Read You Can Run but You Can't Hide Online
Authors: Duane Dog Chapman
You Can Run but You Can't Hide (18 page)
claim for stolen jewelry. What I was hearing sounded a lot like in-
surance fraud. I didn’t want any part of that plan.
“Are you crazy? Some whore robs you blind and now you’re ly-
ing to the cops. I’m on parole, man. I fuck up again and I’m in big
trouble. Why don’t we just have your wife send us money for the
plane tickets?” I had to convince Lucky that what he was doing was
wrong. I tried to reason with him, but he wasn’t interested in hear-
ing what I had to say.
Lucky took off his sunglasses and glared at me. “If I called my
wife, I’d have to explain what happened with my other money.
She’ll know I was fooling around with whores. This way I get the
money clean, and my wife never has to know.”
He let out a long sigh and stared off into the distance. He
wouldn’t even look at me.
“Fine,” he said calmly. “I’ll drop you off.”
And he did. He took off into the heavy Vegas traffic.
I walked the rest of the way back to the hotel. It must have been
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at least ten blocks. When I got up to the room, he had already split.
I didn’t know how I was getting back to Denver. I thought about a
movie I had just seen and got a great idea.
I took a shower and put on a pair of nice pants, a silk shirt, and
a quick shine on my boots.
Before I left the room, I bowed my head and prayed, “I know this
ain’t right, God, but I’ve run into a desperate situation here. It’s a
one-time only thing, I promise. But I need to go out there and sell
my body for money.” I never thought things could get so low. To-
night, I was Dog the Booty Hunter.
I walked the strip and checked out a bunch of different casinos.
I must have looked nervous and out of place, because casino secu-
rity was eyeing me everywhere I went. I finally worked up enough
courage to approach an attractive woman standing at the bar. Right
off, she let me know that she wasn’t interested in my company.
Clearly I was not as smooth as Richard Gere in
American Gigolo.
The pressure was on. The women could see the desperation all over
my face.
I threw down my last few dollars for a couple of cocktails at the
bar. I needed to relax and think of a new strategy. Not long after, I
noticed an elegant older woman sitting a couple of seats down the
bar from me. She was probably in her late forties. When she saw me
checking her out, she flashed me a smile. Jackpot. I got up, walked
over, and sat down next to her. The conversation was brief and to
the point.
“Would you like some company?” I asked.
“How much?” she said.
“Usually I charge a little more, but for you, honey, how about
ninety-seven dollars?”
She wrote something on a cocktail napkin and placed it in my
hand. Without another word, she left and walked off into the noisy
casino. I unfolded the napkin. It read: “Room 216. Come at Mid-
night.” I didn’t know what to make of that, but I sure as hell was
looking forward to finding out.
I stayed with her until early the next morning. I was dressed and
just about to slip out the door when she clicked on the bedroom
lamp.
“Don’t forget your plane ticket money. It’s on the dresser,” she
said in a raspy voice.
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107
I didn’t remember telling her that I needed the money for a plane
ticket. She propped herself up on her elbows in bed and smiled know-
ingly at me. “You’re no whore, sweetie. Travel safe and have a good
flight back home.”
When I got back to Denver, Lucky and I were able to talk things
out. We both had had some time to think. The truth is, he was des-
perate for my help hunting down fugitives, and I needed the work.
When I first started working for Lucky, he’d hand me two or
three cases a day. About a month after Vegas, he was giving me
stacks of twenty or thirty at a time. I couldn’t understand how all
these guys were suddenly jumping bond on him. I’d ask, but he
wouldn’t say much about the sudden increase in activity. It didn’t
take me long to figure out he was taking on fugitives from other bail
bonds offices and passing them on to me. I’d hunt them down, and
he’d take a cut of the capture.
Lucky taught me many things, but he made it painfully clear
that everyone in the business only looked out for their own self-
interest. Bail bondsmen like Lucky existed purely to scam people. I
learned not to expect anyone to do me any favors. I had to watch
my back at all times.
I am eternally grateful to Lucky for giving me the opportunity
that he did. He took me under his wing and showed me the ropes of
bounty hunting. It was a trial by fire and a damn good education. In
the end, though, I didn’t let my appreciation of him cloud my judg-
ment. Going into business for myself was the next logical step. I
could see that Lucky was on a one-way road to destruction. Some-
where down the line, his constant drinking and whoring were going
to land him in prison, or worse. I didn’t want any part of that. It
was time for me to distance myself from him for good. I opened
an office that combined my vacuum business, Brighton Kirby, with
my new company, AAA Investigations. I had big plans, huge aspira-
tions, and a drive that would somehow get me there, come hell or
high water.
By Christmas 1979,
I worked up the courage to call Jim
Darnell and say I wouldn’t kill him. There’s great freedom in let-
ting go of rage. Once I uttered those words to Jim, my life com-
pletely changed. All of my anger and bitterness toward him and
LaFonda disappeared. I was still upset that she had taken Duane
Lee and Leland from me. I wanted my boys back in my life in the
worst way. Reconciling with Jim allowed me to move through the
world as a warmer, kinder, more understanding man. Besides, I
was now remarried, to Ann, who was pregnant with our first child.
The baby was due soon. I didn’t want to bring my kid into this
world while I was filled with rage. My unborn child deserved more
than that.
Nine years after that call, I heard that Jim’s mother put a gun to
her mouth and pulled the trigger right in front of him. Poor bastard
had to watch his mommy eat a gun.
I wanted Jim to pay for what he had done, but his mother’s sui-
cide was too much. My mother always told me, “The Lord sayeth,
‘Vengeance is mine, I shall repay.’” I thought His vengeance was too
severe.
“Lord, enough,” I prayed. “He has paid. Please, Lord. No more
pain for Jim or me.” I meant it, too. A heart filled with anger has no
room for love. My heart was wide open with the Lord’s spirit. I
didn’t want to see Jim suffer any more than he now already had.
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Twenty-six weeks into the pregnancy, Ann went into labor. It
was too soon.
Our son, Zebadiah Duane Chapman, was born on January
1, 1980. The doctors warned me that, because of his premature
birth, he was very small. Zebadiah weighed slightly over one pound.
There was a lot of doubt whether he was strong enough to survive.
At the time, I still hadn’t reconnected with Duane Lee and
Leland. I missed my boys so much. For that reason alone, Zeba-
diah’s birth was terribly emotional. For the first time since before
going to prison, I again had a son I could reach out and hold. The
connection was instantaneous. For a moment, the gigantic void
from losing Duane Lee and Leland was filled by my little baby boy.
Zebadiah’s story captured the attention of local news media.
They reported he was one of two babies born on New Year’s Day.
The other child was the son of the great former Denver Bronco
quarterback, Craig Morton.
Doctors worked around the clock to help Zebadiah live. He had
tubes coming out of his mouth and nose, and a heart monitor no
larger than a credit card was taped to his chest. Despite their ef-
forts, Zebadiah suffered an unexpected injury to his lung, which
collapsed from his lack of strength. Once again, the doctors said
they doubted a child born so prematurely could survive such an
injury. I disagreed. He was a Chapman. He was strong. He was a
fighter. He had a will to live. I ordered the doctors to do everything
humanly possible to keep my boy alive.
For thirty days and nights, Ann and I sat by Zebadiah’s side.
The bills were enormous. I didn’t have health insurance. I thought
the state would pay the expenses. When the hospital informed me I
would be financially responsible, I actually thought about robbing
a bank. But if I got caught, I’d have to go back to jail. I knew I
couldn’t help Zebadiah if that happened. I prayed to God to help
my family through this. I needed a miracle. A few days later, a local
reporter called to tell me that their television station had set up
a Zebadiah Duane Chapman fund to help offset the costs. I was
moved to tears by the generosity the good citizens of Denver showed
my family.
A month after Zebadiah was born, I heard God say, “Can I have
him back now? He’s a miracle baby. His name will go down in his-
tory. He’s in a lot of pain. It’s time for him to come home.”
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Giving my son up to the Lord was a tremendous sacrifice, but I
knew He was right. Ann held Zebadiah in her arms until he slowly
faded away. Sadly, my son lost his battle for life on January 31,
1980.
Ann and I were terribly distraught. All I wanted to do was make
love to my wife. When something traumatic happens in my life, it’s
a natural instinct to make love to help numb my pain. I needed to
be with my wife. During this period of grief we conceived our son
Wesley, who was born nine months after Zebadiah passed away.
By the time Wesley was born, however, my marriage to Ann was
over. Initially there was no animosity. We were two people who
didn’t belong together as man and wife. After our divorce was final,
Ann and I continued to see each other from time to time. We unex-
pectedly conceived a third son together—J.R. Since I had custody
of Wesley, Ann wanted to keep J.R. I had no problem with that.
And then one day, I got an unanticipated knock on my door.
Ann and her parents had sent the cops. They literally were pulling
Wesley out of my arms.
I held Wesley in one arm and shouted, “You pigs!” Next thing I
heard was the sound of guns being cocked next to my head.
This wasn’t a battle I was going to lose without a fight. I had al-
ready lost three sons. I wasn’t about to lose another. When we
went to court, however, the judge awarded custody to Ann. He felt
that a child belongs with his mother. I didn’t agree. Luckily, he
made sure we set up visitation rights for both babies for me. De-
spite the court order, Ann moved back to Utah. I’ve never heard
from her again.
Years later, J.R. called me.
“Is Duane Dog Chapman there?” Right away I knew it was
my son.
“I was hoping we could be father and son, Dad.”
It warmed my heart to hear his voice.
He asked me if I knew he had been born with some mental
challenges. I knew, but it was never an issue for me. I love all of my
kids the same. I wanted to set his mind at ease, so I said, “That’s
OK, son. So was I.” He laughed a precious, wonderful, childlike
laugh. We haven’t met yet, but I hope we do soon. I’m told he looks
a lot like his old man. Not long afterward, Wesley reached out to
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me too. It was the first time he and I had spoken since the cops
took him out of my arms. Ann had told him I used to beat and
abuse her. I explained to him that wasn’t possible because I was on
parole at that time. If I had done any of those things to his mom, I
would have been sent straight back to prison.
Two short years
after getting out of Huntsville, I was doing
great. I was bounty hunting part-time at night and on the week-
ends. I continued selling vacuums ten hours a day, six days a week. I
was keeping up a pace that would take down a well-seasoned prize
fighter in peak condition. I could have just sold vacuums; I was
making enough money. In fact, a couple of guys from the home of-
fice called and asked me if I wanted to go to work for them. They
offered me a starting salary of $100,000 dollars a year. I was
floored. I could make my mom and dad so proud. But I loved the
bounty hunting. The money wasn’t nearly as good, but the thrill of
the chase was almost as much fun as the good old days as a Disciple
on the other side of the law.
I destroyed my competition at Kirby. I became the number-one
salesman in the company. In 1982, I was awarded the prestigious
President’s Ring award as Salesman of the Year. A couple months
