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Savage
By Robert Scott KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
Copyright © 2002 Robert Scott
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7860-3861-9
CHAPTER 1
Other Side of the Magic Kingdom
Los Angeles, California
Saturday, February 4, 1989 — 6:20 A.M.
Mrs. Ellen Blake couldn't sleep, so she got up early to face another cool, but pleasant, southern California winter morning. Even though it was February, the day promised to be seventy-eight degrees later on in the afternoon. She lived in a quiet residential neighborhood on Victoria Avenue in an area of older bungalows and stucco homes. Just an ordinary neighborhood now, these had been elegant homes in the 1920's. Buster Keaton had once lived up the street on Victoria Avenue and had even filmed the block in his movie Seven Chances. In one unforgettable scene, he was chased by hundreds of frantic prospective brides as he ran down the street.
Some of the houses were a little worse for wear now, but the palm trees lining the street still gave the district an exotic air. Mrs. Blake was just putting the coffee on when she heard a car door slam out on the street, followed shortly thereafter by the distinct smell of smoke. She peeked out her front window and was startled to see a car across the street starting to erupt into flames. Astonished by the sight, she dashed to her telephone and dialed 911.
Within minutes, a fire engine from the local firehouse arrived on the scene to battle the blaze that now fully engulfed the vehicle. The crew of firemen surrounded the car and sprayed a stream of special retardant on the fire until it was fully out. Only after it had cooled a bit and was safe did one of the firemen peek in the window of the 1977 Pontiac Trans Am. He'd seen many things in his time, but what he witnessed now made him rock back in horror. Propped up on the front seat behind the steering wheel was the still smouldering body of a young woman. She may have been beautiful once, but all that was left of her now was a charred carcass and the sickening smell of burnt flesh. Her face was blackened beyond recognition by the fire until it hardly looked human. Everything in the vehicle had been burned completely except for a few schoolbooks, a fanny pack and one more chilling item. Lying on the floorboard was a double-edged palm dagger.
No doubt about it, Dondi Johnson was a very lovely young woman. Twenty-two years old in 1989, she grew up in the fabled land of southern California. Santa Monica and Redondo Beaches were to the west, Hollywood to the north up the Golden State Freeway, and Disneyland lay just to the south down the Santa Ana Freeway. It was still a land of make-believe, where dreams came true on the silver screen. The bronze stars on the Hollywood walk of fame, only a few miles away, attested to that. Celebrities really did live up in the hills of Brentwood and Beverly Hills, and beachboys and girls did frolic in the surf down at Malibu and Huntington Beach. The temperatures in winter were always warm and sometimes the song seemed true that proclaimed, "It never rains in southern California."
But Dondi Johnson lived somewhere on the other side of the Magic Kingdom. Her neighborhood was no longer a dreamland or a theme park. By the 1980's, there were more gang-bangers than orange groves in the "hood." Every corner seemed to hold either a drug addict or a prostitute. Even friendly and outgoing Dondi Johnson had been touched by all the chaos. She was a single unwed mother by the time she was twenty years old, and could have easily fallen into the malaise that so many young women of her neighborhood were prone to. But she was also a go-getter, and by the late 1980's, she'd turned her life around and was attending Cerritos College full-time to better her future. She wanted a better life not only for herself, but her child as well. She took the regular courses for a general education degree, as well as theater and dance classes. In her pursuit, she spread a kind of warmth and natural charm around her. She was so well-liked that fellow students in January 1989 elected her to the student senate. Cerritos College, with its green lawns and safe buildings, was like a haven of peace and calm compared to where she'd grown up.
By now she lived in the city of Paramount and even though it was only across the Los Angeles River from where she had grown up, the river was a psychological as well as physical dividing line. Things were safer there and more upscale. Dondi Johnson by 1989 seemed like a young woman on the rise.
There was only one thing wrong to darken the horizon — a nagging worry about money. Tuition and books were expensive, to say nothing of the bills she had to pay for ordinary living expenses. To make ends meet, she took a job as a "chip girl" at a card room in Bell Gardens called the Bicycle Club. Her duties weren't really onerous; they merely entailed handing out chips to the bettors in the card room. But the hours were long when added to the classes, homework and daily chores.
The Bicycle Club wasn't some dingy, hole-in-the-wall card room. Built like a modern Las Vegas casino, it could hold nearly 2,000 people in its main card room. Chandeliers decorated the ceiling, and restaurants, bars, and even a hair salon graced the hallways. On the main floor, a bettor had a choice of playing Hi-Lo, California Poker, Mexican Poker, Pan and half a dozen other card games. The clientele was a cross-section of Los Angeles population; whites, blacks, Hispanics and Asians all rubbed elbows at the Bicycle Club, waiting for fortune to turn their way. Earnest gamblers leaned over their cards, hoping for that one chance that was going to change everything in their lives.
Dondi Johnson fit right into the upscale establishment with her pleasant looks and friendly nature. She became just as popular with the patrons of the Bicycle Club as the students of Cerritos College.
One employee of the club in particular, named James Angel, was especially taken with her. He was a handsome young Hispanic man with curly dark hair, expressive brown eyes and a well-built 180-pound frame. He liked to keep himself in shape. It helped with the line of work he was in. He was a bodyguard/enforcer /money collector for a local Asian street gang. His main job was to collect loan shark debts that were owed by customers who frequented the Pai Gow Parlor in the back of the Bicycle Club. Even though the Bicycle Club did not condone loansharking activity, it was common around all card rooms in the state.
The Pai Gow Parlor was a smaller version of the main card room, but it was no less elegant. A potential bettor passed through a marble foyer with waterfalls running down rough-hewn granite walls. The room had an Asian motif and was always crowded.
Pai Gow, a game popular with many Asians in the area, was played with thirty-two domino-like tiles that were shuffled by the dealer and then put into eight stacks of four. The bettors placed their money directly in front of a pile. Then the dealer shook dice in a cup to determine which stack would go to which player. Finally, the bettors divided their tiles into two groups — a high hand and low hand. A lot of money could be lost or won playing Pai Gow. More than one bettor got in over his head and lost more than he could afford. That was where the loan sharks came in, offering more quick money at exorbitant interest rates. That was where James Angel came in, as well. His job was to "persuade" reluctant debtors to pay up on time.
Despite the rough nature of his craft, Angel was soft-spoken and quiet. Dondi Johnson found him both charming and a little bit shy. She enjoyed his polite attentions and almost-chivalrous style. She didn't even mind that he sometimes went by other names for some obscure reason. He sometimes called himself "Nick D'Amico" or just "Ben." In some ways it added to his air of mystery. There was only one problem: Dondi already had a boyfriend named Marvin Byers. He was helping her get out of the hole she had dug for herself. Even though she occasionally had a drink with James Angel, or shared a meal with him at the restaurant, it was nothing more than a friendly gesture on her part.
The same could not be said for Angel. What started out as an infatuation soon turned into a downright obsession. He couldn't take his eyes off Johnson as she moved around the club. His thoughts kept returning to her again and again. He began following her everywhere around the card room as she passed out chips. It got to the point that it was interfering with her job.
He not only fantasized about Dondi Johnson, but as 1988 turned into 1989, he began to ask her to move away from Los Angeles with him. He said they could have a better life together. He stressed that Marvin Byers wasn't the right man for her. Only Angel was.
Johnson began to become concerned at his constant attention and flights of fantasy. It was obvious to her by now that what was only a casual relationship to her, had become much more than that in James's mind. He mistook her naturally friendly ways for a mutual bond of deep affection. She eventually told Marvin Byers about it and said that something had to be done.
On the evening of February 3, 1989, James Angel phoned Johnson at her residence and pleaded with her once again, "You've got to move to New York with me!"
She hung up on him instead. When Byers asked who had phoned, she said angrily, "It was James. I told him to buzz off!"
The next day at the Bicycle Club, James Angel was even more insistent. Though Dondi Johnson tried to avoid him, he managed to corner her and again pleaded, "I want you to marry me and move to New York. You've got forty-eight hours to decide." He then pulled three one-hundred-dollar bills out of his wallet for airline tickets to prove he was serious.
Dondi told him to shut up and leave her alone.
What happened next comes in two versions, depending on who witnessed it. One person said he saw Dondi Johnson tear up the hundred-dollar bills and sprinkle their remains on the floor in front of Angel. The other version is even more chilling. According to that witness, James Angel pulled out a cigarette lighter and set fire to the bills. Then he swore, "This is what's going to happen to you."
Dondi Johnson now knew that he was not only obsessed, but crazy as well.
She should have avoided him completely after that, but for some inexplicable reason, Dondi agreed to give him a ride home after her shift was over. Perhaps she was just too good-hearted to hold a grudge for long. Or maybe he was convincingly apologetic. For whatever reason, Johnson and Angel climbed into her 1977 Trans Am about five A.M. on February 4, 1989, and headed for the quiet residential neighborhood of Victoria Avenue clear across town in the direction of Hollywood.
When they arrived, Angel started in on his obsessive behavior once again. Thoroughly sick of it, Johnson told him to go to hell. He did. In a blinding fury, he pulled out a double-edged dagger with a palm handle. She threw up her hand to ward off the blow, but he cut right through it down to the bone. He slashed her arm, her face, her neck and her breasts. The blade sliced into her chest and abdomen. He was absolutely fixated on stabbing her upper body, especially her face. He made sure he stabbed her in the eye. Then he stabbed her so deeply in the chest that it severed her aorta. He made a savage blow into her midsection and pulled upward in a final horrifying coup de grace. Everything was splattered with blood. James Angel just didn't stab Dondi Johnson; he slaughtered her. By the time his fury was through, almost every square inch of the front seat of the Trans Am was splattered with blood, and so was he.
Panting and out of breath after his rage subsided, he suddenly realized he had to get out of there. He quietly opened the passenger door and then crept away up the still quiet street.
Attorney William McKinney was sound asleep on Saturday morning at his residence on Victoria Place, just around the corner from the murder scene, when he heard a knock at his front door. Dazed and tired, he wondered what time it was. He looked at the bedroom clock and was surprised to see that it was only about six A.M. Hoping the person would just go away proved to be futile. The intruder kept knocking at the door. Grumbling, McKinney got out of bed, answered the front door and was startled to see one of his former clients standing there. It was James Angel and his clothes were covered with blood.
McKinney knew James Angel both professionally and socially. He had represented him years before in Los Angeles. In fact, after that trial, Angel and McKinney had become friends. Angel often called his old attorney and even dropped by his house on occasion. At one point, he helped move new furniture into McKinney's home and took some of the old furniture in return.
McKinney was also aware that James Angel often used the name Ben, and that recently he had been talking about a woman named Dondi all the time. He had told McKinney, "I'm very much in love with her. She's my girlfriend." James Angel had talked about Dondi every time they met and had even reportedly brought her by the house one time. He seemed to be very enamored of her. But McKinney knew that Angel tended to be obsessive about people and things. As far as Dondi went, he seemed to have an incredible fixation on her.
Now here was James Angel standing at his front door, covered in blood and claiming lamely that he had been "jumped" by a couple of guys. McKinney was suspicious of this story immediately. James was not only covered with blood, but he had a deep cut on one of his fingers and another behind one ear. The attorney wondered how anyone could get cut behind the ear.
Nonetheless McKinney invited him in and suggested that Angel change his clothes. They were about the same height and weight at the time and Angel accepted a pair of pants and a shirt. McKinney's wife came downstairs and handed McKinney some towels, which he applied to James's wounds to stop the bleeding.
James Angel was grateful for the attention, but he was also nervous. His agitation grew even stronger when he said, "I lost my wallet somewhere. I'll be back."
Angel was gone for nearly fifteen minutes and it was starting to get light outside by the time he returned. Even more agitated now, he said that he had not found his wallet.
In fact, he had returned to the scene of the crime and, not finding his wallet, he had quickly struck on a plan to destroy as much evidence as he could. He built a small pyramid of items in the car next to Dondi Johnson's slaughtered body, and set them all afire. Then he quickly left the area and returned to William McKinney's house.
Knowing now that the authorities would soon be on their way to the car fire, Angel begged McKinney for a ride to his apartment in Hollywood, about five miles away. McKinney was not thrilled by this prospect, but agreed. As they both got into McKinney's car, Angel suddenly made an unusual request. He asked that McKinney drive the long way to Venice Boulevard. The normal route would have been to turn the corner onto the 1400 block of Victoria Avenue and then to Venice Boulevard. James Angel was adamant about this new route, and McKinney was in no mood to argue with him. They turned left instead of right, away from the 1400 block of Victoria Avenue.
As they drove along, McKinney noticed that Angel had bundled up his bloody clothing and was carrying it with him, along with the bloody towel. As they neared Hollywood, Angel asked, "If I'm in trouble, will you help me?"
McKinney said that he would.
James Angel blurted out, "I just killed my girlfriend."
McKinney was stunned and placed in a no-win situation. What he had just heard was covered under attorney-client privilege. It was the same as someone confessing to a priest or a spouse. The receiving party of this information could not be compelled to tell authorities what they had just heard. Morally, McKinney was obligated to do something. But legally, he could not. Besides, he knew that James often exaggerated the facts. Maybe he was doing the same once again.
While he pondered what to do about the situation, McKinney dropped Angel off on Yucca Street in Hollywood, and then returned toward his home on Victoria Place. It was about six-thirty A.M. by now. As he drove past the 1400 block of Victoria Avenue, he was startled to see fire trucks, a smouldering car by the curb and lots of law enforcement personnel milling around behind yellow police tape cordoning off the area. It wasn't hard to put two and two together. William McKinney wasn't sure what James Angel had done at that point, but he was sure it was pretty bad. That he had indeed "killed his girlfriend" was a distinct possibility.
Meanwhile, James Angel grabbed a few items of clothing from his apartment, stuffed them into a duffel bag, and just as the sun was starting to shine on the famous Hollywood sign in the hills, he walked down the street, turned a corner and disappeared from the streets of Los Angeles.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Savage by Robert Scott. Copyright © 2002 Robert Scott. Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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