The Mammoth Book of Celebrity Murders (41 page)

The final question remains: what happened to Lord Lucan? Many believed that, after abandoning the Ford Corsair, he took a speedboat (some suggested that he may have already left one docked
there, ready to dispose of his wife’s body, if his original plan had been a success), or bought a ticket on a ferry to cross the Channel from Newhaven. He could well have decided to end his
shame and his life and jumped overboard into the cold waters.

Considering that Lucan’s passion was for gambling, I find it hard that he would take his own life. I would more easily believe that he managed to get to mainland Europe and has lived an
anonymous life. I am sure that the doting father would have followed the lives of his children with great interest, and that he would have been fascinated to learn that on 11 December 1992 he was
officially presumed dead, and that the title of the Eighth Earl of Lucan was passed to his only son George, although George prefers not to use the title.

Since his disappearance there have been countless “sightings” of Lord Lucan, literally spanning the world: to name but a few, France, Ireland, Sicily, the Netherlands, Australia and
most frequently Africa. The police have received so many Lucan sightings in South Africa that they started to keep a close eye on the frequency of Lucan’s children’s visits to this
area, but after all this time there is still no hard and fast proof as to whether he is alive or dead.

Monday, 8 December 1980 was a typical winter’s day in New York, crisp and cold, with blue skies and a strong hint of Christmas. If any day was typical for John Lennon
then this was one of them. He and Yoko Ono had enjoyed a late morning and had then set off for the recording studio by early afternoon, acknowledging the usual crowd of fans who gathered on the
sidewalk outside of the Dakota Building, even signing a copy of John’s latest album,
Double Fantasy
, for one eager, if a little intense, young fan. The pair spent the rest of the
afternoon and the early evening preparing new material for a follow-up album to
Double Fantasy
, before deciding to return home. John collected his tape recorder and a few tapes and joined
Yoko in the back of their white limousine, ready for the journey back across New York City. They chatted as the limo took its usual stops and turns, weaving its way in and out of the famously busy
New York traffic, pulling up outside the Dakota Building at 22.48 p.m. Yoko could see a number of people loitering as Jose Perdomo, the Dakota’s doorman, walked across to open the door for
them. She climbed out of the car, quickly followed by John, who was still carrying the tape recorder. Yoko maintained her lead, saying “Hello” to a man who was standing slightly away
from the building, as she reached the front door, while John followed on, noticing the young man who he remembered from earlier in the day. He stared at the man intently as he walked by, but then
prepared to enter the building, before hearing a voice behind him say, “Mr Lennon”. As John turned to see who had called him, he caught sight of the familiar-looking young man crouched
down, one knee on the ground, and pointing a snub-nosed .38 calibre revolver directly at him, with outstretched arms, one hand supporting the other hand’s wrist. Recognizing immediately his
dilemma John whirled to make his escape, but was caught with two shots, the force of which spun his body round. With blood already spurting from the entry holes, the would-be assassin calmly took
aim again and fired three more shots, two of which slammed into John’s shoulder blades, exiting his body and smashing into the glass frontage of the Dakota Building; the third missed him
completely and ricocheted off the wall. Amazingly he was not yet dead and managed to stagger into the foyer, passing Jay Hastings, the Dakota’s security guard, who had pressed the security
alarm button to summon the police. “I’m shot, I’m shot,” John managed to say as he collapsed onto the floor, blood oozing out of his shattered body. Jay Hastings could hear
the sirens wailing in the distance and willed them to get there faster, as Yoko stood looking down at John, screaming, “He’s been shot.” Hastings knew John was bleeding to death
and wanted to apply a tourniquet, but did not know where best to apply it. Removing his jacket he placed it over John in a bid to keep him warm, but could see that the blood loss was substantial
and his efforts were of little consequence. Outside, Perdomo had knocked the gun out of the man’s hand and kicked it away shouting, “Do you know what you have done?” but the young
man wasn’t listening. Calmly the killer removed his hat and coat and threw them away from himself onto the sidewalk; he knew the police were very close and did not want to risk being shot,
the likely outcome if he were still considered armed. Nobody seemed a bit concerned that he had not tried to escape – he could have made a dash for the subway on the Central Park side of the
street, but instead paced up and down the pavement reading from a book he had brought with him, J.D. Salinger’s
The Catcher in the Rye
. As the first police car arrived on the scene,
the officers quickly ran towards the Dakota Building, still not aware that someone had been shot. When the two officers entered the small foyer they could see that a white male had been shot a
number of times and a small lady was standing over the man, terrified; they immediately put out a distress call, “Alert . . . shots fired . . . 1 West 72nd Street”, which summoned
further police assistance. The police could see that the man was losing his battle and decided to take decisive action. Turning him over, they grabbed his arms and legs with the intention of
speeding him to Roosevelt Hospital, on 58th Street. As they lifted him his bones cracked sickeningly and more blood oozed from his lips, his eyes were open but now unable to focus as his life
drained out of him. Back outside another police car had arrived and Perdomo pointed out the young man reading the book indicating that he was the shooter. As the policeman made his approach the
young man put his hands in the air and declared, “Don’t hurt me, I’m unarmed,” and as the policeman spread-eagled him against the wall, “I acted alone.” The man
was handcuffed and put in the back of the police car where he then apologized, “I’m sorry I gave you guys all this trouble.”

In the police car carrying John Lennon, the driver looked into the back seat at the bloodied mess that had, just minutes earlier, been the healthy other half of the 1960s song-writing genius of
Lennon & McCartney, of Beatles fame. “Do you know who you are?” the driver shouted. Lennon’s throat was thick with blood and he was unable to respond, but managed to nod his
head. With still a chance of saving Lennon the police car raced with its sirens blazing, jumping red lights and weaving past traffic, eventually pulling into the hospital’s emergency
entrance. The trauma team were waiting and immediately transferred Lennon to a mobile stretcher, racing him through to the emergency room. Once in there it was established that he had virtually no
pulse; a team of seven medical staff, using everything at their disposal worked hard to stem the loss of life, but with such significant blood loss the battle was futile. After much effort the
medical staff had to accept that they now had on the table in front of them the lifeless body of John Lennon, one of the greatest writers of modern music the twentieth century had produced. The
official cause of death was shock, caused by severe blood loss – he had lost nearly 80 per cent. Dead at just forty years of age, he left his wife Yoko Ono, their son Sean, Julian,
John’s son from a previous marriage and of course millions of adoring fans from around the world.

The man the police had in custody called himself Mark David Chapman and was in no way trying to distance himself from the crime. Indeed he was happy to point out that he had stayed at the scene
with the intention of being caught. He was apologetic at having caused the police such a problem that evening and appeared quite calm, if not a little detached. He had been brought in clutching his
copy of
The Catcher in the Rye
, in the belief that he was one part Holden Caulfied, the book’s main character, and one part the devil. He was booked and held in custody ready for
questioning and the ensuing investigation. Chapman had been surprised at Lennon being able to climb the stairs after he had been shot but never enquired as to the health of his victim once he had
been apprehended.

It did not take the press long to get hold of the story and most papers were able to make it their front-page headline the following day. In an age of high-speed telecommunications the word of
Lennon’s death spread around the world, and as the sun rose in each country in turn, people heard the terrible news. Tributes poured in from fans and well-wishers; other musicians, including
the Beatles members Paul McCartney, George Harrison and Ringo Starr, all praised Lennon’s life and works. As the emphasis on Lennon’s life and times passed, the world now wanted to know
who had prematurely taken away the life of this peace-loving super songwriter.

Mark David Chapman was born on 10 May 1955, near Fort Worth, Texas, the first child of David and Diane Chapman. It was not a happy home life; his father and mother argued frequently and often
came to blows. This aside, as Chapman grew into a small boy neighbours reported what a friendly character he was and quite clever too; at high school he was later assessed as having an IQ of 121,
higher than average for his age group. Unfortunately his intellect did not stand him in good stead in the relationship stakes, his peer group disliked him and he became the target of bullies. His
father, who had been a staff sergeant in the Air Force at the time of Chapman’s birth, was discharged and won a place at Purdue University, using the GI Bill to get a degree in engineering.
With things looking up, the Chapman family moved to a quiet Atlanta suburb, where Mr Chapman took a job in the credit department of the American Oil Company. Things continued to look up when
shortly afterwards the Chapmans’ second child was born, a little girl, whom they named Susan. As Chapman continued to suffer at the hands of his fellow pupils he gradually withdrew into a
world of make-believe, creating an imaginary world in his head. In this world, where he was the only big person, he was surrounded by “little people”, who lived in the walls of his
house. He was their king, and in his mind they worshipped him; he would be on the front page of their imaginary newspapers and all over their little television sets. He was god in this world and
could do no wrong. He entertained the “little people” when he was in a good mood, by playing them music, often the Beatles, one of his favourite groups. He wasn’t always in a good
mood though and would press an imaginary button on the sofa which would, in his mind’s eye, blow up many of the “little people”, but he was always forgiven and things would just
go back to normal afterwards.

Chapman continued through this period to suppress his anger towards his father, who would have his mother screaming with his bursts of violence. She would be yelling “Mark!” and he
would go running in to halt the attack, often pushing his father away. It is no surprise that Chapman came to hate his father, and would, much later, admit to prison psychiatrists that he often
dreamed of shooting his father dead. He was quoted later as saying his father never gave him the love or emotional support he needed. “I don’t think I ever hugged my father. He never
told me he loved me.”

His lack of prowess on the sports field contributed to his fellow pupils’ disdain for him, calling him “Pussy”, but his school work was of a good level, and like other children
of that time he maintained normal interests for boys of his age: rockets, UFOs and modern music, which he played pretty much non-stop, especially the Beatles. He was also hooked on the film
The
Wizard of Oz
, and looked forward to its showing every Christmas season.

Chapman’s life took a turn for the worse when he reached the age of 14. As a freshman at Columbia High his entire persona altered when he started using drugs, initially marijuana, but
ultimately heroin. He skipped school, grew his hair long and defied his parents, stopping out late and hanging around the streets with his new-found druggy friends. It was at this point that
Chapman first had a brush with the law, being picked up by an Atlanta police patrol while high on LSD. When his mother found out she locked the doped-up Chapman in his bedroom, but he just took the
door off its hinges and fled to a friend’s house, staying there for the next week. After this he disappeared again, this time running off to Miami where he lived on the streets for a while,
before he was given shelter by a man who subsequently bought him a one-way bus ticket back to Atlanta.

And then the “bad” Mark Chapman disappeared as fast as he had arrived. Now aged 16 he went to see a visiting California-based evangelist and claimed to have enjoyed a moving
religious experience. It was out with the old and in with the new; gone was the long hair, the Army jackets and the drug-laden bad attitude. Chapman now spoke softly and was calm; he also sported a
large wooden cross around his neck. With his new character Chapman found his first girlfriend, Jessica Blankenship, with whom he handed out religious leaflets, his school work improved and he now
joined the YMCA, becoming a counsellor at that year’s summer camp.

Tony Adams, a senior member of the YMCA on the summer camp, watched Chapman enjoying the company of the younger ones. “They really liked him, he was a real Pied Piper, always had a bunch
of kids hanging round his neck.” Chapman did indeed have a lot of time for the kids; he enjoyed their love and attention and repaid it with his time and care. The kids called him
“Nemo” after the Jules Verne character and chanted his nickname after he won the award for outstanding counsellor, shouting, “Nee-mo, Nee-mo”. Chapman had found a group of
people with whom he felt right at home, but as his recent history had shown, he was a man drawn to extremes. His first negative thought in respect of John Lennon came about when the Beatles front
man proclaimed, “We’re more popular than Jesus Christ now,” a comment which infuriated the one-time Beatles fan and turned him against his hero. Chapman and his friends now sang
Lennon’s “Imagine” to different lyrics, ones in which John Lennon was dead and Chapman replaced Lennon with Todd Rundgren as his favourite musician.