-Caveat Lector- An excerpt from: Loud and Clear Lake Headly and William Hoffman©1990 Henry Holt and Company 115 W. 18th St. New York, NY 10011 ISBN 0-8050-1138-2 272 pps — out-of-print/one edition --[8]-- 8. A Visit to Playboy, A Goshen Christmas CHICAGO, ILLINOIS. DECEMBER 23 A taxi from O'Hare dropped me off at the Playboy Building-across North Michigan Avenue from the Drake Hotel, next door to the Knickerbocker, just north of the famous Chicago Water Tower, the only structure to survive the Great Chicago Fire of 1871. >From the lobby, which resembles a small bank with old wooden door elevators, I went to Playboy magazine's editorial offices on the tenth floor to see Bill Helmer, senior editor in charge of the Forum section. Helmer was no stranger; we had worked together before. Today he showed me around the facility, which was decorated with an impressive collection of valuable art. I don't know which sank in first: the contrast of an aging building with the thoroughly modern interiors, or the unisex rest rooms. "This place was erected in 1936 as the Palmolive Building," Helmer said with the ring and smoothness of an experienced tour guide. "A thirty-six-story architectural marvel topped off with a penthouse and the Lindbergh Beacon that, so I'm told, on clear nights reached all the way across the lake to the Michigan shore. In the fifties high rises began dwarfing what had been for decades the most imposing structure on this side of the city. But neighbors complained, and they finally had to shut it down for good about ten years ago." Helmer explained that Hugh Hefner now resided almost exclusively in the Los Angeles Playboy Mansion, but still kept a close eye on the magazine. Using state-of-the-art electronics, Hefner on the West Coast could exactly duplicate Chicago lightIng to view and discuss a picture with one of his editors at the Playboy Building. Efficiency seemed the watchword for the editorial staff, and those putting the magazine together displayed an enthusiasm akin to that of college students I remembered organizing antiwar demonstrations. This was a get-the-job-done place of workjeans, sweatshirt, and sneakers-unlike the Chicago and Los Angeles mansions, which exuded an ambience of glamour. I'd visited both of these mansions when Helmer hired me to investigate a serial murder case in Ohio that resulted in a Playboy story titled "Close Call for Claudia." Partly due to a joint investigation I conducted with Austin, Texas, p.i. Russ Million, a woman suspect was cleared and released from custody. During the Ohio investigation, I met Hugh Hefner and his daughter, Christie, in the Los Angeles mansion at a political fund-raiser for Democrat Willie Brown. Obviously a magazine publishing genius (though not so successful when he branched into other fields), Hefner took extreme pride in his California estate with its sprawling grounds, exotic pool, flamingos walking free, tall palms towering above everything, all of it smack in the middle of West Los Angeles. What I remember most was the bevy of truly beautiful women swimming in the grotto section of the pool, and the many show business celebrities: Jack Nicholson, Robin Williams, James Caan, Caan's brother, the producer (and pool sharp) Ronald Caan, and Peter Falk. Near the end of my tenth-floor tour of the Chicago headquarters, we came upon Christie Hefner. "You probably don't remember me," I said. I really didn't think she would, or should. "Of course I do, Lake." Her smile and hug made my day. Before getting down to business, I talked with my friend and business associate in his small, cluttered office. "Unusual" best describes; this Forum editor, particularly as he sat behind his desk, flanked on one wall by an antiwar poster and on another by an EAT MORE BABY SEAL bumper sticker. Helmer projected the image of a 1920s newsman, hard-drinking and apparently cynical. A reformer at heart, he enjoyed poking fun at "knee-jerk liberoid do-gooders." Before moving to Chicago, he, like so many good writers (Larry McMurtry, Gary Cartwright, and others), had written for Texas Monthly magazine and The Texas Observer in Austin. A bullet fired by Charles Whitman had grazed his neck and struck another student during the Texas Tower massacre at the University of Texas in 1966. Bill Helmer joined Playboy in 1969 after working on the National Violence Commission in Washington, D.C. He had written a. book, The Gun That Made the Twenties Roar, which was the definitive work on the Thompson submachine gun, and out of that research he became an authority on John Dfllinger. I liked the one-of-a-kind Forum editor. He always cracked me up when his thin, five-foot-nine body went into its Lone Star shitkicker routine: belching over a longneck beer while listening to the nasal twang of melancholy country music about drinking, unfaithful wives, and lives gone down the drain. (Though I never did cotton to his habit, in fancy restaurants, of ordering a baconwrapped filet mignon with a bottle of ketchup.) He went around Chicago in western garb long before Urban Cowboy made it fashionable ... . until local pimps adopted cowboy hats, when Helmer shelved his and switched to gangster-style fedoras. Much. as I enjoyed his company, I had to keep in mind the reason for this visit: Helmer sat on the board of the Playboy Foundation and I needed his help. "Lake," he said, "what do you see as Playboy's angle in the Arizona story? It's not sex or drugs, and we don't usually get involved 'in murder cases. How is this one different?" "Playboy has always opposed the death penalty, and in my opinion Dunlap and Robison are the best arguments against it you'll-ever find. I've interviewed them several times and believe they're innocent." "Why? I ran it all down, adding that Dunlap Committee member David Fraser had provided me with a copy of a deposition taken from Eileen Roberts, Neal Roberts's secretary. She said that the day before the bombing, June 1, 1976, she overheard Neal Roberts, Hank Landry, John Adamson, and a fourth individual she couldn't identify (she said it wasn't Max Dunlap) discuss travel arrangements to Havasu, fund-raising efforts for Adamson, and model airplanes (requiring remote-control devices). Fraser said, and I agreed, that Eileen Roberts should have testified at the Robison/Dunlap murder trial. I finished my minispeech to Helmer with an appealunsuccessful with those Arizona reporters at the press conference—on behalf of a fallen journalist. The chain-smoking Helmer seemed interested. "Didn't Greene from Newsday take a team to Arizona?" "They spent too much time partying in the Adams Hotel and wrapped up their 'Investigation' with a declaration that the Phoenix police did an outstanding job." "The Playboy Foundation—I'm a nonvoting member—tries to support financially what we support editorially. Put our money where our mouth is." Helmer swiveled his chair and looked out the window. He sat thinking for a moment, then turned back to me. "I'd say this case falls within our parameters. I'd like you to run it by the Chicago head honcho, Arthur Kretchmer." The view of Lake Michigan from Kretchmer's office, much bigger than Helmer's but more Spartan, almost took my breath away. The general clutter was the same, however, and in none of the offices did I see centerfold pictures. Kretchmer looked like Abe Lincoln, craggy and gangly. Stern, unsmiling, direct, he had been in business with Hefner for a long time, and his number two Playboy masthead position as editorial director and associate publisher carried a lot of clout. "Lake," he said, "you keep getting involved in the damnedest things. How did you come up with this one?" He referred to Wounded Knee, I suppose, and the serial murder case in Ohio, and the Friar's Club gin rummy cheating case. "Through George Vlassis," I said. "He's an old high school and football-playing pal of mine who is now a lawyer in Phoenix and has many friends on the Dunlap Committee." "Why should Playboy be interested in this story?" "You're against the death penalty. Here's the perfect case: Arizona is going to execute two innocent men." My own deep-rooted opposition to capital punishment stemmed from working twenty years of murder cases and murder trials. The irrevocability of execution makes correcting the mistakes of fallible judges and juries an impossibility. Also, the plain fact that no wealthy person has ever been executed in this country makes the death penalty clearly class-oriented. I felt it vital that Playboy offer help—the Arizona Republic and Phoenix Gazette clearly outgunned the courageous Jonathan Marshall-but I didn't believe that a hard sell would be appropriate with Kretchmer. Still, 'mentioning that the majority of people on death row are black, Hispanic, or Native American, elicited a curt interruption. "Don't tell me about minorities," Kretchmer said. "I haven't always been on the tenth floor of the Playboy Building. I was a Jewish kid, raised in an Italian neighborhood, and had to fight my way out of Hell's Kitchen." "Mr. Kretchmer," I said, "any financial support from the foundation will be appreciated and put to good use. The Dunlap Committee pays me twenty-five hundred dollars a month, no expenses. That's not enough money for the size of the job. There's travel, rental cars, hotel rooms. Photocopying charges alone are in the stratosphere. But, more than the money, I need the support of the magazine to legitimize my work in Arizona. I've already taken heat from law enforcement over a p.i. license, which would take a year and a lawsuit to obtain. What I-" "You mean," Kretchmer said, "authorities are more concerned with the status of your license than what you find out about the case?" "That's right." In fact, it seemed they now investigated me more than the Bolles homicide. Neal Roberts, Mr. Loud and Clear, faced no threat of prosecution. I did. "What I need is your authorization to state publicly that I'm working for Playboy as a journalist. Then I could claim an exemption to the p.i. license, in the same way the IRE did." I told Kretchmer about going to the Arizona Department of Public Safety to get a work card, permitting me to operate as a p.i. on a friend's license (an ex-cop named Tom Atchinson). The DPS sergeant who gave me the forms volunteered that I'd never get licensed because of my "activities so far." "That may be," I said, "but it's not your decision. I'll go to the Supreme Court if I have to. Besides, why didn't you jump on the IRE about this? How does my work differ from theirs?" "They were reporters working on a story. You're a private investigator hired by the Dunlap Committee, and we know it." "So it's where the buck comes from, not what I do, that determines whether I can conduct an investigation?" The sergeant shrugged. At this time Arizona also had a year's residency requirement before a p.i. could be licensed. In a year, Dunlap and Robison might be dead. "Mr. Kretchmer," I said, "this battle, like so many others, will be fought in the press. Jonathan Marshall and the Scottsdale Daily Progress are in my corner, but that's a small paper up against the giants of the Pulliam empire. To be effective, I need affiliation with a powerful publication. Playboy's what I need. And this case fits exactly Playboy's own philosophy. What else can I say?" Kretchmer made his decision quickly. "Okay. You're working for us. We'll back you on that. In the meantime, the next foundation meeting is January 18, and Bill Helmer will see about getting you some money. It sounds like you're on a good story that needs telling, and I wish you luck." Hooray. I'd gotten what I needed, not a small triumph. Without the Playboy backup, I figured, I would go to jail. I figured correctly. Time and again the police would threaten me with arrest, and in each instance I would successfully bring the weight of the magazine to bear. I arrived in my snowy hometown, Goshen, population twenty thousand, on Christmas Eve, moving in as a guest of high school buddy Jon Robinson and his wife, Glynna. Jon supervised city vehicle maintenance, and Glynna worked for Penn Electric Switch Company (now Johnson Control). These old friends lived in the sturdy house Jon was born in, and long ago they had designated a room there as "Lake's Room." That evening I called Devereux in Arizona and he told me about the continuing fallout from the press conference. Then I phoned Terri Lee Yoder, who sounded excited about what she had dug up on Don Bolles, Bradley Funk, and Emprise. I had just arrived in Goshen, but like an old fire horse I yearned to return to the action. Still, Goshen is a good place to spend an old-fashioned, homespun Christmas. The Mennonite College and a strong Amish community have firm roots in my hometown. Their closeness to nature and the plentiful supply of handmade articles brings Christmas gift-giving back to its original meaning, a meaning too often stifled in the big city by constantly ringing cash registers. Hitching rails run along the fronts of supermarkets, where the Amish park their horse-drawn buggies. The Mennonites, who wear white bonnets, do drive cars, but the Amish, in their black hats, allow no mechanization. They milk by hand, churn butter manually, and employ windmills not to generate electricity but to pump water. The men remain clean-shaven until marriage, and all of them are totally nonviolent and law abiding. I learned to speak a little Pennsylvania Dutch while working in my father's grocery store, and I know the Amish will help a person with almost anything he asks. They don't fight, steal, lie, or wage wars, though they might be tyrannical inside their own society. Gearing down to life among these peaceful people always makes coming home more enjoyable and relaxing. Snow was piled deep this Goshen Christmas, and I enjoyed watching the horses and buggies crunch through the crisp white powder past stalled, abandoned cars. I visited friends and relatives, including my mother's family, the Jacksons, the first settlers in Elkhart County, which encompasses Goshen and a place named for them, Jackson Township. My days assumed a regular pattern. I'd get up early, drink coffee, call Devereux and Terri Lee, go to the Olympia Candy Kitchen for more coffee and talks with friends, then to the Holiday Inn for lunch and coffee. Lots of coffee. I know most of the people in Goshen, and we relived good times at Lake Wawasee and dinners in good restaurants like The Sleepy Cove. Then it would be back to the Robinson home for TV late into the night. About a week into my visit Devereux called. His normally unshakable voice cracked, and I sensed his tension all the way from Arizona. "The damnedest thing just happened," he said. "I went around to the back to start my car. It was dark. Down the alley I heard an engine crank and then tires screeching. I looked up and saw this pickup truck, its lights off, bearing down on me from less than thirty feet away. There was no doubt the driver wanted to run me down. I just managed to jump onto the trunk of my car, but it was a close call." Geesus. Already there had been phone threats to Devereux and me, and the word on Phoenix streets was warning us to stay away from the Bolles case, but I hadn't expected action so soon. "Did you report this to the police?" "It just happened." "I think you should report it." "I'm pretty upset. Shaken." "Any witnesses?" "No." "Why were you going out late?" "To interview somebody. I don't duck things. I never thought this would happen." "I warned you this Bolles investigation could be dangerous." "I know. But talking is one thing; having it happen is another." "What kind of pickup?" "I barely noticed it was a truck." :'What color?" " 1 have a sense it was red, but I'm not sure." "Did you get a plate, or a partial?" "No. I couldn't see anything. Not a light on inside or outside when it zoomed by." "Could you see where the pickup went?" "It turned right, at the end of the alley. I heard peeling rubber for three blocks." "Cool it for a day or so. Be careful. There's a blizzard here, and I'll come back as soon as it lifts, and we'll stay a little closer together in the future. For now, don't go anyplace alone. Remember, you're an investigative journalist. That's what Don Bolles was." pps. 81-88 --[cont]-- Aloha, He'Ping, Om, Shalom, Salaam. Em Hotep, Peace Be, Omnia Bona Bonis, All My Relations. Adieu, Adios, Aloha. Amen. Roads End Kris DECLARATION & DISCLAIMER ========== CTRL is a discussion and informational exchange list. Proselyzting propagandic screeds are not allowed. Substance—not soapboxing! These are sordid matters and 'conspiracy theory', with its many half-truths, misdirections and outright frauds is used politically by different groups with major and minor effects spread throughout the spectrum of time and thought. That being said, CTRL gives no endorsement to the validity of posts, and always suggests to readers; be wary of what you read. CTRL gives no credeence to Holocaust denial and nazi's need not apply. Let us please be civil and as always, Caveat Lector. ======================================================================== Archives Available at: http://home.ease.lsoft.com/archives/CTRL.html http:[EMAIL PROTECTED]/ ======================================================================== To subscribe to Conspiracy Theory Research List[CTRL] send email: SUBSCRIBE CTRL [to:] [EMAIL PROTECTED] To UNsubscribe to Conspiracy Theory Research List[CTRL] send email: SIGNOFF CTRL [to:] [EMAIL PROTECTED] Om
