You Can Run but You Can't Hide (33 page)

started making their way back to their patrol cars and I got a clear

view of the two bodies sprawled out on the black pavement of the

driveway. They were covered by white sheets—except for their feet.

I could see a size thirteen shoe sticking out from under a blanket.

They were both wearing the same shoes as the first day I had met

them in my office.

The cops told me later that Larry and Jerome had gotten into

their Jaguars, closed the garage doors, and started the engines.

They left a suicide note that read, “We knew we couldn’t outrun

Beth and the Dog.” Beth and I have always tried to hold the hands

A C h a s e t o t h e G r av e

199

of our clients to get them through the dark days. They didn’t have

to kill themselves.

Because of the tragic circumstances, I felt we should be the ones

to break the news to the dad. He wasn’t in the best of health. When

he saw us, he immediately knew something was wrong. I told him

the police had found his sons, that they had committed suicide. We

tried to comfort him. He looked at me and asked, “Both of them?

Both of my sons are gone?” He was confused and brokenhearted. I

felt terrible to be the one telling him this news. I had just stepped

into this family’s life. I was their bondsman, but something more

was happening. The old man needed me to be strong so he didn’t

completely fall apart as his world caved in all around him.

I guess Mr. Bernstein appreciated our involvement on the case,

because he invited both Beth and me to his sons’ funeral. First we

went to the synagogue for the service and then to the grave site. Not

many people attended, mainly close family and friends. Jerome’s

wife didn’t even bring their little boy.

I spotted Mr. Bernstein walking over toward me. My heart ached

for the old man. His sons had put him through so much. He shook

my hand and said, “It looks like we don’t have enough men to carry

the caskets. I hate to ask this of you, but could you help carry my

sons to their final resting place?”

I was overcome with emotion. It was the end of the hunt and the

end of two men’s lives. Now this frail old man standing before me

was going to live out the rest of his days with a broken heart. There

were many questions running through my mind. Did I do enough to

help Larry and Jerome? Could I have done more? I couldn’t help the

tears. I asked God to forgive them for their sins and to watch over

their souls. I joined the others and carried the casket that day. I asked

which of the brothers I was carrying. The funeral director told me it

was Jerome. I was carrying his feet. As I lowered his casket to the

ground, I heard Jerome say, “Dog, you chased me to the grave.”

Later that day, I told Beth I wasn’t sure I could do this anymore.

I seriously considered quitting bounty hunting.

A few weeks later, I had lunch with the father. He thanked me

for helping him carry his sons to the grave. He said I gave him the

greatest gift during his darkest days. Much to my surprise, a relative

paid us everything the Bernstein brothers owed, plus a few extra

dollars for our expenses. The Bernsteins are a good family. They are

200

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

kind and righteous people. We stayed in the father’s life for another

six months so Beth could help him retrieve his money from the

bank that wired his life savings to his two sons.

In a strange way, the Bernstein brothers put us back on top in the

Denver bail bonds market. The local news covered the story, but the

publicity worked both for us and against us. It boosted our busi-

ness, but it also brought unwanted attention from the detectives

who worked on the case. Later they started popping up on all the

chases Beth and I did. They were convinced we had to be crooked.

C h a p t e r T h i r t y - s i x

IVAN VAN THOMPSON

For a short
time, Beth and I were writing bonds for Capitol

Bail Bonds, owned by Vince Smith. He started using my bounty

hunting skills and sending me all over the country to find fugitives.

Thanks to Vince, I collected the highest price of my career, six

thousand dollars for a sly character named Ivan “Van” Thompson.

Van was a crafty African-American con artist who was well

respected on the Denver streets. He was known for being sharp, a

fast talker, and as clever as they come. At one time or another, he

was involved in every type of major scam known to man. He was

writing bad checks all over Denver. His forte was stealing other

people’s identities and credit card numbers.

Beth and I were a little freaked-out about writing a bond for

Van. It was set at $100,000. We hadn’t been working with Vince

long enough to know if he was good for the money. Van was also

facing a lot of jail time, which made him a high flight risk. When

his ex-girlfriend Kim agreed to cosign, we wrote the bond. She ap-

peared stable enough because she owned her own home and worked

full-time as a nurse. However, I had a nervous feeling in my gut that

I could not shake. Something told me Van was going to run.

Just as I suspected, when Van’s court date came, he was a no-

show. Later that night, my phone rang. I knew who was on the

other end of the line.

I played it cool. “Not a smart play on your part, brother. You’ve

202

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

got two choices: Either you come into the office first thing tomor-

row morning so we can settle all this, or I hunt you down and drag

you in crying and screaming.”

He had already started laughing before I finished my sentence.

“Hunt me down, huh?” he asked. “You one stupid motherfucker,

man. I ain’t scared of the DA and I certainly ain’t worried about

your cracker ass. I
won’t
be caught because I
can’t
be caught. You ain’t shit, man.”

Without another word, he hung up.

First thing in the morning, I began my hunt. I started by banging

on Kim’s front door before the sun came up. I needed to shake

things up and apply as much pressure as I could. I leaned on his

known associates and staked out his former hangouts. One thing I

knew about Van: His ego would be his downfall. I’d seen it time

and time again. Guys like him are master criminals in their own

minds, always looking to show everyone how clever they are. I knew

Van wasn’t leaving town. He enjoyed the game too much. What’s a

performer without an audience? I spent my first day looking for

him at all of the local fried chicken fast-food joints. Word was out.

A couple of days into my hunt, an investigator named Grundinger

from the DA’s office contacted me. I agreed to meet him at a bar one

night to discuss the case. Grundinger was your typical conservative

tough guy Denver cop. His hair was silver and buzzed supershort. He

wore a polyester suit with cowboy boots. I was suspicious of his mo-

tives right off the bat. I never thought he had a whole lot of respect for

me. He thought I was some low-grade hack that he easily could ma-

nipulate. He wanted to compare notes and “share” information,

which meant he would tell me nothing and I was expected to tell him

everything. Typical.

Let the competition begin.

By now, Beth and I had started videotaping every single bust, be-

cause people were always making accusations about things that

never happened. They threatened to sue all the time. Within the next

week or two, Grundinger and I crossed paths on countless occa-

sions. I think he was shocked to see me show up at scene after scene.

He’d be pulling into a parking lot to check out a lead and I’d be

pulling out, or vice versa. Sometimes the two of us were just minutes

behind each other. From the start, I think Grundinger and the rest of

I v a n Va n Th o m p s o n

203

the Denver cops had disregarded me as another incompetent bounty

hunter. Their attitudes changed pretty quickly as we got into the

hunt. They couldn’t understand how I was able to run neck and neck

with them.

My secret weapon was Van’s ex-girlfriend, Kim, who was now

dating our receptionist, Benji. As the days melted into weeks, Kim

began to reveal bits and pieces of information about where Van

might be hiding. She often mentioned she needed to go by her place

to check on things or swing by home to drop something off, but we

all assumed she was meeting him. Even with the tips we were get-

ting from Kim, we seemed to always be a step or two behind Van.

A week or so later, I got a call from Grundinger.

“Dog, I’m sitting here at the station with one of your

employees”—Monica, a girl we called the silverback gorilla. “We’ve

arrested her and charged her with aiding and abetting Van.”

I was shocked. Monica worked in my office writing bonds for

Beth. We showed her the ropes of the business. I never suspected

Monica was a rat. But after I gave it some thought, it all came to-

gether. Monica once dated my son Christopher. I remembered a

conversation we had about a month prior, right after he and Mon-

ica broke up. He told me they split because there was some slick

pimp daddy living with her. Of course, I didn’t pay much attention

to that small detail at the time. But now, it all made sense.

When I hung up the phone, I was pissed. I went off on the most

vicious tirade I can remember in a long time. I felt used and be-

trayed. Beth and I had taken Monica under our wing, and she

stabbed us in the back.

Van was using both women. He hit Kim up to bail his ass out by

cosigning the bond, and then he used Monica for information. He

actually got Monica to sign a consent of surety for him. With that

document, he could go to the court and use it to get the warrant

for his arrest dropped altogether. Lucky for us, he didn’t make it

that far.

By the time I got to Monica’s house, Grundinger and the rest of

the Denver cops had already worked the place over. They found ma-

chinery to manufacture fake credit cards and discovered a stack of

fraudulent checks he was in the process of printing. We didn’t come

across anything special, until Beth spotted a small note on the end

204

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

table next to a phone. There was a girl’s name and a street address

on it.

“I know this address,” Beth told me. “It’s a Motel 8 right outside

of downtown.”

Grundinger and the boys already had some girl up against a

cruiser and were patting her down when I drove into the parking

lot. Apparently, she was one of Van’s cronies.

I was standing next to Grundinger when one of the cops pulled

a pistol out of the chick’s handbag.

“Look what we have here,” Grundinger said. He looked over at

me and said, “This changes the entire direction of the case, Dog.

We’ve got a known associate with a concealed weapon, which

means we have to believe that Van is packing. Basically, your road

ends here.”

“What exactly does that mean? No way am I dropping out of

this chase.”

Grundinger raised his voice. “This case is now strictly a police

matter. Understand? You’ve been riding my coattails long enough.”

I had to laugh. “Riding
your
coattails?”

“You will receive no further cooperation from my office.”

“I’m crushed,” I shot back. “I was getting so much from you

before.”

I wasn’t going to let some stiff Denver cop tell me what to do. I

wasn’t going anywhere. I had a large bond on the line. I wasn’t

about to let Van slip through my hands.

I overheard the girl tell the cops that Van had dropped her off at

the Motel 8 earlier that morning and then took off. I managed to

slide up next to her while the investigating officers were having their

own discussion.

“Van dropped you off earlier?” I asked quickly and quietly.

“Yeah,” she answered. I had a feeling that she’d rather talk to me

than the cops. If anything, just to spite them.

“Where’d he head off to?”

She looked back in the direction of the cops and then back at

me. She obviously hadn’t told them anything.

“He said he was going to the Western Motor Inn at I-70.”

A smile came across my face as I walked away. I knew the area well.

It was the same neighborhood I had moved into when my grandpa

I v a n Va n Th o m p s o n

205

had given me the old house on Steele Street. This Western Motor Inn

was a major hangout for pimps, hookers, and drug dealers.

I took off across the lot to where my truck was parked. Behind me

I heard Grundinger say, “Where the hell does he think he’s going?”

I walked into the lobby and immediately noticed a dark figure

running at full speed toward the end of one of the corridors. It was

Van. He looked right at me and said, “Fuck!” I stomped my foot on

the ground, knowing I couldn’t catch him. He exploded out one

of the far exit doors that led to a rear parking lot. I followed him,