Products

12/26/75 (Twelve Twenty-Six Seventy-Five)

<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.1//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml11/DTD/xhtml11.dtd"> <html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> <head> <title>Untitled</title> <meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"/> <style> /* ePub CSS */ h1 {padding-top: 15%;} .indent {text-indent: 5%;} .center {text-align: center;} .right {text-align: right;} .margin {margin: 0 5%;} .margin-indent {margin: 0 5%; text-indent: 5%;} .bigmargin {margin: 0 5% 0 10%;} .bigmargin-indent {margin: 0 5% 0 10%; text-indent: 5%;} .hugemargin {margin: 0 5% 0 15%;} .hugemargin-indent {margin: 0 5% 0 15%; text-indent: 5%;} img {max-width: 94%;} body {margin: 0 3%; text-align: justify;} .spacer {padding-bottom: 1em;} li {padding-bottom: 0.5em;} </style> </head> <body> <h1 id="c5">CHAPTER ONE</h1> <div><i>“We’ll catch the guy”</i></div> <div class="spacer"></div> <div class="indent">“I’ll be driving my wife’s orange Jeep, you won’t be able to miss me.” Retired VPD Sgt. John Vaughan is a master of understatement.</div> <div class="indent">I chose the Black Bear Diner because it seemed like the kind of place where cops eat. They serve all-day breakfast, steaks, and bottomless cups of coffee in their signature white mugs. I was afraid that if I suggested a place more suited for a vegan from Los Angeles, I might make an already awkward meeting totally unbearable for both of us.</div> <div class="indent">The Jeep was the brightest thing in the parking lot, maybe in the entire county, now turned brown after years of endless drought. As I drove into town, the only color was the green from irrigated groves of citrus trees. Although it was still early, the day was quickly heading over 100 degrees. Visalia is a small city stuck in time. It prides itself on pretending that it is still 1950. The A&W brews its own homemade root beer, and sells it in jugs that you can take home. However, it was impossible to miss the racist graffiti scrawled on the wall of the Indian grocery store on the edge of the A&W parking lot.</div> <div class="indent">I understood Visalia, and its power structure. My great-grandparents chased the American farming dream across the country at the turn of the 20th century, going from Kansas to North Dakota, then to the newly planted orange trees of Southern California. My great-grandfather was a pacifist, and they fled to Canada during WWI, finally returning to the apple and cherry trees of northeastern Washington State. My great-uncle, “Buck,” was the police chief of a small farming city a lot like Visalia. Rumors were that he ran the town as his own personal criminal empire. He took a cut of every illegal enterprise, and black and brown suspects ended up dead in the river, rather than in a jail cell or courtroom. According to my mother, the rumors were all true. As soon as she could, she left for Seattle, and never looked back. Her sister took the other path, became a police dispatcher, and married the son of a homicide detective in Spokane.</div> <div class="indent">I never planned on becoming an attorney, but somehow my internal need for fairness found a practical profession. Handling criminal appeals immediately put me in direct conflict with law enforcement, prosecutors, and judges. It’s a specialized area of the law that requires endless hours of research on each case. The best appellate attorneys start at the beginning, with the events leading up to the crime, not the trial itself. That means digging into original police reports, witness statements, and forensic lab bench notes. Overworked and underfunded public defenders are rarely granted money for investigators and forensic experts, and critical details can easily be missed.</div> <div class="indent">Although my office is staffed by licensed attorneys and private investigators, we each bring unique life experiences and skills. I spent summers on drilling rigs in the Arctic Circle and in Montana. Guns were a necessity in camps accessible only by helicopter, and stalked by grizzly bears and wolves. We have dirt bike riders, and a pilot who can conduct surveillance via small plane or drone. One of our attorneys is a forensics expert, who studied criminology at Oxford University, and can build a complete family tree for a subject while you wait in the field for the next address to check out or vehicle to follow. Two of us lost close friends to serial offenders, and we are guided by what we know they would want us to do if we were pursing their killers. Terri and Laurie would want the truth—no matter how long it takes, or how difficult it may be to accept.</div> <div class="indent">My first phone call to John Vaughan went pretty much exactly as I expected. John had retired as a sergeant with VPD in 1996 after 35 years of service, and 20 years later, he had little interest in revisiting a 40-year-old unsolved crime spree. However, I wasn’t calling about just <i>any case</i>—it was the longest and most expensive investigation in VPD history, and Sgt. Vaughan had been the lead detective. I asked him if I could just email a few documents, and he finally agreed to let me mail him an envelope. The day he got the documents he called back, and asked if we could meet to discuss the information. Now here we were in the parking lot of the Black Bear Diner.</div> <div class="indent">Even twenty years after retirement, John still looked like he could topple his wife’s Jeep with one hand, and the expression on his face as I pulled up made me think he was considering it. Walking into the restaurant together, we made small talk, and the mood hadn’t really improved by the time we were done ordering. John was a wall of skepticism, built over 40 long years of listening to an endless number of overly excited “theories” about his biggest case. Between March 1974 and December 1975, a man dubbed the “Visalia Ransacker” had terrorized his city. There had been over 150 residential burglaries with a very weird and specific MO.</div> <div class="indent">The burglar ignored expensive jewelry and electronics, and instead stole Blue Chip trading stamps, piggy banks, food, coins, cameras, two dollar bills, knives, and single earrings from a pair. He took guns, but only if they were older or foreign, and therefore lacked traceable registration numbers. Immediately upon entering the home, he opened multiple escape routes, and placed the window screens in odd places, like on the bed. He also put chain locks across doors, or blocked them with chairs, to delay the homeowner should he return during the burglary. He displayed undergarments and jewelry boxes on beds and pillows, and stole photos of the attractive teen girls who lived in the rooms. All areas, including the kitchens, were heavily ransacked. Drawers were left pulled out, or contents dumped on the floor. Sometimes he placed stacks of undies and nightgowns in rows down the hallway.</div> <div class="indent">The VR always struck in the early evening, while the residents were out to dinner, a movie, or the local football game. He confined his activities to a small area of single story homes, often on cul-de-sacs, owned by middle class professionals. The houses were usually locked, and the VR favored prying and chiseling locks on sliding glass doors or back doors to garages, then going into the kitchens. The VR traveled almost exclusively through backyards, ditches, open spaces, alleys, and greenbelts—always careful to avoid sidewalks and streets. The burglaries got little press attention or police investigation, and were treated like a nuisance, not a threat.</div> <div class="spacer"></div> <div class="indent">At 2:24 am on Thursday, September 11, 1975, VPD received an emergency call to respond to a shooting at the Snelling home. When they arrived two minutes later they found Claude Snelling lying mortally wounded inside his front door. His wife explained that he had been shot by a man who had kidnapped their 16-year-old daughter, Beth. Forty-five year-old Claude, a journalism professor at nearby College of the Sequoias, was pronounced dead upon arrival at the hospital.</div> <div class="indent">The killer had entered the house by removing the screen on an open window, and unlocking the back door. The air conditioning unit had stopped working that evening, likely due to intentional tampering. Beth awoke to find the masked man on top of her, pinning her arms, and holding his hand across her mouth. In a clenched teeth whisper, he ordered her to get up and go with him, or he would stab her. As they walked through the house, Beth struggled with the kidnapper, and her father got up to investigate the noise. Claude called out: “Where are you taking my daughter?” Rather than running away, the man let go of Beth, and walked back a few feet to get a clear shot at Claude as he exited the back door. As he stepped into the yard, the man fired two shots, both hitting Claude. The kidnapper then pointed the gun at Beth’s head, kicked her three times in the face, and calmly walked away towards the street. He just disappeared into the darkness.</div> <div class="indent">Sgt. Vaughan was assigned as lead investigator, and his team quickly determined that the gun used to kill Claude had been stolen in a recent VR burglary. The gun owner was able to show them where he had done some target practice, and ballistics examination of the spent rounds matched the bullets that killed Claude. The investigation showed that the VR had arrived on a stolen bike, which he left in a yard a block away, and departed on foot, using a landscaped ditch along the highway. Sgt. Vaughan quickly realized that Beth, and her friends at Mt. Whitney High School, had been the Ransacker’s targets all along. They had been stalked and terrorized for nearly two years by a man whose true plan was kidnapping and murder. The VR was suddenly front page news, but the more that Sgt. Vaughan and his team promised to catch him, the more brazen the VR became.</div> <div class="indent">On October 21, 1975, The <i>Visalia Times-Delta </i>published an update story on the Snelling homicide:</div> <div class="spacer"></div> <div class="margin-indent">Presently, Sgt. John Vaughan and agents William McGowen and Duane Shipley are handling the investigation. All are confident they will succeed. “We are getting a lot of leads and tips. Lots of things are being worked on,” Vaughan said. “We’ll catch the guy,” McGowen said.</div> <div class="spacer"></div> <div class="indent">Just as that story hit newsstands and porches that afternoon, the most recent VR burglary victim, Ruth Swanson (a pseudonym), returned home for the day to an empty house. Suddenly, she heard someone trying to open the front door. When she checked the peephole, all she saw was a hand covering it. She ran to the living room window, but saw nobody on the front porch. A few minutes later, she received a couple of hang up phone calls, followed by an obscene one, using her name. VPD responded, and installed a trap on her phone.</div> <div class="indent">On Friday, October 24th, the VR committed four burglaries. It appeared from witness reports and footprints that he started with two homes on W. Campus Avenue. At around 10:30 pm, while Sgt. Vaughan and his team were responding to those burglaries, the VR moved on to Whitney Lane. A neighbor saw the VR cutting through yards to S. Redwood, where he committed a third burglary—325 feet from the Snelling house. The VR then crossed Redwood to the house where he had left the stolen bike on the night of the Snelling homicide, passed through that yard, and across the back fence. He then burglarized the home on the other side of the fence.</div> <div class="indent">The burglaries seemed to serve no real purpose other than to commit signature ransacking, sure to be recognized by VPD: kitchen drawers were pulled out evenly, but not disturbed; women’s undergarments were displayed with jewelry boxes on the bed pillows; lotion was left out; and the chain was thrown across the front door. Sgt. Vaughan noted in his report that the only motive for much of the ransacking appeared to be to “draw attention” and “to leave his calling card.” Sgt. Vaughan believed that they were being taunted for their comments to the newspaper.</div> <div class="indent">It quickly became clear to Vaughan’s team that the VR was working with a deep knowledge of police procedure, their patrol rotation schedule, and even their planned stakeouts. He knew exactly when and where to strike to avoid all of the police efforts to catch him. The only advantage they had was their newfound knowledge of the VR’s true motive—he was stalking particular girls and young women in a set zone. Earlier that year, another teenage girl, Debbie Ward, had encountered the masked VR after he had just burglarized the apartment of their tenant, who lived over the garage. He pushed Debbie aside to escape, but she was unharmed.</div> <div class="indent">Agent Bill McGowen was assigned to contact the Ward family and several other prior VR victims. He told them to look for signs of a prowler in their yards, and to report any strange noises. It paid off. Mrs. Ward found fresh footprints under Debbie’s bedroom window, and upon further investigation, Agent McGowen saw a circular impression next to the prints. He found a matching flowerpot in the neighbor’s yard that had been used as a step stool to look in Debbie’s window, and then had carefully been put back in place.</div> <div class="indent">Sgt. Vaughan was heading to Los Angeles for PERT training, but he was able to plan the stakeout of Debbie’s house. It was agreed that Agent McGowen would hide in the neighbor’s garage, next to Debbie’s bedroom window. Agent Duane Shipley would be placed across the street to watch from that angle. The rest of the team would be positioned in the surrounding area to look for the VR, and create a net around the neighborhood should he appear. Sgt. Vaughan said that he was worried about not being there, but he trusted Agent McGowen. McGowen had been chosen because of his honesty and morality; he didn’t cut corners, swear, or drink. McGowen’s father, C.E. McGowen, was a police captain in the city of Tulare, and his brother, Richard, was a sergeant with the Tulare County Sheriff’s Office (TCSO). Sgt. Vaughan said that he knew Bill McGowen would always do the right thing, no matter how dire the circumstances.</div> <div class="indent">The biggest change in the Ward stakeout was its silence. Not only were the officers ordered to stay off the radio, their entire operation was kept top secret within the department. The only people who knew what they were doing were the team members themselves, and they were not allowed to discuss it with anyone. Sgt. Vaughan had become convinced that the VR was a member of law enforcement, who not only listened to their radio frequency but also talked directly to officers on his squad—it was the only possible way he could have avoided all of the prior stakeouts.</div> <div class="indent">At 7:00 pm on Wednesday, December 10, 1975, the stakeout of the Ward house began. Agents McGowen and Shipley were in place, while four other officers in two cars and on foot covered the surrounding neighborhood. Agent Hartman oversaw the operation in a roving, unmarked car. At 8:38 pm, a frantic call broke radio silence, “Shots fired, officers need assistance.”—Agent McGowen was down.</div> <div class="indent">A few minutes before, the VR had been spotted at Debbie Ward’s window, and McGowen had confronted him at gunpoint in the side yard. The VR was wearing a mask, which he took off, and put in his right jacket pocket to show McGowen that he was complying. He then turned, jumped the gate, and ran into the backyard screaming, “Please don’t hurt me, oh my god, no.” McGowen fired a warning shot into the ground to try to make the VR stop moving, and to attract the attention of Agent Shipley. The VR then jumped the fence into the Ward yard, raised his right hand, and said, “See, my hands are up.” As he reached his left hand into his pocket, he pulled out a gun, and fired at McGowen through the fence slats, hitting his flashlight dead center. Mr. Ward looked out of his patio door just in time to see the VR hop over his back fence, and disappear into the night.</div> <div class="indent">Agent Shipley found Bill McGowen on the ground, saw blood on his face, and thought he was dead. Glass from the flashlight lens had hit McGowen’s eye, knocking him to the ground, but he had not been shot. Agent Hartman then called in the California Highway Patrol, TCSO, and all VPD units to help seal off the area and try to prevent the VR from escaping. It did no good—he was gone. Investigators found a sock full of loot dropped by the VR on the Ward’s patio. The stolen items were quickly tied to a nearby home burglary that had occurred shortly before the shooting. There was no doubt, the man who had killed Claude Snelling, shot at McGowen, and committed the VR burglaries was the same offender.</div> <div class="indent">McGowen created a composite sketch of the suspect. Sgt. Vaughan’s team investigated and eventually cleared nearly one hundred suspects, but by September 1976 they had run out of new clues to follow. Then the Criminal Investigation and Identification (CII) system notified them of an MO and suspect match to a serial rapist in Sacramento who had started his crimes in June 1976. John immediately saw the connection. He requested the burglary and rape case reports from the SSD for the offender whom media had dubbed the “East Area Rapist.” (EAR). In May 1977, Detectives Shipley and McGowen traveled to Sacramento and met with EAR investigator Detective Richard Shelby, who felt the VR was a good lead. Unfortunately, nobody else in Sacramento agreed, and Shelby was taken off the case a month later. In 2001, DNA connected the EAR to ten murders in Orange, Ventura, and Santa Barbara Counties (Original Night Stalker-ONS); that killer had never been caught.</div> <div class="indent">The EAR/ONS crimes were profiled on the A&E show “<i>Cold Case Files</i>” in 2000, and that led to multiple online discussion boards dedicated to the cases. A&E eventually shut down their board after users started naming and harassing “persons of interest” in real life. Several of the people involved in the discussions were convinced that they were experts<i>,</i> and repeatedly contacted different members of law enforcement to tell them how they should be running their investigation and exactly who they should consider as suspects. Generally, five minutes’ worth of research could prove that their “suspect” could not have committed the crimes. Although law enforcement officers tried to be patient and have an open mind so that they didn’t miss an important tip, many of these case theories from internet investigators proved to be exhausting.</div> <div class="indent">It would be wrong to put all internet sleuths or armchair detectives into the same group. Some individuals who become interested in a cold case bring unique research skills, or real life investigative experience, while others simply like to go with crowd sourcing, guesses, or theories, rather than with hard facts. As an attorney and private investigator, I didn’t fit into either group. I was relying on original police and forensic reports, witness statements, and court records, not the internet. Also, I was looking for evidence that could meet a higher standard—evidence that could support probable cause for a search warrant, arrest, and conviction.</div> <div class="indent">I could tell that John Vaughan was not entirely convinced that my ideas were grounded in facts rather than hunches, and he asked me if I had ever talked to some of the other people who had approached him about the case. I hadn’t, and he seem relieved. He was not in the mood for a manic recitation of disconnected stories that added up to nothing. He was also a bit suspicious of my work as a defense attorney—generally a cop’s natural enemy. Nobody likes to have their work scrutinized, criticized, and second-guessed.</div> <div class="indent">I opened our conversation by telling him how impressed I was with the forward thinking, professionalism, and thoroughness of his original investigation into the VR. It was textbook police work, with complete canvasses of the neighborhoods, and no potential suspect off limits. My only criticism was the hypnosis of Beth Snelling and Agent McGowen, which seemed to have changed their original suspect descriptions and thrown the case off track. Making “suggestions” to witnesses creates false memories that feel real, which is why hypnotized witnesses cannot testify in court. However, in 1975, it was considered cutting edge science. I also pointed out to John that his team was the only one to ever catch the suspect; nobody else had even come close. It turned out that he was a lot harder on himself than I ever could have been.</div> <div class="indent">Sgt. Vaughan expressed an enormous amount of regret for being in Los Angeles during the McGowen shootout. He felt responsible for letting the VR get away, and later hurting and killing so many innocent people. Even after 40 years he was still immensely frustrated that he hadn’t been able to convince Sacramento that they were looking for the same suspect. He believed that Sacramento should have focused on men who had been in Tulare County between 1974-1976, with law enforcement training. John also thought that if Sacramento had utilized secret stakeouts, the VR/EAR could have been caught in 1977, and… <i>at least</i> twelve homicides could have been prevented.</div> <div class="indent">To John, it wasn’t just a theory; he knew that the VR was the EAR. He explained the uniqueness of the MO, and the utter creepiness that he never felt or saw in any other case. If I had doubted the connection before, I didn’t after I looked into John’s eyes. I also had complete certainty that the Visalia Ransacker and East Area Rapist were the same person.</div> <div class="indent">We finally got to the reason for our meeting—the information in the envelope I had mailed to him. I was worried and hesitant to start, but he had no problem barking out questions faster than I could answer them. I asked him what his working relationship with TCSO had been during the VR investigation, and he said simply that there hadn’t been one. They never worked cases together if they could help it—the feelings of dislike were mutual. I asked about a particular officer, TCSO Sgt. Bob Byrd. John’s eyes flashed. He recited a couple of unflattering names for Byrd, including “DBO” (Ditch Bank Okie), and said Byrd wasn’t an educated or trained police officer, and he had no business investigating real crimes. I carefully suggested that perhaps Byrd had manipulated and destroyed evidence, and John said, “Oh, it must have been a Tuesday.”</div> <div class="indent">I felt a huge weight off my shoulders as one of my biggest fears lifted. If John had not been willing to believe that Byrd was both a terrible investigator and a rule breaker, our meeting would have been over. Instead, we moved on to discussing the homicide of Jennifer Armour, a name he barely recognized. At 7:30 pm on Friday, November 15, 1974, Jennifer, a 15 year old sophomore, disappeared while walking from her house to the Visalia K-Mart. She was meeting friends for a ride to the homecoming football game between her school, Mt. Whitney, and the rival Redwood High. Jennifer’s friends waited an extra fifteen minutes, then headed to the game. When they were unable to locate her there, they figured she hadn’t gotten permission from her mom and had stayed home.</div> <div class="indent">When Jennifer didn’t return home that night, her mother assumed she was staying with a friend, and it wasn’t until Saturday morning that she realized that Jennifer had been missing for more than 12 hours. She called VPD, but in the 1970s, possible runaway teen cases got little attention. There was no sign that Jennifer had been harmed or was in danger. Had she told her mom she was meeting her girlfriends, but really run off?</div> <div class="indent">The answer came on the morning of Sunday, November 24, 1974. A rancher found Jennifer’s body in the Friant-Kern canal, just north of Exeter. TCSO made it sound like an accidental drowning, and when Sgt. Vaughan got the Snelling case ten months later, Jennifer was not listed as a missing person or a homicide victim.</div> <div class="indent">In the Black Bear Diner, John and I went over some maps I had printed out for the meeting. I showed him the two November 1974 VR burglaries that had immediately preceded Jennifer’s disappearance—they were three blocks from where Jennifer was last seen. We discussed how Jennifer and Beth Snelling were the same age, physical type, in the same class at Mt. Whitney High School, and were kidnapped just four blocks apart. Had Jennifer been one of the VR’s Mt. Whitney stalking victims? I asked John how many other Mt. Whitney students had ever been kidnapped in their homes, or off the street, in all of the years he had lived in Visalia. He didn’t know of any others. John had always assumed that Beth Snelling’s kidnapping was going to end in rape and murder in some remote, dark location—just like an orange grove out in Exeter.</div> <div class="indent">I asked John about something else that was the hallmark of both the EAR and VR— his taunting of police. The EAR was perhaps most infamous for responding to two different public “challenges.” The first was in March 1977, when <i>The Sacramento Bee </i>published a story stating that the EAR “has never attacked while there is a man in the home.” The next attack, on April 2nd, was on a sleeping couple, and that soon became his signature. Then, on May 17, 1977, the EAR attacked a couple in the Del Dayo neighborhood. Detective Shelby immediately realized that the husband was the same man who had stood up and yelled at him at a community meeting on November 3, 1976. The man had berated Shelby for not catching the EAR, and said that in his native Italy, the men would never let their wives get hurt like that. Clearly, the EAR had been at that meeting, took the man’s comments as a challenge, and targeted him. In fact, almost every single time that SSD issued a statement to the press about the EAR, he would respond with another rape. It was a constant call and response.</div> <div class="indent">I had noticed that the VR had done the same thing after Sgt. Vaughan and Agent McGowen had made statements to the press about “catching” him. In fact, the VR went right back to the Snelling neighborhood, and burglarized their block again. John confirmed that the VR had clearly taunted them after every public statement, and gone out of his way to embarrass his team. That took me back to the days after Jennifer Armour was found. Tulare County Sheriff, Bob Wiley, declared to the press that “there is no reason to believe that the girl may have been murdered.” Jennifer’s public service was on that Friday, November 29th, and that night the VR hit five homes in Visalia, and thirteen on Saturday night. This was an insane spree, even by VR standards—there was nothing else like it in the series, before or after. Eighteen burglaries in two nights. Clearly the VR was trying to get the attention of VPD, but it fell flat. It was almost a year before John took over the case, and the officers working the burglaries back in 1974 didn’t catch on to it—at all.</div> <div class="indent">I took out some additional maps. Now we were looking at the Friant-Kern Canal, just north of the Exeter city limits. The area where Jennifer had been killed was easily accessed from the highway, yet totally secluded, with no homes or lights nearby. The killer kidnapped Jennifer right by the highway on-ramp in Visalia, drove east eleven miles, turned left and headed north, then right heading east again, and finally a left onto the same grove siding road the rancher was driving when he found Jennifer’s body. Those actions were deliberate, specific, and planned by someone who knew the area <i>extremely</i> well. Most of the agricultural property close to Exeter surrounds the owners’ ranch homes. When you turn off the road onto a dirt drive, you don’t know if you’re heading into trees or are on a driveway leading to a home full of people—and a shotgun.</div> <div class="indent">I showed Sgt. Vaughan the grove, siding road, and spot in the Friant-Kern Canal where Jennifer was killed in November 1974. Then, I moved my finger just slightly to the southeast on the map to a different orange grove along the same canal, Neel Ranch. “And, <i>that’s</i> where Donna Richmond was killed in December 1975,” I told John. The distance was less than two miles, with a straight line of sight between the two groves.</div> <div class="indent">Neel Ranch was owned by Hank Neel, who lived in Ventura. The property was purely agricultural, with no ranch house, and it could be accessed from the siding road along the Friant-Kern Canal. Like Jennifer, Donna had disappeared while she was alone on a Friday evening. Both girls had long blonde hair and blue eyes. Donna was a 14-year-old freshman at Exeter High, and like Jennifer, she had simply disappeared into a vehicle without any witness seeing or hearing a kidnapping.</div> <div class="indent">At this point, I was expecting an eye roll, sigh, or some sign of frustration from John, but the moment passed quickly. A man named Oscar Clifton had been convicted of Donna’s murder, and had died in prison three years earlier, but John was unfazed: “So that guy Clifton didn’t do it.” He asked how Clifton had been eliminated in Jennifer’s murder, and I said that he and his family lived in Las Vegas—TCSO had fully checked his alibi since they really wanted to clear both cases with one suspect if they could. John agreed that it was now apparent that the same person had killed both Jennifer and Donna, and that the evidence in Exeter seemed to point <i>directly</i> back to Visalia and the VR.</div> <div class="indent">I had originally wanted to talk to John because I believed that there were four things about Donna’s murder that were meant to be tied to the VR but had been totally missed by TCSO in their rush to convict an innocent man. The first was a ski mask that was collected into evidence on Neel Ranch. It was described by the forensics tech as a “multi-colored ‘ski cap’ with possible hairs adhering.” The description of the ski mask worn by the VR, as described by Beth Snelling, was “having white stripes and having multi-color zigzag design.” Obviously, there was no photo of the VR’s ski mask, but there is one from Neel Ranch. It is crumpled on the ground, but it clearly has white stripes, a zigzag pattern, and what appear to be eye holes. There would be no reason for Donna’s killer to leave the mask at the homicide scene unless he wanted it to be found and matched back to the Snelling case, and to the VR.</div> <div class="indent">There was also no question that TCSO investigators were supposed to connect Jennifer and Donna’s murders, and then follow the cases back to Visalia and the VR. Kidnapping similarly aged blonde girls, in safe public areas on a Friday evening, and then leaving their bodies in orange groves on the Friant-Kern Canal, just north of Exeter, was a highly specific MO, and a lead that was meant to be seen and pursued. Sgt. Vaughan agreed, and said that it felt exactly like the offender he had been chasing for so many years—always taunting the police, and daring them to catch him. That brought me to a quote of John’s from <i>The Sacramento Union </i>newspaper: “Both men have been known to have this peculiarity of taking things—not of special value—from one house—and leaving them at other houses.”</div> <div class="indent">He was correct. In October 1976, the EAR had even gone so far as to plant a bag of jewelry (stolen from EAR victims) in a house, then he attacked the next door neighbor and made statements to her indicating that he lived nearby. Sacramento Detective Shelby had the innocent neighbor, John Dority, put under surveillance, and that helped clear him when he was seen at home during the next EAR attack. The EAR had framed Dority with planted evidence, and it almost worked.</div> <div class="indent">I had two more sets of maps for John to see, and I put them side by side. One showed the area where Donna’s bike had been found, three miles from Neel Ranch, at what appeared to be a staged kidnapping scene. The other map showed an area John knew well, an irrigation ditch on Ave 256, between Visalia and Exeter. About a week after the Snelling kidnapping and homicide, a man called VPD to report finding a gun in an irrigation ditch on Ave 256. It was <i>not</i> the missing murder weapon, but it was a Taurus revolver, identified by its serial number, that had been stolen by the VR from a residence on Mountain Drive in May 1975. That prompted John’s team to search the other irrigation ditches along the same road, where they found a large screwdriver and some ammunition wrapped in a clear raincoat. The gun had been located near a large fertilizer plant. John checked out those employees, and a few of them stayed on the suspect list. However, the location of the raincoat items was more of a mystery, and no suspects were developed there.</div> <div class="indent">I told John I thought I knew the suspect that the VR was trying to frame with the raincoat—the same person he implicated with an invoice book found next to Donna’s bike at the staged kidnapping scene. John had found the raincoat across the road from a small dead-end street called Hypericum, a name I had seen in Donna’s homicide case file. One of the homes on Hypericum belonged to the parents of Oscar Clifton, and had been staked out by TCSO on the night they found Donna’s bike. According to TCSO, they found the invoice book used for Clifton’s repair business near the bike. I told John I believed the VR had tried to frame Clifton after the Snelling homicide, and then again after Donna’s murder. The VR was hoping that Clifton would be convicted of Snelling, McGowen, Jennifer, Donna, and all of the burglaries, and… the VR would be in the clear.</div> <div class="indent">I asked John how he had eliminated Clifton as the VR, and he just laughed. Clifton was 6´2? and 150 pounds dripping wet—“<i>he was a beanpole.</i>” He also had a distinctive limp from a ruined knee, wore a metal brace, and had a thick Okie accent. The VR was more like 5´10? and 170 pounds, with strong arms and shoulders. John said that he gave Clifton one glance, and knew that he could not have been their suspect. Obviously, when the EAR attacks started six months later, John was proven right. Why the VR would choose to frame Clifton was more of a mystery, but clearly he didn’t know about the bad knee or his recent return after eight years of living out of state. It seemed like a question that couldn’t be easily answered until we identified the VR.</div> <div class="indent">Sgt. Vaughan and I talked about TCSO Sgt. Byrd a bit more, and I detailed the misconduct I had found, and the total and complete lack of physical evidence. There was nothing that tied Clifton to Donna or the homicide scene. She had not been kidnapped where her bike was found, so the planting of Clifton’s invoice book (stolen from his unlocked truck) near the bike was just more staging. Clifton had a solid alibi, with multiple witnesses, and the state’s case and timeline were physically impossible—barring time travel and cloning.</div> <div class="indent">I told John that when he identified the VR as being the EAR, and gave the timeline for the suspect leaving Tulare County as the summer of 1976, Sgt. Byrd had immediately ordered the destruction of the case evidence in Donna’s murder. It had only been five months since Clifton had been sent to death row. Not only was that highly illegal, it violated multiple court orders in place to preserve the evidence pending Clifton’s appeal.</div> <div class="indent">I had finally told John something that truly shocked him. He simply could not believe that any police officer would intentionally destroy case evidence, especially evidence that would be needed if Clifton won his appeal and a retrial was ordered. Clifton would have walked free. John and I agreed that whatever truth Sgt. Byrd was hiding had to be worth the risk of getting fired, going to jail, or letting Clifton out of prison. We came to the same conclusions—Byrd knew who really killed Donna, was covering for him, and was afraid that either Sacramento or Visalia would match their suspect to the evidence in Donna’s murder.</div> <div class="indent">We also agreed that we should be looking for VR suspects <i>in Exeter</i>. In 1975, the town had a population of 5,000 residents. Roughly half were men, and many were Latino. We knew we were looking for a white male, within a specific height and weight range, 20-30 years old, left-handed, with blue eyes. He was either active duty law enforcement in Tulare County, or was very close to someone who was. He seemed to want both Jennifer’s and Donna’s homicides investigated by TCSO, so we felt that he likely lived within the city limits of Exeter, not in TCSO jurisdiction. The man went unnoticed in solidly middle-class, professional neighborhoods, so he didn’t look like an obvious creep or criminal.</div> <div class="indent">John said he would contact Detective Shelby, the EAR Task Force, VPD major crimes, and the TCSO forensics officer who worked Donna’s homicide. I agreed to work on a list of people of interest that fit our criteria. They had a solid suspect DNA profile, so all we needed to do was go down the list and eliminate them, one by one. It was going to be hard going without more help. The <i>Exeter Sun </i>newspaper microfilm reels had been sent for digitization, and nobody could find a copy of the local 1975 Exeter census. The phone books had to be accessed in person, during library hours. Assistance from law enforcement, with their vast resources, could really speed things up. John and I didn’t think it would be easy, but we never imagined the force and effectiveness of the backlash we would face.</div> <div class="spacer"></div> <h2 class="center sigil_not_in_toc" id="c6">Chapter One Sources</h2> <div class="indent"><b>1. VPD Reports 1974-1977</b></div> <div class="indent"><b>2. VPD Report - Gomes September 11, 1975</b></div> <div class="indent"><b>3. VPD Reports - Shipley & Arnold September 15, 1975</b></div> <div class="indent"><b>4. Visalia Times-Delta - October 21, 1975</b></div> <div class="indent"><b>5. VPD Report - Shipley October 24, 1975</b></div> <div class="indent"><b>6. VPD Report - Vaughan October 28, 1975</b></div> <div class="indent"><b>7. VPD Report - McGowen October 2, 1975</b></div> <div class="indent"><b>8. VPD Report - McGowen December 19, 1975</b></div> <div class="indent"><b>9. VPD Report - Hartman December 13, 1975</b></div> <div class="indent"><b>10. VPD Report - Vaughan December 17, 1975</b></div> <div class="indent"><b>11. VPD Report - Vaughan November 20, 1975</b></div> <div class="indent"><b>12. Visalia Times-Delta - May 18, 1977</b></div> <div class="indent"><b>13. Sacramento Bee - April 5, 2001</b></div> <div class="indent"><b>14. Visalia Times-Delta - November 26, 1974</b></div> <div class="indent"><b>15. Visalia Times-Delta - December 2, 1974</b></div> <div class="indent"><b>16. VPD Report - Vaughan October 8, 1975</b></div> <div class="indent"><b>17. Sacramento Bee - March 20, 1977</b></div> <div class="indent"><b>18. SSD EAR Report - April 2, 1977</b></div> <div class="indent"><b>19. Sacramento Bee - April 5, 1977</b></div> <div class="indent"><b>20. SSD EAR Report - May 17, 1977</b></div> <div class="indent"><b>21. TCSO Report - Johnson December 26, 1975</b></div> <div class="indent"><b>22. Sacramento Union - July 22, 1978</b></div> <div class="indent"><b>23. SSD EAR Reports - October 9 & 18, 1976</b></div> <div class="indent"><b>24. VPD Report - Vaughan September 25, 1975</b></div> <div class="indent"><b>25. VPD Report - McGowen September 28, 1975</b></div> <div class="indent"><b>26. TCSO Report - M. Richmond December 28, 1975</b></div> <div class="indent"><b>27. Mt. Whitney Yearbook 1975</b></div> <div class="indent"><b>28. Photo of ski mask at Neel Ranch</b></div> <div class="spacer"></div> <div class="spacer"></div> </body> </html>

Tony Reid

12/26/75 $17.95

“12/26/75” is more than a story about a murder. It is a case of wrongful conviction, prosecutorial misconduct, corruption, and a serial killer. For Tony Reid, this case began with a claim of innocence in the 1975 murder of Donna Jo Richmond. The original investigation and flawed trial resulted in a guilty verdict, but a reevaluation revealed that the defendant had been wrongly accused and railroaded. The question then shifted to who framed him. With a new team of investigators, including two original detectives, a startling possibility emerged: Could the real culprit be a serial offender? Mr. Reid launched the "12/26/75" podcast, seeking information from the public. Based on primary evidence and new interviews related to Donna Jo's murder in Exeter, California, the team delved into every angle. What they found was more than a miscarriage of justice. They uncovered connections to the unsolved murders of Jennifer Armour and Claude Snelling, as well as links to The Visalia Ransacker/East Area Rapist. They exposed corruption by the lead investigator who destroyed trial evidence, and they investigated the mysterious death of the original defense attorney. This led them back to Exeter, where a new suspect emerged: Joseph DeAngelo, a sergeant with the local police department at the time, in charge of violent crimes and burglary investigations. "12/26/75" goes beyond being a mere adaptation of the podcast. It offers fresh insights from the investigation, providing a firsthand view of the crimes and revealing the flawed evidence that led to the wrongful conviction. Most importantly, it highlights the grave consequences of letting a serial killer go free, compounded by mistakes, internal conflicts, and blame-shifting among different jurisdictions. The book makes it clear that reforms are urgently needed to prevent such tragedies from happening again, now that the truth of how it all unfolded is exposed.

<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.1//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml11/DTD/xhtml11.dtd"> <html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> <head> <title>Untitled</title> <meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"/> <style> /* ePub CSS */ h1 {padding-top: 15%;} .indent {text-indent: 5%;} .center {text-align: center;} .right {text-align: right;} .margin {margin: 0 5%;} .margin-indent {margin: 0 5%; text-indent: 5%;} .bigmargin {margin: 0 5% 0 10%;} .bigmargin-indent {margin: 0 5% 0 10%; text-indent: 5%;} .hugemargin {margin: 0 5% 0 15%;} .hugemargin-indent {margin: 0 5% 0 15%; text-indent: 5%;} img {max-width: 94%;} body {margin: 0 3%; text-align: justify;} .spacer {padding-bottom: 1em;} </style> </head> <body> <h1 class="center" id="c3">CHAPTER 1</h1> <div class="spacer"></div> <h2 class="center sigil_not_in_toc">The Early Years</h2> <div class="spacer"></div> <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> <div class="spacer"></div> <div class="spacer"></div> </body> </html>

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.

<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.1//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml11/DTD/xhtml11.dtd"> <html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> <head> <title>Untitled</title> <meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"/> <style> /* ePub CSS */ h1 {padding-top: 15%;} .indent {text-indent: 5%;} .center {text-align: center;} .right {text-align: right;} .margin {margin: 0 5%;} .margin-indent {margin: 0 5%; text-indent: 5%;} .bigmargin {margin: 0 5% 0 10%;} .bigmargin-indent {margin: 0 5% 0 10%; text-indent: 5%;} .hugemargin {margin: 0 5% 0 15%;} .hugemargin-indent {margin: 0 5% 0 15%; text-indent: 5%;} img {max-width: 94%;} body {margin: 0 3%; text-align: justify;} .spacer {padding-bottom: 1em;} </style> </head> <body> <h1 class="center" id="c4">LAST CALL</h1> <div class="spacer"></div> <h2 class="center sigil_not_in_toc"><i>December 1943</i></h2> <div class="spacer"></div> <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> <div class="spacer"></div> </body> </html>

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.

sale

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’!”)

sale

Alyson Camus

A Question Mark $14.36 $17.95

“A Question Mark” tells the story of the alleged suicide of Elliot Smith, and dives into the circumstances of the case to reveal the truth. Back in the early 2000s, Elliott Smith was a rising star in the Indie music scene. He was a talented musician, but he carried a heavy burden—a drug addiction and a bleak view of life. His music expressed both his pain and his hopes. Then, in 2003, tragedy struck. Elliott Smith was found dead, and it looked like suicide. The media and his fans were quick to accept this explanation. However, as more details emerged, things got murkier. His girlfriend claimed they had a heated argument, and while she was locked in the bathroom, Elliott allegedly stabbed himself twice in the chest, ending his life. Hours later, he passed away in the hospital from his injuries. The Los Angeles County Coroner, after examining the evidence, couldn't definitively say it was suicide. Fast forward eighteen years, and the case is still unresolved. Alyson Camus, a dedicated Elliott Smith fan, couldn't let it rest. She wanted to uncover the truth. "A Question Mark" chronicles her relentless investigation into the alleged suicide of this Oscar-nominated singer. What she discovered reveals that the truth about his death might be an even bigger mystery than anyone could have imagined. This is a story that will keep you guessing until the very end.

Add to cart

Dan Harary

After They Came $22.95

Jonathan Tuckerman, a Los Angeles man down on his luck and truly alone in life, decides to mark his 70th birthday by drowning himself in the Pacific Ocean. Instead, he inadvertently becomes the world’s “Wonder Man” after a pair of extra-terrestrial visitors from the Pleiades interdimensional star system appear in a giant spacecraft, pluck him from the sea, and present him to the media and the world as their sole “Ambassador to Mankind.”Jonathan’s life is dramatically transformed for the better as he works closely with the magnificent Tall White aliens Jorthon and Kalyssa to solve man’s long-insurmountable problems.Jorthon and Kalyssa aren’t the only aliens visiting Earth, however. The Draconians, a long-hidden race of ancient—and sinister—extra-terrestrials, make their presence on Earth known, livid that Jonathan and the Tall Whites have received global accolades for their remarkable achievements. The Draconians and their heinous leader blame the Tall Whites—and God himself—for their miserable existence, as they decide to seek recognition, retribution, and revenge.After They Came takes the reader—indeed, the entire human race—on a wild ride through real UFO research and lore, global politics, climate change, religion, true love, a family reunion, and “the meaning of life itself,” all set against the backdrop of unprecedented extra-terrestrial intervention. The novel presents unlimited possibilities for achieving global peace and prosperity—dreams heretofore unattainable by man.After They Came is a story of loneliness reversed, despair erased, and one man’s wholly remarkable destiny fulfilled.

Add to cart

All Hell Breaks Loose - Penny Miller Book Five

Steven W. Booth

All Hell Breaks Loose - Penny Miller Book Five $19.99

Sheriff Penny Miller of Flat Rock, Nevada, has always done her duty. On the first night of the zombie apocalypse, she swore an oath to protect her friends from the ravenous hordes. However, now that the virus is rapidly spreading to the rest of the country it has become clear that Miller and her friends, Scratch, Sheppard, and Rat, are winning battles but losing the war. And that’s just not good enough for Penny. Too many people have already died. Determined to stop the maniacs who have been funding the research that created the undead, and with the key to stopping the virus in hand, Miller and crew embark on a long and dangerous journey north. Their route cuts through the very heart of zombie occupied territory, but this time they are out to end the apocalypse once and for all. Unfortunately, the elite committee of government officials who control the Super Soldier program knows exactly where Miller and her friends are headed, and they are determined to capture or kill them at any cost. Sheriff Miller doesn’t stand a chance. Of course, lousy odds never stopped her before. She gives the order to move out. And that’s when all hell breaks loose. Paperback, 274 pages ISBN: 978-0615978-71-0

All Hell Breaks Loose - Penny Miller Book Five (Ebook)

Steven W. Booth

All Hell Breaks Loose - Penny Miller Book Five (Ebook) $9.99

Sheriff Penny Miller of Flat Rock, Nevada, has always done her duty. On the first night of the zombie apocalypse, she swore an oath to protect her friends from the ravenous hordes. However, now that the virus is rapidly spreading to the rest of the country it has become clear that Miller and her friends, Scratch, Sheppard, and Rat, are winning battles but losing the war. And that’s just not good enough for Penny. Too many people have already died. Determined to stop the maniacs who have been funding the research that created the undead, and with the key to stopping the virus in hand, Miller and crew embark on a long and dangerous journey north. Their route cuts through the very heart of zombie occupied territory, but this time they are out to end the apocalypse once and for all. Unfortunately, the elite committee of government officials who control the Super Soldier program knows exactly where Miller and her friends are headed, and they are determined to capture or kill them at any cost. Sheriff Miller doesn’t stand a chance. Of course, lousy odds never stopped her before. She gives the order to move out. And that’s when all hell breaks loose. Paperback, 274 pages ISBN: 978-0615978-71-0

Genius Books

All Hell Breaks Loose with The Rule of Three $44.98

Don't miss the explosive ending to the Sheriff Penny Miller Zombie series. All Hell Breaks Loose: Determined to stop the maniacs who have been funding the research that created the undead, and with the key to stopping the virus in hand, Miller and crew embark on a long and dangerous journey north. Their route cuts through the very heart of zombie occupied territory, but this time they are out to end the apocalypse once and for all. Unfortunately, the elite committee of government officials who control the Super Soldier program knows exactly where Miller and her friends are headed, and they are determined to capture or kill them at any cost. Sheriff Penny Miller has come too far and lost too many friends to quit now. She and her companions have made it safely to Mountain Home, Idaho, the operation center of the three-person Enhanced Bioweapons Select Committee that controls the nation’s response to the zombie outbreak. Miller knows they are still funding the research that started the zombie apocalypse. And Miller didn’t come to the home of the zombies to attend a church social. When Sheriff Miller stumbles across a homegrown militia whose leader shares her hatred of the Select Committee, she sees the opportunity she’s been waiting for. Together with Major McDivitt and his team, Sheriff Miller sets out to destroy the three committee members who have the most to gain from the spread of the zombie virus. One last mission should finish the job. …Unless they know she’s coming.

Steven W. Booth

All The Devils $19.99

Carrie Young’s life is one hot mess. The posh political aide is having an affair with her boss, a Congressman who is taking bribes from a major corporation. When a hit man kills the Congressman and sets Carrie up to die in an apparent murder/suicide, she is rescued by Spider Walsh, a soft-spoken janitor. The two strangers go on the run, pursued by an elite network of professional assassins, skilled men and women who do dirty work for the rich and powerful. With both the police and the ruthless group of mercenaries on their trail, Carrie and Spider venture deep into LA’s gang territory, where she must trust her mysterious protector and his friends to keep her alive. Their enemies will stop at nothing to keep Carrie from revealing vital secrets to the authorities. As they begin to fight back, Carrie learns that Spider is not just a janitor after all. In fact, he is a very dangerous man, with a few dark secrets of his own. “All the Devils is a wild and fast-paced thriller pitting brave and quick-witted heroes against a frightening array of vivid adversaries.” —Thomas Perry, author of Big Fish and The Informant

Steven W. Booth

All The Devils (Ebook) $9.99

Carrie Young’s life is one hot mess. The posh political aide is having an affair with her boss, a Congressman who is taking bribes from a major corporation. When a hit man kills the Congressman and sets Carrie up to die in an apparent murder/suicide, she is rescued by Spider Walsh, a soft-spoken janitor. The two strangers go on the run, pursued by an elite network of professional assassins, skilled men and women who do dirty work for the rich and powerful. With both the police and the ruthless group of mercenaries on their trail, Carrie and Spider venture deep into LA’s gang territory, where she must trust her mysterious protector and his friends to keep her alive. Their enemies will stop at nothing to keep Carrie from revealing vital secrets to the authorities. As they begin to fight back, Carrie learns that Spider is not just a janitor after all. In fact, he is a very dangerous man, with a few dark secrets of his own. “All the Devils is a wild and fast-paced thriller pitting brave and quick-witted heroes against a frightening array of vivid adversaries.” —Thomas Perry, author of Big Fish and The Informant

At the End of the World - Penny Miller Book Three

Steven W. Booth

At the End of the World - Penny Miller Book Three $19.99

The Zombies are Spreading... Small town Sheriff Penny Miller and her friends Scratch, Terrill Lee, and Sheppard escaped from Nevada moments before a devastating nuclear explosion intended to eradicate the zombie plague. The Government’s plan didn’t work, and the undead are spreading fast. When Miller and her men find an abandoned hunting lodge in a remote village in Colorado, they’re hoping to steer clear of zombies, redneck survivalists, and panicked locals, and to simply ride out the winter. Penny Miller just wants some peace and quiet, a glass of wine in front of the fireplace, and maybe some quality time with Scratch over the holidays. Unfortunately, that isn’t Santa coming down the chimney—and this will not be a Merry Christmas. “Zombie thrillers loaded with sex and smarts.” —Jonathan Maberry, NYT Best Selling Author of Extinction Machine “Defines laugh-out-loud funny.” —Bookish Brunette “From the opening line, I loved it. For a zombie fan like me, presses all the right buttons.” —Stoker winner Joe McKinney, Author of Dead City and Flesh Eaters “The dialogue and narrative crackle, and the expressions that come out of Penny's mouth are hilarious. Great combination of action, gore, horror and humor.” —Dana Fredsti, Author of Plague Nation Paperback, 205 pages ISBN: 978-0615785-27-1

At the End of the World - Penny Miller Book Three (Ebook)

Steven W. Booth

At the End of the World - Penny Miller Book Three (Ebook) $9.99

The Zombies are Spreading... Small town Sheriff Penny Miller and her friends Scratch, Terrill Lee, and Sheppard escaped from Nevada moments before a devastating nuclear explosion intended to eradicate the zombie plague. The Government’s plan didn’t work, and the undead are spreading fast. When Miller and her men find an abandoned hunting lodge in a remote village in Colorado, they’re hoping to steer clear of zombies, redneck survivalists, and panicked locals, and to simply ride out the winter. Penny Miller just wants some peace and quiet, a glass of wine in front of the fireplace, and maybe some quality time with Scratch over the holidays. Unfortunately, that isn’t Santa coming down the chimney—and this will not be a Merry Christmas. “Zombie thrillers loaded with sex and smarts.” —Jonathan Maberry, NYT Best Selling Author of Extinction Machine “Defines laugh-out-loud funny.” —Bookish Brunette “From the opening line, I loved it. For a zombie fan like me, presses all the right buttons.” —Stoker winner Joe McKinney, Author of Dead City and Flesh Eaters “The dialogue and narrative crackle, and the expressions that come out of Penny's mouth are hilarious. Great combination of action, gore, horror and humor.” —Dana Fredsti, Author of Plague Nation Paperback, 205 pages ISBN: 978-0615785-27-1

Judy Booth

Babe's Special Day $8.00

Babe the bobcat lives in the Upper Newport Bay Nature Preserve. She recently received a tag and tracking collar so scientists could study her and her movements. Babe's Special Day is a delightfully told and illustrated story of a one of the treasures of the Upper Newport Bay.

Mercury Media llc

Bad Company 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.

Add to cart

Mike Stark

Black Sabbath: An Oral History of the Heavy Metal Band $14.95

Black Sabbath in their own words Just one year after Woodstock and the Summer of Love, a new kind of music made its way onto the airwaves and into the hearts of millions of fans. The sound was dark, brooding, and overpowering, like the music of industrial machinery, with a banshee in the lead who shrieked out lyrics from the darkest parts of our souls. But the melodies had meaning, and the words pointed their finger at the injustices and corruption of the world, in the finest tradition of the music of the 1960s. This sound, this phenomenon became known as “heavy metal.” In Black Sabbath: An Oral History, Mike Stark brings us into the world of Tony Iommi, Geezer Butler, Bill Ward, and of course, John “Ozzy” Osbourne, four young men from England who changed the world with their music. Through their own words, Stark presents firsthand accounts of the history of the quintessential British heavy metal band, who influenced later bands as diverse as Metallica, Van Halen, Nine Inch Nails, Alice in Chains, and others, right up to today. With a supporting cast of characters that includes Ronnie James Dio, Rob Halford, Eric Singer, Tony Martin, Cozy Powell, and Neil Murray, Black Sabbath: An Oral History also provides a detailed timeline of the band from 1970 to 2017, as well as an annotated album discography.

Add to cart

Steven W. Booth

Blood Desert - A Penny Miller Novel $19.99

Sheriff Penny Miller’s philandering ex-husband is convinced the cattle on a ranch north of Flat Rock are being attacked by blood-sucking bats. Miller brushes him off, since Terrill Lee has always been a conspiracy nut. When the rancher dies suspiciously, the property is sold to two eccentric women who open—of all things—a wine and knitting shop. Their odd little business brings tourist money to Penny’s sleepy little town, along with two teenaged drug dealers and a huge heap of trouble. In Blood Desert, the thrilling prequel to The Hungry series, there’s a new kind of undead giving Penny a pain in the neck. Though the zombie apocalypse remains one possible future, Patient Zero has yet to be infected. In this here and now, Sheriff Miller ends up face-to-fang with deadly, ravenous vampires who are determined to take over the entire state of Nevada, starting with Flat Rock. Readers of The Hungry zombie novels will love Blood Desert for its familiar characters, serious scares, and quirky black humor. The somewhat younger Sheriff Penny Miller is as funny, foul-mouthed, and courageous as ever. Readers both new and old are in for a real treat. Paperback, 273 pages ISBN: 978-1947521-01-8

Blood Desert - A Penny Miller Novel (Ebook)

Steven W. Booth

Blood Desert - A Penny Miller Novel (Ebook) $9.99

Sheriff Penny Miller’s philandering ex-husband is convinced the cattle on a ranch north of Flat Rock are being attacked by blood-sucking bats. Miller brushes him off, since Terrill Lee has always been a conspiracy nut. When the rancher dies suspiciously, the property is sold to two eccentric women who open—of all things—a wine and knitting shop. Their odd little business brings tourist money to Penny’s sleepy little town, along with two teenaged drug dealers and a huge heap of trouble. In Blood Desert, the thrilling prequel to The Hungry series, there’s a new kind of undead giving Penny a pain in the neck. Though the zombie apocalypse remains one possible future, Patient Zero has yet to be infected. In this here and now, Sheriff Miller ends up face-to-fang with deadly, ravenous vampires who are determined to take over the entire state of Nevada, starting with Flat Rock. Readers of The Hungry zombie novels will love Blood Desert for its familiar characters, serious scares, and quirky black humor. The somewhat younger Sheriff Penny Miller is as funny, foul-mouthed, and courageous as ever. Readers both new and old are in for a real treat. Paperback, 273 pages ISBN: 978-1947521-01-8

Genius Books

Blood Desert and All the Devils $39.98

Don't forget to read the prequel to the Sheriff Penny Miller Zombie series, Blood Desert, and get a copy of the standalone thriller, All The Devils. Blood Desert is set in an alternate timeline, before the outbreak of the zombie virus, where they are more likely to be bitten by blood sucking vampires than slobbering hordes of zombies. Penny and Terrill Lee have to navigate the dangers and the politics of small town life in order to protect the population of Flat Rock from this new threat. Carrie Young’s life is one hot mess. The posh political aide is having an affair with her boss, a Congressman who is taking bribes from a major corporation. When a hit man kills the Congressman and sets Carrie up to die in an apparent murder/suicide, she is rescued by Spider Walsh, a soft-spoken janitor. The two strangers go on the run, pursued by an elite network of professional assassins, skilled men and women who do dirty work for the rich and powerful. With both the police and the ruthless group of mercenaries on their trail, Carrie and Spider venture deep into LA’s gang territory, where she must trust her mysterious protector and his friends to keep her alive. Their enemies will stop at nothing to keep Carrie from revealing vital secrets to the authorities. As they begin to fight back, Carrie learns that Spider is not just a janitor after all. In fact, he is a very dangerous man, with a few dark secrets of his own. “All the Devils is a wild and fast-paced thriller pitting brave and quick-witted heroes against a frightening array of vivid adversaries.” —Thomas Perry, author of Big Fish and The Informant

Genius Books

Blood Desert and All The Devils Ebooks $19.98

Blood Desert and All The Devils Ebooks

Find anything you need

Products (154)