Where Mercy Is Shown, Mercy Is Given (2010) (14 page)

Sure enough, when Guenther found the note, he called me.

“You’re pretty good, bounty hunter.”

“I’m the best.”

“I’ll kill myself before I let you get me, Dog. I’ll drive my car off a cliff if I have to,” Guenther said.

“I know you’re somewhere between mile marker 144 and 148. There is a cliff at marker 146. Is that the one you’re going to drive over?” I needed him to tell me exactly where he was so I could grab him before the cops did. At the same time, I needed Guenther to believe that I didn’t care if he lived or died.

“Why do you need to know that?” Guenther asked.

“Because I get paid whether you’re dead or alive. All I need is a print to prove you’re the guy who ran on his bond. Hell, I want to be the first person to toe tag your body.” I knew that would piss him off and I was right. He didn’t like that answer one bit. If I rattled him enough, he’d make a move and most likely a costly mistake.

“I’m going to catch you, boy,” I growled.

“Not before I come get your mother.” And then he hung up.

I told Mary Ellen that Guenther threatened my momma and was on his way to come and get me. He was a coldhearted killer who got lucky the first time he murdered someone because he got away with it without doing time. I figured he thought he was invincible, which made him capable of anything. However, once he brought my momma into the conversation, the rules of the game changed.

“That son of a bitch. Let him come.” Mary pulled a tiny .38 from her desk drawer and called the district attorney to tell him she needed backup. She played like she was brand new in the business and this case was over her head. She told the DA that Guenther was on the highway coming to get us.

Later that night Fred, Mary, and I were driving around Guenther’s neighborhood in Mary’s Cadillac. Fred was driving, Mary was riding shotgun, and I was in the backseat, still holding Woody Woodpecker. When they spotted us, the cops waved us through the police line that had been set up outside Guenther’s home.

“Look, it’s Mary and her Dog.” The cop shined his flashlight in the backseat, saw my gun, and said, “What are you hunting for, bear?”

“Naw,” Mary said. “He’s hunting Guenther.”

“Yeah, I know. Good luck, Mary Ellen. Hope you get your man.” They sent every available squad car and local highway patrolman they could get. They were watching for Guenther until they finally spotted his car on the highway and pulled him over. They snagged my capture but probably saved my life.

It was over. Although Mary Ellen was off the bond, I wouldn’t get paid my thousand dollars because I didn’t successfully make the capture. I knew he would have been gonzo, no one would have caught him if I hadn’t left him the note in the phone booth. It was a bittersweet moment. I laid my gun across the table in Mary Ellen’s office. She was happy, but I pretended to be really pissed. I turned Woody toward me and said, “Guess I’ll end it all right now.”

“Don’t be stupid!”

“I’m going to do it, Mary Ellen.”

“Whatever.”

I began pulling on the trigger. Nothing. I pulled again. Nothing.

“Is that thing fake?” she asked.

I smiled and winked.

Then I said, “Look at this.” On the gun it said, “Made by Mattel.”

Every time Mary Ellen and I go out on a bounty it is a hell of a battle, and you never know exactly what’s going to happen.

One time, I was headed up to Northglen, and I thought I was being sent to pick up just another punk who was dumb enough to jump his bond on Mary Ellen. On my way, I got a call from one of my kids saying their mother, Lyssa, was being beaten up by that very same bastard. And it wasn’t until I got that call that I realized that the guy I was chasing was Michael Volosin, the same guy whose wife had been killed by David Guenther a few years before. Big Lyssa and Volosin had started dating shortly after she and I broke up. It was such a bizarre coincidence that even I had a hard time figuring out what was going on. But like everything else in my life, it must have happened for a reason.

By the time I got to the house, the cops had the whole place surrounded. I told them that my ex-wife was inside. The police recognized me right away and said Volosin had a rifle and was holding my ex-wife hostage.

“You tell that son of a bitch that if he doesn’t come out of the house right now, not ten seconds from now, NOW, I am coming in after him, rifle or not.” And I was serious too. Even though there was no love lost between Lyssa and me, that bastard was holding the mother of my children in there. At first the police were resistant to relay my message, but when they did, Volosin let Lyssa go and surrendered to the cops. I could see Lyssa wrapped in a blanket, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at her battered body. I hopped in my car and drove away without another glance as they loaded her into the ambulance. The reason the Lord sent me up to the house that day was so I could stop Volosin from hurting the mother of my children. I knew she’d be fine, and I didn’t want to get involved more than I already had. I drove back to Denver thinking about our kids and
what they must have seen over the course of that abusive relationship. It broke my heart with every tick of the odometer home.

Despite the abusive nature of their relationship, Lyssa eventually got back together with Volosin. My only concern was for my children’s well-being because I was well aware that their relationship was extremely violent. Twenty years had gone by without a single thought of that man. And then, sometime in 2008, I decided to reach out to him. My reason was an unusual one. As I’ve looked back on mistakes I’ve made in the past, my relationship with Lyssa is something that has haunted me. There’s so much bad blood between us. I wanted to understand where all of her anger comes from. Was it just me or did she treat other men in her life that way? Volosin and Lyssa had parted ways years ago, and I thought talking with him might shed some light on the subject. When I phoned his home, Volosin’s new wife answered. She was surprised to hear it was me on the other end.

“Dog, my husband made a terrible mistake twenty years ago and he is very sorry for what he’s done. Can you find it in your heart to forgive him like you do other guys in the back of your car?”

“Of course I can.” I didn’t really have a beef with him. Our paths hadn’t crossed much except for his relationship with my ex. Volosin and I spent about twenty minutes talking about life, Lyssa, and our kids. He told me about the son he’d had with my ex-wife, who she won’t allow him to see. I felt his pain as he spoke because I had gone through the same thing with Duane Lee and Leland. I knew what it felt like to not be able to see your children. I tried to assure him to not give up the fight.

“Our children are worth fighting for.”

No one should have the right to deprive a biological parent of the right to see their children. It’s cruel and hurtful to all parties involved. I hung up from that call understanding for the first time ever that I wasn’t the sole target of my ex-wife’s anger. It was a bittersweet realization. I find no comfort in knowing this, only sadness in my heart for Volosin, his son, and the countless other families out there who deal with this type of loss and separation every single day.

(credit: Chaz)

B
ounty hunting for Mary Ellen was never dull. Some of the greatest and most memorable hunts of my career in Denver were her jumps. Despite the fact that I always get my man, at the beginning Mary Ellen was always convinced they were gone and that we’d never get them. One day she called me about a big bond for a guy named Warren Halligan, who skipped. He was wanted on a $250,000 federal warrant. She was worried because losing him would have instantly put her out of business. I tried to reassure Mary Ellen that I’d find him, but my word alone wasn’t giving her the comfort she needed.

Right in the middle of our conversation, Mary Ellen abruptly pulled her car over to the side of the road.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“We’re going to pray, Dog. God will help us find this guy. I don’t deserve to lose everything I’ve worked for over this punk.”

I was blown away by her commitment and determination, but even more so by her faith in the Lord. I can’t say for sure when I began praying before bounty hunts, but I don’t remember ever doing it before that day.

As Mary Ellen bowed her head and began to pray, I reassured her once again, “I promise you, I will find this guy.”

Mary Ellen looked up with a crazed expression in her eyes. “Oh yeah? Let’s see what you’ve got, Dog. Let me see you go. Prove to me you’re the best.”

That challenge was all I needed to hear. “Take me to his old house.”

Mary Ellen stepped on the gas, spun her wheels in the gravel, and sped down the two-lane highway like a bat out of hell. When we got to the house, it was empty. The only things left inside were some random personal items, a couple of empty beer cans, and an old pizza box that was turned upside down. I flipped over the box and noticed a phone number written on the top. I recognized 941 as a Florida area code, so I whipped out my cell phone and dialed the number.

“Hello?” a voice answered after about a dozen rings. I could hear guys playing basketball in the background. I asked who I was talking to and where I was calling. He said he was in the yard of the county jail in Parrish, Florida.

“You’re in jail?” I asked.

“Yeah. What’s it to you, asshole?”

“Is there a Warren Halligan in there with you?”

“No. Never heard of him.”

That’s when I noticed a name written next to the phone number on the pizza box—
Dan Fields
. It was worth a try.

“What about a Dan Fields?” I asked.

“Yeah, he’s in here.”

“What does he look like?” I was starting to get a strange feeling that Dan Fields and Warren Halligan were the same man.

“He’s got long brown hair, blue eyes…”

I interrupted him to ask, “Does he have any tattoos?” Warren had a distinctive tattoo on his chest.

“I have no idea, man.”

“You’ve got to look and find out for me. It’s worth a lot of money.” I stopped myself from saying anything more, because I didn’t want to blow my cover if this Dan Fields in fact turned out to be Warren. “Look, he’s come into a lot of money, but I need to make sure he’s the guy I’m looking for. I’ll call you the same time tomorrow. Can you help a brother out?”

“Who is this?” The guy was beginning to smell opportunity for himself.

“Never mind who this is. I’ll make it worth your while if it turns out to be him. What’s your name?”

“Chuck.”

“Okay, Chuck. I won’t forget this. I’ll call you tomorrow,” I told him and then hung up.

I didn’t tell Mary Ellen about the new lead because I didn’t want to get her hopes up just yet. Even if it was our guy, he was sitting in a cell in Florida, which meant I’d have to get him out before Mary Ellen could be released from the bond.

“Do you believe in God?” I asked Mary Ellen, knowing full well she did.

“C’mon, Dog. What kind of question is that?”

“Remember, G-O-D spelled backwards is D-O-G. Put your faith in me. I won’t let you down.” If things worked out, I’d be a hero. If this lead turned out to be a bust, I’d blame it on the big man upstairs.

I called Chuck the next day.

“It’s him. He’s got the tat,” he said.

Blam. Got him.

When I told Mary Ellen the news, she was in shock. “It can’t be,” she said.

“Mary Ellen, I’m the Dog,” I told her. “God’s not going to let me fail. I’m one of his disciples, one of His messengers here on earth. God is always going to show me the way.”

This was the first time I learned to follow my gut. We all have an inner voice that tells us the right thing to do. If that voice tells you to turn right, don’t turn left! I had searched countless homes before, but this time my inner voice told me to flip over that pizza box. I instinctively knew a vital clue would be there. I knew for sure I had my guy. From that day on, I realized I had a special gift, something I call the “bounty hunter blessing.” That’s the ability to sense things others cannot feel.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved the story of Sitting Bull and his infamous Battle of the Little Bighorn. The battle was the most famous action of the Great Sioux War. Sitting Bull led the Lakota and Cheyenne tribes to victory over General George Armstrong Custer’s Seventh Calvary. This was the battle known as Custer’s Last Stand because seven
hundred troops fell to the leadership of Chief Sitting Bull, who had a premonition of his victory months before the battle took place. The chief saw bodies falling from the sky, which he interpreted as defeating Custer and his cavalry. Legend has it that Sitting Bull rode his horse in front of the cavalry sharpshooters several times, but they missed with every shot. Not a single bullet hit its mark. “No white man’s bullet can harm me,” Sitting Bull is believed to have said that day.

Every time something happens in my life where I’m told I can’t do something, I remember the words of Sitting Bull. I’ve never feared anything in my life because I know I will never be harmed. I told Mary Ellen the story of Sitting Bull and then promised her I would not let Warren Halligan get away.

“Bullshit.” That was her response. “I know you think you’re invincible, Dog, but you’re not. Don’t feed me your Injun crap.”

I told Mary Ellen she was wrong and even decided to take it a step further. I guaranteed I’d pay her back every red cent of money it cost to send me down to Florida to capture Warren Halligan if I came back empty-handed. Of course, Mary Ellen knew that I was broker than broke and I didn’t have thousands of dollars to give her if I didn’t hold up my end of the deal. Even so, I had to put my money where my mouth was because I knew I was right. I offered to take her husband, Fred, with me so she’d feel secure her investment was safe—or at the very least, safer. And to be totally honest, I knew Fred would pay all the bills since I didn’t have two nickels to my name to front the trip.

The plan was simple. We would go down to the county jail and ask the warden to release Warren to us. I figured we would show him our bail bonds badges and they’d hand him over. Once I hit the road on a hunt, I’m all about the chase. Game on. I’ve got my badge and the law on my side. There’s no more Duane. Here comes the Dog.

Fred and I flew to Florida and went directly to the jail. I didn’t think anyone would ask to see my credentials, but just in case they did, I was ready. I called one of my FBI buddies and told him the story and asked for backup if I needed it.

“You got it, Dog,” he told me. “Let me know how it goes.”

When we got to the jail, vivid memories of my time in Huntsville flooded my head. When I stared up at the one giant fan blowing hot air into the entire building, I thought,
This had to be built by Texans. It was so
much like the prison I was in; same color too. Before long, Fred and I were greeted by the most redneck son of a bitch I had ever met. He was worse than any officer or warden I lived with for my entire eighteen months inside. Even so, I had to be cool because I needed the officer to cooperate so I could get my man.

“Officer Chapman, I’ve heard an awful lot about you, son,” he said.

I shook his hand and introduced him to Fred. “This is my partner, Fred. Show him your badge, Fred.” I could see a look of panic come over Fred’s face as I cajoled him along.

“That’s not necessary, boys. What can I do you for?” This good ol’ Southern boy couldn’t have been more accommodating as I began to tell him our story.

Just as I thought I’d closed the deal to hand over Halligan, my cell phone rang. It was my old buddy, Keith Paul. He’d heard about what I was doing and thought he’d check in to see if I needed a hand. I played it cool, like Keith was my boss. I handed the prison officer my phone so he could talk to Keith, too.

“Keith Paul, FBI. The guy they’re tracking is a sucker.” Keith’s unexpected call gave us the last bit of credibility we needed to get our man without hesitation from the officer. The only rub here was he now thought we were federal marshals, although we never said we were. Because of the call from Keith, the officer asked us to come back to the property room before he’d hand over the fugitive, so we could check something out they found when they arrested my guy. He opened up a jar full of clear liquid and asked me to smell it.

“What is it?” the officer asked.

“Jesus, you’ve got a half a million dollars’ worth of speed in there,” I answered. “It’s liquid meth, bro.”

The officer called the sheriff and told him what they had. The sheriff made a beeline back to the jail so he could see what was going on for himself.

“Let’s go do a raid, boys,” the officer said as soon as he hung up the phone. So the sheriff, Fred, and I, along with another eighteen officers, paid a surprise visit to every inmate’s cell. I was pulling a wagon behind me because I was certain we’d need it for the evidence we were about to find.

“How you doing, fellas?” I asked the first two inmates we searched. “You know what this is? It’s Christmas Day. Get out here while we search your cell.” After turning the place upside down, I came out with several boxes of illegal contraband.

The sheriff was stunned by my discovery. “Jesus Christ!” he said.

Fred was nervous the entire time. He was worried they’d figure out we were just a couple of bounty hunters and not feds. I pulled him aside in the hallway and tried to calm his nerves.

“Let them assume whatever they want, Fred,” I whispered to him. “I never told them
we
were the law. They came up with that all on their own. We’ve done nothing wrong here.”

Unfortunately, everything I said failed to get through and calm Fred down. He became consumed with the idea that he and I were going to end up in jail for our charade. Fred’s skin, which was normally of a dark complexion, had turned a light white. He was scared to death. Fred looked at me and said, “Do you remember cell number seven? I want that one because it was the cleanest we saw. We are all done, Dog. We are in the South. They’ll never let us go. It’s over. I know it is.”

When we finally got to Halligan’s cell, I immediately knew he was my guy. It was definitely him. When Halligan looked up and saw me standing there, all he could say was “Oh shit.”

I took a step forward and looked him dead in the eyes through the bars of his cell. “Warren, my man,” I said. “Who is the greatest bounty hunter in the world?”

“Damn, Dog. It’s you,” he answered.

“You ran on Mary Ellen, brotha,” I told him. “That’s a bad thing to do.”

He was in total shock and disbelief he’d been found. Warren thought he’d do his ninety-day stint inside the joint and then be let out a free man.
He already had a new name and identity. If he got through his sentence, he’d be long gone.

The sheriff informed Fred and me that we could take Warren the next day. He even offered to let us stay with him at his house, but Fred couldn’t bring himself to take him up on it. He wanted to call Mary Ellen and tell her what was going on so she would know we were definitely going to jail. After all, we were still pulling the wool over the sheriff’s eyes by continuing to let him think we were the law.

The following morning, Fred and I showed up at the jail as planned, to grab Halligan. All we had to do was get him in our car and we were out of there. But just as the officers were about to escort him out, the sheriff called us back inside. He told us to head over to the district attorney’s office down the hall. When I asked why, the sheriff explained that the DA was the only person who could sign the extradition papers.

When Fred and I walked into the DA’s office, there was another sheriff waiting for us.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” the DA asked. Man, was he pissed.

“I’m not sure what you are talking about, sir,” I calmly answered. Under the circumstances, I thought being polite could only help things.

“You’ve been down here telling everybody you’re FBI. Well, we just checked with the Bureau and they tell us you’re a damned bounty hunter.”

Technically, I had never told anyone anything, because no one ever asked. “Just because I had an agent on the phone doesn’t mean I told anyone I was in the FBI,” I pointed out to the district attorney. “If your guys jumped to that conclusion, that’s their fault, not mine.”