You Can Run but You Can't Hide (9 page)

for a mass murder. I called him Handsome Manson. He was unpre-

dictable and known to fly off the handle for no reason at all.

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I
wasn’t scared of him, but most people were—especially those who

knew the crazy hit he was capable of.

We had been partying pretty hard that night, although I wasn’t

drinking as much as the others. I recall Donny was drinking Wild

Turkey and chasing it with Mad Dog 20/20. He was bombed. We

were looking to buy some pot, but the town was pretty much dry. We

couldn’t even score a joint. We tried all the usual suspects. There was

a hippie in the car who started talking crap about robbing some

black guy. I asked who he was talking about. He said my old friend

Jerry Lee Oliver.

I thought no way. I didn’t want no part of robbing Jerry Lee. I just

thought we should get some pot and go hunting in the woods. We

stopped to buy some beer and fill the car up with gas. That’s when

the hippie got out.

Donny was on a mission, though, one I knew wouldn’t go away

until we got what he was looking for.

I was pretty sure Jerry Lee would have a secret stash, especially

when no one else was holding. It was worth a shot. Donny gunned

his old Thunderbird toward Jerry’s house.

When we got there, Donny and Ruben got out of the car. Donny

went inside the house. I knew Jerry would recognize me. I tried to

hide my face by putting the paper bag from the beer over my head,

but I purposely ripped it so I wouldn’t have to participate in the plan.

I knew Jerry Lee had about as bad a temper as Donny did. I didn’t

want him to be an asshole. We all thought that he had been jumping

Donny’s wife. We hoped Donny didn’t know. By his determination,

though, I could tell he probably did.

I liked Jerry. He and I were cool. I’d helped him out once, and I

considered him my friend. He was a cool brother. I loved him, and

he loved me.

“Be cool, brother,” I said. “Don’t mess with that guy.”

I didn’t see anything happen, but I heard a sound like a muffled

gun ring out.

“Fuck! I’ve been shot.” Donny came running back to the car,

screaming and bleeding. For a moment, I actually thought that Jerry

shot Donny. But the truth is, the shotgun blew up in Donny’s hand.

Blood was gushing everywhere. We had to get Donny to the hos-

pital. On the way, I asked him, “What the hell happened?”

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Yo u Ca n R u n , b u t Yo u Ca n ’ t H i d e

“I only hit him in the shoulder!”

“What?!” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You’re so stupid!

Is he dead?” I could feel my heart beating through my thick leather

biker jacket.

“I only hit him in the shoulder.” Donny was absolutely certain

about this.

I pulled Donny by his hair. “What’d you do?” I was mad. I didn’t

want any part of a shooting. This was just plain stupid drunken

b.s.

Cheryl got behind the wheel and punched the gas. I didn’t want

to be in that car. It was a hot, late summer night. What if Donny

had killed Jerry Lee?

I had to check on Jerry Lee.

They dropped me at my house and I called an ambulance. I gave

the operator all the information I had, then got off the phone. I

didn’t want her to know who was making the call.

I began pacing the kitchen, running my hands through my hair.

“Duane, what the hell is going on?” LaFonda was pissed and

confused.

I told LaFonda I hadn’t done anything wrong. Jerry had no idea

I was there. I had nothing to hide. I was completely innocent. I

didn’t even know Donny had a gun. It was a drug buy gone wrong.

Shit.

I discovered later that the phone was slightly off the hook.

Pampa was a small town. Back in those days, the operator could

come back on the line if the phone wasn’t hung up. She heard every

word of my confession that I was there—even if I didn’t pull the

trigger.

By the time I got to Jerry Lee’s, the medics were bringing him

out on a stretcher. I walked alongside him and we spoke—he was

awake and alert while the Pampa police tried to get his statement.

“It was the Devil’s Disciples. They were the ones who did this

to me.”

I knew the officer who was interviewing Jerry Lee—good old

Officer Love. And he knew me. Don’t be confused by the cop’s

name. He was a down home country boy.

“Do you know who did this? Who was it? What was his name?”

Love kept pushing for a name.

“Yeah . . .” Jerry could barely speak. “It was a Disciple. . . .”

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51

Suddenly, Love noticed me. He glared into my eyes like he was

about to settle some score between us.

Love looked back down at Jerry Lee and asked, “Was it Dog

Chapman? Did Dog shoot you?”

“No man . . . it wasn’t Dog. . . .”

I helplessly watched the medics lift Jerry into the ambulance. I

knew everything was gonna be all right. Love blocked me. He didn’t

want me anywhere near Jerry Lee.

Since I knew Love heard I wasn’t the shooter, I left Jerry Lee’s

house certain that I wouldn’t be charged with pulling the trigger.

And I truly believed Jerry Lee would survive. All I had to do was

convince Donny and the gang to just lay low for a little while. A

month or two would go by, and I thought this whole thing would

blow over. I felt like I had dodged a bullet—big time.

The next morning, LaFonda and I woke up to the sound of the

morning news blaring from the clock radio next to our bed. We

were still half-asleep until I heard something like, “. . . local police

are searching for Duane Chapman in connection with the murder

of Jerry Lee Oliver late last night. . . .”

Murder? Did he say murder? That meant Jerry Lee was dead.

And they think I did it.

“LaFonda. Get up. Get up. We gotta go. Get the kids, honey. We

have to get outta here.”

There was no time to talk. I got dressed as fast as I could. I told

LaFonda to grab whatever was essential and drive our camper out

to Skellytown.

“Honey, you gotta hurry. Wait for me by the highway. I will meet

you there as soon as I can.”

I wanted to get over the Texas state line and into Colorado. With

God’s help, we’d be eating dinner at my momma’s house in Denver

within twenty-four hours.

I moved quickly and cautiously. The cops were already outside

the house. I told LaFonda to answer the door like she didn’t know

a thing.

“Tell them I’m at work. Tell them I already left.”

She answered the door cool as could be.

“Yes? May I help you?”

That’s it. Stay calm.
LaFonda was cool.

I could hear the officers asking if I was home.

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Yo u Ca n R u n , b u t Yo u Ca n ’ t H i d e

“No, sir. Duane has already gone off to work.”

They bought the story. The cops left, though I knew it wouldn’t

be long before they’d discover I wasn’t at work. I had little time to

make a run for my freedom.

We lived on a quiet street, but on this particular morning, it

seemed like you could hear every little thing. Just as I was about to

leave, I heard the sound of the toggle switch revving up. It was get-

ting louder. One turned into two. Two turned into a symphony of

sirens. The cops were coming for me.

I fully expected a couple cops to be drawing down on me as I

blasted through my back door. I never stopped to open it. The door

came right off the hinges. No one. I couldn’t believe it. I stood mo-

tionless for a second before I realized I still had a chance. I made

my move. I sprinted across the backyard, hopped the neighbor’s

fence, and began my Olympic run down the alley. I kept thinking I

had to run as fast as I could. I was sure the cops were just seconds

behind me.

Wrong.

They were right in front of me.

I got to the end of the alley, where I was met by a parked police

cruiser. I recognized the cop right away. It was Officer Bailey. I’d had

a few run-ins with this old man a couple of times. He wasn’t the

sharpest tool in the shed, but needless to say, I thought I was done.

My foot chase lasted less than three minutes. Some fugitive I turned

out to be.

Bailey was sitting in his patrol car, watching what was going

down in front of my house. I thought about turning back the other

way. Bailey hadn’t seen me yet. I could’ve made another run for

it. But I kept asking myself why I was running in the first place.

I didn’t kill Jerry Lee. All I was guilty of was being in the wrong

place at the wrong time. My mistake was allowing a drunken ass-

hole like Donny Kurkendall to hold my fate in his hands.

Just then Bailey turned around. He nodded his head hello, not

realizing it was me. It suddenly sunk in who was standing on the

other side of his car. He turned back around. I could see his eyes

widen with fear.

He was so scared he could hardly speak. He asked me not to do

anything stupid or get crazy on him.

The thought never even crossed my mind. I had been arrested

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53

many times before, but I never felt like this. This time was different.

In my gut I knew I was going to do hard time. I had a wife and two

babies. Who was going to watch over them? My heart ached for

what I’d done to them and to my good friend Jerry Lee. Killing

wasn’t my crime of choice. I was a thief. I was a con man. Hell, I

was even a drug dealer. But I was no killer.

Another officer came running toward the car. It was J. J. Riz-

man, a cop I knew well from my youth in Denver who happened to

move to Pampa. He had his gun drawn.

“You’re finally going down, Dog Chapman.” Rizman smirked

while Bailey gingerly cuffed me.

I was placed in the backseat of the patrol car while they waited

for backup.

I tried to explain what happened, but Rizman didn’t care about

what I had to say. He wasn’t the type of cop who was interested in

hearing the facts. Over the years, I haven’t met many who were, but

Rizman seemed to be downright happy about my taking the fall.

He told me I was under arrest for the big one. I told him I

wanted to exercise my rights and we sat silent for the ride to jail.

Later that day, the police picked up Donny, Cheryl, and Ruben

in Amarillo. By nightfall, we were all sitting in small holding cells

on the top floor of the Pampa courthouse. We were charged the

next morning. The DA went for first-degree murder. Each of us

would be charged the same. Under Texas law at the time, anyone

who was with someone and aided them in the commission of a

crime was equally guilty of the crime. As far as the DA was con-

cerned, we were all guilty of murdering Jerry Lee Oliver.

C h a p t e r N i n e

MURDER ONE

The judge set
bail at fifty thousand dollars each. There was

no way I was getting out of jail. As it was, my job barely paid me

enough to cover my bills. I tried to make extra money by renting

a room to women, but I always ended up sleeping with them before

I could collect the rent. They’d leave, or I’d kick them out so La-

Fonda wouldn’t know the truth. Whenever I had an extra few

bucks, I squandered it on weed, whores, or my bike.

I sat in my cell with nothing to do but think. I had really messed

things up. I didn’t realize how much I loved LaFonda and our boys

until I sat alone in my cell that first night in jail. I’d taken so much

for granted—my family, my freedom, my entire life. Suddenly it

was all gone. I hated Donny for screwing it up. My anger grew with

every painful passing second. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

Yeah, I know. A guy died. Someone had to pay for taking his life.

Someone had to own up to the crime—to take the responsibility for

what he’d done. Why did Donny do it? Why’d he shoot Jerry Lee?

Why didn’t I stop him? Why didn’t I know he had the gun?

There were many times I wondered if Jerry Lee would’ve been

killed if I hadn’t been there that night. He was my friend. I don’t be-

lieve Donny would have gone to his house if I hadn’t been in the car.

Did that make me responsible? Did that make me accountable? The

more I thought about this, the angrier I got. My rage was becoming

unmanageable. If I was going to rot in jail for killing a man, I might

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as well kill one. I wanted to rip someone’s head off. I didn’t care

who it was.

My rage was out of control. The sheriff would put all the

drunks in with me and “encourage them” to help settle me down
.
I

beat the crap out of every guy they put in there with me. I was un-

stoppable.

I would’ve beaten up a minister if they’d put one in the cell

with me.

Reverend Gerald Middaugh from Pampa’s Assembly of God

church wasn’t your typical preacher man. He looked eighteen years

old, even though he was in his early thirties. It didn’t seem like he

was old enough to be a reverend. I wasn’t sure why he came to visit