“I’ve got to get some air,” I replied, stubbornly. “And I’m out of cigarettes.”
“John!”
“Hey, don’t worry. I’ll be back in a minute. I’ll take the car.”
“What if somebody recognizes you?”
I had to laugh. “Looking like this?” My clothes were a mess. My face was sprouting stubble; I hadn’t been near a razor for four days. My hair was longer than usual, almost touching my shoulders. Sunglasses covered my eyes. People wouldn’t stare, they’d turn away. They saw my kind on streets all over town. I’d turned into a common commodity: a California bum. Wandering though the air-conditioned supermarket felt like a quick trip to Alaska. I could have stayed for hours, but that would have been pushing my luck, such as it was. A few minutes were all that I needed to round up some bags of nibble food and cigarettes before returning to the motel. Nearing the corner of Ventura Boulevard and White Oak, the signal changed. As I slowed to a stop, a car pulled up closely beside mine; much too close! The driver didn’t appear concerned; when I turned to look at him he was staring straight ahead. But in the back seat another man was growling at me through narrowed eyes. He held a revolver, pointing it my way. It all happened in a split second: his finger squeezing the trigger, the burst of gunfire, the whoosh of hot air racing past my head, the shattering of glass. I floored the accelerator and sped through the red light, careening in and out of traffic until I reached the motel driveway. No one followed me inside. Dawn nearly collapsed with fright when I told her what had happened, but she wasn’t too weak to help pile furniture against the door to our room. The flimsy lock was useless; a strong breeze would have blown it away. Building the barricade was only a temporary solution at best. There weren’t many options open to us: we had to get out of town, that much was certain. But where? After tossing around the names of several places, I came up with Montana. A distant cousin was living there. “Montana’s perfect,” Dawn nodded. “We could get lost in Montana.” We decided to leave after sundown.
With the door and window closed, the room became a sweltering oven. I was so drenched with perspiration that my clothes clung to me as if they’d shrunk four sizes; I couldn’t have been wetter if I’d fallen into a pool fully clothed and climbed out. One by one I began peeling off the sticky pieces until there wasn’t a stitch left on me. Then I dropped spread eagle on the bed. Dawn disappeared into the bathroom to take a cold shower. The running water must have drowned out the sound of approaching footsteps. I didn’t hear a thing until huge hunks of splintered wood were flying about the room. I bolted upright in bed to face the barrels of four revolvers, two shotguns and a rifle poking through a gaping hole in the door. Behind them crouched seven uniformed bruisers with coat-hanger shoulders, Clark Kent jaws, and squinty eyes. I heard words like “Freeze!” (which sounded oddly appealing at the time) and “Search him!” (which didn’t seem necessary, given my condition) as they crashed their way inside. The officers dutifully went about their business—plundering the room—with strong-arm efficiency. There they stood, casting sneering glances and an occasional snide remark in my direction as they moved within grazing distance of my vulnerable front and backside. Only one of the men, the cop who read me my rights, showed any compassion. When he saw my starchy complexion, now double-drained of its final bit of color by the surprise break-in, he commented, “You don’t look so hot, Holmes. Are you sick?”
“Hell no,” I snapped, “I’ve never felt better.” Actually, I could understand his concern. In the dresser mirror, I caught a glimpse of myself. I looked like a vanilla Popsicle, stick and all.
Dawn missed most of the fun, but not all. During the search, she was discovered in the bathroom and was told to dress. Then I climbed into my clothes. We were both handcuffed and put in a squad car, along with poor, frightened Thor. He’d been found under the bed, a quivering ball.
We were taken to Parker Center, the central police station in downtown Los Angeles. Dawn and Thor were released. I wasn’t. They wanted me to talk about the Laurel Canyon murders. I said that I didn’t know anything, which wasn’t the information they wanted.
“Then we’ll have to hold you,” an officer said.
“On what charges?”
“How about the stolen typewriter?”
“I couldn’t believe he was bringing that up. The typewriter was piece of junk! I’d found it in an alley next to a trash can when I was making a delivery several months ago. Thinking that I could fix it, and pawn it off, I’d stashed it in the trunk of my car. They’d found it during the search.
“The point is,” the officer went on, “we want to keep you in protective custody because we’ve received several reports about your death—one from Texas and another from Oklahoma. We have every reason to believe that someone is out to kill you.”
“That’s a damn good guess,” I hissed. “Let me tell you about bullet holes!”
The officer didn’t press on. He made a phone call instead. Soon, I was on my way to L.A. County Jail.
Perhaps the sight of other prisoners crowded into dingy cells, surrounded by steel bars and cold concrete, was simply a ploy: a taste of things to come if I refused to cooperate. I only know that my stay didn’t last the day. By late afternoon, I was being escorted to the parking lot where five unmarked black cars, each filled with cops, were lined up waiting. My escorts guided me into the middle car and we were off, slowly pulling away one by one.
The procession wound its way through downtown Los Angeles until it reached the shiny glass cylindrical towers of Bonaventure Hotel. Before I could set foot inside, however, four carloads of police swarmed the lobby to check for suspicious characters, a precaution that probably left the management and guests feeling somewhat shaky.
The police cordoned off an entire upper floor of one tower, and locked me alone in a room. I was advised to “stay put” and not to “try anything” because SWAT teams were not only occupying the rooms on either side of me but were on guard in the hall outside my door. Who’d be the first to put the hit on me, I wondered, the police for a statement, or some hired killer?
As it turned out, I wasn’t alone long. My first visitor was a public defender, an outgoing young guy who’d be representing me on the stolen typewriter charge. Shortly after he left, Dawn arrived (minus Thor; she’d taken him back to her father in the Valley). It was so good to see Dawn again, and to have her company. The two of us sat talking and watching television all night. I wondered silently if the room was bugged.
The next morning, I was transferred to a room in a really crummy hotel on the other side of downtown. One look at the place, and the awaiting crowd, and I knew that the kid gloves treatment was over. Dozens of people crammed the room. The FBI was there, along with members of the Food and Drug Administration, the LAPD and District Attorney’s office, secretaries and stenographers—and they were all waiting for me to make a statement. I told them what I knew, which wasn’t much, only to hear: “That’s absolutely no help at all. We need you to tell us who did it. Who is responsible for the killings?”
“I can’t tell you,” I replied. “I honestly don’t know.”
One of the officers stepped forward. “It comes down to this, Holmes,” he said patiently. “You were a regular in the Wonderland house and someone is trying to kill you.” He paused, his eyes studying me as he waited for a reaction. I nodded, feebly. “You’re safe now,” he went on. “Remember that. And you needn’t have anything to fear in the future. We’ll keep you hidden away somewhere under armed guard, and protect you until the trial come ups—in fact, until the killer’s in jail—if you’ll testify against that person, whoever it is. We happen to think you know.” He paused again; this time he got no reaction. The officer moved a step closer and said in a low voice, “If you won’t tell us who did it, we’re just going to have to let you go. You’ll be out on the street—and you’ll be on your own.”
The offer was appealing, but there was nothing I could tell the police that would satisfy them. I had
no choice. I was going back on the street.
Knowing I was a marked man, I wasted little time in leaving town. First, however, I needed money. I called Nash; he gave me $150.00 on the spot and offered $500.00 more if I came back that night. I knew that Nash always kept a minimum of $10,000 in cash on hand so naturally I became very suspicious. I promised to return but instead I called my half-brother David. After all the years of supporting David, I felt it was time for some repayment. David came up with $50.
Believing I could not wait any longer, I dyed my hair and newly-grown beard black, put an eye patch on and headed for Montana with Dawn. We spent three weeks in a small town but with a turn in the weather Dawn began to long for Florida, where she was raised. With only three dollars in my pocket we returned to California, narrowly escaping a highway patrol officer along the way, to raise money for the long, cross-country trip. Back in Los Angeles, I paid Nash an unexpected visit. He gave me $500 and told me once again to come back that night for more. Another invitation to death?
Believing that the police were tracking me, I bought some cans of spray paint and repainted my car at frequent intervals en route to Florida. I didn’t know that the police had broadcast my license number to every small town, city and state across the country. Nor did I know that the FBI had contacted my family in Ohio, and had staked out the New York premiere of “Exhausted”, my last film prior to the murders, thinking I might show up. I didn’t realize that I had been put on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list until later.
In Miami, Dawn and I checked into a sleazy motel that catered to traveling salesmen and prostitutes, convenient to the strip joints and bars across the road where we both started working to pay expenses. I also moonlighted on a construction job, but my earnings couldn’t even come close to covering the lofty repair bill on my car, which was being held behind locked gates at the garage awaiting payment. Frustrated and feeling trapped, I plotted to break into the garage one night, steal my car and take off for the southern tip of Florida—without Dawn. Several days later, after six weeks in Miami, Dawn took off on her own, leaving me with ten dollars and the rent due. Her departure came as no surprise. She didn’t say it, but I knew that once she got to Florida she’d take off. Before I had time to take off, however, I was apprehended by two Los Angeles homicide policemen, taken to jail, then court. I knew Dawn had turned me in. I did not fight extradition. Screw it, I hadn’t done anything. I just wanted to go home and get it over with. I was tired of running!
My attorneys had based their strategy on my testimony, in spite of the fact that I refused to talk. They held me for the robbery charge in Santa Monica and I received three-years’ probation. Then I was taken to court again on an unrelated drug case. The D.A. was grasping at straws. After all this I thought it would all be over with, but then I got subpoenaed before the Grand Jury. They were convinced that I still knew something about the murders and although I had my suspicions, for me to say anything (suspicions or otherwise) would have put my family and friends in danger. Once a week I was taken to court to hear the judge ask, “Are you going to testify?” My answer never varied: “No, your Honor, I cannot.” They told me that I held the key to my own jail cell. All I had to do was testify and I could get out of jail free. Yeah, I thought to myself “What is freedom if you’re dead or you have to live with the guilt of someone you love dying because you got a big mouth?”
At an interrogation in Los Angeles, I was given another ultimatum: Tell who committed the murders or be charged with them -- “because we don’t have any other suspects.” I stuck to my story that I didn’t know who was responsible and was hit with four counts of murder. That same day the police called my mother. They put me on the line with her in belief that she could get me to talk. She asked me if I wanted her to come out, I told her “No, the media will eat you alive. Stay away from me!” I thought that was the last time I would ever talk to my beloved mother again.
In court it was brought out that by pressing charges against me, it would put me in the position of having to talk. I remained silent. Although I knew nothing, I had my suspicions. But if I’d opened my mouth I might have involved hundreds of people. I wasn’t afraid. Being in jail, I didn’t give a shit. I did it as a matter of honor and a whole lot of fear. Because they said I had to talk, I wouldn’t. Besides, Nash still had my address book and if he was the one who was really responsible for the murders and I told the events as I knew them, it could endanger the lives of my family. I was incarcerated for eighteen months in a cramped cell in the maximum security section (called High Power) of the Los Angeles County Jail. I was miserable! Not many came to visit. I had a lot of time to think; it’s times like that when you realize who your friends are, or for a better choice of words, are not! The only visitors I had were my attorneys and the District Attorney, whom I believed had a vendetta against me (could it be he was after the most notorious porno animal in the world?). The trial seemed to drag on and on. At one point, a portion of a magazine interview I had done was read -- the part where I described how I came to be offered my first adult film and my off-the-cuff remark, “who do I have to kill?” It was actually brought out in court that I was willing to kill for money.
As the months passed, I became very depressed. I had been found innocent yet I was still imprisoned. I had pled the Fifth Amendment, my constitutional right, and yet I was still in jail. Maybe they didn’t think a “Porn Star/Drug Addict” had any rights. I had all but given up when I decided to go on a hunger strike. I dropped over 40 pounds, my teeth were starting to loosen, my hair started to fall, out and my eyesight was beginning to fade. Never before had I ever had the shakes like that. I was taken to County General Hospital to be fed intravenously. When a doctor threatened to put a hose down my throat and feed me baby food, you might say I had second thoughts about eating.
Three days later, back in High Power, I received a letter from my former drug dealer, Nash. He had been found guilty of processing cocaine for sale and was a prisoner in the same jail. “Do what you have to do,” it stated. “You’ve suffered enough. Say what you have to say to get out of here.” The fact that Nash had written me this note made me think that Nash hadn’t done it. I guess I’ll never know for sure who killed the people at 8763 Wonderland Ave. I have my suspicions, however. I do know that I never want to run into the person or persons that actually committed this horrific massacre.
At last I was out of jail. I was stone broke, and hadn’t even a place to go. As far as my plans for the future, I hadn’t a clue. I figured no one would even want to talk to me much less hire me! As far as my friends were concerned, I didn’t really think I had any. I did however have one place to go. After this whole ordeal and the pictures that taunted my mind, one might think I would never want to go near any drugs. Not so; I had to have something to erase the thoughts and the fear that never seemed to clear from my mind. I had done a lot of business with this old pal of mine; I had known him for many years. In fact, it was Bill that had turned me onto cocaine in the first place. He took me in and before long my drug debt to him was growing increasingly on the “high” side. Bill had many connections in the porn business as well and it wasn’t long before I was back on the set again. All the publicity that I thought was going to hurt me had somehow turned around for me. I was more in demand than ever and just as “high” too! “What did I have to lose”, I thought to myself…
9
Little did I know I would meet the girl who would melt my heart and change its course forever? Her name was Misty Dawn (actually Laurie). She was 19 and I knew I had to have her from the moment I saw her. I also knew she wanted me too, in a bad way. With her big brown eyes and long brown hair she had a special look about her, one that set her apart from the other girls and made her seem strangely out of place on an X-rated movie set.
Misty had other attributes that weren’t quite so obvious at first glance. In time, I discovered her tenacious side. It didn’t take long, however, to find out how persuasive she could be with th
e producer. We were shooting a film called Marathon in San Francisco when the news came that I would be doing a scene with her that wasn’t in the script. Through some quick manipulation, she trapped me into doing a scene. I was angry with her at first, but not as angry as some of the other girls on the set who, in their jealousy, accused Misty of ripping things off from their dressing room. I knew Misty wasn’t guilty, but one of the girls needed an excuse to cut up her face. These girls were rougher than the ones Misty worked with in Los Angeles, and I honestly believe they were angry at Misty only because they thought I was. But so what, Misty didn’t deserve what was about to happen to her. Her intentions were not bad, just mishandled. Seeing the way things were going, I found myself protecting Misty and telling the girls to leave her alone. Somehow, we got through it all. Misty even apologized for involving me in the situation, and when the shoot was finally over, I gave her my phone number. I knew she would call.
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