Killers for Hire
Authors: Tori Richards
Tori Richards
Racer Mickey Thompson
photo by John Crosthwaite
Killers for Hire
Copyright © 2011 by Tori Richards
Foreword copyright © 2011 by Marilyn Bardsley
Cover art to the electronic edition copyright © 2012 by RosettaBooks, LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
See the full line of true crime ebook originals at www.crimescapebooks.com
Electronic edition published 2012 by RosettaBooks LLC, New York.
ISBN e-Pub edition: 9780795324420
Chapter 1: The Bicycle Killers
Chapter 2: On the Trail of the Killers
Chapter 3: Thompson and Goodwin
Chapter 6: Unrelenting Pursuit
Chapter 8: A Witness is Silenced
Chapter 9: The Road to Los Angeles
Chapter 11: Mickey’s Final Race
Alan Jackson & Mark Lillienfeld
When Mickey Thompson and his wife were murdered in 1988, it shocked the sporting world and Los Angeles. Not only because of the crime’s brutality, but also because of the brazenness of two gunmen who did this in broad daylight and escaped on bicycles, of all things. It couldn’t have been a better movie script in a town that is used to high drama.
But then years dragged by and it faded from public scrutiny, seemingly destined, like so many other cases, to never reach a solution. However, behind the scenes a detective was hard at work playing a chess game with the mastermind behind the slayings, one that would continue for 12 years.
Much has been written about the victims, killers, and ensuing trial but never has the investigation been told in such intricate, thrilling detail. Detective Mark Lillienfeld is truly the modern-day incarnation of the old “Columbo” from television. In fact, they are so similar that even the suspect calls him as much in a wiretap.
Tori Richards is the only writer who could have done this justice. A journalist who has lived and breathed the crime beat in Southern California during the past 20 years, she had access to the players in this drama who gave her exclusive details. This book even includes startling information on suspect Michael Goodwin gleaned from interviews with two jail inmates who knew him.
Not only did Richards work at the Orange County District Attorney’s Office when this case was investigated there, she followed it through the ensuing years and covered the trial for CourtTV.com.
Richards spent the first 12 years of her career at newspapers such
as Los Angeles Daily News
and
San Gabriel Valley Tribune
, where she was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize for an investigation into prisoners who mysteriously died in jail. She also won numerous journalism awards, including the coveted Associated Press Best of the West and two from the California Newspapers Publishers Association.
After her stint at the DA’s Office, Richards was in demand by several of the biggest news agencies in the world and started working as a correspondent for the
New York Times, Reuters, Bloomberg, Agence France Presse, New York Post, New York Daily News, AOL News
and
TruTV’s Crime Library
. She also worked as a producer for
CBS News
in Los Angeles.
Not content with just sitting behind her desk at a computer, Richards is an old-school reporter who likes to dig for information at crime scenes, track down witnesses and attend criminal trials. During her career, she has covered more than 100 trials at various stages including those of OJ Simpson, Michael Jackson, Anna Nicole Smith and the Night Stalker.
She often says that in another life she would have become a homicide detective.
Bradbury, California, population 1,048, sits at base of the San Gabriel Mountains as a wealthy refuge from the trappings of Los Angeles 25 miles below.
Locked gates seal off most of the city’s two square miles, where 325 single-family homes bask in their tranquility. Oak and pine trees, horse trails and meandering roads are found here but no businesses, not even a local market. The only intruders are occasional bears getting into trash cans.
At 5:30 AM on March 16, 1988, a curious noise broke through the stillness, awaking Anthony and Phyllis Triarsi.
Click, Click, Click. It was the sound of gears shifting on 10-speed bicycles coming up a side street and turning left along Woodlyn Lane, 90 feet below their home. The Triarsis drifted back to sleep as the sound subsided. Then, 30 minutes later, the unmistakable sound of gunfire and a high-pitched scream pierced the silence. It emanated from the house across the street where famous race car pioneer and promoter Mickey Thompson and his wife, Trudy, lived.
Thompson Home
photo by Gene Blevins
The Triarsis jumped out of bed. Anthony ran onto his driveway to see what was happening, while his wife and daughter Allison, 14, huddled on the floor.
Two hooded gunmen wearing dark jogging outfits stood on the steep driveway as Trudy ran toward the street in a vain effort to escape. She fell to her knees near the gutter and raised her hands in an effort to ward off the gunman attacking her. “Please don’t kill me!” she shrieked.
Mickey was at the top of the driveway about 50 feet away, making repeated motions toward his wife. He was blocked by the other gunman.
“Don’t kill my wife!” he begged repeatedly.
The gunman standing near Mickey unflinchingly shot the racing legend in the stomach, but he continued to push past his attacker to help Trudy. The gunmen had other plans.
As Mickey looked on, the first man pointed his weapon at Trudy’s head and pulled the trigger. Her lifeless body collapsed in a heap. Mickey only had a split second to comprehend the horror before his life would end as well with several more shots, including a bullet to his brain. In all, the slaughter took less than a minute.
Lance Johnson, who once served in the military, lived next to the Thompsons. He recognized the sounds as 9 mm semi-automatics pistols.
As his wife, Sandra, called 911, Johnson grabbed a .357 Magnum from the side of his bed and ran to the front window of his house. He saw two men on European racing bikes heading down the back of the Thompsons’ horseshoe-shaped driveway. One man had a pear-shaped bag with a drawstring slung over his right shoulder.
Thompson Driveway
photo by Gene Blevins
“Stop!” Lance yelled. But the men stared straight ahead and merely pedaled faster. Lance fired one wayward shot.
“Who is shooting?” the 911 operator asked Sandra.
“My husband just shot at the two men who went by.”
“Tell your husband not to go anywhere. We do not know who he is, and we don’t want someone with a gun out there.”
Meanwhile, the Triarsis had called the police several times, pleading for assistance that would be a long time in coming.
“Hurry up, they’re really shooting the shit out over there,” Anthony Triarsi said.
“Okay.”
“Been threatened—”
“Okay.”
“I’ve been trying to report a shooting for the last 20 minutes!”
“Okay, we’ve had quite a few calls on it, most of the lines are tied up, tell me what’s going on.”
“Well, two people have been shot; they’re lying down in their driveway. How long does it take a unit to respond, for Christ’s sake?” Anthony shouted.
“It depends on how far away they are; we’ve got units rolling right now, stay on the line.”
“Man.”
“Okay, did you see the shooting?”
“Yeah, you’re goddamn right I did…I saw the guy point the gun at Trudy and pull the goddamn trigger!”
“The first thing you saw, what did you see, them running out of the house or were they running out—”
“I heard Trudy screaming for help, so they’ve obviously ran out of the house—”
“Was she in the house or out of the house?”
“—and ran down the driveway, and he caught up with her and he shot her for Christ’s sakes.”
“Okay, what about the other guy that was shot?”
“Mickey was standing up top, now there might have been—there might have been two guys, because one was with Trudy, and maybe one was up there with Mickey, holding him.”
“Yeah.”
“— and then he put—out a couple of shots into him.”
“Would you know this guy again if you saw him?”
“I don’t know if I could identify him, but I’d sure try like hell.”
At that same time, Lance was growing impatient. “Where are the police? These guys are going to get away,” he told his wife. “I am leaving.”
He jumped in his truck and sped three-quarters of a mile down the street to the security gate, hoping to find the shooters unable to get out. Instead, he saw Los Angeles Sheriff’s Deputy John Rodriguez on the other side of the gate, trying to get in.
