around the sprawling prison yard for what seemed like an eternity, one of the older guards took pity on us and pointed to where we had to go.</p>
<p class="subsq">A man in a lab coat with a stethoscope led me into an exam room and asked some standard questions about my health. I filled out a medical history as he listened to my heart and lungs, took my blood pressure, pulse, and temperature. I thought he was a doctor. Several weeks later, I saw him in the canteen line and realized the man I mistook for a doctor was actually a convict.</p>
<h2 id="subhead-3" class="section-title subhead keep-with-next paragraph-follows case-upper">SOMETHING FISHY</h2>
<p class="first first-after-subhead">A “fish” is a term used to describe a newly hired officer or a new inmate who just got off the bus. Why, I don’t know. It is just prison slang. The “fish tank” was a row of cells in One Cell House used to house inmates until they had been given an orientation and a list of the rules. They would also meet the Classification Committee to be assigned a job and a cell.</p>
<p class="subsq">A fish <i>officer</i> is a new hire who has not attended the academy or learned the ropes. These rookie officers are basically useless and treated accordingly. You remained a fish officer until you became familiar with all the ins-and-outs of daily prison operations and earned a small degree of respect. You had to prove yourself, meaning you would not run from trouble and you would back up your fellow officers. You also had to follow orders to the letter.</p>
<p class="subsq">I was hired in with two middle-aged female employees, Betty Blackwell and Rosy Mitchell. In the late 1970s, only a handful of females were hired as correctional officers. It was still a man’s world, but that was rapidly changing for the better. Nora Aldridge was the first female hired as a correctional officer sometime around 1976. Soon after, Judy Groves was hired and had already made sergeant by the time I came aboard. I try to imagine how they must have felt entering such a hostile, male-dominated environment, where danger and violence were the norm. These were courageous and brave women.</p>
<p class="subsq">As the three of us made our way out to the receiver’s basement, we had to traverse a sidewalk just below Four Cell House then Five Cell House. Inmates could stand at the barred windows in the hallways of Five Cell House and look down at the walkway we were on, the cars in the parking lot, and the boat traffic on Lake Barkley. We were about to learn our next lesson.</p>
<p class="subsq">Betty Blackwell, walking next to me on the winding sidewalk, was a middle-aged blond with an attractive figure, and Rosie Mitchell, a middle-aged person of color, strode alongside Betty as we made our way to the receiver’s basement. As we passed under Five Cell House, we could hear a whistle and catcall from somewhere above us on one of the four floors of Five Cell House. “Shake it, baby, shake it!” I was street smart and did not look toward the direction of the voice. Betty reflexively glanced up, however, and that same voice yelled, “Not you, Bitch. HIM.” I thought, <i>Oh my God, they are talking to me!</i> Another lesson for a fish guard.</p>
<h2 id="subhead-4" class="section-title subhead keep-with-next paragraph-follows case-upper">TRAINING</h2>
<p class="first first-after-subhead">Training consisted of a two-week academy at Eastern Kentucky University, the training center for all correctional officers and police officers in Kentucky. After the academy, we endured a week of firearms training at KSP, followed by on-the-job training. Before could be scheduled for the academy, I had to shadow more experienced officers. I was not allowed to work by myself until I graduated from the academy.</p>
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Philip W. Parker
Guard (Hardcover)
$32.95
Guard: A True Story of Duty, Sacrifice, and Leadership in Kentucky's Maximum Security Penitentiary
In 1978, Philip Parker started his decades-long career as a prison guard at the Kentucky State Penitentiary, a place known as "The Castle" for its medieval look. On his first day, a mass escape set the tone for the dangerous and intense journey ahead. Over the years, Parker faced numerous challenges, from federal court allegations to life-threatening situations, including a dramatic hostage crisis with a notorious inmate.
Parker's memoir takes readers through the emotions and realities of prison life. From handling daily violence and suicides to witnessing murders caused by racial tension and other conflicts, Parker describes the harsh environment of the prison. Guard includes detailed accounts of harrowing events, like the highway crime spree where two of his colleagues were shot.
The book also covers the evolution of the prison itself, from its early days with medieval punishments to modern-day improvements. Parker shares his experiences as a warden, dealing with staff corruption, inmate violence, and the heavy responsibility of carrying out court-ordered executions.
Guard is a vivid and honest account of a life spent managing the worst in human behavior while finding moments of compassion and redemption. It highlights the dedication and resilience required to maintain order in such a challenging environment, and offers a unique perspective on the sacrifices made by those who work in the prison system.
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<h1 class="element-title case-upper"><span class="element-number-term">CHAPTER</span> <span class="element-number-number">1</span></h1>
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<h2 class="element-subtitle case-upper">ENCOUNTERING THE ZODIAC</h2>
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<p class="first first-in-chapter first-full-width first-with-first-letter-i"><span class="first-letter first-letter-i first-letter-without-punctuation">I</span>f my family tree were an actual living plant, it might appear as an unbalanced tangle of weird-shaped limbs. It’s not that my ancestors suffered from an excessively high rate of mental illnesses, or represented innumerable unstable families, though those are certainly present. For the most part, the people who make up my ancestry are simply unique individuals with their own idiosyncrasies. I am the product of an odd assortment: champions and charlatans, community pillars and misfits. I have often wished I had an average relative. Just one, single ancestor who could provide a role model to inspire me to some level of normality. Instead, my genealogy expresses itself as a stunted bonsai in sections, and wild, runaway overgrowth in others. Whimsy and eccentricity are everywhere in this obscure corner of the gene pool, such that no standard piece of lumber could be milled from any single branch. Throughout my childhood, I gained valuable lessons as a result of the people who came before me, and who would become my parents, grandparents, and beyond.</p>
<p class="subsq">My own family of origin was unique in its favored topics of conversation. Many families discuss politics and current events. Others talk about friends and neighbors, or whatever is happening in the lives of its members. In my family, while I was growing up, my parents shared interesting tales that have been passed down from generation to generation. They engaged in their fair share of gossip, and even ranted about the government at times. They more often related stories of ancestors they knew, and others about whom they had only heard. I eagerly enjoyed connecting with my roots and discovering my ancient past as I listened carefully to everything that was shared with me.</p>
<p class="subsq">I am, and always have been, an avid collector of interesting and compelling tales. Especially when it does not contain a complete ending, or in which a conclusion is not forthcoming, it will have my undivided attention. The open gestalt tantalizes me.</p>
<p class="subsq">One night at Bark Lake Summer Leadership Camp when I was a teenager, for instance, a fellow camper began to tell a shaggy dog tale, a genre consisting in a long, complex story that ends with a disappointingly dull pun. So great was my joy in listening, that at the end of my fellow camper’s lengthy recitation, I was the only other camper still awake, possibly emblematic of obsessiveness in my personality. Brian, the storyteller, called out to the darkened cabin once his pun had been delivered. It was about 1 a.m., and he had been talking for more than an hour. All the other teenagers were fast asleep, some quietly snoring. I, however, was wide awake. It didn’t even seem to matter to me that the tale went nowhere in the end. It was a story, and even told by a 15-year-old it captivated my imagination enough to put off much-needed sleep and restoration from a long day in the sun.</p>
<p class="subsq">For better and for worse, each of my family stories and each ancestor has played a part in shaping me. They poured content into my character, for as I grew, I learned what was important to my parents—and their parents—what professions were worthy of pursuit, and what lifestyles were unacceptable. My values were therefore forged in part by the light of those who went before me, and the lessons my ancestors learned through their own life experiences helped create the man I am today.</p>
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<p class="ornamental-break-as-text">* * *</p>
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<p class="first first-in-section first-full-width">My beginnings in the Zodiac serial killing case can be traced back to 1987, directly, as well as indirectly to times and places many years earlier with events that even predated my life. In 1987, an innocuous gathering of a few college students—possibly only two—began to discuss the topic of true crime. The words would conspire to shape my future in ways I could never have fathomed. In that interaction, I learned about a serial killer who called himself the Zodiac. In time—and many years would pass before I became fully engaged—I would become obsessed with this one, cruel criminal, ultimately dedicating 11 years of my life in the pursuit of answers to lingering questions. The case became a compelling story that eventually wrapped its tentacles around me, and, at some point, removed my ability to separate myself from it. After initially dipping my toe in the water a few times, one day I took the irreversible plunge, and would not look back.</p>
<p class="subsq">Obsession—the correct word to describe my participation in the Zodiac case—can be described as the state in which someone is overtaken or overwhelmed by another person, idea, or activity in such a way that there is a loss of control over future choices. It can also refer to the object of the obsession—the person, idea, or activity over which someone has lost all control; the word can define an obsessiveness or the target of such obsessiveness. Since no degrees are assigned, there is no clear line drawn to tell us when a hobby has grown into a passion or a passion has devolved to an obsession. How many drinks does it take to move a social drinker into the category of an alcoholic? What is the exact dosage that marks the dividing line between a dabbler in narcotics and a full-fledged drug addict? In actuality, it’s many shades of gray along the descent.</p>
<p class="subsq">Obsession traces a familiar line in my life. I acquired the addictive personality honestly through the example of my family, whether by genetics or behavior. My mother was an alcoholic and died of it in her 70s. Her brother was similarly given to drink, and passed away in his early 50s, alcohol contributing to the early demise of both of the siblings.</p>
<p class="subsq">I am not an alcoholic, as some of my ancestors were. I have never been held hostage to drugs or to drink, and I know my personality too well to allow myself to venture too far down the rabbit hole of casino gambling. I have instead become addicted to a variety of people, hobbies, and activities over the past decades. My overwhelming passion for 11 years, from 2007 to 2018, was the criminal case of the Zodiac serial killer, though this was not my first love.</p>
<p class="subsq">Chess was my passion as a teenager, possibly initiating me into my first bout of obsessive behavior. I was 7 or 8 when I learned the rules from my dad as he instructed my older brother, Andrew. As the second born child, I was shielded from some of the ridicule, criticism, and steep demands that my father expressed in my early years. I incorporated the ancient game into my life as an enthusiastic spectator, without the expectations that were heaped on my brother.</p>
<p class="subsq">I remember asking my dad to play chess one evening when he was home from work. Despite the fact that my mother urged me to approach him, or maybe because of it, my dad yelled at me. He raged that the set was incomplete, a red checkers masquerading as the missing bishop. I didn’t play him that day. I also recall one childhood chess game loss to an adult at a community center in Moosonee, Ontario, one summer during a family vacation. I was around 10 years of age when I boldly asked my opponent for some pointers to improve my game, following my speedy defeat. It may have been the four-move checkmate, the “scholar’s mate,” or some variation of it, to which I had succumbed.</p>
<p class="subsq">In elementary school, I made some friends who were similarly drawn to the game. Classmate Andrew Smith in grade five taught me some strategy that he had learned from a relative or family friend. We often lingered after school to challenge our teacher, Mr. Hikola. We competed in a bicycle-decorating competition for which we taped a chess board and a handful of pieces to the frame of his three-speed. We did not win, but the experience cemented our friendship over the shared hobby.</p>
<p class="subsq">I joined the Scarborough Chess Club, a gathering of young and old men who stared at plastic pieces in a rickety, wooden community hall, and later competed in a few area tournaments during my middle and high school years. I entered an Ontario Open Chess Tournament and a Canadian Open Chess Tournament. In the public competitions, I generally won as many games as I lost. In the final round of one event, my opponent paid me $5.00 to concede an obviously drawn game so he could earn an age-related prize for which I did not qualify.</p>
<p class="subsq">One snowy day in January, when my high school classes were cancelled due to the inclement weather, I took advantage of my freedom and worked through the chess moves recorded in one of the many books I had acquired. (My schoolmates thought it strange that I played the game by myself.) Over time, I built a chess library of more than 50 volumes. I soon began to collect chess sets, specifically one from each country or region of a country I visited, eventually amassing more than 60, including ones made of onyx, ivory, and many different textures and shades of wood.</p>
<p class="subsq">With concerted effort over a decade, I learned to play at an advanced level, nearly achieving the status of Chess Master. I was listed as a top 10 Canadian junior player before I turned 16. When I played a bearded street hustler who wore shabby clothes and loudly broadcast the strength of his “kill-as-you-go gambit” one evening under the watchful eye of my father who had put up $2 for the game, I nearly won. Joe Smolij, a colorful character and fixture of Toronto nightlife, looked me straight in the eye at the end of our open-air match and proclaimed in his thick, Russian accent, “You play like master!” “You play like master!” I was 14 or 15. Later, my father took me to the Café Montmartre, an urban meeting place of chess players. My opponent for the evening, a man who must have been 25 years my senior, forced a draw by a repetition of moves. The game should have been an easy win for me, as I had battled to a large lead. After the game, I exclaimed to my dad, “I’ve never played against the Sicilian Defense in a serious game!”</p>
<p class="subsq">A move to Michigan for college pulled me away from the chess club, and the game I had grown to adore. By that time, I had graduated to another passion that also would grow to another obsession. I would continue to play chess socially, eventually buying an early chess computer and competing with other players online, but never would I pursue the game with the same fierceness and determination. By the time I graduated high school, I was focusing on my spirituality.</p>
<p class="subsq">A series of summer camp positions during my teen years introduced me to Christians who arranged their lives around their faith in Jesus Christ. At the time, I considered church attendance and my Christian school enrollment an important component of my identity, but not something that particularly aroused any passion. I did not question or attempt to understand my inherited beliefs with any depth, but that was about to change for me in the late 1970s.</p>
<p class="subsq">It was the melting pot of Camp Ke-Mon-Oya, a summer scrum of a hundred energetic children and a mixed-aged staff of 30 that challenged any assumptions I had previously held about church. On the scenic property at Lake Chandos, north of Peterborough, Ontario, during long, bright summer days for ten summers in the late 1970s, and 1980s, I rubbed shoulders with, and lived among, Christians from a wide variety of denominations and faiths, including Catholics, Pentecostals, Baptists, and a few smaller denominations. I feared any disagreement—eager to please everyone at that stage in my life—so I accepted most of what I heard regardless of its source.</p>
<p class="subsq">In addition to scurrying from one area of the lush 260-acre camp property to another as we barked orders at distracted children, we swam, played soccer, and assembled masterpieces in the arts and crafts building. I balanced the challenges of being obedient to the camp rules with the hijinks of raids to the girls’ cabins after dark. It was exciting to develop crushes, begin lifelong friendships, and test the physical and emotional limits of my developing body. The entire process was magnified by the long, sunny days, and the close quarters that foster intense relationships. Throughout the experience, I also learned many ideas about which I had never heard.</p>
<p class="subsq">I witnessed staff members who were excited about spiritual things. They enjoyed reading the Bible, and seemed to want to talk about its stories at all hours of the day or night. As a teenager, I was soaking up new concepts like a dry sponge thrown into dishwater. One autumn, upon my return from the camp’s property, I covenanted to read through the entire Bible because I wanted to know its contents for myself. I also began to read books about the Bible.</p>
<p class="subsq">When I moved to Michigan, I matriculated into the engineering program of Calvin College (now Calvin University) on the strength of my math and science ability. By contrast to my father who had earned his bachelor’s in engineering, I did not last long in the department.</p>
<p class="subsq">I was soon feeling unhappy with my provisional career choice. The loneliness I felt for being a great distance from my family was compounded by a seasonal depression brought on by the cloudy, gray Michigan weather. I recall crying in bed one evening, then wandering about the darkened campus in complete despair. I repeated a mantra to myself, “I am nothing; I have nothing.” I felt desolate and empty. In an attempt to assuage the pain, I carefully memorized the words to Psalm 84. Late one Friday afternoon in drafting class, a group of young people gazed in upon me and my peers from the back of the classroom. They apparently spotted their friend who they had traveled to visit, and began to wave their arms wildly. I noticed them and assumed with a deep longing that their attention was directed at me; they were facing me as they eagerly gestured. It was a sad realization for me that they were looking toward a classmate of mine, beyond me, and likely perplexed by the strange student who was waving back at them. I became keenly aware of how little enjoyment I derived from the solo activity of huddling over a drafting table, or working my way through problem sets in mathematics and physics.</p>
<p class="subsq">When asked what type of engineering I intended to pursue, such as chemical or electrical, on more than one occasion, I answered, “theological engineering,” with tongue firmly planted in my cheek. I was less interested in the subjects taught in my classes, and was drawn instead to dorm bible studies and campus fellowship gatherings. Soon, my passion for theology thrust my academic career in a new direction.</p>
<p class="subsq">I signed up for a four-week interim course in eschatology, the study of “the last things” or “the end times.” In preparation, I gathered and read a pile of library books on the subject before the first class even commenced. The lectures and assignments turned out to be weak and uninspiring, because I had covered far more material in my personal reading than the professor even attempted. Additional, after-class discussions were not much more enlightening. While he taught from a decidedly a-millennial perspective, I had become well versed in numerous theological positions, including pre-millennial and post-millennial.</p>
<p class="subsq">After some soul searching, I switched my major to theology. I was now studying in the classroom the passion I had contracted at summer camp.</p>
<p class="subsq">Upon graduation from Calvin with a B.A. in theology in 1983, I had no specific, long-range plans. I considered teaching at the high school level, or engaging in mission work, but the prospect of both of these left me rather cold. I wrestled with an education class where the professor reminded the class that most teenaged students were not grateful for teachers and their assistance, and made it apparent that teaching in high school would never provide me a meaningful and rewarding career. I meandered for about six months weighing my life options. Writing was already on my mind by this time because I was captivated with films and plays. I wanted to create my own screenplay, but at the time I was not equal to the challenge.</p>
<p class="subsq">In the fall of 1983, I returned to Grand Rapids, Michigan from my parent’s home in Toronto to pursue a relationship, and to write the great American screenplay. Unfortunately, neither went as planned. While biking home from campus one fall evening as darkness enveloped the autumn-tinted trees, a plastic bag containing my written material flew from my hands. Dozens of 3 X 5 treatment cards fluttered away from me and covered an intersection in East Grand Rapids like snowflakes on an open field. It was late enough, and absent of traffic, so that I was able to collect most of the cards without incident. The streaks of dirt across my labor bore witness to me of the poor quality of my writing, and my complete dearth of understanding of what I was attempting.</p>
<p class="subsq">That same fall, I made a decision, and received a “call” from God. I enrolled in seminary to embark on a career as a protestant minister in the Christian Reformed Church, the denomination of my college, and the church of my upbringing since 6<sup>th</sup> grade. I now had the certainty I sought—or so I thought. The rigors of seminary spared me from continued effort on the screenplay, and from great embarrassment had I ever attempted to see it through to completion. My girlfriend and I soon parted ways, a painful renting of boundary-less hearts that took me years to accept.</p>
<p class="subsq">During my study at seminary, I first encountered what was destined to become one of my greatest passions, though 20 years would pass before it would take root in the fertile ground of my imagination. I was pursuing a Master of Divinity degree at Calvin Theological Seminary on the same property as my college. In late 1987 or early 1988, I was relaxing one evening with my newest true crime book. My housemate Eric had come up from his basement hermitage to engage me in the living room area where the two of us, and two other students, shared a rented home.</p>
<p class="subsq">It was the custom of the mysterious Eric to emerge from his secluded habitation in the early evening. After a trek to the local convenience store for beer—typically two oversized cans—he would spend the rest of the night plying himself with his purchase until his speech was slurred, and he presumably descended into sleep back down in his basement room. Most nights, he disappeared from sight to enjoy his beer. On occasion, he lounged upstairs to interact with others. I do not now recall whether my odd housemate was also a student, or whether he had already entered the workforce. What I do vividly remember was his eager excitement when he noticed my book.</p>
<p class="subsq">Or perhaps <i>he</i> was the one reading true crime that evening and I was questioning him about his book, which sparked his excitement. The details are dimmed now in the misty corridors of distant memory. However it arose, the topic was of keen interest to the both of us. I would have similar exchanges with many friends and acquaintances over the following decades, but this was one of my first. Since many neither approve of, nor understand, a profound interest in true crime, especially within tight-knit conservative communities, it can be a real joy to find someone who revels in the genre. Today, with the thousands of documentaries and podcasts dedicated to the field, it is much more socially acceptable to be fascinated by, and challenged to understand, the deviant criminals in our society.</p>
<p class="subsq">I shared my reading list with Eric. In that era, I was frequently detouring into the true crime section of bookstores to examine the latest releases. At some point in the conversation, Eric turned to me and asked a question that would change my life forever, “Have you heard of the Zodiac?” (The query may have followed a question about other interesting titles that I could add to my library.) When he learned that I had not, he proceeded to educate me about the San Francisco Bay Area killer of five victims—and possibly many more. I learned the diabolical perpetrator had also written letters to the police, sent ciphers to the press, and had threatened school children with bomb sketches. And he was never caught.</p>
<p class="subsq">I responded with an amalgam of surprise and anger. Not so much because of the appalling deeds—I was by then rather inured to the actions of the most depraved in our society—but because I knew the Bay Area very well and had never heard of the Zodiac.</p>
<p class="subsq">I had just completed a nine-month internship with a medium-sized suburban congregation in Hayward, a Bay Area community to the south and east of San Francisco. I had lost my preaching virginity in the process, even though I did not possess the required preaching license to satisfy the rules of the denominational administrators. Vern, the affable senior pastor under whom I worked at the West Coast church, blithely told me, “It’s a long way to Grand Rapids (the headquarters of the Christian Reformed Church) from here.” Accordingly, during my stay in the region, I delivered a total of five sermons. The disjointed organization of my early efforts, together with my weak delivery as I cowered behind the lectern, left much to be desired. The congregation was very encouraging and infinitely patient.</p>
<p class="subsq">My job description with the church required that I engage with people in the neighborhood. I was the Outreach Pastor, responsible for inviting others to join our worship services, for enfolding new members into the full life of the congregation, and for functioning as a bridge between longstanding families and the church’s newly emerging members. My job enabled me to meet and talk with many, many area residents. Of the hundreds of fascinating and unique Californians I encountered that year, through thousands of conversations, not one single person mentioned to me the name of the serial killer who held court and terrified citizens in every corner of the Bay Area from 1968 to 1974. By 1986, apparently, the murders no longer hung in the air, even as a fleeting memory. The killer was either dead, incarcerated on unrelated offenses, or had moved to greener pastures, as far as most were concerned. No killings had been committed in the prior 17 years, and it had been at least a decade since the last authenticated Zodiac letter arrived by U.S. mail. The fear had evidently dissipated, and was no longer fodder for casual conversation. My position in the church may have made it uncomfortable for others to mention the appalling activities that had tarnished the region’s reputation. They may have falsely assumed that I as a preacher carried no interest in the horrendous actions of a deranged criminal.</p>
<p class="subsq">Now engaging Eric as his speech began to slow, my interest was piqued in a topic that would become near to my heart. The failure of Californians to even mention the events did not deter me from an obsessive quest to engage the crime spree—or from a desire to resolve it. The silence may even have heightened the case’s intrigue.</p>
<p class="subsq">Eric filled me in on as many details as he could recall, and told me about the one publication available at the time. Within three decades of our conversation, there would be three serious motion pictures that would inspire more than 100 books on the subject. The case would spawn television shows, documentaries, podcasts, and magazine articles, in addition to innumerable newspaper stories, a seemingly endless parade of Zodiac products. In the absence of any firm resolution to the case, some believed that anyone’s speculative guess was as good as anyone else’s. The marketplace ensured that any minor piece of circumstantial evidence could and would be packaged by someone bent on bringing a new product to market.</p>
<p class="subsq">Eric’s words penetrated far deeper into my psyche than I realized at the time, and for far longer than I ever would have ever guessed. I was captivated by the details he shared in part because the serial killing case was unsolved. Most of the true crime I was reading at the time covered criminals who had been caught by the time of publication, and whose life was an open book for scrutiny. Following the carefully described details of the murders and the extended investigation, my chosen reading material inevitably lingered long on the tale’s conclusion—an arrest and a successful prosecution usually covered in excruciating detail. The idea of a “modern” high profile-killer that had eluded capture, like Jack the Ripper in London’s East End back in the late 1800s, overtook my imagination. And it had occurred in the United States. And it had happened in California, a region I love.</p>
<p class="subsq">When I finally determined to tackle the case with a conscious and concerted effort in 2007, there were still only a handful of books that even remotely covered the topic, some fictional, the others loose with the case’s facts. I committed myself to reading all that had been written—an exercise that would occupy a few months of my time—and to viewing all the documentaries that had been produced. It took somewhat longer to wade through the hundreds of pages of police reports made available to the public.</p>
<p class="subsq">There have been other passions in my life, but none that ever challenged the huge monoliths of chess, theology, or the Zodiac. I at various times pursued Canadian coins and currency (hoarding the world’s largest collection of 1948 Canadian 10-cent pieces), the acoustic guitar—later, also the electric guitar—and table tennis (ping-pong). I recently found an autobiography I wrote in grade six, which reminded me that I also went through phases of breeding guppies, completing paint by number oil paintings, and learning to play the piano. I also indulged a passion for jogging and competitive long-distance running, which I received from Andrew, my taciturn older brother.</p>
<p class="subsq">One day when I was in grade six, out of the blue, Andrew informed me that he was going for a run with a friend, using a term that I had never heard before: “jogging.” The two had mapped out a course in the neighborhood, and were going to trace its four-mile perimeter. I now suspect that there was a classmate of Andrew’s along the route, some girl who had captured his attention, though I didn’t know about any current love interest, and never saw any young woman that night.</p>
<p class="subsq">When I asked to join them, they warily accepted me, not certain that I could keep up with their pace since I was a full two years younger. The distance proved not to be arduous, and I was barely winded by the time we returned home. It was a great challenge for me to match my brother step for step. In the end, I had succeeded.</p>
<p class="subsq">Andrew and I each began our own regiment of jogging. I assumed that he felt the same joy in the physical activity and the pride of accomplishment that I did, but we never discussed it at any great length. At first, I didn’t track my mileage, or set any goals. Soon, my competitive nature emerged, and over the course of a few years, I bought a bright red jogging suit, received a professional stopwatch for Christmas, and acquired some books about running. I was particularly drawn to the long distances that enabled me to set an easy pace, and lose myself in imagination as I worked through any emotional or intellectual challenges of the day.</p>
<p class="subsq">Soon even very long distances felt comfortable to me. The private elementary school I attended, Immanuel Christian School, which consisted of four classrooms and a couple dilapidated portables, held annual walk-a-thons to help raise tuition money. I spent many hours canvassing our neighborhood to gather sponsors, generous families who would agree to pay even a small amount for every mile I covered. Each fall beginning in grade seven, I ran the entire walk-a-thon course to see if I could complete the distance more quickly than the other participants. It became an annual competition among fellow runners.</p>
<p class="subsq">One year, I was the first person back at the school, having completed the 16-mile course (the distance was also listed as 25 kilometers, as Canada transitioned from the British system to the metric system); the following year, as I tried to match my accomplishment, I made a wrong turn and ran four more miles than required. I had pulled so far ahead of the other runners at the beginning of the course that when I detoured, I was unable hear the shouts of my classmates and the teachers directing me to return. I ran on, oblivious to those who sought to help me. I did not realize that the route had been altered from the previous year. I arrived at the final check point, the school itself, about 15 minutes after the first runners, having covered the few more miles than the “winner.”</p>
<p class="subsq">In high school, at the end of each year, the physical education teacher awarded a small trophy—smaller than a hand and not much bigger than a thumb—to each student who ran 125 miles over the course of the previous school year. It was a ritual designed to encourage physical activity among members of the student body. I dutifully recorded all my jogging sessions, and qualified each of the four years I was enrolled. In my senior year, grade 12, I pushed myself in the final weeks to accomplish the lofty total of 500 miles, four times the necessary distance. Janet, the teacher who awarded the trophies that year, and my colleague at summer camp—we awkwardly transitioned each summer from a teacher-student relationship to that of fellow staff members, then back again—simply announced that some students had run more than the required mileage, some “many more miles.” I was downcast that my name wasn’t specifically mentioned or the details of my effort. I may have hoped to impress my female classmates but I remained anonymous; my long hours unrecognized apart from the tiny trophy that I and a dozen other students were awarded.</p>
<p class="subsq">Three times that school year, I attempted to jog home from my high school, a distance of more than 19 miles. On my first try I only ran for about 10 miles before I acceded to public transportation for the remainder of the journey, hopping on a public bus that was going in the correct direction. I covered 13 miles on my next attempt. It was not until my third and final run that I was successful, and completed the entire 19.5-mile trek without stopping. On one of those runs, one of my school’s buses passed me, a handful of students staring out of the back window as it drove away. I wondered whether the students realized I was bound for Scarborough, and a Plato-like Odyssey.</p>
<p class="subsq">Also in my senior year, I competed in the second annual Toronto Marathon. Partly because I carried no food or sugar—and the checkpoints provided only water—I was only capable of running for the first 20 miles. I walked most of the remaining 6 miles for an elapsed time that exceeded four hours. I was pleased with the certificate that arrived in the mail a few weeks later.</p>
<p class="subsq">That fall, as I began my first semester at Calvin, I sauntered into the office of the track and field coach, hoping to share my running skills with my new school. As I sat in a waiting room and listened to a fellow athlete discuss his strategy for an upcoming event—the runner was worried that two races on the same day would prevent him from posting a good time for the second one, I heard him note, “Sometimes in a second race on the same day, I <i>do</i> run my best time.” When my turn came to speak with the coach, I learned that the upperclassman who had just left competed at a pace that approached a four-minute mile. My times were far too slow to provide any help to the team. I listed my track times, and the coach politely thanked me for visiting.</p>
<p class="subsq">My disappointment in not being fast enough, and the depression brought on by the gray skies of West Michigan, both led me to set aside my sneakers. Running, like table tennis and chess beforehand, had lost a prized place in my life, and was relegated to sporadic eruptions in my usually busy life. But I would never completely forget the tug on my heart that was induced by Eric and his intriguing details of an unidentified California serial killer.</p>
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Mark G. Hewitt DBA
Obsessed: My Relentless Pursuit of the Zodiac Killer
$19.95
In Obsessed: My Relentless Pursuit of the Zodiac Killer, Dr. Mark Hewitt invites readers into his gripping journey of unraveling one of America's most enduring mysteries. Dr. Hewitt, an expert on the Zodiac case, shares his transformation from a pastor to a dedicated true crime investigator.
This memoir details Dr. Hewitt's meticulous research, personal encounters, and the profound impact of the Zodiac case on his life. Moving to California reignited his passion, leading him to explore crime scenes and connect with other enthusiasts. His relentless pursuit is not only about the Zodiac but also about understanding the complexities of human nature and the quest for truth.
Obsessed: My Relentless Pursuit of the Zodiac Killer provides a unique blend of personal narrative and investigative insight, offering readers a compelling look at the determination and challenges faced by those who seek to solve cold cases. Join Dr. Hewitt as he navigates the twists and turns of this enigmatic case, shedding light on his life's work and his unwavering commitment to uncovering the truth.
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<h1 class="center" id="c3">Chapter One: The SIU</h1>
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<div>Imagine you’re at a neighborhood party. Stan, the nondescript neighbor you never talk to, approaches. Unsure what to say, you attempt, “Hi… Stan. How’s work?”</div>
<div class="indent">“My work?” Stan beams. “I got a great insurance story!” He moves into your space to drone on about his days navigating the rigors of risk management.</div>
<div class="indent">At that point, you either plan to fake a phone call or pray your significant other shouts, “It’s time to heat your casserole.” Anything but being cornered with insurance stories. Is anything more boring than an insurance person talking about their job? After all, it’s a product that’s only used when you’ve experienced a terrible loss—perhaps a car crash, fire, theft, injury, or death. Who wants to dwell on that?</div>
<div class="indent">I’m hoping to change that perception. My decades of combating insurance crimes have revealed a fascinating investigative niche unknown to most of the public. Our cases were filled with creativity, amusement, and sometimes pure evil. And even more significant, the cases financially impacted every one of our lives.</div>
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<div class="indent">For a quarter century, I investigated insurance fraud, based out of Miami—which, as you may or may not know, has had a small fraud problem.</div>
<div class="indent">Former Governor Rick Scott described “Florida’s embarrassing problems” with its insurance system. While describing a $910 million scheme, he coined the term “fraud tax” to describe the financial burden these crimes place on all consumers.<sup><a href="ypft_0054.html#n1-2" id="r1-2">[2]</a></sup></div>
<div class="indent">For the first five years, I investigated a broad range of fraudulent property and injury cases. For the following twenty, I managed diverse teams of insurance investigators for the largest property/casualty insurer in the United States, representing over 9 percent of the market, and a global top-ten carrier based on revenue.</div>
<div class="indent">Not for one moment was the job boring or routine. What other career could possibly lead to dealing with organized crime rings, art and jewelry theft, staged accidents, human trafficking, and faked deaths? We had to investigate without having a badge, a gun, or any real authority. Law enforcement had no duty to help us, though many times our cases intersected. We were the unsung heroes of the company’s SIU (Special Investigation Unit).</div>
<div class="indent">I must pause the swelling orchestra to issue a disclaimer that none of the following statements, narratives, or opinions reflect those of my former company. I will not disclose any confidential or proprietary information or trade secrets or name any specific carrier unless notated, and I have changed the names of parties and companies unless otherwise cited. The described scenarios are all true, and I will discuss how to avoid being a victim of the same crimes in our personal lives.</div>
<div class="indent">So, what is an SIU? It is a division within an insurance company that investigates potentially fraudulent insurance cases. SIUs are at the forefront of the ongoing fight against insurance crimes. Their job is to detect, deter, and pursue actions against fraudulent activities. SIU professionals who investigate insurance crimes are also employed by federal, state, or local law enforcement and anti-fraud organizations such as the NICB (National Insurance Crime Bureau).</div>
<div class="indent">Insurance fraud is probably as old as the carpenters who inflated repair costs after Noah’s flood, but the first formal SIU was established in Massachusetts by Kemper Insurance in 1976.<sup><a href="ypft_0054.html#n1-3" id="r1-3">[3]</a></sup> The primary concern at the time was auto-related fraud. Next, with larger property losses, arson became the focus of most SIU teams. Then came the shift into injury, medical, healthcare, and even organized crime.</div>
<div class="indent">Today, virtually all insurance companies worldwide have established SIU teams to help protect the financial integrity of their businesses. Most states have passed legislation mandating that insurance companies establish SIUs, as well as requiring anti-fraud training, essentially asking the carriers, “So, what are you doing about it?”</div>
<div class="indent">For the state in which I was housed, Florida Statute 626.9891, also known as the Fraudulent Insurance Act, mandated every insurer admitted to the state shall create anti-fraud units to investigate and report fraudulent insurance acts, or contract with a third party to investigate possible fraudulent acts. <sup><a href="ypft_0054.html#n1-4" id="r1-4">[4]</a></sup></div>
<div class="indent">With the creation of SIU teams, carriers needed to staff them with experienced people trained to investigate, take statements, and knock on doors, sometimes in unsavory areas. Therefore, employees couldn’t be easily intimidated and would have to work professionally with attorneys and law enforcement.</div>
<div class="indent">SIU teams also serve as liaisons to law enforcement including local and state police, FBI, fire marshals, Coast Guard, and ATF, as well as attorneys, surveillance experts, forensic analysts, and private investigators. Their relationships with experts in those fields are their greatest assets.</div>
<div class="indent">SIU representatives are not any sort of law enforcement. There are no badges, and they can’t make arrests. They are employees with specialized investigative training who represent the carriers. Many times, fraud is committed by people who aren’t the policyholders, such as medical clinics, unscrupulous attorneys, organized crime rings, body shops, dishonest agents, or our newest class of perpetrator: cybercriminals.</div>
<div class="indent">Regrettably, there’s job security in the field of fraud investigation—and it’s on the rise. According to 2022 data from the Insurance Information Institute<i>,</i> about 75 percent of insurers stated fraud has increased significantly, with an 11-point increase since 2014. <sup><a href="ypft_0054.html#n1-5" id="r1-5">[5]</a></sup></div>
<div class="indent">To keep up, a cottage industry of fraud detection firms has grown at a similar pace. The insurance fraud detection market, an entire industry of fraud analytics, is estimated to be a $912.3 million market in the U.S. alone, expected to grow 13.7 percent from 2019 to 2025.<sup><a href="ypft_0054.html#n1-6" id="r1-6">[6]</a></sup></div>
<div class="indent">Here are some facts to enlighten you on the crisis:</div>
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<div class="margin">Right now, you and every one of your family members are paying over $932 per year in increased premiums just to fund insurance fraud. That’s nearly $3,800 for a family of four.<sup><a href="ypft_0054.html#n1-7" id="r1-7">[7]</a></sup></div>
<div class="margin">Fraud occurs in about 10 percent of all property/casualty losses.<sup><a href="ypft_0054.html#n1-8" id="r1-8">[8]</a></sup></div>
<div class="margin">Non-medical insurance fraud is estimated at $45 billion per year. <sup><a href="ypft_0054.html#n1-9" id="r1-9">[9]</a></sup></div>
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<div class="indent">In the following chapters, I’ll describe various cases, categorized by type and escalating in severity. Most are cases that our SIU teams or I investigated; others are from our colleagues in the industry.</div>
<div class="indent">I’ll begin with routine burglaries, including “art theft on the high seas.” It’ll escalate into arson for profit, the monstrous acts of some arsonists, and even ritual sacrifices gone wrong. Then we’ll move on to organized crime, including the Russian mob’s varied enterprises. I’ll illustrate boat theft schemes and their use in human trafficking. We’ll shift to the rise of illicit medical clinics. Then we’ll recover sunken cars that contain haunting secrets. I’ll explain how not to fake your death, and I’ll conclude with my team’s role in the terrifying Pain & Gain double murder case (complete with robbery, extortion, and torture). I told you there was never a boring day.</div>
<div class="indent">Bottom line: Greed and opportunity continue to increase insurance crimes. Laws and corporate responsibility have hardened the need for SIU investigators as the schemes grow more creative, complex, brazen, and sometimes deadly.</div>
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Richard Wickliffe
You Paid For This
$17.95
Embark on a gripping 25-year journey delving into the author's investigation of insurance crimes in Miami, spotlighting Special Investigation Units (SIU) –an investigative world invisible to most, yet one for which we all pay.
In YOU PAID FOR THIS, Richard Wickliffe takes the reader from routine burglaries to art theft on the high-seas, arson for profit, and even failed ritual sacrifices. He describes a variety of cases he encountered, including the Russian mob and organized crime, boat thefts linked to unconscionable human trafficking, sunken cars that conceal deadly secrets, and the pitfalls of faking one's death. The book culminates with the SIU's involvement in Miami's harrowing Pain & Gain double murder case, featuring kidnapping, extortion, and mutilation.
With an informative yet witty tone, YOU PAID FOR THIS exposes the creative and chilling facets of insurance crimes, cautioning and advising readers on how to protect themselves from potential victimization in their own lives.
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<div id="chapter-1" class="element element-bodymatter element-container-single element-type-chapter element-with-heading" role="doc-chapter" epub:type="chapter">
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<div class="element-number case-mixed"><span class="element-number-term">Chapter</span> <span class="element-number-number">1</span></div>
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<div class="title-block">
<h1 class="element-title case-mixed">Not Just Another Day…</h1>
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<div class="text" id="chapter-1-text">
<p class="first first-in-chapter first-full-width"><span class="first-phrase">U.S. Marshal Stephen Monier</span> arrived at his desk at approximately eight a.m. on Friday, January 12, 2007. This was going to be the fourth day of the trial for Ed and Elaine Brown of Plainfield, New Hampshire, on felony charges for conspiracy to commit federal income tax violations. The government had a very strong case, and the Browns were representing themselves.</p>
<p class="subsq">A friend sympathetic to their cause, Michael Avery, from the suitably named Outlaw Legal Services of Florida, was serving as a “paralegal.” He had helped Ed and Elaine prepare all their pre-trial motions. He was seated at the defense table to “advise them.” The Browns had rejected any representation by an attorney.</p>
<p class="subsq">It wasn’t going well for the Browns. Ed Brown’s spurious arguments against having to pay federal income taxes were rejected by the court, and his theories on the federal tax laws were shut down by presiding Judge Steven McAuliffe at several points. The government’s witnesses were showing that Ed and Elaine had stopped paying their taxes in 1996 and owed more than $625,000 in unpaid income tax. They were also charged with structuring, the intentional manipulation of financial transactions to evade reporting requirements.</p>
<p class="subsq">As was his custom on getting to the office, Marshal Monier checked in with the control room upon arrival and spoke with the two court security officers manning the cameras and other systems monitoring courthouse activity that day. All was quiet, they said.</p>
<p class="subsq">Marshal Monier and his chief deputy, Gary DiMartino, were both concerned about this trial. The U.S. Marshals Service (USMS) had deemed that the trial was “high risk” given that Ed Brown, a self-described “retired exterminator,” had become a leader in the militia group, U.S. Constitution Rangers. Membership in the rangers had grown in the aftermath of federal law enforcement’s attempts to serve arrest warrants at Ruby Ridge in Idaho and at the Branch Davidian compound in Waco, Texas. Chief DiMartino and Inspector Brenda Mikelson had ordered extra courtroom security and intelligence gathering for the trial. They had ensured that court security officers were being extra vigilant in screening people involved with, or attending, the trial in the U.S. District Court in Concord, New Hampshire.</p>
<p class="subsq">Marshal Steve Monier and Chief DiMartino had worked together for the past five years in the District of New Hampshire. Chief DiMartino was a career deputy U.S. marshal who had risen through the ranks to become a chief deputy in the Marshals Service, the number two person in every one of the ninety-four district offices of the USMS.</p>
<p class="subsq">Deputy U.S. marshals are highly trained federal law enforcement officers, not unlike career FBI, ATF, and IRS agents. They apply for open positions in the Marshals Service, take written and physical exams, and are subjected to background investigations prior to being hired. They attend, and must successfully complete, the USMS Academy and other advanced training programs throughout their career.</p>
<p class="subsq">Gary DiMartino began his law enforcement career in a Rhode Island police department before applying for, and beginning, his calling with the USMS.</p>
<p class="subsq">Because he had served in several supervisory positions on both the East and West Coasts during his long tenure with the agency and had taught at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Academy in Glynco, Georgia, he was a highly respected and well-known chief in the USMS. Marshal Monier considered him a very qualified, competent, and professional member of the service and was pleased that when President George W. Bush had nominated him to become the U.S. Marshal for the District of New Hampshire, Gary was his chief deputy.</p>
<p class="subsq">Unlike the deputy U.S. marshals, who form the corps or “backbone” of the USMS, each U.S. marshal (USM) who heads the district offices of the USMS is nominated by the President of the United States and must be confirmed by the U.S. Senate before taking the oath of office. This has been the case since the U.S. Marshals Service was created in 1789 by the 1<sup>st</sup> Congress of the newly formed United States government.</p>
<p class="subsq">When the 1<sup>st</sup> Congress of the United States stood up the federal judiciary, they realized there was no agency to enforce court orders, apprehend offenders, or help run the court system. In the Judiciary Act, the 1<sup>st</sup> Congress created the United States Marshals Service, with each marshal in each district to be appointed by the president with the “advice and consent” of the United States Senate.</p>
<p class="subsq">President George Washington swore in the first thirteen U.S. marshals, including the first marshal of the District of New Hampshire, in 1789. The U.S. Marshals Service is our republic’s oldest federal law enforcement agency, with the broadest of authority in enforcing federal law and orders from the U.S. courts. For over 234 years, the U.S. Marshals have done everything from protecting the courts, to taking the census, to protecting the President of the United States.</p>
<p class="subsq">In the twenty-first century, their core mission is the protection of the U.S. courts, enforcing court orders, apprehending fugitives, running the witness protection program, finding missing or abducted children, and taking the lead on enforcing the provisions of the Adam Walsh Act to track and monitor convicted sex offenders.</p>
<p class="subsq">Congress and the U.S. Department of Justice made several legislative and administrative changes to how the work of the USMS was conducted over the decades, and in particular, in the twentieth century. Originally, each U.S. marshal could appoint his own deputies as needed, to carry out orders from the court.</p>
<p class="subsq">As David S. Turk, the official historian of the Marshals Service, noted in his seminal work entitled <i>Forging the Star</i>,<i> </i>“[L]ong after gaining their Old West reputation with personnel such as Seth Bullock, Wyatt Earp, Bass Reeves, Bat Masterson, and Heck Thomas, U.S. Marshals and their deputies followed a winding trail of transition.”?<sup class="main-text-refnote-cue"><a href="notes.xhtml#chapter-1-endnote-1-text" id="chapter-1-endnote-1" class="refnote-marker marker-format-roman-lower endnote-cue roman-lower-i" role="doc-noteref" epub:type="noteref">i</a></sup></p>
<p class="subsq">At approximately nine-thirty on that Friday morning, Chief DiMartino stuck his head into the marshal’s office and said, “Marshal, Ed and Elaine failed to show up this morning for the continuation of their trial.”</p>
<p class="subsq">It was a decisive moment in the long run-up to this point in the case of the <i>United States v. Edward L. Brown & Elaine A. Brown</i>. Their failure to appear was long feared by both Monier and DiMartino.</p>
<p class="subsq">Both had had uneasy feelings about this case, since the district court’s magistrate judge released them on conditions, at their arraignment on May 24, 2006, on the income tax and other charges.</p>
<p class="subsq">Among the conditions of release were that the Browns surrender all weapons to the USMS and the U.S. probation officers who would accompany them back to their Plainfield home. Further, they were to cooperate with, and report regularly to, the U.S. probation officers at the U.S. district court and appear at all future court proceedings.</p>
<p class="subsq">Deputy U.S. marshals and U.S. probation officers drove Ed and Elaine back to their home in Plainfield to remove their weapons that day in May of 2006. Sharp-eyed deputy marshals noted the layout of the Browns’ home on the property, took photographs, and later sketched out the interior layout of the home. This proved to be pivotal in what ensued in the continuing Brown saga.</p>
<p class="subsq">The deputies who went there also told Chief DiMartino that they didn’t believe Ed Brown had surrendered every weapon in his possession to the U.S. probation officers. The property, they reported, was simply too large and the house and outbuildings had too many places where firearms could be concealed.</p>
<p class="subsq">Within a few hours of the morning the Browns failed to appear for the continuation of their trial, the news got worse. The USMS learned that heavily armed militia members and supporters of Ed Brown had gathered at the end of their long driveway leading to their hilltop home in Plainfield. Judge Steven McAuliffe issued warrants for the Browns’ arrest on failure to appear.</p>
<p class="subsq">Initially, at the USMS and the prosecution’s request, the warrants were sealed. Chief Gary DiMartino counseled that the best course immediately was to call the Browns and convince them to return to court for the remainder of their trial. The marshal and Judge McAuliffe concurred, as Gary had carefully established a rapport with Ed and Elaine while they were detained in the Marshals Service’s detention facility at their arraignment in May.</p>
<p class="subsq">“I had faith in Gary’s ability to use his considerable communications skills to convince the Browns that they should return to court to finish the trial,” Monier reported. Instead of immediately attempting to arrest the Browns at their home, where Ed’s armed followers had gathered, he consented to Gary’s suggestion that he try and convince them to return for the remainder of the trial.</p>
<p class="subsq">Gary DiMartino spent the next three days talking with Ed and Elaine via telephone to do just that. The fact that the Browns took every one of his calls over that weekend was a positive.</p>
<p class="subsq">At one point, it looked like the chief would be successful and that both Ed and Elaine would return to the court on Tuesday morning. Elaine was more noticeably willing to do that given the chief’s convincing arguments that this was a financial crime and that they need not take this to any further level.</p>
<p class="subsq">Gary argued that it would be hard for them to continue to mount a defense if they weren’t in the courtroom to do so. The jury, he said, “will only hear the government’s side, and not yours.” As it turned out, Chief DiMartino was only partially successful.</p>
<p class="subsq">Chief DiMartino continued to speak with them directly over the phone throughout the weekend and into the day on Monday, which was a holiday. On Tuesday morning, January 16<sup>th</sup>, Gary had brokered the return of the Browns for the remainder of their trial. Elaine Brown got into the car to return to the courthouse in Concord. At the last minute, however, Ed demurred and refused to get in the car.</p>
<p class="subsq">This was a partial victory for the Marshals Service. While it isolated Ed Brown from Elaine, Ed was not alone. He was left with some die-hard armed militia supporters who shared his belief about the “corruption of the federal government.” Soon thereafter, others joined the group, including members of the “Free State” movement in New Hampshire who, while not professing violence themselves, joined in the discussion about the “overreach” of the federal government into the lives of ordinary Americans. A select number of the New Hampshire Free Staters, who preached an extreme form of libertarianism, supported the Browns.</p>
<p class="subsq">In a letter posted on the internet shortly after Ed Brown’s public announcement that he would not be returning for the remainder of his trial, New Hampshire native William D. Miller wrote on a blog posting, “I am going to see Judge McAuliffe and U.S. Attorney Colantuono and various other officials hanged for treason for these actions.” In response, the U.S. Marshals Service issued a “be on the look-out” (BOLO) to area law enforcement in an attempt to locate Miller.</p>
<p class="subsq">Miller, a New Hampshire resident who was living in Florida at the time, had a history of local law enforcement contacts. He was also an early disciple of Ed Brown and the Constitution Rangers and had been one of Ed’s followers for some time.</p>
<p class="subsq">When Bill Miller learned of the trial, and Ed’s vow to fight any attempt to force him to return to the courtroom, Miller got in his car and drove nonstop from Florida “to protect Brown” at all costs. Miller was armed and ready to take on the role of “chief of staff” to Ed Brown when he arrived in Plainfield, New Hampshire, twenty-four hours later.</p>
<p class="subsq">With Miller’s help initially, Brown made use of the internet, emails, blog postings, and media interviews almost immediately upon deciding that he was going to fight any attempts to arrest him or force him from his property.</p>
<p class="subsq">“I will defend my property, and I am willing to die before going to jail…” Ed Brown told his followers. Apparently, Ed had concluded that he and Elaine were likely to be convicted at the conclusion of the trial. He was publicly critical of Judge McAuliffe and his rulings and, in interviews with the gathering media, called it a “kangaroo court.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Word was quickly spreading through the militia, U.S. Constitution Rangers, and the sovereign citizen communities that things were heating up in Plainfield. Comments on blogging websites and emails about the federal government unfairly targeting the Browns were spreading hourly. Supporters were calling for all good patriots to stand up for them. One message being spread on anti-government websites was titled, “<i>Will Plainfield be another Waco?</i>”</p>
<p class="subsq">Local and state media also began covering the Ed and Elaine Brown story. The <i>NH Union Leader</i>, New Hampshire’s only statewide newspaper, and the <i>Concord Monitor</i>, published in New Hampshire’s capital and widely distributed, and the <i>Valley News</i> (covering the Hanover, Lebanon, and Plainfield region) all took note. The marshal and chief assigned a deputy, who was particularly adept at high tech, IT, and the internet, to begin monitoring all activities related to the Browns. In a call to HQ, they asked that the Investigative Services Division (ISD) and the Intel Unit do the same.</p>
<p class="subsq">On January 12, 2007, Margot Sanger-Katz, a reporter for the <i>Concord Monitor </i>(a prominent New Hampshire newspaper covering the capital city region)<i> </i>wrote one of her first news stories about the Browns’ trial when she reported on the first two days of it. The trial had already gained a local interest amongst the state’s papers and the statewide ABC-affiliated TV station, WMUR-TV 9, as supporters of the Browns demonstrated in front of the U.S. district courthouse.</p>
<p class="subsq">Dave Ridley of Keene, New Hampshire, a member of the “Free State” movement in the state, held a sign reading “Ministry of Torture” in reference to “government-sanctioned torture with taxes.” “That’s why I support Ed,” Ridley told the <i>Concord Monitor</i>. “He’s standing up to the federal government.”</p>
<p class="subsq">Ironically, Sanger-Katz’s article about the trial’s proceedings appeared on January 12<sup>th</sup>, the same day Ed and Elaine Brown both refused to return to the courthouse. The government was close to resting its case against the Browns after the testimony of the lead IRS agent handling the investigation and testimony from several postal service employees about the Browns’ habit of purchasing multiple postal money orders just below the $3,000 limit required for notification to the government of the transaction.</p>
<p class="subsq">According to the government’s witnesses, this “structuring” of money orders is a common method to avoid paying income taxes. Over a two-year period, the Browns purchased more than $300,000 in money orders. Ed and Elaine, according to postal service investigators, would separately each wait in line and purchase a money order for $2,800.</p>
<p class="subsq">At the close of the court’s proceedings on January 11<sup>th</sup>, both Browns told the court that they would begin their defense in the morning, and both told the judge that they planned to testify in their own defense.</p>
<p class="subsq">Both, however, failed to return to court on Friday, January 12<sup>th</sup>.</p>
<p class="subsq">On Tuesday, the 16<sup>th</sup> of January, 2007, the day that Elaine agreed to Chief DiMartino’s entreaties to return to court, she also agreed to have a court-appointed attorney, Bjorn Lange, represent her. Michael Avery, the paralegal, continued in his role and sat in on the plea negotiations between the government prosecutor and Attorney Lange.</p>
<p class="subsq">Learning of the plea negotiations, Judge McAuliffe agreed to postpone the couple’s trial for another day when it appeared that Elaine Brown would be willing to reach a deal with the prosecution. That is, if she pled guilty to the extent of her criminal liability and conduct. As a dentist, Elaine Brown earned most of the couple’s income. She also had been charged with failing to collect employment taxes from the staff at her dental office in Lebanon.</p>
<p class="subsq">The judge continued the trial for another day so that the government could calculate what they expected Dr. Brown would pay in back taxes and penalties and the terms of a prison confinement. Elaine was given until ten o’clock the following morning to make a decision on whether to accept a plea deal. If there was no deal, the judge ruled, the trial would continue with or without Ed Brown in the courtroom.</p>
<p class="subsq">Because Elaine had failed to appear on Friday, the judge ordered new bail conditions for her. He ordered Dr. Brown to stay with her son in Worcester, Massachusetts, and not to return to her Plainfield, New Hampshire, home. She was only allowed telephonic contact with her husband, and she was ordered to wear an electronic ankle bracelet so that U.S. probation officers could monitor her whereabouts.</p>
<p class="subsq">The Waco Branch Davidian standoff lasted fifty-one days. When both the Browns failed to appear on January 12, 2007, it set in motion what would become a nearly nine-month standoff, the longest armed standoff in the 234-year history of the U.S. Marshals Service. Would Plainfield, New Hampshire, join the lexicon of American history as another Waco or Ruby Ridge?</p>
<p class="subsq">District of New Hampshire Chief Gary DiMartino, U.S. Marshal Steve Monier, and USMS Chief Regional Inspector Dave Dimmitt were determined not to let that happen.</p>
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Steve Monier
No One Has To Die
$19.95
On January 12, 2007, what began as a felony tax trial for Ed and Elaine Brown in Plainfield, New Hampshire, spiraled into the longest armed standoff in U.S. Marshals history. Refusing to appear in court and surrender to federal authorities, the Browns transformed their home into a fortress, drawing support from militia groups and anti-government activists nationwide.
No One Has To Die offers an in-depth look at the tense and perilous nine month standoff that tested the resolve and tactics of the U.S. Marshals Service. Steve Monier, with contributions from Gary DiMartino and Dave Dimmitt, recounts the meticulous planning and tactical negotiations aimed at resolving the situation peacefully, against a backdrop of rising militia activity and public scrutiny.
This compelling narrative dives into the Browns' extremist beliefs, the challenges faced by law enforcement, and the strategies employed to prevent another Waco or Ruby Ridge. Through detailed accounts and personal insights, the book highlights the importance of communication, patience, and strategy in averting violence and ensuring that no one has to die.
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<h1 class="element-title case-upper">ONE</h1>
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<h2 id="subhead-1" class="section-title subhead keep-with-next paragraph-follows case-upper">FINDING MY FOOTING</h2>
<p class="first first-in-chapter first-full-width first-after-subhead"><span class="first-phrase">I grew</span> up about two miles from Possum Trot, a rural community in Western Kentucky. I was a shy, awkward kid who was not particularly good at sports, nor was I a good student. I was average at best. I didn’t have a lot of friends in school. I just tried to blend in. It was 1970 when I graduated from North Marshall High School. Most of us were just hanging out waiting to see if we would be drafted. My first job out of high school was as a riverboat deckhand. It was good money, but it wasn’t for me. In fact, the job was not the adventure I thought it would be. It wasn’t long before I decided I needed to do something else with my life just in case I wasn’t drafted. I enrolled in a community college where I had to really study and apply myself just to make average grades. I guess this was because I had not learned much in high school.</p>
<p class="subsq">After two years in community college, I enrolled in Murray State University, where I earned a bachelor’s degree in psychology. I attended one year of graduate school, but I was burned out. I was tired of being so poor and living on student loans. When I finally got my draft notice, I went for my physical and was turned down because I had flat feet.</p>
<p class="subsq">Probably the biggest influence in my life was my practice of Karate while I was in college. I had a knack for it. I would practice every day for hours. I became obsessed. When I earned my black belt in Wado Ryu–style Karate, I started entering tournaments. One of my instructors was Sensei Vic Milner. I became an instructor and taught Karate at the university. I also taught in several local Dojos. I had won tournaments in the black belt division in Kentucky, Tennessee, and Arkansas. I only lost two times, once in a full-contact event in Alabama and once in a “Battle of Champions.” Some of my students were guards and supervisors from KSP. I had a standing offer as a guard if I ever needed a job.</p>
<p class="subsq">I graduated from college in the Jimmy Carter years while the economy was stalled. There were no jobs. Finally, I decided to give the prison a try. What did I have to lose? I didn’t have any other prospects for a job unless I wanted to go back on a riverboat or go back to graduate school. So I applied for the job and was hired as a correctional officer. I never looked back.</p>
<h2 id="subhead-2" class="section-title subhead keep-with-next paragraph-follows case-upper">THE BELLY OF THE BEAST</h2>
<p class="first first-after-subhead">My first day at KSP (Kentucky State Prison) was July 3, 1978. And I was nervous. As I rounded the curve and drove down the road from Pea Ridge, there it was, looming like a medieval fortress on the banks of Lake Barkley. The Castle on the Cumberland River. What had I gotten myself into? I could only imagine what convicted inmates might think when they see the Castle for the first time. The prison itself resembles something out of the Middle Ages, with its soaring walls, stone parapets, and heavily guarded watchtowers. An imposing place, with a reputation to match.</p>
<p class="subsq">As I started up the crumbling steps to the main entrance, I heard a grumpy voice say, “HALT! State your business.” I stopped dead in my tracks. The command to halt sounded threatening—as if I might be shot if I didn’t obey.</p>
<p class="subsq">I looked up and saw a middle-aged man peering down at me from the gun tower. I responded, “I am Philip Parker, and I am reporting to work.”</p>
<p class="subsq">“Go ahead,” was all he said. I didn’t know what to think about this first encounter, but I knew I was about to enter a strange, new world.</p>
<p class="subsq">As I approached the front gate, I stepped aside as several uniformed men with shotguns came running from the armory located at just off the top of the steps. Startled, I stepped aside and froze as they passed. I thought to myself, <i>What in the hell is this about?</i></p>
<p class="subsq">I learned later that there had been a mass escape from Four Cell House. My very first day. Three inmates, Joe Craig, James Hatfield, and Charles Murphy, had cut through their cell bars and made their way down the short distance from the opening to the ground using bedsheets fashioned into a braided rope. As with every prison escape, their luck was fleeting; the men were apprehended a few days later. As first impressions go, this was a lot to take in for a new corrections officer.</p>
<p class="subsq">I stood at the entrance, waiting to be ushered in. There was no control center at the time to automatically open prison doors. After the front gate officer keyed the lock, I crossed the threshold and entered the belly of the beast. One of the things I never quite became accustomed to after all my years in the Castle was the smell. The Castle has an odor unlike anything I have ever experienced: an ungodly combination of cigarette smoke, body odor, sewer gas, death, and history. It still smells that way to me. Some five decades later, I still notice that odor as I walk up to the prison gates. Half-jokingly, I always say it is the smell of the Castle Beast, the one that trolls the front entrance, taunting all those who sense its presence.</p>
<p class="subsq">After filling out employment paperwork with two other new hires, we were told to go to the receiver’s basement to get our uniforms. I thought to myself, <i>What the hell is the receiver’s basement?</i> Turns out it was a warehouse in the basement of Five Cell House with an outside entrance. I learned my first lesson on the job: prison workers have their own language to describe the Castle’s twisty, cavernous interior. I knew we had to learn fast or we would not find our way around. KSP is enormous, with five large cell blocks that housed 1,200 inmates in 1978. In subsequent years, two new cell blocks were added, even as the overall population decreased to around 980, because inmates no longer shared cells.</p>
<p class="subsq">With uniforms in hand, the new hires were directed to report to the hospital for a physical. The hospital, I later learned, was a state-licensed facility complete with infirmary beds, a surgical wing, a pharmacy, and an emergency room. But we had no idea how to get there. After wandering around the sprawling prison yard for what seemed like an eternity, one of the older guards took pity on us and pointed to where we had to go.</p>
<p class="subsq">A man in a lab coat with a stethoscope led me into an exam room and asked some standard questions about my health. I filled out a medical history as he listened to my heart and lungs, took my blood pressure, pulse, and temperature. I thought he was a doctor. Several weeks later, I saw him in the canteen line and realized the man I mistook for a doctor was actually a convict.</p>
<h2 id="subhead-3" class="section-title subhead keep-with-next paragraph-follows case-upper">SOMETHING FISHY</h2>
<p class="first first-after-subhead">A “fish” is a term used to describe a newly hired officer or a new inmate who just got off the bus. Why, I don’t know. It is just prison slang. The “fish tank” was a row of cells in One Cell House used to house inmates until they had been given an orientation and a list of the rules. They would also meet the Classification Committee to be assigned a job and a cell.</p>
<p class="subsq">A fish <i>officer</i> is a new hire who has not attended the academy or learned the ropes. These rookie officers are basically useless and treated accordingly. You remained a fish officer until you became familiar with all the ins-and-outs of daily prison operations and earned a small degree of respect. You had to prove yourself, meaning you would not run from trouble and you would back up your fellow officers. You also had to follow orders to the letter.</p>
<p class="subsq">I was hired in with two middle-aged female employees, Betty Blackwell and Rosy Mitchell. In the late 1970s, only a handful of females were hired as correctional officers. It was still a man’s world, but that was rapidly changing for the better. Nora Aldridge was the first female hired as a correctional officer sometime around 1976. Soon after, Judy Groves was hired and had already made sergeant by the time I came aboard. I try to imagine how they must have felt entering such a hostile, male-dominated environment, where danger and violence were the norm. These were courageous and brave women.</p>
<p class="subsq">As the three of us made our way out to the receiver’s basement, we had to traverse a sidewalk just below Four Cell House then Five Cell House. Inmates could stand at the barred windows in the hallways of Five Cell House and look down at the walkway we were on, the cars in the parking lot, and the boat traffic on Lake Barkley. We were about to learn our next lesson.</p>
<p class="subsq">Betty Blackwell, walking next to me on the winding sidewalk, was a middle-aged blond with an attractive figure, and Rosie Mitchell, a middle-aged person of color, strode alongside Betty as we made our way to the receiver’s basement. As we passed under Five Cell House, we could hear a whistle and catcall from somewhere above us on one of the four floors of Five Cell House. “Shake it, baby, shake it!” I was street smart and did not look toward the direction of the voice. Betty reflexively glanced up, however, and that same voice yelled, “Not you, Bitch. HIM.” I thought, <i>Oh my God, they are talking to me!</i> Another lesson for a fish guard.</p>
<h2 id="subhead-4" class="section-title subhead keep-with-next paragraph-follows case-upper">TRAINING</h2>
<p class="first first-after-subhead">Training consisted of a two-week academy at Eastern Kentucky University, the training center for all correctional officers and police officers in Kentucky. After the academy, we endured a week of firearms training at KSP, followed by on-the-job training. Before could be scheduled for the academy, I had to shadow more experienced officers. I was not allowed to work by myself until I graduated from the academy.</p>
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Philip W. Parker
Guard
$22.95
Guard: A True Story of Duty, Sacrifice, and Leadership in Kentucky's Maximum Security Penitentiary
In 1978, Philip Parker started his decades-long career as a prison guard at the Kentucky State Penitentiary, a place known as "The Castle" for its medieval look. On his first day, a mass escape set the tone for the dangerous and intense journey ahead. Over the years, Parker faced numerous challenges, from federal court allegations to life-threatening situations, including a dramatic hostage crisis with a notorious inmate.
Parker's memoir takes readers through the emotions and realities of prison life. From handling daily violence and suicides to witnessing murders caused by racial tension and other conflicts, Parker describes the harsh environment of the prison. Guard includes detailed accounts of harrowing events, like the highway crime spree where two of his colleagues were shot.
The book also covers the evolution of the prison itself, from its early days with medieval punishments to modern-day improvements. Parker shares his experiences as a warden, dealing with staff corruption, inmate violence, and the heavy responsibility of carrying out court-ordered executions.
Guard is a vivid and honest account of a life spent managing the worst in human behavior while finding moments of compassion and redemption. It highlights the dedication and resilience required to maintain order in such a challenging environment, and offers a unique perspective on the sacrifices made by those who work in the prison system.
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<div class="element-number case-upper"><span class="element-number-term">CHAPTER</span> <span class="element-number-number">1</span></div>
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<div class="title-block">
<h1 class="element-title case-upper">THE MURDER OF GINA MARIE TISHER</h1>
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<p class="alignment-block-content alignment-block-content-center">Friday, January 2, 1976</p>
<p class="alignment-block-content alignment-block-content-center">Whittier, California</p>
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<p class="first first-in-chapter first-full-width"><span class="first-phrase">The rapist knew exactly</span> what he was looking for. He always knew when he had found the right one. Until he found her, he continued to walk aimlessly through the Whittier shopping center. He followed one young woman, but she never left the security of the crowded center. He followed another younger girl and thought she might be the one, but she kept looking back at him nervously. He would stop and look in the shop windows pretending to be interested in the merchandise. Finally, he gave up on her and went back into the parking lot to look for another.</p>
<p class="subsq">He knew he should be at work. He had just gotten the job at the Chevron Station and had promised his common-law wife Mollye he would stay with it this time and not lose this job as he had the others. But when the urge came over him to follow a girl, he could not seem to help himself. He had to do it again, as he had many times before. He couldn’t remember exactly when it started, but it had been going on for a while now. He couldn’t stop. It used to be he could go for weeks before the impulse came over him, but lately, it seemed to happen more often. He couldn't explain why.</p>
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<p class="alignment-block-content alignment-block-content-center"><b>From the transcribed confession of the killer:</b></p>
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<p class="first blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose blockquote-position-first">I was supposed to be at work, but that urge came over me, and something was driving me to go look for a girl. I was talking to myself. I drove around for a long time, and then I was at the Whitwood Shopping Center in Whittier. I was hanging around there a long time also. I was about to give up and go home, and I was walking through a rear exit or something. There was a dry cleaner by a Vons or an Albertsons. It’s a shopping center, and there was a grocery store there, and there are a couple of little businesses there, and there’s a dry cleaner. And she was putting her clothes in [the car] from the dry cleaners, and I walked on by her, and I started to go around her car, and I looked back and she was having a hard time. And I turned around, and I looked, and there wasn’t anybody watching. She had long dark hair. She was wearing a dress, and I think a sweater, nylons, and shoes. She was pretty, young, and I think she was about twenty or twenty-two years old. She was sophisticated looking, but not the kind of sophisticated where they have an air about them. She was driving a newer gold or brown-colored Granada.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">So, anyway, she was putting the clothes in, and I turned around, and I walked back around her and walked right up to her, and by then she had gotten into the car. I was standing there, and then I turned around, and I walked back behind the car, and just as I got behind it, I turned, and I looked into the back window, and she was just about started up, and she reached around and messed with the clothes again or something and she saw me. I pointed to her left rear tire and said, “Ah, you aren’t gonna get far with that tire like that.” Or something, and she said, “OK.” So, I started to walk away, and I turned around, and I looked at her, and I said, “Did you hear what I said?” And she said, “What?” I was yelling at her or something. I walked back around to the driver’s side of the car, and I reached down, and I kicked the tire or something, and I said, “You’ve got a flat tire here.” She said, “I do?” And she cracked the door open.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">As soon as she got the door open, I pulled the gun out and stuck it in her face. I said, “Scoot over.” She said, “What?” I said, “Scoot over, right now, quick. Don’t give me no shit, just scoot over, scoot your ass over.” And I pulled the door open, and I jumped in, and half pushed her over, and she slid over. I said, “Give me the keys.” She said something like, “What the hell is going on?” I told her, “Just shut up and give me the keys. Put the keys in the ignition.” She put the keys in the ignition, and I started the car up. I think it was about five-thirty or six. Yeah, because the banks were still open until six. I drove out of the parking lot across into a tract of homes due east of Whitwood Center, and I pulled around the corner, and I said, “OK, take all the money out of your purse. You haven’t got any weapons or anything? Knives or guns or anything like that?” She said, “No, I never had one.” “What’s in the back seat?” I asked her. She said, “Laundry.” And I think she had a present or something for someone. I’m not sure. Anyway, she told me what was in the back seat, and she gave me the money she had. I told her it wasn’t enough, and she said they were newlyweds, and they just had a vacation and spent most of their money on vacation or something or other. And I said, “Well, what about a bank account?" She said the car was a rental from the place where her husband works because her car was being worked on or something and that they really didn’t have any money. They spent it on their honeymoon. The only thing she had was ten or twenty bucks that she gave me and her paycheck, her paycheck that she had to cash.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">She showed the paycheck to me, and I jumped on it, and I said, “OK, we’re going to go cash it.” Anyway, she told me what bank she banked at, and I said, “Well, where is one of those?” And she said, “Well, where are we?” And I pulled back out to the main street. I don’t know the name of it, but anyway I saw the name of it, and I told her, and she said, “OK, well, we’ve got to go that way.” And she named the place. I was going to go to a drive-up window or a walk-up window without going inside the bank, and I told her that. She said, “Well, the only one I know like that is my bank. It is on the other side of town or something. It’s a quarter to six now and closes in fifteen minutes so we’ll have to hurry.”</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">So, I said, “OK, in the meantime, climb over into the back seat and get on the floor.” And it had bucket seats. She got on the floor, and I took off. I was driving with my left hand. I had my gun stuck in the back seat pointed at her in my right hand. I had it stuck between her legs. I took off. I said, “OK, we’re coming to (so-and-so) street, which way?” She said the bank was on Imperial. So, I took what I thought I knew was a shortcut or something. Somehow, we got off on a side street and went all over the goddamn place and didn’t ever come out. We just kept getting deeper and deeper.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">Finally, I told her to get up in the front and show me the way out, and she didn’t know where we were. It was about five minutes to six. She said if we go back to Whitwood Shopping Center the bank there was open. I told her that was no go—that there had to be somewhere, a store or some grocery store or somebody that knew her that would cash it. She said she knew of a place or two that had cashed her checks. I said, “For how much?” “Well, for ten or twenty dollars or for the amount of purchase only,” and that she didn’t know of any place that would take, I think it was a two-hundred-and-forty-dollar check, or something like that, a payroll check. We drove around trying to find a place for a half hour or an hour where she could cash the check, but we never stopped anywhere. And so finally I got pissed off and told her.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">Well, she was in the back all that time. She got back in the back from Whitwood before we took off. So, we took off and drove around and looked at these places. Nothing. I got pissed off. I kept sticking … I had the gun between her legs up her skirt, and I kept sticking it into her, poking her, and poking her with it. I drove off up Hacienda Boulevard up over the hills somewhere. I drove back, and I turned off a side road and went halfway back up it—parked underneath this bank that there was a house up on. I told her to get back up in the front seat. I started asking her questions about her family, and when her husband got home from work, where did her parents live. They live in Anaheim; I think—Anaheim or Santa Ana. Did they have any money to buy her back? No, they didn’t have much money, but her mom had a turquoise necklace that was worth a thousand dollars or something. I told her, “Well, I could only get ten percent on that. That’s only a hundred bucks, and I need five hundred dollars.” She said, well, she thought they had a hundred or a hundred and fifty dollars in cash. I told her that was still two hundred dollars short.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">I turned back north on Hacienda and got going up over the hill, and she said she didn’t know where she could get the money. And so, we got up over the hill, and we started coming down the hill, and I turned right off into the tract of homes again and was driving around in those homes and telling her she had to come up with more money, she had to come up with more money. And she couldn’t do it. I said, “Well, you’ve got to come up with some collateral or something to make up for the money.” “Well, you can have the car,” she told me. I said, “Well, I already planned to take the car. I can get five hundred bucks for it, but I need a thousand. We’re still two hundred and fifty short. You gotta come up with two hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of something.”</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">So, we went around and around and around for a while, and finally, I drove up to the City of Industry. I think that is where we ended up, back there in some factories or something. In the meantime, I had convinced her that she could give me two hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of sex, and I’d call it even. I had her unbutton her clothes while I was driving, and somewhere along the line I undid my fly, and I’m beating off while she was undressing, I mean while she was undressing, and I was driving.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">I went down in front of this factory and pulled behind it. There was a whole row of factories, and I went down to the last one, and I went behind it and parked. I told her just to open up her dress. I think it was a one-piece dress. I told her to open it up and to just climb in the back seat, and she said the seats recline. I told her to show me how to recline the seat, and she did. I told her to take off her shoes. She took off her shoes. Then she took off her nylons. I know she took off her underclothes anyway, and so I started screwing her in her seat. Her back was on the seat. I kept telling her, “Faster! Faster!” She kept going faster and harder. “I want my money’s worth; I want my money’s worth.” She kept working harder and harder. I was playing with her all the while we were doing that, and she started panting and getting in rhythm. She started liking it. I said, “You really like this, don’t you? Have you ever been screwed in the ass?” She said, “No.” She said, “I think it will hurt.” I said, “No it won’t. Come on.” So, I pulled it out, and she turned over, and she laid across the seat. And I rammed her really hard, and she jerked away, and she said it hurt too much—do it the other way.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">So, I said, “OK,” and she turned back over. She started going again. I was playing with her tits. We went for about five minutes, and she started coming, and I was chewing on her neck or something. She was saying, “Yeah, yeah,” and I was saying, “Yeah, yeah.” Tighter and tighter. I started squeezing my muscles tighter and tighter, and I kept squeezing my hands tighter and tighter. I just kept squeezing, and she kept squeezing, and it felt good. She kept squeezing harder and harder and harder, and I come. As soon as I come, she stopped. I took my hands off her, and she just lay there. I felt her neck, and she didn’t have any pulse. I felt her wrist, and she didn’t have any pulse. I yanked her off me, and I jumped back over in the driver’s seat. I started the car back up. I tried to get my pants on, but I couldn’t get them on. I jumped out of the car and got dressed, and I got back in the car, and I just kept looking at her, and she was dead, but I couldn’t believe she was dead. I just kept expecting her to do something. But she didn’t do shit, she just laid there.<sup class="main-text-refnote-cue"><a href="chapter-001.xhtml#chapter-1-footnote-1-text" id="chapter-1-footnote-1" class="refnote-marker marker-format-arabic footnote-cue arabic-1" role="doc-noteref" epub:type="noteref">1</a></sup></p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">So, I put the car in gear and started to drive away, and she fell over against me. I pushed her off me, and I just stopped the car, and I picked her up, and threw her over in the back seat, threw her down on the floor, and I was looking at her, and she didn’t do nothing. I took off, and I drove somewhere. I don’t know. I drove for a while. I drove, and I drove, and I kept looking at her and driving and looking at her and driving, and nothing happened. I finally ended up on some freeway somewhere. I ended up on the Pomona Freeway. Yeah, the Pomona Freeway going east. I had all the windows pulled down, and I was going about eighty-five or ninety. I was sweating and going faster, and I had the tape deck turned up full blast. She just lay there. I saw this sign saying the Orange Freeway, or the 57 Freeway or whatever it is, and I turned onto it, and I thought home, I gotta get home. Oh man, I must have done ninety or a hundred down that freeway all the way home.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">I got to what I think was Imperial. No, maybe it was Lambert Road. I pulled off, and I stopped. I tried to collect myself. What was I going to do? I reached back, and she was cold. I was sure she was dead then, and I had to get rid of her.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">I pulled off on Lambert Road, on the off-ramp, and I just sat there for a second. I turned the tape deck down. I thought, “I gotta wipe my prints off and get out of here.” I was really pissed because she was dead. I was really pissed! I reached back, and I hit her. I hit her hard on the chest. I hit her right in the sternum because I remember she, ah, gasped or something, and I thought, oh wow, maybe she’s going to come back alive. I remember that I got back on the freeway, and I got to Yorba Linda Boulevard, and I got off there. I turned left, and I went over to K-mart. You know the K-mart on Yorba Linda Boulevard and Placentia?</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">And I drove around the K-mart parking lot for a while, and I parked in there. I just sat for a while, and I smoked a cigarette. Then I tore all the clothes down and the clothes hanger and covered her up. I got out of the car, and I locked it up, and I went into the K-mart, and I bought—what did I buy? Oh yeah, I forgot about the jewelry. I took the jewelry from her when we were parked in Hacienda Heights. She told me it wasn’t worth much, and I told her, “I could get something for it.” It was a wedding ring set. She told me she didn’t know how much her husband had paid for it. I told her it looked like it was worth something. She said there was a green class ring or something. She told me it was jade or an emerald or something and was valuable. So, I took it, and I think she had a watch. I think she had post earrings or something. I took all of that back in Hacienda Heights somewhere.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">I went in the K-mart, and I bought something. Shit, I don’t know what the hell it was, and I went back to the auto supply section, and I bought some brake fluid. I remember the brake fluid was something somebody told me about, that brake fluid was good for cleaning things. I thought, well, I’ll clean up the car with the brake fluid. I bought a can of brake fluid, and I know I got something for, I think I bought a toy for Unity, my daughter, a little mouse, or something.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">I went back out to the car, I got in the car, and I was going to wipe it down right there. Then somebody drove into the parking lot that I knew that I thought I knew or that they thought they knew me, or I don’t know, and they were driving around and looked at me weird. I thought, “I think I know those people. That must be why they’re driving around me wondering what I’m doing in this nice car.”</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">I started the car up, and I hauled ass out of there and went over to Gemco. It was kind of catty-corner. I drove around the Gemco parking lot for a couple of minutes, and I forgot about what I was doing, and then I followed this girl out to her car, and I was going to get out of the car and go rob her or something, but then I remembered that I had to clean that car up.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">So, I drove over by the cleaners and parked in front of a liquor store. The cleaners and the liquor store are by each other in the Gemco parking lot. And I parked there, and I took some kind of rag and dumped brake fluid on it. I spent about five or ten minutes wiping the car down. And I started the car up, and I drove across the parking lot towards Yorba Linda Boulevard, and I stopped again and got the check. I wiped the dash down a couple of times and the steering wheel and a couple of other things down.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">Then I drove around, and I got out of the car again in a garage area of some apartments. I poured some of the brake fluid on a rag. I then tried to stuff the can into her vagina, but when I found it wouldn’t go, I think I stuffed the rag in. I think I wiped down the outside of the car. I know I locked the car up though, and I walked back up the alley towards State College, and I took the can of brake fluid and chucked it up on the roof of one of the carports, and I got to the end of the carports, back to the parking lot where the taco and pizza places are. I had the car keys, and I threw the keys in the trash. Then I thought, I might want them, so I took ‘em back out of the trash, and I chucked ‘em up on the corner of the roof.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">Well, I walked out of there around Shakey’s [pizza restaurant] and started walking. I had cut between the Tic Toc, the gas station, and the pizza place, right through Nutwood, and turned right around the Emporium. I turned right on Nutwood, and I walked along the north side of Nutwood under the underpass, and then I cut across a field or a parking lot. There’s a field and a parking lot there or something, and I cut across it into a fraternity house or whatever that is there. I cut across there and then over to Commonwealth up off of Nutwood Street, then across Commonwealth through some more fraternity houses or something, and came out almost across the street from some type of camping store or, there’s a ski shop there and the Sav-On parking lot, cut across the street behind it, that is on Chapman, then I went behind it, came back around it, went around the front, walked in the Sav-On, and was eating an ice cream or something when I saw Winchell’s over on the corner. I decided to go to Winchell’s instead, so I walked over to Winchell’s.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose">I called Ruby<sup class="main-text-refnote-cue"><a href="chapter-001.xhtml#chapter-1-footnote-2-text" id="chapter-1-footnote-2" class="refnote-marker marker-format-arabic footnote-cue arabic-2" role="doc-noteref" epub:type="noteref">2</a></sup> on the phone from there. I told her that I’d been kidnapped. I said I’d been kidnapped by four black guys that morning, and they dragged me around in the trunk all day and dumped me out in Irvine, and I’d just gotten this far, and that I needed a ride the rest of the way home. I think it was either nine-thirty or ten-thirty. She asked me, “Well, what do you need, an alibi?” I said, “No, I’m telling you what happened.” She said, “What have you been drinking?” I said, “Forget it, Ruby, I’m telling you the truth. Just get in touch with Mollye and tell her I’m on my way home and that I’m OK. I’ll walk from here, and it’ll be a little while till I get home. Tell her not to worry.” She said, “OK,” she’d get in touch with her.</p>
<p class="subsq blockquote-content blockquote-content-prose blockquote-position-last">So, then I called up a Yellow Cab from Winchell’s. Then I went over, and I sat and had a jelly donut and a cup of coffee. While I was drinking the coffee, the taxi pulled up. We went up to Commonwealth. I told him I had three or four bucks or something, and he took me as far as Gilbert and Commonwealth to a McMahan’s gas station and let me off there. It was twenty cents under what I told him I had. That wasn’t what I had, but that’s what I told him. And I got out from there, and I walked home.</p>
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<div id="chapter-1-footnote-1-text" class="refnote footnote marker-format-arabic" role="doc-footnote" epub:type="footnote"><p class="first"><span class="refnote-marker-container" hidden="hidden"><a class="refnote-marker marker-format-arabic arabic-1 refnote-backlink" href="chapter-001.xhtml#chapter-1-footnote-1">1</a> </span>Even in his confession of this cold-blooded murder, Hulbert attempts to minimize his acts by saying that the victim was “starting to enjoy it” and she kept squeezing, when in fact he was strangling her to death. He also fails to mention the fact he bit her breast so severely the criminalist was able to cast the bite after her death. Throughout these interviews, he never showed any remorse or compassion for his victims or their families.</p>
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<div id="chapter-1-footnote-2-text" class="refnote footnote marker-format-arabic" role="doc-footnote" epub:type="footnote"><p class="first"><span class="refnote-marker-container" hidden="hidden"><a class="refnote-marker marker-format-arabic arabic-2 refnote-backlink" href="chapter-001.xhtml#chapter-1-footnote-2">2</a> </span>Ruby Rose Patterson, the owner of the home the suspect was renting in southwest Fullerton, and the woman who had cared for him when he was a child, after the death of his mother.</p>
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Lee DeVore
The Parking Lot Rapist
$15.50
In The Parking Lot Rapist, retired detective Lee DeVore recounts the harrowing investigation that led to the capture of a serial rapist and killer who terrorized Los Angeles and Orange Counties in the 1970s. This gripping true crime narrative begins with the tragic murder of nineteen-year-old Gina Marie Tisher and delves into the relentless pursuit of justice by the Fullerton Police Department.
DeVore provides his insider's view of the complex and meticulous investigation, revealing the strategies, challenges, and breakthroughs that ultimately led to the arrest and conviction of Kenneth Richard Hulbert. Through detailed accounts of key moments, including transcripts of Hulbert's chilling confessions, collaboration with various law enforcement agencies, and the emotional toll on the victims' families, DeVore paints a vivid picture of a community united in its fight against a monstrous predator.
The Parking Lot Rapist is more than just a detective's tale; it is a testament to the dedication, teamwork, and unwavering commitment of an entire police department. This compelling story captures the essence of true crime, highlighting the painstaking efforts and sacrifices made to bring a dangerous criminal to justice.
Whether you are a true crime enthusiast or simply seeking an authentic account of law enforcement's pursuit of justice, The Parking Lot Rapist offers an unflinching look at the resilience and determination necessary to protect and serve.
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<h1 class="center" id="c3">CHAPTER 1</h1>
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<h2 class="center sigil_not_in_toc">The Early Years</h2>
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<div>I graduated from the Philadelphia Police Academy in class 294 on March 25, 1991. My grandmother—“Nan,” as I liked to call her—threw a party for me at her home in the Mayfair section of Philadelphia. There was a big cake with my badge number, 4487. As I observed family, friends, and loved ones celebrating this turning point, I couldn’t help but reflect on what led me there.</div>
<div class="indent">Lexington Park, Philadelphia, is where I grew up with my parents. But some of my fondest memories are from Nan’s summer home. In the summer of 1977, I was a skinny seven-year-old kid. The Wildwoods were, and still are, known as one of the most popular places along the South Jersey shoreline. Nan’s place was right next door to the North Wildwood Police Department, and from the time I was about four years old, I would watch the police officers from our front porch. I loved spending summers at my Nan’s because it was much more fun than the neighborhood in Philly. You can always enjoy five miles of beach and boardwalk rides, arcades, and shops.</div>
<div class="indent">On a typical hot and humid summer day at the Jersey Shore, I was riding my bike in front of Nan’s house when I fell. Two officers saw me and got out of their patrol car to help. They recognized me as the kid who lived in the house next to the police station. From that day forward, the same two officers always waved at me when they passed by. They were genuinely good guys. I remember seeing their cruiser up close with the door open, and hearing the crackle of the police radio amazed me. Day in and day out, summer after summer, I watched the officers of the North Wildwood Police Department protect and serve their community.</div>
<div class="indent">Fast forward ten years later to May 7, 1987, the day of my junior prom. My beautiful daughter, Caitlin, was born. Needless to say, I didn’t go to the dance. I was seventeen and in eleventh grade, so I had another year until graduation. I attended Catholic school, and some priests broke my balls over being a teen parent. They had to play the role, after all. They felt they were doing the right thing. We named our daughter after Caitlin Davies from the popular 1980s television series <i>Miami Vice</i>. Actress and singer Sheena Easton played this role of Sonny Crockett’s wife on the show.</div>
<div class="indent">Caitlin’s mom, “Marie,” and I met through mutual friends in the spring of 1986. I’ve decided to use a false name in this bio for her and her family’s privacy. I was sixteen years old. My parents were divorced, and I lived with my father in Northeast Philadelphia. For the record, I didn’t choose my father over my mom; I didn’t want to leave home. My father refused to leave our house in Northeast Philly for years. Because of this, my mother had no choice but to move out.</div>
<div class="indent">One summer night, when I was eleven or twelve years old, my parents and I were driving to the shore in my dad’s ‘76 Cadillac Coupe Deville. I fell asleep in the backseat because it was late and dark. When I woke up, my parents were arguing but trying to keep it down so they wouldn’t wake me. They could have been more successful. I didn’t sit up; I just lay there pretending to be asleep in the back seat. I was afraid if I sat up, I’d get yelled at. I could feel the tenacity and anger in my mom’s voice as they went back and forth at each other; she was practically spitting venom at him. My father was driving and didn’t say as much, but he clearly was disgusted as it radiated through his voice when he responded. Have you ever heard two people try to argue quietly? It doesn’t work. That was the first time I heard the song “Hearts” by Marty Balin, and now, any time I hear it, it reminds me of that night in my dad’s car—it has stuck with me forever.</div>
<div class="indent">When Marie and I got together, she lived in the nearby Mayfair section, and her parents had split up by then too. It was my first real relationship. When she got pregnant, our lives changed forever. I remember she had a pregnancy test done at the local free clinic, and, as it turned out, she was nineteen weeks along. It was clear she had been holding out on me. I panicked initially; I knew I had to tell my parents.</div>
<div class="indent">Thanksgiving Eve 1986, we told my father about the pregnancy—he was the first to know. He was disgusted with us and called my mom first, then Marie’s parents. Everyone gathered at my father’s house, and our mothers were very emotional; they both cried and fell apart. Our fathers were even-tempered yet heavy-handed. They laid down the law and told us we would put the baby up for adoption. They didn’t ask or suggest; they just told us. I disagreed with the “plans,” but we were too afraid to speak up against them. We were kids; we couldn’t provide for a baby and hadn’t even graduated high school. I only agreed to the adoption to get them off our backs. I told Marie to play along with them, and she did. Workers from the adoption agency visited us every week, but we never met the people who planned to adopt Caitlin.</div>
<div class="indent">Nan was the only person I could talk to in our family. She knew I didn’t want to give up the baby, but I was scared. I didn’t know how we would take care of a baby. Where would we live? How could I pay the bills? I’ll never forget the day my Nan turned to look at me and said sternly, “We will pay the bills. Don’t let that be a reason to give up the baby.” I had no intention of going through with the adoption, but I dreaded facing our fathers over it.</div>
<div class="indent">Each of our mothers showed up at the hospital the day Marie went into labor, but our fathers were absent. We were at the hospital all night as she gave birth to a beautiful baby girl, Caitlin. Our decision to keep the baby caused a huge wedge between my dad and me. Eventually, I moved out to live with Nan in the neighboring Mayfair section of Philadelphia. Caitlin stayed with her mother, who lived just two blocks from Nan’s house.</div>
<div class="indent">I <i>attended</i> Father Judge Catholic High School in Northeast Philadelphia. I emphasize “attended” because I didn’t learn a thing there, except how to talk my way out of detention, aka JUG—“Justice Under God.” I was a terrible student and went to summer school two out of my four years there. The nuns at St. Hubert’s High School wouldn’t let Marie attend school once she started showing. But after Caitlin was born, she returned to school and graduated on time.</div>
<div class="indent">Father Kilty, academic dean, and my English teacher was very good to me while the other priests looked down on me. He was the kind of guy who would sit me down with a cigarette in his mouth and have casual heart-to-heart talks. Occasionally I’d bum a smoke off him too.</div>
<div class="indent">He also baptized Caitlin. That day played out interestingly with my dysfunctional family. Imagine: My mother and Nan weren’t talking to my father. My father and his girlfriend sat on the other side of the church. On top of that, Marie’s parents were separated and didn’t want to sit next to one another. It was so awkward that at one point, Father Kilty announced, “Let’s remember Caitlin is here for a purpose.”</div>
<div>Twenty years later, Caitlin was attending nursing school while Nan was dying. Caitlin jumped in and took fantastic care of Nan. My mother and I would never have been able to go through it without Caitlin. Father Kilty’s declaration ultimately rang true.</div>
<div class="indent">Father Kilty was different from the other priests—he never lectured or shamed me in any way. He didn’t speak down to me as an adolescent. Instead, he was honest with me. I always knew where I stood with him and never left the room confused. When I learned I would be a father, I sat down with him and said, “I fucked up.” And he replied, “Yeah, you did fuck up. But you fucked up once, and you could’ve fucked up twice by getting an abortion, and you didn’t.” I felt like a man in his presence, not an irresponsible teenager who got a girl pregnant.</div>
<div class="indent">Father Kilty would tell me stories about my great-uncle, who was in the priesthood. Monsignor Joseph McMullin died when I was four years old. I have no memory of him, but he did baptize me. He taught at Saint Charles Borromeo Seminary in Wynnewood, Pennsylvania, just outside Philadelphia.</div>
<div class="indent">Monsignor McMullin, or “Holy Joe The Hammer,” as they called him, spoke thirteen languages. Father Kilty was one of his students at the seminary before he was ordained. I understood the nickname “Holy Joe,” but I asked Father Kilty why they called him “The Hammer.” Kilty laughed and said my great-uncle enjoyed telling jokes and was known for knocking a firm elbow into the recipient’s arm and saying, “Did you get it, did you get it, did you get it?” Hence, “The Hammer.” Years later, Father Kilty transferred to a different school, and we eventually lost touch. However, he left a lifelong impression on me, and I will always be grateful for the time we spent getting to know each other.</div>
<div class="indent">When I graduated high school, I knew I wanted to become a police officer. All those years sitting on the front porch in North Wildwood lit a fire in me, and I no longer wanted to watch the cops; I wanted to be one. My father and I were now on good terms, although he didn’t like where I was in life. Nan still had her summer house in North Wildwood and her primary home in Mayfair. I was able to live with her while going to college part-time. I worked at the Friendship Pharmacy and Spitzer’s Mobil Station. I also mowed lawns to help support Caitlin financially.</div>
<div class="indent">In the summer of 1989, I interviewed for a seasonal dispatcher position at the North Wildwood Police Department (NWPD) with Captain Gary Sloan. He was in his forties and stood about six feet tall. He had a calm demeanor about him. During the interview, he questioned why I wanted to be in law enforcement, and I replied, “I want to help people.” Captain Sloan then asked, “Do you have any relatives in law enforcement?” I answered, “None that I’ve ever met.” Nan had told me about relatives I never knew in New York City who were on the job. She once mentioned that I had a great uncle, Mickey Finnigan, who was in the NYPD and walked a beat in Harlem.</div>
<div class="indent">“Are you ready to work for the North Wildwood Police Department?” asked Captain Sloan. I smiled and said, “Yes, I am.” Captain Sloan emphasized the importance of getting to know the town’s citizens and, in his words, stated, “Do little things, too… like helping little kids up when they fall off their bikes.” He smiled, then told me I had the job. If you haven’t caught on yet, he was one of the police officers who helped me when I fell off my bike in 1977. He remembered me, and I began working as a seasonal dispatcher for the NWPD.</div>
<div class="indent">The second officer who helped me when I fell off my bike that day was Anthony J. Sittineri. He had since become the chief of police. He was an old-school street cop described by other cops as “a cop’s cop.” One evening, I was working in dispatch and received a call from Chief Sittineri’s youngest daughter, Sharon. Her older sister had just given birth to her first child. Sharon asked if I could announce over the police radio that Chief Sittineri had just become a grandfather.</div>
<div class="indent">I was the new guy and hadn’t been working there long. I didn’t know if I should make a broadcast over the police radio about the chief’s family, but on the flip side, I didn’t want to refuse a request from the chief’s daughter, so I told her I would do it. I figured he would either be pleased or fire me. I keyed up the mic and said, “Two to 200.” (NWPD was District Two, and the chief’s call sign was 200). He responded, “200.” As you may have guessed from the name Sittineri, he was Italian and had that old-school Italian way about him that I loved. I replied, “Your youngest daughter called; congratulations, you’re a grandfather.” He didn’t acknowledge the announcement immediately, and I got scared, thinking he would fire me or have me whacked out. After a few seconds, he finally replied with a typical “Ten-four.”</div>
<div class="indent">A few minutes later, Lieutenant Jake Stevenson walked into HQ, and I again thought I was toast. Instead, he approached the dispatch window and commented, “That’s great!” As it turned out, he, and more importantly, the chief, was happy I had broadcast the news.</div>
<div class="indent">One year later, I began working as a part-time police officer for the NWPD. May 14, 1990 marked the day I started training at the Cape May County Police Academy as a North Wildwood Class II Officer cadet. Being a cadet was a whole new ball game compared to working as a dispatcher. I had no idea what I was in for. It was grueling, military-style training, six days a week for seven weeks. The course was not as long as full-time police officer academies, but it was strict with a military atmosphere.</div>
<div class="indent">We were required to have crew cuts, be clean-shaven, and wear khaki uniforms. We marched and got yelled at by the drill instructors constantly. I laugh about it now but was not too fond of it back then; actually, I hated it.</div>
<div class="indent">Day one at the academy started with seventy-two cadets from all over the tri-state area assembled as the 5th Special Class. Only forty-two of us made it to graduation day. Thirty cadets washed out for a variety of reasons. Some couldn’t handle the physical training. I recall one guy who failed the drug screening. Some couldn’t qualify with their firearms. The rest quit.</div>
<div class="indent">The physical training was demanding. The instructors pushed and ran us until we fell or puked, sometimes both. I was never a star athlete but managed to hang in there. I refused to give up and forced myself to suck it up. If you’ve ever watched the movie <i>An Officer and a Gentleman</i>, I adopted the dialogue and mentality portrayed by Richard Gere’s character, Zack Mayo: “You can kick me out, but I ain’t quitting!”</div>
<div class="indent">During our workouts, we wore white T-shirts with our last names in black lettering on the front and dark blue sweatpants with our last names in white lettering on our asses. That way, no matter which direction we were facing, the drill instructors could yell at us by name, and they did so constantly.</div>
<div class="indent">In the gym, we had a formation to abide by, and we each had a designated spot to stand in. At any given time, a drill instructor would yell out your name, and you would have to respond loud and clear, “Yes, sir!” If he ordered you to “take the stand,” then you would run like hell to the front of the class. Then he would say, “McMullin, lead the class in squat thrust exercises.” The proper way to do this would be to address the class loudly and say, “Class, squat thrust exercises, starting positions… move! Ready… by the numbers… exercise! One-two-three, ONE! One-two-three, TWO! One-two-three, THREE!” and so on. If whoever was on the stand did not give the exercise order using those exact words, the instructors would punish the rest of the class with additional exercises, which sucked! I was in excellent physical condition by the time we graduated—I wish I were in such good shape now.</div>
<div class="indent">When the time came to go to the shooting range, I was nervous. I had never fired a handgun in my life. My father had taught me how to shoot shotguns and rifles before, but handguns were a new experience. By the grace of God, I shot well enough to score a passing grade.</div>
<div class="indent">Later that September, I was hired by the Philadelphia Police Department. One good thing about the intensity of the Cape May County Academy was that it prepared me for the Philadelphia Police Academy. Since my new job would be in a different state, I had to attend their academy before I could work there.</div>
<div class="indent">I began my training at the Philadelphia Police Academy in October. Although Philly was hard, it was not nearly as grueling as Cape May. The stressful environment they created at the Cape May County Academy was so much harsher. Drill instructors constantly scrutinized and yelled at the cadets to try to break us down. They were shaping us into rugged individuals, mentally and physically.</div>
<div class="indent">The day after I graduated from the Philadelphia Police Academy, I bought a house in the Holmesburg neighborhood of Philadelphia. I moved Caitlin and her mother in with me. Marie wanted to get married even though we weren’t getting along. Our parents knew we didn’t belong together, but, despite their opposition, we got married at a courthouse. It was for all the wrong reasons—mainly so Marie could have medical coverage under my health benefits. She had recently sustained a life-threatening asthma attack that had put her in the hospital for ten days, and I wanted to provide her with the best medical care possible.</div>
<div class="indent">The marriage lasted less than a year. Marie later met another guy, who she married and settled down with. They’re still together, and I’m happy for them.</div>
<div class="indent">During the graduation party Nan threw for me, I found my mother on the second floor of Nan’s house, crying. She was afraid something terrible would happen to me as a police officer. At first, I didn’t understand. But I soon realized that my two summers as a seasonal cop in North Wildwood didn’t concern her nearly as much as me working in Philadelphia. She grew up in the Bronx, New York, and my dad is from Philadelphia. When they were engaged, my dad got accepted into the NYPD and made plans to move to NYC. But my mother didn’t want him to be a cop, so they moved to Philly instead, and my dad kept his job as a machinist at the Philadelphia Navy Yard.</div>
<div class="indent">So there I was, doing exactly what she had kept my father from doing, which devastated her. From that point on, I understood why it bothered her so much. I could only assure her I would be safe, and I’ve kept that promise so far.</div>
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Chris McMullin
3 Decades Cold
$15.50
Detective Chris McMullin's career of finding missing people and solving murders wasn't just his job. It was his passion and dedication to helping victims.
For thirty years, Chris worked at the Bensalem Police Department in Pennsylvania. He started as a patrol officer and became a detective in the Special Victims Unit, where he handled cases involving murderers, sexual predators, and violent criminals. Some of his most important cases included Lisa Todd, Christian Rojas, Tracy Byrd, and Barbara Rowan, a 14-year-old girl who was murdered in 1984 and whose case wasn't solved for 31 years. The Rowan case was especially important to Chris and motivated him to work on cold cases.
3 Decades Cold tells the story of Chris's impressive career, from joining the police academy in 1991 to his retirement and beyond.
Today, Chris McMullin works as a Lieutenant for the Bucks County Sheriff's Office in Pennsylvania. He now leads a nonprofit organization to work on cold cases and has a true crime TV show in development.
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<h1 id="c1">Case Briefing</h1>
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<div>Welcome to the incident room. This is your case briefing.</div>
<div class="indent">“Congratulations on your promotion to homicide detective,” the Detective Major tells you. “You and your partner will be assigned to our major cases. As a team, you will uncover evidence, interview suspects and witnesses, and, if there’s enough conclusive evidence, send the case to the DA. Good luck, we’re all counting on you.”</div>
<div class="indent">As a reader in the role of a member of the somewhat fictionalized investigative team, you will face several challenges. You will uncover the evidence based upon historical crimes as an actual investigator would—as they present themselves in the course of the investigation. The crimes are real, and the evidence comes from the actual case files. Your partners are fictional characters based on a composite of real detectives and others who investigated these crimes. All the evidence that is uncovered is based on police reports, interviews, court transcripts, and contemporary news reports.</div>
<div class="indent">These cases are truly a collaboration between you, the reader, and the rest of the investigative team at the crime scenes. At the conclusion of each case, you will provide an assessment of the evidence and decide for yourself where the evidence leads you.</div>
<div class="indent">As you work your way through these crimes, keep in mind there was a diligent endeavor to maintain important interviews and the evidence for these real cases as accurate as possible. Most of the conversations of the individuals involved were taken from actual interviews and transcripts of the cases. The conversations between you and the fictional detectives are, of course, invented to propel the story forward.</div>
<div class="indent">The evidence discovered is based on diligent research. Some of the specifics may surprise you, as they have not been highly publicized, such as new suspects or a new approach to analyzing the evidence.</div>
<div class="indent">The stories have been adapted to allow you, as the main character, to uncover pertinent evidence. All other aspects of the real cases have been maintained for accuracy.</div>
<div class="indent">As you read through the case and follow the evidence, remember that each step in a criminal investigation is a conscious choice. What is the evidence telling you? Would you have proceeded as these detectives did? Does the totality and circumstances of the case warrant the steps taken by these detectives? Are there any bits of evidence that you would have given more weight to than these detectives did?</div>
<div class="indent">In these stories, you are also challenged to consider some new approaches that have not been previously presented before. See if you agree with the conclusions of the detectives you are “partnered” with.</div>
<div class="indent">You are also challenged to test your knowledge of true crime and use the evidence, locations, and crime scenes to name the actual cases behind the re-creations. The names have been changed but, again, the evidence from these true crimes reflects the actual evidence.</div>
<div class="indent">In many true crime cases, there can be a definitive turning point in the investigation that alters the judgment of the investigating detective. A piece of evidence that changes the trajectory of the case. It flips the switch on the case, it is the ignition point. It changes the case from questionable to convincing in the mind of the detective, and clearly points to the one perpetrator. Since you are the detective in all the cases that are contained in this book, an additional challenge is for you to find that ignition point that will help you solve each of these cases.</div>
<div class="indent">As you become more experienced as an investigator, your partners, first starting out as your trainer, gradually gives you more freedom to explore the evidence on your own. As your expertise grows, your partner more frequently asks your advice about the evidence and the suspects you will encounter. You will learn the value of not jumping to conclusions. Even if you are familiar with the suspects, you only go where the evidence takes you. You often contribute suggestions during the investigation but, like every great investigator who has come before you, you always wait until all the evidence has been tested and the investigation concludes to render your opinion on the case.</div>
<div class="indent">You are not required to agree with your team. You are encouraged to take notes along the way and come to your own conclusions about which suspect, if any, should be sent to the DA for prosecution.</div>
<div class="indent">Now get to work.</div>
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Steve Scarborough
True Crime in Real Time
$15.50
“Welcome to the Incident Room. This is your Case Briefing.”Congratulations on your first day as a police detective. You have been partnered with an experienced detective who will walk you through some of the toughest and most infamous crimes in American history. You will visit the crime scene, review the evidence, search for clues, interview witnesses, read the news reports, and decide with your partner who’s the most likely culprit and send the case off to the DA’s office. This is true crime in real time.As you gain experience, you will be given more autonomy in investigating the cases. Your partner will be there to guide and observe you, but it will be up to you to not only decide who to prosecute, but also name the famous case based on the facts and circumstances. Your investigative skills will be challenged, and so will your knowledge of historical cases throughout the decades, from the late 19th century to the present.Follow the evidence wherever it takes you, don’t jump to conclusions, and use the experience you gain through these investigations to make your case. Even if you recognize the case and think you know the answers, think again. These cases were selected to challenge and surprise you.Now get to work.
Billy The Liquor Guy
The Making of Billy The Liquor Guy
from $17.95
The Making of Billy the Liquor Guy is set to release at the end of June 2024. Order yours now.
Billy The Liquor Guy spent twelve years as an undercover investigator working for New York’s Petroleum, Alcohol, and Tobacco Bureau (PATB), which enforces tax laws for imports into the state. Sounds pretty tame, right? In fact, it was challenging, harrowing, and life-threatening, leading Billy and his team to develop PTSD on the job and for years to come. Much of this is detailed in Billy’s first book, Under Too Long.
The Making of Billy the Liquor Guy fills in the rest of the story. It is a wide-ranging saga of undercover operations, criminal takedowns, and wild successes—as well as internal affairs investigations, betrayals, and serious repercussions stemming from the lack of trust and political game-playing in the bureau.
Not exactly a prequel, The Making of Billy the Liquor Guy gives the backstory behind Under Too Long, introduces familiar characters, and explains who Billy was when he began his career as an undercover operator, as well as what he became as a result of the stress, deception, and treachery he experienced in the PATB.
The Making of Billy the Liquor Guy is a must read for anyone who wants to know what undercover operations, often romanticized in the media, are truly like, as well as anyone who enjoyed Billy’s first book, Under Too Long.
new music books
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Genius Books
Rock Legends Bundle - Three must-reads for rock history lovers—now bundled for the ultimate fan experience!
$95.00
$125.00
Rock Legends Bundle – Three Groundbreaking Reads, One Epic Journey Through Music History!
Dive deep into rock 'n' roll’s wildest stories and rarest moments with the Rock Legends Bundle—three captivating books that are essential reading for any true music aficionado. At $95 (discounted from $125), this exclusive bundle offers an immersive experience across the music world, bringing readers face-to-face with rock's most iconic moments and enigmatic figures.
Save over 20% on these rock legends’ untold stories when you grab all three books for $95 instead of the full $125!
Here’s what you get in this legendary collection:
🎸 A Pig’s Tale (Click here for more information)Dive into the underground world of bootleg records with A Pig’s Tale, an insider’s account by Ralph Sutherland and Harold Sherrick that uncovers the origins of the Trade Mark of Quality (TMQ) label. This fascinating book chronicles the rise of one of the most famous bootleg labels, known for rare and iconic records from The Beatles to Bob Dylan. With vivid storytelling, behind-the-scenes stories, and original album art by William Stout, A Pig’s Tale provides an unfiltered look into the rebellious spirit and innovative culture that gave fans access to the music they loved—despite industry gatekeeping. For collectors and rock historians, this book is a treasure trove of musical history from the golden age of vinyl.
🎸 Brian Jones: Butterfly in the Park (Click here for more information)Butterfly in the Park is an evocative visual and narrative tribute to the life of Brian Jones, the founding member of the Rolling Stones and a revolutionary force in the music world. With rare and intimate photographs by Michael Cooper, this book captures Brian’s journey as a pioneer of electric blues, an aesthetic visionary, and an androgynous icon of the ‘60s counterculture. Edited by Cooper's son Adam, Butterfly in the Park offers readers a unique perspective on Jones’s life—from the powerful Hyde Park tribute concert following his tragic passing, to his innovative spirit that helped shape rock history. This book is essential for anyone who wants to delve deeper into the mystique of a man who was both a musical and cultural trailblazer.
🎸 Not Just Happy Together (Click here for more information)"Not Just Happy Together: The Turtles from A-Z (AM Radio to Zappa)" offers fans a deep, humorous, and heartfelt exploration of one of rock's quirkiest and most beloved bands. Co-authors Mark Arnold and Charles F. Rosenay!!! celebrate The Turtles’ unique blend of humor and harmony that made songs like “Happy Together” timeless classics. This book goes beyond the hits, covering the band’s journey from 1960s stardom to unforgettable collaborations and everything in between. With personal anecdotes, mini-reviews, and historical tidbits, Not Just Happy Together is essential for any fan looking to relive the era when The Turtles’ charm filled the airwaves.
Why Pay $95? With this bundle, you’re saving over 20% and gaining a collector’s dream set—three books that each tell a unique piece of rock history. Together, they offer a deeply satisfying look at music’s legends, underbelly, and unforgettable personalities. For fans who live for music’s raw stories, this is the ultimate bundle that captures the essence of rock 'n' roll’s glory days.
Whether you're a collector, a superfan, or just discovering rock's greatest legends, this bundle is your backstage pass to music history. Get yours now and own a piece of rock 'n' roll's legacy!
Shipping Note: A Pig's Tale will ship separately.
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Ralph Sutherland and Harold Sherrick
A Pig's Tale
$50.00
$65.00
A Pig's Tale includes:
336 full color pages
softcover edition
a complete discography of the entire TMQ catalog of over 100 LPs and EPs
well over 350 images of the albums, colored vinyl, and inserts
the underground tale of how Trade Mark of Quality came into being
This book is essential for record collectors and dealers.
In that hot summer of ’69 two longhaired music freaks created an underground LP record album of unreleased tracks by one of their music gods and put it out on the streets of Los Angeles. No one had ever been crazy enough to do such an audacious thing before. The god’s official record label was not amused but the music fans were thrilled. Were these guys pirates or heroes? It was so much fun the first time, they soon pressed up even more records of forbidden musical fruit. They were on a roll. The following year, in 1970, one of the culprits put The Pig image in a circular logo with the name “Trade Mark of Quality.” TMQ and Pigman were born!
With a cast of outrageous characters, here is the story of Trade Mark of Quality aka TMQ aka The Pig, the first bootleg record label of its kind, spawning many later imitators. From the end of the '60s to the mid '70s, TMQ and Pigman led the way, trotting down a muddy trail, feeding the habits and needs of music addicts around the world. Who were these fellow travelers? Carl? The Greek? Merlin? Hans? Rob Snout? Casper? Sheldon? The Blue Hasslebeast? Ol’ Fred? (Not to mention, The Brooklyn Boys, The Record Suits and The Feds!) What was the connection between TMQ and the Viet Nam war, revolutionaries, guns, pot and the moon landing? It’s all here!
Included in A Pig’s Tale is not only the Trade Mark of Quality and Pigman saga, but reproductions of all the rubber stamped and illustrated album jackets from every genuine TMQ record release, including the earliest releases from ’69 right up to the last titles in 1976. Everything you ever wanted to know about the real TMQ label is here: A complete discography of artists and track listings, sources of recordings, catalog numbers, master tape and record matrix info, colored vinyl pressings, record labels, graphics, photos, vintage news clippings, articles and more, all collected together, at last, in one volume.
A Pig’s Tale by Ralph Sutherland and Harold Sherrick, with their unique point of view, guides the reader through the never before told history of Trade Mark of Quality. It’s all here for the music lover and fan, the hardcore record collector, and the just plain curious.
WARNING! THESE EVENTS COULD NEVER HAVE HAPPENED IN ANOTHER TIME AND PLACE!
(Pigman says, “Be cool, put some sounds on the turntable and groove on with ‘A Pig’s Tale’!”)
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Robert Harwood
I Went Down To St. James Infirmary
$17.95
$19.95
“I Went Down to St. James Infirmary” is the quintessential jazz-blues song of the early twentieth century.
Many major performing and recording artists have covered it, from Louis Armstrong and Jimmie Rodgers to Van Morrison and the White Stripes.
Infused with ego-driven angst and once considered obscene because of the song's stark depiction of death and the portrayal of a seedy underworld inhabited by gamblers, pimps, loose women, and every sort of rounder, it has been adapted, rewritten, borrowed, stolen, attacked, revered, and cherished. In its heyday of the 1920s and ‘30s, when recordings and sheet music of St. James Infirmary were first packaged and marketed, the public could not get enough of it. Nearly a hundred years later, its allure remains.
Author Robert W. Harwood follows the song as it travels from its folk origins into the recording studios, performance stages, and law courts of America's jazz era. Along the way he picks up a retinue of fascinating characters whose stories are as fascinating as the song itself. Infused with humor and supported by meticulous research, this groundbreaking book explores the turbulent and mysterious history of one of the most important and influential songs of the twentieth century.
Michael Cooper
Brian Jones: Butterfly in the Park
$50.00
Brian Jones: Butterfly in the Park is available EXCLUSIVELY from our site.
In the 1960s, Michael Cooper was a successful photographer working in the London music scene. His photographs were the foundation of album covers from the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band to the Rolling Stones’ Their Satanic Majesties Request. He was a fashion photographer for Vogue London, and collaborated on an early film adaptation of A Clockwork Orange featuring the Rolling Stones. He was as much a part of the culture of 1960s London as he was its chronicler.
Michael photographed many of the icons of the counterculture movement of that unique period. But it was his close friendship with the Rolling Stones that formed the foundation for his extraordinary career.
Brian Jones was the multi-instrumentalist band leader who arranged and designed the Rolling Stones’ musical direction, crafting a music fusion which has defined their sound and attitude ever since. He was the musical genius who created a cultural and musical phenomenon.
Brian Jones: Butterfly in the Park collects over 120 images chronicling Brian Jones’ career, his life, and in many ways his relationship with Michael Cooper, who was ever at Brian’s side with his camera, ready to record Brian’s magical presence.
Adam Cooper and his wife Silvia have opened the Michael Cooper Collection archives to bring us an insider’s view of Brian Jones and the Rolling Stones in the recording studio, live on stage, at play with their friends in Ireland and Morocco, on the cover photo shoot for Their Satanic Majesties Request, and so much more.
With an introduction by Paul Trynka, and new contributions from Donovan, Linda Lawrence Leitch, Andee Nathanson, Prince Stash Klossowski de Rola, Brian’s son Julian, and his grandson Joolz Jones, Brian Jones: Butterfly in the Park offers a unique insight into one of the most enigmatic and influential musical figures of the 1960s, as some of Brian’s friends recount their own personal experiences in nearly 9,000 words.
Brian Jones: Butterfly in the Park comes in softcover, full color, 8.5x11, 154 pages.
ISBN: 978-1-947521-31-5
Media one sheet. Download here.
Jim Dawson and Steve Propes
What Was the First Rock N Roll Record?
$17.95
“The blues had a baby and they called it rock ‘n’ roll,” said the great Muddy Waters.
But what was the firstborn? What was the first rock ‘n’ roll record?
Using this question as their starting point, writer Jim Dawson and DJ Steve Propes nominate 50 recordings for that honor. Beginning with a 1944 Jazz at the Philharmonic recording, “Blues,” and ending with Elvis Presley’s “Heartbreak Hotel,” What Was the First Rock ‘n’ Roll Record? Profiles some of the most important and influential recordings in rock’s history.
For each nominee, Dawson and Propes provide chart positions, labels, recording information, and an explanation as to why it might qualify as the first. Lesser known milestones like “Open the Door, Richard” and “Rocket 88” appear here alongside acknowledged classics like “Shake, Rattle, and Roll” and “Rock Around the Clock,” and many forgotten artists are restored to their rightful place in rock’s pantheon. The result is a provocative and entertaining guide to the earliest days of rock ‘n’ roll.
This 30th anniversary updated and revised edition brings to light new and surprising details about the songs, albums, and artists that are vying for the honor of being the first rock ‘n’ roll record.
EDITOR'S CHOICE
David Dean
D.J. Palladino
Josh Pachter
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<h1 class="center" id="c2">CHAPTER ONE</h1>
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<div>Specialist 4 Dwayne Morton woke with a snort and looked around him. The small office he sat in was no different than when he had drifted off. His clipboard still lay at his elbow, the security log attached to it awaiting his next entry. His last simply noted the departure of the civilian cleaning crew at 4:00 AM, or 0400 hours military time. He was relieved that the duty sergeant had not discovered him during his inadvertent nap. Glancing up at the large clock hung on the wall, Dwayne saw that it was now 0517 hours. There remained almost three hours in his shift, a fact that did little to lift his spirits.</div>
<div class="indent">“Army sucks,” he whispered with feeling. This was not supposed to have been his assignment—he had just completed a week’s tour of midnight to eight shifts, and by rights, should have been rotated to the much coveted day duty. But, as usual, the army, or more accurately, his first sergeant, had screwed everything up for him when Danny Boyle came down with appendicitis.</div>
<div class="indent"><i>It wasn’t his fault that Danny’s appendix burst</i>, he thought, and there were plenty of other MPs to choose from in their company. It was just that Dwayne was having a little trouble with the company runs lately, was falling behind during PT sessions. Top was a fitness fanatic—the old fart had to be forty, and he still ran five miles a day—who does that?</div>
<div class="indent">Glancing down at his waistline, Dwayne had to acknowledge that he had readjusted his duty belt twice since arriving in-country six months before—the damn beer and pastry diet here in Deutschland was kicking his ass and he had been no lightweight to begin with.</div>
<div class="indent">Standing, he stretched and yawned widely, then snatched up his flashlight. Standard Operating Procedure on site security stated that foot patrols of the parking lot and office complex should occur hourly, though not at regular intervals, in order to avoid establishing a predictable pattern. Sleeping on duty was punishable by Article 15 regulations and could result in loss of pay or demotion.</div>
<div class="indent">Slapping on the iconic white helmet liner with MP printed in black on the front, Dwayne threw open the door and staggered out into the parking lot. His last check had been almost an hour and a half before. He expected the duty sergeant to be rounding the corner any moment, as he always checked the sentries at least twice a night and Dwayne had not seen him since shortly after coming on duty.</div>
<div class="indent">Noticing that one of the sodium lamps that lit the parking lot had burned out, Dwayne made a mental note to log the observation and complete a work order to have the bulb replaced. Satisfied with the lot, Dwayne turned to his left and began to walk toward the three story office building that overlooked it. Then he saw the car, a Volkswagen Jetta, parked in front of the entrance, and his steps faltered in surprise. The lot had been empty earlier, he was sure of it.</div>
<div class="indent">Was it possible that one of the German cleaning crew had forgotten something in the building and come back for it? Had they driven past him as he slept? <i>But it could have happened while he was making his last rounds</i>, he thought, <i>desperate for a preferable alternative</i>.</div>
<div class="indent">This was one of the faults in the procedure—he couldn’t be in two places at once. Each time he was inside checking the offices he was away from the lot. Of course, he was supposed to check the lot each time he returned, but he had exited the building from the rear after his last inspection and come back to his office from the other side and hadn’t bothered. For Christ’s sake he wasn’t supposed to be on nights anyway!</div>
<div class="indent">Switching on the flashlight, he shined it at the windows, the beam revealing an interior empty of occupants. That was a relief, at least. He gave each of the vehicle’s four doors a tug, finding each locked in its turn, preventing him from getting inside and finding the registration. If he could only discover the owner and give them a call, maybe he could get the damned car out of there before it was discovered by his supervisor. He kicked a tire with his spit-shined jump boots. “Goddamnit,” he muttered.</div>
<div class="indent">Walking to the rear of the VW, he played the light across the registration plate. It was German alright. Wedging the flashlight between his elbow and his body, he pulled out pen and pad with his free hand to jot the number down.</div>
<div class="indent">Headlamp beams swept across the small lot, accompanied by the familiar grind of a jeep’s engine. When they came to rest on Dwayne, the vehicle raced across the asphalt, skidding to a halt just feet from the MP, and transfixing him in their illumination.</div>
<div class="indent">“Whose fucking vehicle is that, specialist?” Duty sergeant Calvin Auster demanded, leaping from the jeep. He was hardly older than Dwayne, no more than twenty-eight, but every inch the lifer, his uniform immaculate, his leather polished and gleaming. Having enlisted to escape the Brooklyn ghetto of Bedford-Stuyvesant, it was his firm intent to never return there. Black and lean, he glared at the chubby specialist as if he had placed the car there himself in order to thwart the sergeant.</div>
<div class="indent">“I just found it, sarge,” Dwayne began, hastily coming up with a plausible chain of events. “It was here when I came out of the office building.”</div>
<div class="indent">“And when was that?”</div>
<div class="indent">“Just now—I finished making my rounds in there and found it here with no one around. I was writing down the registration number to call it in,” he lied, holding out his notepad as proof of his honorable intentions.</div>
<div class="indent">Sergeant Auster looked unimpressed. Glancing at his watch, he snapped, “In less than an hour personnel will begin to arrive here, specialist, and in less than an hour I want this fuckin’ piece of civilian shit towed out of here and impounded. Is that clear?”</div>
<div class="indent">Dwayne nodded, “Yes, sergeant.”</div>
<div class="indent">“I will not have some goddamn colonel climbing up my ass today because you let some German loser ditch his car in our lot, do you hear me, Specialist Morton?”</div>
<div class="indent">“Loud and clear, sarge,” Dwayne responded.</div>
<div class="indent">The irate sergeant turned on his heels and began to climb back into his jeep. As he fired up the engine once more, he stared at the VW for a moment, then said, “Have dispatch run that vehicle thoroughly before you remove it, specialist. HQ’s been warning everybody to be extra cautious since that German officer got whacked in Hamburg a few weeks ago.”</div>
<div class="indent">Dwayne nodded, though it was not entirely clear to him what he was expected to do—tow the car, or not?</div>
<div class="indent">The sergeant began to reverse at the same high rate of speed he had arrived, then slammed on the brakes once more. He studied the VW in silence as if something was troubling him. “Get on the radio and request a bomb-sniffing K-9, Morton,” Auster said quietly. “Tell them I said so. You stay here and keep everybody out of the parking lot until it’s been swept.”</div>
<div class="indent">“Not let anybody get to their offices, sarge?” Dwayne asked. He could already picture the ass-reaming every officer that showed up was going to give him. “Not even officers?”</div>
<div class="indent">“You heard me correctly, specialist,” the sergeant snapped, then added in a softer tone, “I’ll be back as soon as I finish up doing spot checks—twenty minutes, or so. I’ll be back long before the brass arrives in any case, so don’t worry, I’ll handle the heat.”</div>
<div class="indent">Dwayne was both relieved and grateful.</div>
<div class="indent">The sergeant sped off in the direction of the Staff Duty NCO’s office.</div>
<div class="indent">With a sigh, Dwayne removed his portable radio from its belt holder and called in the request to dispatch, placing heavy emphasis that the order came from Sergeant Auster. After only a very few minutes he was told that the K-9 officer and his dog would be enroute shortly, and that he was to hold the fort in the meantime.</div>
<div class="indent">“Wilco,” he replied, fishing a package of cigarettes from his cargo pocket and firing up a smoke. He could see that his hands were shaking a little. Taking a deep draw to settle his nerves, he plopped his wide rump onto the trunk lid of the Jetta. He was not surprised to hear the springs groan a little at his formidable burden, but the loud click that followed was puzzling.</div>
<div class="indent">Rising and turning, Dwayne was only in time to witness the fireball erupting from the car and engulfing him like a blowtorch, the explosion blowing out every window of the office building. Like a flaming comet, he traveled some fifty yards to land smoking and smoldering outside the same door he had stepped through only minutes before, his leather boots the only bit of clothing left intact, his body charred black, his face burned away. He had only two and a half hours left in his shift.</div>
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David Dean
The German Informant
$14.95
It’s 1984 in West Germany when U.S. Army Counter-Intelligence Agent Conrad Vogel gets a routine assignment—a background check on a low-level enlisted soldier. Expecting little to come of it, he soon uncovers the GI’s relationship with a German barmaid—a barmaid who knows much more than she should and people that she shouldn’t, and what appeared to be routine suddenly becomes anything but.
With the Soviet Union and its Warsaw Pact nations still a potent threat to the Free World, and terrorist bombings and assassinations in full swing against military personnel, Conrad sets out to unravel a web of espionage, betrayal, and murder.
David Dean
Shadow Lane
$17.95
In Shadow Lane, prolific short story writer David Dean examines the lives of children who find themselves in unfortunate circumstances. Nominated for the Edgar, Derringer, and Barry awards, as well as twice winning Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine’s prestigious Readers Award, Dean shows his command of short fiction and his attention to the plight of children left to their own devices. Shadow Lane is a collection of eleven stories that will make you think twice about turning your back on a child.
An orphaned teenage girl living with her grandmother discovers something terrifying in the older woman’s past, and gains a new and terrible understanding of her own circumstances; a young boy trying to fill the emotional gap his father’s absence has left takes up stealing, but finds that some things are better left where they are; and a nine-year-old boy’s search for his missing friend turns murderous when he gets too close to the truth. These and other stories of children, both endangered and dangerous, fill the pages of this suspenseful collection.
David Dean
Her Terrible Beauty
$15.50
In this chilling collection, prolific short story writer David Dean turns his talents to tales of suspense and the supernatural. Nominated for Edgar, Derringer, and Barry Awards, as well as twice winning Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine’s prestigious Readers Award, Dean proves here that he’s no stranger to an even darker world than that of crime fiction. Her Terrible Beauty and Other Tales of Terror and the Supernatural offers a variety of stories that will amply demonstrate his talent for the terrifying.
A writer who decides to winter over at his family’s lake cottage discovers that an unsettling local legend contains much more than a kernel of truth, in war-torn Bosnia a company of Serbian soldiers happen upon a village like no other they have encountered… and wish they hadn’t, and a student of Edgar Allan Poe’s literature uncovers the real reason why three roses and a bottle of Cognac are left on his grave every January 19th.
Her Terrible Beauty and Other Tales of Terror and the Supernatural is the third volume in the collected short fiction of David Dean.
David Dean
The Wisdom of Serpents
$15.50
Collected within these pages you will find twelve masterful tales of ill-conceived notions and faulty assumptions from prolific Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine contributor David Dean.
A retired man with a mole-infested lawn decides a ferret is the obvious and nature-provided answer; an American prisoner in Mexico is offered a work-release program in which survival, not freedom, is the prize; and a travel agent discovers the consequences of blind love in Belize. These and other stories comprise the suspenseful tales that you will find within this collection. But remember—the wisdom of serpents is poison.
The Wisdom of Serpents and Other Stories of Tragic Misunderstandings is the second volume in the collected short fiction of David Dean, following Tomorrow’s Dead and Other Stories of Crime and Suspense.
Review of "The Mole" by Anne Van Doorn of the Netherlands:
BEST SHORT STORY OF THE WEEKSince 2016, I read a short story a day. My favorite read this week is “The Mole” by David Dean, published in his short-story collection The Wisdom of Serpents and Other Stories of Tragic Misunderstandings. Moles are making a mess of Stivac's garden and that annoys the elderly man enormously. A few days ago, his foot sank into a mole run, causing him to fall. To end this predicament, Stivac buys a ferret. He hopes the little carnivore will hunt down the moles. But the ferret is not interested in moles. The next day, Stivac finds the ferret dead, and the neighbor's cat is resting contentedly near him. Three days later, the neighbor's cat is found dead—poisoned. Over the years, David Dean has written stories about tragic misunderstandings and what they can lead to. "The Mole" is a fine example of what a writer can do with this appealing premise. In fact, all the characters have their own misconceptions, leading to a dramatic, tragic finale. A well thought out plot, masterfully executed.
David Dean
The Purple Robe
$12.95
Rumors rising out of the Yucatan jungle report healings and miracles attributed to a holy relic. Father Pablo Diego Corellas discovers that even his own parishioners are making secret pilgrimages to the decrepit plantation where it is held. There, Doña Josefa, a mysterious woman who is either mystic or mad, possesses an artifact that she claims is a fragment of the robe worn by Christ at his trial. Guarded by armed Mayan farmers, she holds sway over an ever-growing number of pilgrims desperate for the healing power of the Purple Robe.
Much against his own wishes, young Father Pablo is dispatched to the interior to investigate, while a police captain and a vacationing American couple make plans of their own for the robe. But when the relic is stolen, they soon discover that miracles have unforeseen consequences, and that no one is beyond their reach.
D.J. Palladino
Werewolf, Texas - a Grim Love Tale by D.J. Palladino
$18.95
There are no werewolves in Texas... Right?
Research wizard John Shaney launches his career as a grad student at University of Texas, Austin planning to investigate how chemistry can transform human lives for the better. One moonlit night downtown, however, Shaney discovers unexpected and more pleasurable mysteries surrounding one Lila May Wulfhardt and her well-heeled, eccentric family while crossing paths with something more ancient than love and money, something that also wants to change the lives of hapless locals. John Shaney’s world is about to become seriously weird and deadly dangerous, yet ultimately transformative.
Werewolf, Texas is a gripping and vividly dark story of a blood-thirsty dynasty set on preserving their power. With Palladino’s unique voice, this grim love tale explores the not-so-secret dark world of the Wulfhardt family.
D.J. Palladino
Nothing That Is Ours
$17.95
On a gray winter day in 1958, the body of a man washes up on Santa Barbara’s breakwater. He has wounds much like those of the crucified Christ. Trevor Westin, a young writer with deep family connections to the city, sees murder where the local press and powers that be see only a simple case of drowning. Trevor goes on a dangerous search for answers. Along the way he will cross paths with beatniks, beach bums, Aldous Huxley, Dennis Hopper, and agents from the CIA. He will also be introduced to the brave new world of hallucinogenic drugs. Meanwhile, off the coast of Santa Barbara, at the bottom of the sea . . .
Josh Pachter
Dutch Threat
$17.50
All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. But when one of his professors offers to send American grad student Jack Farmer to Europe to do historical research in Amsterdam’s Begijnhof—a peaceful closed community in the heart of the bustling Dutch capital—Jack looks forward to a summer of mostly play and not much work. Then he meets Jet Schilders, an attractive young nurse who takes care of the elderly woman next door, and realizes that his summer in The Netherlands might just turn out to be even more fun than he'd hoped.When the woman next door is brutally murdered, though, and her nurse turns out to be the prime suspect, Jack and Jet join forces in an attempt to find the real killer and clear her name. But their investigation puts them in Dutch with the local police, and a second murder raises the stakes … and paints a target on both of their backs.“Dutch Threat has wit, charm, and lovely crisp prose—everything that’s great about Josh Pachter’s short fiction. His debut novel was a long time coming, and it was well worth the wait!" —Tom Mead, author of Death and the Conjuror and The Murder Wheel
René Appel (translated by Josh Pachter)
The Amsterdam Lawyer
$17.95
Up-and-coming Amsterdam lawyer David Driessen thinks he’s hit the jackpot when a wealthy client showers him with praise, glamour, and plenty of money. But David learns far too late that every gift from the shady realtor comes with a catch—and a price tag. As his gambling addiction, his constant need for cash, and his wife’s infidelities combine to drag him deeper and deeper into his client’s twisted world of money and despair, David struggles to stay ahead of it all… before his time runs out.
In The Amsterdam Lawyer, René Appel—two-time winner of the Golden Noose, The Netherlands’ equivalent of the Mystery Writers of America’s Edgar Allan Poe Award—once again demonstrates the skill that led leading Dutch daily newspaper Algemeen Dagblad to proclaim him “the godfather of the Dutch psychological thriller.”
“A fascinating novel, bubbling over with greed, mistrust, and ruthlessness.” Gijs Korevaar, Algemeen Dagblad
"René Appel is a first-rate Dutch crime writer. The Amsterdam Lawyer is a compelling and twisted legal thriller, the first of what will hopefully be many of his books to appear in English." Steve Steinbock, reviewer for Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine
The Amsterdam Lawyer is translated from the Dutch by Josh Pachter.
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