Still Growing: An Autobiography (16 page)

Now, at 37 years old, I get, “You were sooooo good-looking when you were younger” or “Holy cow! I guess I’m not the only one going gray.” Sometimes I want to ask if these are the first comments they
make to close friends. Probably not. Perhaps they are just so startled when they unexpectedly see a famous person that they say the first thing that pops into their heads.

I often feel like Homer Simpson: It’s as though people don’t see me as a real human being. It’s like they’re talking to a cartoon character they’ve always known and I’ve gone and changed the drawing on them.

It was one thing to have fans interrupt every meal, but paparazzi were entirely different animals: scavengers who took invasion of privacy to a whole new level.

The bread and butter for these people is to get the best photo of a celebrity and sell it to one of many tabloids or magazines. It was bad in the ’80s, and it has only intensified now in the world of TMZ.com, rags like
OK!
and
In Touch
, and 24-hour cable celebrity coverage. Americans’ appetite for this stuff seems insatiable.

Back then, guys with cameras seemed to appear in packs—seemingly out of thin air—ready to blind me with light. I had no idea how they knew my plans. It felt as if someone was tipping them off to my every move. When I showed up for a personal event that I thought no one knew about, paparazzi were waiting for my arrival. They pushed to get close, and their intensity almost brought them to blows.

It’s not that I fault them for wanting to put food on their table, but there was no sense of social grace. Were they raised by flocks of crows?

One exception was Roger. He was always polite, requesting a photo shot instead of demanding one. And before he took the picture, he’d always ask, “How’s your mom? How’s your dad? How are your sisters?” As a result, I happily gave him any picture he wanted.

Because of his consistent courteous approach, after a while I’d see him in the crowd and say to the security guards, “Hey, this is my friend Roger. I’d like him to come on this side of the ropes so he can get all the pictures he needs.” I’d take him aside in front of all the other photo hounds and give him all the pictures he wanted. The rest of the paparazzi were like vultures, trying to get a piece of me to sell to the highest bidder.

It didn’t happen often, but sometimes I could outsmart them and have fun slipping through the paparazzi unnoticed.

Once, my parents and I were at a celebrity event. I didn’t feel like dealing with photographers that day, so Dad and I went into a bathroom and switched clothes, hats and glasses. We got on our bicycles and rode in different directions. We looked a lot alike, so it worked. I made my escape while Dad had a blast leading the snapping fish upstream.

I don’t know if anyone had more fun than my dad when he pulled off the disguise and saw disappointment flash across their faces.

After I started living alone, and then after Chelsea and I married, I pulled every drape and closed every blind when the sun went down. Paparazzi hid in bushes and peered through my windows to get a shot. I wanted to be able to privately dance with my wife on our patio overlooking Lake Calabasas. I wanted to enjoy the gorgeous, warm California nights. But I felt so exposed to those enormously powerful lenses. When Chelsea and I adopted our first son, someone took a photo of me carrying him in his infant seat
in the private courtyard approaching our condo
. That was probably the first time I was truly angry at the intrusion of my privacy.

It’s funny about human nature: Everyone wants to be noticed, to be seen and appreciated. But when you get too much of it, you want to go back to what you had before—invisibility.

Most people can choose when to step into the spotlight and when to step out. But for a child star, there is no stepping out of the spotlight. It follows you no matter where you are, no matter how inconspicuous you wish to be.

And then one day, for most child actors, the spotlight abruptly shuts off. Just as suddenly as it shone, it flickers to dark.

Mike Seaver experienced light-hearted growing pains, but for a while my real life played out like a gritty episode of
Hill Street Blues
.

One day, a couple of police officers showed up at my set trailer and asked to speak with me privately. My mom invited them in, and the four of us sat at the small, built-in dining table.

“Who’s your partner?” the taller officer asked me.

I had no idea what he was asking.
Does he think I’m gay? Is he referring to my character’s best friend, Boner?
I was completely baffled by the question.

The older officer held up a picture of me and a good-looking guy in his 20s. We stood side by side with the
Growing Pains
set behind us. “Tell us what you know about this man. We know you work with him.”

They were so forceful in their accusation.

“He looks familiar,” Mom said, squinting at the photo.

“Yeah,” I said. “I remember him. He came to the set awhile back. He said his brother is dying of cancer in Canada. He’s a fan and wanted to take a picture with me to send to his brother.”

“What else are you guys involved in?” the officer pushed.

I could tell they meant business.

“Nothing, I swear.”

I was confused, replaying in my head the occasion of meeting this guy. I’d taken photos with thousands of people, but I remembered that this guy had been on the set a few times. I figured he was friends with a cast or crew member. I recalled the day he told me the story of
his brother and how much it would mean to him to have that picture. He didn’t have a camera, so I ran around and found one and then had Jeremy take our picture. He came back a few days later to pick up the photo. I really hadn’t had much contact with him.

“How long have you been in business with this guy?” the officers asked again.

I shook my head. “I don’t know . . . I’m not in business with anybody. What kind of business do you mean?”

They scrutinized every move I made. I rubbed my sweaty hands on my parachute pants and swallowed hard. I felt guilty, even though I knew I wasn’t.

“Are you dealing? Got something going on the side?”

I was incredulous. “What? Are you kidding me? I’ve never even smoked a cigarette. I’m the Just Say No kid!”

“Kids lead double lives—it’s not unfathomable,” one of the officers quipped.

“That’s not possible,” my mom said indignantly.

“You can ask anyone on the cast,” my voice cracked. It wasn’t nearly as cute as when Mike Seaver’s voice popped—I just sounded guiltier and guiltier. I tried to convince them I didn’t know this guy beyond the little contact I’d had with him on the set.

“We did ask around,” an officer said. “But we still had to ask you.”

Mom stared at the picture, her mind churning.

The officer tapped the picture with his finger. “So you don’t know anything about what he did with this photo?”

I shook my head. The policemen went on to explain that the guy had doctored up our photo to make it look like an official ABC publicity shot. Pulling out a yellow notepad, the officer said, “This man used this photo to lure a boy about your age into his car. He told the kid he worked with you and could take him to meet you.” The policeman swallowed and looked at my mother before he spoke. “Instead, he raped the boy at gunpoint.”

I was overwhelmed. I’d never heard of something so sick and twisted. And to have my name attached in any way to such a horrifying crime repulsed me.

My mother broke the silence and gasped. “I know where I’ve seen him! He came to our house one day asking for Kirk, saying they had met at the gym.” She rubbed her temples fearfully. “Kirk wasn’t home. I can’t believe it! I invited him into our house to write his message on a piece of paper.”

The officers looked at each other. I started to figure it out.
This man had been trying to get me
. I broke into a flop sweat.

“We’d like your help in catching him. We need Kirk’s cooperation.”

“How?” Mom asked.

“We need him as bait.”

“Absolutely not,” my mother shook her head emphatically. “I will not put my son at risk. I won’t have my son in that kind of danger.”

On hearing what had happened, Alan Thicke recommended we see Gavin de Becker, an expert in dealing with celebrity stalkers. My parents and I went to see him in his office.

Driving down an alley, we followed instructions that led us to a high, nondescript wall. I pressed the button on the wall and a voice spoke. “May I help you?”

“We’re here to see Mr. de Becker,” Mom said.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes. For Kirk Cameron.”

A steel door crept open, revealing the front door of a house. We walked through the courtyard and saw a planter to our right. We pushed on it, as instructed, and a door opened to another set of locked glass doors. It was very
Inspector Gadget
.

When we finally entered the inner sanctuary of the office of Mr. de Becker, I expected a menacing man with a booming voice, petting a cat with his silver claw. Instead, we found a small, thin man named Gavin who looked like an accountant. But we had been told that when it came to celebrity protection, he was the best in the business.

We spent several hours with Mr. de Becker. We gave him the police report and told him everything we knew. He asked probing questions
before giving his assessment of the threat level. He profiled the type of stalker we were dealing with and outlined typical behavioral patterns.

We left with a list of things we had to do, including changing our phone number and having the original number rerouted, obtaining a P.O. box so that no one would have our home address, and hiring an armed guard to sit in a car outside our house around the clock.

From that day on, an armored limousine arrived to take me to work. Each day I stepped into the bulletproof car, knowing that men had scanned the area to insure my safety. Mr. de Becker taught me to walk through crowds with my head down. Fewer people recognizing me insured a better chance of not getting hurt. My parents had an electric security gate installed around the house so that no one could approach the front door. Dad installed motion-detector security lights on the driveway that led to my apartment in the back.

I felt like I was living a bad dream.

I didn’t know until much later that the police stayed in continual contact with my parents, repeatedly asking them to allow me to participate in a sting operation.

My parents resisted, until it sank in that another child could be hurt by the man.

“Without Kirk there is no way we can contact this man without him becoming suspicious,” a detective told them.

“Can you keep him safe?” Dad asked.

“We can’t guarantee it, but we will do everything we can to protect him. He’s our first priority.”

With my parents’ permission, I agreed to cooperate in luring the man back to the set.

My hands shook as I dialed his number. “Hey, it’s Kirk,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm and normal. “I’d like to have you come back to the set and hang out after the taping tonight.” I hyped it up a little. “I’ll give you a backstage pass and a special parking spot. Afterward, you can join me and the rest of the cast for dinner.”

It was, perhaps, the finest performance of my career.

The police told very few people what was planned for that night. The fewer who knew, the greater the chances they could catch the guy. No one in the cast or crew knew what would happen right outside the huge stage doors.

The police locked me in a darkened dressing room with a guard outside the door. I wasn’t allowed to leave until the whole bust was over—not that I would have wanted to. Just sitting there, waiting for him to show up, was scary enough.
What if the officers don’t see him and he finds me?
I asked myself.
What if he comes in the trailer and we get locked in together?

I watched through a small window as undercover police replaced the regular studio security men with their own officers. Within moments, everything looked normal. An undercover cop dressed in a cap and overalls pushed a broom like a janitor. Another, dressed as a set dresser, drove around in a studio golf cart.

Right on time, a light-blue Oldsmobile convertible stopped at the guard hut. The undercover agent playing the guard chatted cordially with him for a few moments, and then the stalker reached for his parking pass and slid it onto the dashboard. He pulled into a parking space reserved for “Special Guests.”

Wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, he opened the car door and stepped out. At that second, a sea of men spun toward him, guns drawn.

“Drop to the ground,
now!
” they shouted.

The man collapsed on the asphalt.

“Lace your fingers and put your hands behind your head!”

Within seconds, the officers had seized the man and locked him in handcuffs. The pedophile was thrown into the back of a car and hauled off to jail.