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Great White Wonder Discography Poster $25.00

This beautiful, full color poster includes all 16 albums in the Great White Wonder discography from Trade Mark of Quality. The poster is 18x24 inches, and is available for shipping most places in the world.

Chapter 1 <div class="element element-bodymatter element-container-single element-type-chapter element-with-heading" id="chapter-1"> <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-title-is-element-number"> <div class="element-number-block"> </div> <div class="title-block"> <h1 class="element-title case-mixed"><span class="element-number-term">Chapter</span> <span class="element-number-number">One</span></h1> </div> </div> </div> </div> <div class="text" id="chapter-1-text"> <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> <div class="ornamental-break"> <div class="ornamental-break-block ornamental-break-aspect-wide"> <div class="ornamental-break-size-container ornamental-break-width-281"> <img alt="" class="ornamental-break-image" src="images/break-dinkus-palatino-screen.svg"> </div> </div> <p class="ornamental-break-as-text">* * *</p> </div> <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> </div> </div>

Dave Case

Stand for the Dead $16.95

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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} </style> </head> <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> </blockquote> </div> </div> <div class="refnotes-addendum"> <div class="refnote-batch" epub:type="footnotes"> <div class="refnotes-separator rule"> </div> <div> <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> </div> <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> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </body> </html>

Lee DeVore

The Parking Lot Rapist (Paperback) $17.95

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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Richard Buz Williams

Police Pranks, Jokes, and Other Stories Not Suitable for Children from $19.99 $24.50

In Police Pranks, Jokes, and Other Stories Not Suitable for Children, retired Long Beach (California) police officer Richard “Buz” Williams collects nearly one hundred anecdotes of pranks, gags, and other antics played by law enforcement officers on other law enforcement and on suspects. Spanning from the 1930s to the present, Police Pranks shares some of the funniest moments handed down from Williams family, including both grandfathers, his father, great uncle, and cousin (all Los Angeles PD officers), from his time in the Long Beach PD, and from stories collected from other parts of the law enforcement world. This collection of short stories is a perfect quick read for anyone interested in law enforcement or just a good laugh.

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Mercury Media llc

The Rolling Stones Discography Grids from $2.00 $28.00

These information documents for each of the official Trade Mark of Quality releases includes the known details for each genuine TMQ title. This includes the TMQ catalogue number, artist, record title, track list, musicians, venue, recording date, master tape and record matrix info and the other particulars for each album.

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Mercury Media llc

Grateful Dead Discography Grids $2.00

These information documents for each of the official Trade Mark of Quality releases includes the known details for each genuine TMQ title. This includes the TMQ catalogue number, artist, record title, track list, musicians, venue, recording date, master tape and record matrix info and the other particulars for each album.

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Exposed: The Zodiac Revealed (Paperback)

Mark G. Hewitt DBA

Exposed: The Zodiac Revealed (Paperback) $18.95

The solution to the Zodiac serial killer case is both clear and controversial. There's one man who fits the puzzle: a letter writer, bomb maker, and code creator who lived in the area during the Zodiac murders. He had easy access to the crime scenes and had a psychotic break around the time the Zodiac's terrible killing spree began. This man was not only a genius-level mathematician but also skilled at disguising his handwriting, leaving no fingerprints, and crafting incredibly difficult ciphers to tease the police and the public with his hidden identity. His name is Theodore J. Kaczynski. Kaczynski was shaped by the MK Ultra project at Harvard University and became one of UC Berkeley's youngest math professors, a job he detested. He committed his first Zodiac murder during the winter break of 1968 and struck again just after resigning from his teaching position in July 1969. His criminal signature, which included writing letters and creating codes, continued in both his criminal careers as the Zodiac and Unabomber. "EXPOSED" takes you through all the evidence presented in the first two books, "HUNTED" and "PROFILED," and methodically links the Zodiac and Unabomber cases using handwriting, codes, locations, literature, cultural references, and other unexpected details. It makes a compelling case that Kaczynski cannot be dismissed as the Zodiac, one of the most notorious serial killers in history. If you're a fan of crime thriller books, this is a gripping exploration of a controversial theory about the Zodiac killer's identity.

SMITTY: My Marriage to Serial Killer Charles Schmid, the Pied Piper of Tucson (Paperback)

Diane Schmid and Marshall Terrill

SMITTY: My Marriage to Serial Killer Charles Schmid, the Pied Piper of Tucson (Paperback) $19.95

SMITTY releases on February 28, 2025. Order your copy now! Looking for the Hardcover? Click Here! Looking for the Ebook? Click Here! SMITTY: My Marriage to Serial Killer Charles Schmid, the Pied Piper of Tucson unveils an unforgettable tale of love, betrayal, and survival. Diane Schmid thought she had found her Prince Charming when she met Charles Schmid, a charismatic and mysterious man who swept her off her feet as a teenager in the mid-1960s. But her fairytale quickly unraveled when her husband was arrested for multiple shocking murders that captured national attention. Set against the backdrop of a rapidly changing America, this deeply personal memoir recounts Diane’s journey from a young girl in love to a woman facing unimaginable revelations. Through vivid memories and unflinching honesty, Diane reveals how she navigated a life overshadowed by her husband’s heinous crimes while striving to protect her family and find peace. Written with co-author Marshall Terrill, this book offers a unique perspective on one of the most infamous cases in American history, shedding light on the devastating human cost of living with such a dark secret. Blending gripping storytelling with heartfelt reflection, SMITTY captures the strength of a survivor who chose to share her voice after decades of silence. SMITTY is a compelling and haunting read for those who seek a deeper understanding of resilience in the face of unthinkable events.

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James A. Flood

The Maritime Art of James A. Flood: Passenger Ships $45.00 $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

Mark G. Hewitt DBA

Hunted: The Zodiac Murders (Paperback) $22.95

This is the Paperback edition of Hunted: The Zodiac Murders Looking for the Audiobook? CLICK HERE Looking for the Ebook? CLICK HERE The Zodiac serial killer claimed the lives of at least five young victims between 1966 and 1974, and mocked the police with telephone calls, taunting letters, and encrypted messages. Thousands of men have been accused; nearly 2,500 have been investigated. Yet the Zodiac has never been identified. This painstakingly researched and meticulously detailed compendium to the Zodiac serial killer case by True Crime author Mark Hewitt presents the crimes and their effect on a community, including the various sides of the many disputed issues within the case. HUNTED: The Zodiac Murders is the true story of America's greatest criminal mystery. This indispensable companion book is accessible to anyone interested in joining the pursuit, exploring a mystery, or witnessing the police response to an appalling crime spree.

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Leya Booth

True Crime Activity Book $9.99 $11.99

Are you entertained by Sudoku and serial killers? Crosswords and crime? Then play detective and solve these entertaining puzzles! Alongside some of your favorite brain teasers are facts about infamous true crime cases. From word searches and encrypted messages to coloring Ted Bundy in court, the True Crime Activity Book will test your puzzle-solving skills and feed your need for true crime. In line with Genius Books' philosophy, this book honors the victims and celebrates the heroes who fight for them.

Eve Carson

Simple, Safe & Secret (Paperback) $17.95

Imagine a chilly April morning in 1990. A woman walking her dog suddenly stops in her tracks, shocked and disturbed. What made her pause? A human skull blocking a drainage tile. It turns out to be the remains of Joan Webster, a 25-year-old Harvard graduate student who had been missing over eight years ago, leaving the community baffled and investigators puzzled. The prosecutors had a suspect, Leonard Paradiso, who had been tried and convicted for another local woman's murder. The only connection between these tangled cases was that both victims had long, dark hair. Assistant District Attorney Tim Burke was determined to prove Paradiso guilty of both murders. However, with limited evidence and constantly changing stories, the circumstances surrounding Joan Webster's death remain a mystery to this day. But there's hope. Joan's sister-in-law, Eve Carson, has relentlessly pursued her quest for justice. "Simple, Safe & Secret" reveals the disturbing details and flaws in the system that have hindered justice in solving Joan Webster's murder. The truth about the bungled investigation and the wrongful conviction may be even darker than the story of Joan's murder itself. If you're a fan of crime thriller books and crime mystery books, this is a story that will grip you from start to finish.

Kimberly Croft

Unbroken (Paperback) $15.50

Scarlett Fergusson’s life is anything but perfect. Working as a waitress in a small town, she lives with her addicted father, his girlfriend, and her toddler. Scarlett dreams of a better life. When wealthy Hugh Cruz sweeps her off her feet, she’s ready to believe that her life has turned around. And when Hugh proposes, her fairytale ending suddenly seems possible. But Hugh isn’t the man she thinks he is. Cruel, controlling, and violent, he turns her fairytale into a nightmare. Scarlett can’t believe the woman she’s become. Just when things can’t get any worse for Scarlett, the unthinkable happens. Is it the end, or a new beginning? Unbroken is the tale of a woman’s fight for survival, and her quest to discover her own strength.

Billy The Liquor Guy

The Making of Billy The Liquor Guy $17.95

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.

Nova West

Devil's Playground: God's country has blood on its hands $15.50

A young pregnant mother is killed, and a small town demands justice, a conviction, someone to blame. When an unlikely suspect is convicted, it raises a question: Is this the culprit, a scapegoat, or a martyr? This question prompted a mother and daughter to go beyond the official version to search for the truth. As they delved deeper into the story of this murder and conviction, they found themselves asking, how many victims came out of this tragedy, and how many perpetrators? Why did it feel like everyone involved had blood on their hands but the person convicted of this horrible crime? So, crack a cold beer, sleuths, and follow along as we search for clues and question everything. The truth could be around any corner. In this devil’s playground, no one is completely innocent. A great mystery awaits. Join us in our search for the killer.

James Kirkpatrick Davis

Prescription For Evil (Paperback) $15.95

"Prescription for Evil" is the story of the most horrifying FBI case in American medical history. It begins on May 27, 2001, when a nurse in a Kansas City doctor's office sends a vial of chemotherapy medicine called Taxol to a lab. When the results come back on June 12, 2001, it's a shocking revelation. The Taxol sample from the lab contains only about one-third of the amount of medication the doctor had prescribed. This is a dangerous situation because diluted medicine could lead to severe, even deadly consequences. In September 2001, the FBI starts a new case called "Diluted Trust," which quickly became their top priority under the leadership of FBI Director Robert S. Mueller III. As they dig deeper, they uncover a disturbing truth. A pharmacist named Robert Ray Courtney had been diluting chemotherapy drugs for years, making a huge profit. But the real tragedy lies in the human cost. More than 4,200 patients were affected, with at least 40 known deaths. This was an unprecedented case in American medical history. "Prescription for Evil" takes you on a heart-pounding journey through the FBI's pursuit of Robert Ray Courtney and the devastating impact he had on thousands of patients and their families. “Prescription for Evil” is a must-read that will keep you on the edge of your seat.

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David James Foster

Baker Street (Full Color Paperback) $33.00 $40.00

Baker Street is your ultimate guide to the enduring world of Sherlock Holmes. This comprehensive book explores the original tales by Arthur Conan Doyle, delving into the genius behind the legendary detective. From there, it ventures into the fascinating realm of pastiche novels, tracing their evolution from the early 1900s to the present day. Dive into Holmes’ cinematic journey, from silent-era experiments to today’s sophisticated adaptations, and discover how each era reimagined the detective and his loyal companion, Dr. Watson. A must-read for Holmes enthusiasts, Baker Street celebrates the literary and cultural impact of the world’s greatest consulting detective across generations and mediums. Baker Street: The Curious Case Files of Sherlock Holmes is an 8.5x11 paperback with 284 full-color pages.

Bob Bossin

Davy the Punk (Paperback) $16.95

In Davy the Punk, Bob Bossin tells the story of his father’s life in the gambling underworld of the 1930s and ‘40s. This sometimes poignant, sometimes outrageous memoir of father and son is packed with streetwise stories and troubling revelations about Canada and the United States as they were in the first half of the twentieth century. In the 1930s, Davy Bossin was known in the underworld as “Davy the Punk.” He was the “bookies’ bookie,” a layoff man who connected Toronto to the betting rackets in New York, Chicago, Detroit, and elsewhere. Davy’s colleagues and friends were some of the top outlaws in America. A consummate storyteller, Davy often regaled his pals with tales of horse-racing, the mob, and the equally gritty underside of show business. Eagerly taking it all in was his son Bobby, who would grow up to become indie-music pioneer Bob Bossin. By turns funny, insightful, and moving, Davy the Punk is the story of horse racing, the Great Migration, antisemitism, baseball, gambling, show biz, and most of all, fathers and sons.

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Barney Terrell

Cold Wrath $14.36 $17.95

"Cold Wrath: The 1896 Rampage of James C. Dunham" is a book that delves into a chilling crime from 125 years ago. On May 26, 1896, Jim Dunham killed six people, including his wife, her parents, his brother-in-law, and two farmhands. What remains a mystery even today is why he did it and why he spared his three-week-old son, leaving him beside his murdered mother. Back in those days, Santa Clara, California was a small farming community near San Francisco, and Jim Dunham was a family man with big dreams. But something went terribly wrong that spring, derailing his plans. We are certain that Jim Dunham committed these gruesome murders, but the unsettling truth is that we may never fully understand why. "Cold Wrath" by Barney Terrell takes us through the known facts, eyewitness accounts, the intense manhunt, and the enduring questions surrounding this horrifying event. Even after all these years, it's important to grasp the motivations that drove Jim Dunham to unleash his wrath upon his victims.

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Nile Southern and Adam Cooper

Chicago 1968: The Calm Before the Storm $50.00

In the late summer of 1968, writers Terry Southern, William S. Burroughs, and Jean Genet were deployed by Esquire magazine to cover the Democratic Convention in Chicago. With photographer Michael Cooper and poet Allen Ginsberg inseparable parts of their coterie, the “fab 5” (as Michael Simmons dubbed them) were unflappable, capturing the calm and riding out the storm. These were turbulent times, as growing opposition to the Vietnam War inspired the Yippies to organize one of the biggest youth demonstrations of all time. Pot-smoking peaceniks descended upon Chicago from all over the country to protest the 1968 Democratic National Convention and the anticipated coronation of the Establishment candidate, Hubert Humphrey. Chicago was a Republican stronghold, and Mayor Richard J. Daley wanted to present a peaceful “law and order” city that wouldn’t tolerate any “outside agitators” or “unpatriotic” long-hairs. No one could have foreseen the unprecedented mobilization of tens of thousands of young people from all over the country, and the lengths to which Mayor Daley went to shut them down. Michael Cooper and Terry Southern, no strangers to absurdity and highly attuned to the strengths and aspirations of youth culture, witnessed the deployment of the national guard, a belligerent police force “run amuck” and rioting, and the outrageous aggression unleashed on the protesters on the streets of Chicago—harkening to the hugely funded militarization of police forces today, and the continual need for their reform.Chicago 1968: The Calm Before the Storm captures Michael Cooper’s celebration of his writer-friends and the protests in which they were playing a part—¬moments before the chaos and terror that became Chicago ’68. Accompanied by one of the great new journalism pieces by Southern, we have, with Cooper’s photos, an intimate and wry, world-weary account of a pivotal cultural moment whose city-sponsored violence has echoed throughout history and offers us a cautionary reminder for today. Chicago 1968 recalls the events of three fateful days in late August that must never be forgotten. With original research, curated ephemera and fresh commentary, Nile Southern and Adam Cooper highlight their fathers’ distillation of this pivotal moment in American history, exploring the fault lines between reportage, activism and poetry.As the National Democratic Convention returns to Chicago this summer (2024), this book is more relevant than ever, particularly with the Democratic Party navigating its stance on Israel’s war on Gaza, and how forcefully the growingly disenchanted youth vote will express its demand for a peace candidate. Why we love this book... Chicago ‘68: The Calm Before the Storm documents the visual poetry, both in photos and written text, that is the Yippie Movement. We chose to publish this due to the timely nature of events mentioned in the book, as history often unfortunately repeats itself. Police brutality continues in prevalence, just as it did during the protests of 1968 at the Democratic Convention in Chicago. This piece of visual history includes never before seen photographs of the emotion, power, and intensity demonstrated during this time, and we are proud to publish this book at Genius Book Publishing, Inc.

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