You Can Run but You Can't Hide (21 page)

again. This time, she went out the back door and into a junkyard be-

hind the apartment complex, where she hid in a doghouse.

“I’m outta here, Duane. I want no part of this!” Beth was yelling

at me as I went to grab the woman.

Just then the police showed up and told us to freeze. They

wouldn’t let me capture the fugitive. Instead, they arrested both

Beth and me. “Who cares? They’re bounty hunters. Book them for

burglary.”

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“You’re nothing but trouble, Duane Chapman,” Beth said. She

wasn’t in the bond business yet.

In Colorado, the law states that anyone who enters and remains

in a dwelling to commit a felonious act is guilty of first-degree bur-

glary. Beth and I were booked and thrown in jail. I was so drunk

that, in the back of the police car, I kept telling Beth, “I told you

we’d have fun times.” I didn’t remember much the next day.

Beth didn’t have as much to lose as I did. For her, the arrest was

just a felony. But for me, my bail bonds business and bounty hunt-

ing career were at stake. To make matters worse, I was arrested

with Beth—something I didn’t think Tawny would understand. I

kept Beth real close after that night. I knew she could rat me out

and make things hard at home. She threatened to tell Tawny every-

thing, but she never did.

When we went to court to face the judge, Beth’s charges were

dropped to a “dog at large” offense. No joke. It amounted to walk-

ing a dog without a leash. I don’t know if the DA was trying to be

funny or was just sending me a message. My charges were reduced

to trespassing, which wouldn’t affect my career.

C h a p t e r Tw e n t y - t h r e e

MY COLLEGE

EDUCATION

After starting AAA
Investigations, I began networking

and meeting lots of other people in law enforcement. I’ve always

been a pretty good matchmaker of sorts. I don’t mean boy to girl;

I mean FBI to police officer, private eye to firefighter, narc to CIA,

and so on. I learned the importance of those relationships early in

my career. As a bounty hunter, I get to meet all types of defenders

of the law. I have a sixth sense about introducing friends to other

friends. Sometimes those meetings come from the strangest of cir-

cumstances.

In 1982, I was chasing a fugitive who was supposedly affiliated

with a well-known crime family from New York. I was out looking

for the guy all over Denver when I spotted his car outside a very fancy

restaurant he was known to hang around. I let the air out of two of

his tires by pricking the valve stems with the ends of a couple of

wooden matches. I waited for the son of a bitch to come out so we

could nab him. When he stepped out of the restaurant, he immedi-

ately spotted his flat tires. He realized someone was on to him. He

tried to get away in his car, but he wasn’t going to go very far with

two flat tires. I grabbed the guy, got him out of the car, threw a pair of

cuffs around his wrists, and told him he was going down for running

on his bond. Before I put him in the car, I couldn’t help but notice he

had the softest hands I ever felt on a man. His hands were perfectly

manicured. Clearly he was a man of means, if not connections.

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“There’s a mistake. I’m in the Witness Protection Program. Con-

tact the feds. Go ahead, check my story.”

Now, I’ve heard a lot of guys tell me a bunch of b.s. stories over

the years, but none had ever said they were in witness protection.

My curiosity got the best of me, so I called to verify what he was

saying. I wasn’t going to hand my fugitive over to the feds without a

receipt. Without one, I couldn’t collect on the bounty.

I spoke to an FBI special agent in the Denver office who agreed to

meet me at a local coffee shop. This was very unusual, at least in my

limited experience. A half hour later, three men dressed in standard-

issue dark suits, crisp white shirts, blue ties, and overcoats walk

through the door at the White Spot coffee shop. One of the agents

introduced himself as Keith Paul. When they showed up, the feds

took my guy in the parking lot.

Keith Paul was only a couple of years younger than me, but he

looked like he should be in class at the local high school. He had

a closely shaved crew cut, pasty white skin, and a baby face that

barely looked like he ever had a need to shave. Despite his youthful

appearance, he was taller and bigger than me. His presence must

have been daunting for most, but to me he looked like a choirboy

who had lost his way.

I liked Keith from the start. He and I spoke the same language.

He was a no-bull kind of guy who liked to get things done as much

as I do. A couple of days later, Keith called to get together. He said

the guys at the Bureau were curious about me. I didn’t know what

to think. It wasn’t in my nature to trust the feds. The idea of work-

ing together went against my personal preferences in law enforce-

ment. But that’s what we decided to do. It made a lot of sense for

both of us.

A few days after meeting Keith again, I was out making a bust.

This time I was chasing a Colombian woman named Giselle Gar-

cia. I found her hiding at home not far from Aurora, just outside of

Denver. When I busted her, I noticed a large package on her kitchen

table. It looked like a shirt box wrapped in plastic.

I pointed to the package and asked Giselle, “What’s that?”

“Coca.”

I wasn’t there to bust this woman for drugs, but I could tell this

was a pretty big load of cocaine. My gut reaction was to call Keith

Paul and hand it over to him.

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“Keith, it’s Dog Chapman. If you’re interested, I’ve just stum-

bled onto twenty-five pounds of blow.” I told him where I was. He

said he’d be right over.

As a bounty hunter, my concern is getting my prey. I don’t give a

rat’s ass about busting people for matters that don’t concern me. If

someone has drugs, is high, or has hot goods, it’s not my place to

call them out. All I want is my fee for the return of someone who

runs from the law. That’s how I made my living then and how I con-

tinue to make money now. As long as I get a body receipt saying I

caught the fugitive, I can take it to court and get paid.

However, Keith and I had a terrific understanding of how one

hand washes the other. We made each other look good. He asked

me what being a bounty hunter was like, and I soaked up all I could

about his life as a federal agent. That’s what our relationship was

all about. I took meticulous notes, teaching myself everything I

could about legitimate law enforcement.

I always carried documentation that clarified my rights as a

bounty hunter. It wasn’t always easy to explain that I was an agent of

the bondsman empowered to bring back fugitives—especially since,

in some states, a bounty hunter has rights even the police don’t have.

Back then, cops often had no clue about the laws applying to bounty

hunters, so I was often viewed as a rogue vigilante out for my own

good. My notebook was as important to my survival in business as

my instincts, because it got me out of situations where cops thought

I was the criminal.

The more I got to know Keith, the more we both realized we

could really help each other’s career. He’d show me warrants for

criminals they were seeking, and I’d unofficially go out and find

them. Keith never asked me to help or specifically gave me instruc-

tions. He simply told me that, if I ever came across any of these

guys, I should give him a call. Sometimes we were going after the

same guys anyway, so it was no big deal for me to let him know if I

found one or two along the way. Plus, I’d learned early on how help-

ful it can be to aid law enforcement agencies whenever possible.

I was never a rat. Never. But I knew how to get information to

the right people, especially the FBI. I never expected favors in re-

turn, but it was nice to know I held that chip if I ever needed to cash

it in. Also, I wanted Keith Paul and his co-workers to see I was on

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the same team. Ever since I left Huntsville, I wanted to right my

wrongs. I was determined to get myself even in the eyes of the Lord

as much as I was in the eyes of the law.

I was hoping that I’d have the chance to redeem myself for all I

had done wrong. I didn’t know where or when or how, but I knew

I would someday do something so big it would make people see me

in a different light. I would no longer be Duane Chapman, con-

victed felon, murderer, and gangster. I would become Duane Chap-

man, defender of the law, good guy, and hero. I lived to clear my

name. Not just for me but for my family. I needed to legitimize my-

self as a bounty hunter and defender of all that is good. Doing fa-

vors for the FBI was a very good place to start. But even with all of

my good intentions, I still had a lot to learn.

I started by hunting fugitives in Denver on the FBI’s Most

Wanted list. I immediately found the first guy I went after. I went to

his momma’s house just as he came walking out the front door. It

has always been my experience that when it doubt, go to Momma.

Everyone wants his momma when times are tough.

I called him over to my parked Ford pickup truck. “Do you have

the time?”

He thought nothing of our exchange until I stuck my gun in his

belly. I leaned out the rolled-down window to slap my cuffs around

his wrists.

He was totally surprised. The guy had had no idea I was taking

him down.

I called Keith Paul to tell him the good news.

“Hey, man. It’s Dog. I’ve got your number-one guy.”

Much to my surprise, he sounded angry.

“What? Where are you?”

I gave him my location, still puzzled by his lackluster response. I

found out the next day that Keith was upset because my methods of

tracking a fugitive aren’t exactly standard procedure for the FBI.

Truth be told, I think he was just pissed because I found the guy a

whole lot faster than they could. I didn’t have to go through all of

the bureaucratic red tape. I was a one-man show. I didn’t have de-

partment heads to answer to or rules to follow.

Every student needs a good teacher, and Keith Paul was one

of my greatest. I had a lot of experience on the street, but I didn’t

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understand how an investigation worked or proper protocol with

law enforcement. I had learned the bail bonds business from Lucky.

Now I wanted to learn law enforcement from Keith Paul.

I wanted to be the best bounty hunter who ever lived. Keith Paul

wanted to be the best FBI agent in the world. We taught each other

everything we could from our individual perspectives. We couldn’t

have been more different in our appearance, but deep down, I think

we both shared a common goal to be number one.

While working with Keith, I crossed paths with another impor-

tant teacher who would have a strong impact on my career. Her

name was Cathy Carson. I met Cathy after I made a memorable

bust up in Arapaho County.

I’d thrown this large brother in the back of my Z28. He was

enormous, six four and at least 240 pounds. The guy actually threat-

ened to put me in a scissors lock and push me out of my moving car.

Who the hell did this asshole think he was? I pulled my car over

on the side of the highway, took out my pistol, put the nose of the

barrel to his temple, and said, “You think so?”

He was diddy diddy done done.

“How do you like me now?” I snarled as I told him to get out

of the car. I pushed him into the trunk for the duration of our trip

to the Arapahoe County Courthouse. When I pulled up, I could tell

by the look on Sheriff Sullivan’s face that he didn’t much approve of

my style of apprehension. As I reached into the trunk for this mon-

ster of a man, I noticed an attractive woman standing in the dis-

tance watching me. I looked up and said hello, completely ignoring

the giant in handcuffs. She came over to introduce herself.

“Hi, I’m Cathy Carson.”

“You can call me Dog.” There was a moment there when I

thought . . . maybe. But then Cathy told me her husband was a cop.

Just then, she recognized my fugitive and smiled.

“I nailed this punk.” She got right in his face and said, “Hey,

dickhead. Nice to see you. Guess you haven’t learned much since

the last time I got ya!”

Cathy and my guy were standing chest to chest. “Fuckin’ bitch.”

I gave the guy an elbow to the ribs. “What’s wrong with you? Re-

spect the lady.”

I turned to Cathy and asked, “You a cop too?”

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She laughed and said, “No. I’m a bounty hunter. I work for the