DISGRACELAND - John Denver: A Folk Singer, a Sniper and America’s Darkest Day

Episode Date: April 1, 2020

(This is a bonus April Fools’ episode of Disgraceland that is satire and not true crime.) John Denver was a one of the biggest stars of the Seventies. His easy listening mainstream folk and his squeaky clean, environmentally friendly image made him a favorite in homes all across America. But was John Denver hiding a dark secret? One born of a mysterious military upbringing? A secret he would do anything to protect? A secret he took to his early grave, but that may soon see the light of day depending on numerous Freedom of Information Act court challenges?  To see the full list of contributors, see the show notes at www.disgracelandpod.com. This episode was originally published on April 1, 2020. To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to a monthly exclusive episode, weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at disgracelandpod.com/membership. Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - GET THE NEWSLETTER Follow Jake and DISGRACELAND: Instagram YouTube X (formerly Twitter)  Facebook Fan Group TikTok Check out Kikoff: https://getkikoff.com/DISGRACELANDSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. This season on Dear Chelsea, with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When like young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever. My first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that.

David O'Yellowo. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Dennis Leary, Gaten Moderato from Stranger Things, Tana Mongeau, Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver, and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Sometimes a suspect is found guilty before a verdict is ever read in court.

On the Wicked Words podcast, I talk with the writers who dig deep into the cases that changed history, including Marsha Clark, who went from prosecuting one of the most famous murder cases to writing crime fiction. It doesn't matter that you didn't take part in the murder. If you were at the scene at all, you're guilty of murder. Every week, the real story is revealed. Join us every Monday for new episodes of Wicked Words. Listen to Wicked Words on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Movies can make you feel, make you dream. Sometimes they even make you appreciate architecture. Is there anybody who's been hotter in a doorway than Elizabeth Taylor? That's the kind of analysis you'll find every week on Dear Movies I Love You, the new podcast from the Exactly Right Network. Every Tuesday, we break down the films we're crushing on, from blockbusters to deep cuts. Listen to Dear Movies I Love You on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. The views and opinions expressed in this podcast are satirical,

and solely those are the podcast author or individuals participating in the podcast. Disgrace Land is a production of Double Elvis. Hey guys, this is a special episode. Like you, I've had too much time on my hands lately, too much time to spend borrowing down into internet wormholes, especially when prompted by Google Alerts, indicating movement in the Freedom of Information Act court case hinting at the coming release of more facts,

perhaps incredibly incriminating facts on the JFK assassination. No doubt time to go relatively unnoticed amidst the blanket in COVID-19 media coverage. Fortunately, I know how to read between the lines, so I'm going to tell you a story, a wild story, a story about a folk singer, a sniper, subversive pop music, a maniacal rock and roll manager, the mafia, the CIA, and the assassination of John F. Kennedy. All right, hit that Melotron. The musician I'm going to tell you about, and the crime he has long been rumored to have committed,

is so insane that I barely even know where to begin with this episode. His vibe, his personality, his music is so the opposite of anything violent that this story makes no sense. Not until you look at the actual facts. Facts that have long been held secret, redacted in buried government files, and at the center of numerous court challenges that cite the Freedom of Information Act. Facts that were once believed to be vicious hearsay, but if you were to squint hard enough, reveal truths that were near impossible to dismiss. truths that are about to go public.

These facts were known by those closest to him, ex-wives, lovers, handlers, and managers whose loose lips let slip the unthinkable and are responsible for giving rise to one of the music industry's most salacious rumors. The John Denver, one of the biggest mainstream stars of the 1970s, a man known for his peaceful, docile nature, his easygoing personality, and his easy listening chart-topping music, was, in fact, one of the American military's most prolific snipers, a veritable kill machine, and quite possibly at the center of one of our country's darkest days. I know what you're saying. These rumors have long been disputed. Maybe, so I'm sure,

swear that they're false, but others, some who knew John personally, have vouched for their authenticity. But regardless, one thing is indisputable. John Denver made great music. And that music I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Melotron called Single Engine Sadness, MK1. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to Candle in the Wind, 1997 by my buddy Yelton John. And why would I play you that specific side of Princess Die Gold could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on October 12, 1997.

And that was the day John Denver fired up his plane, took to the sky, cut the engine himself, and drifted off into infamy. On this episode, A Fatal Flight, the sweet sounds of the 70s, John Denver, in America's darkest day. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is disgraceland. Henry John Doyshenorf, Jr. was making his way peacefully through the din of lead betters. 1964, Los Angeles, the folk scene was blooming on the West Coast. UCLA college kids filled the small club with their optimism and cigarette smoke. Whatever cynicism there was, it was imported by way of the East Coast Greenwich Village. Out here, jagged street smarts and socialist ideals left over from the earlier part of the century.

Characteristics that in part define New York City's folk scene seem to touch too serious, a smidge too real. L.A. in 1964, that peaceful, easy feeling. It flowed down from the canyons, through the honeysuckle, slicked Mulholland, permeated the streets of Hollywood, and coursed through the hippie counterculture, taking root at places like Ledbetters and Doug Weston's Trubidor. Leadbetter's back room, aka the back porch, swinging doors, peanut shells on the floor,

beer and only beer behind the bar, in a stage that welcomed aspiring folk singers as a basic training of sorts before graduating to the main stage in the main room. This was where John, as his friends called him, Henry John Deutschendorf, Jr., the man who would take the stage name John Denver, and eventually become one of the biggest pop stars of the 1970s,

worked out his craft. He sang well, had a knack for melody. He could play well enough. He wasn't special, but still you couldn't take your eyes off of him. There was something so appealing, so safe about him. He wanted to put him in your pocket and take him home. with you. Sandy bowl cut, kind of long, not really. He'd recently replaced his black buddy Holly frames with the more folkish, round granny glasses. He sang about, well, nothing all that interesting,

but he hit all the right notes, literally and figuratively. He had the requisite amount of folk songs down, lead belly, Phil Oaks, and he did his best with the occasional Dylan cover, but mostly he found Dylan's songs too edgy for him to get across with any real conviction. Lately he, like every other aspiring folk rock pop musician on the planet was taken by the Beatles and John had been prepping a version of Paul McCartney's and I love her to take to the stage. The Beatles were all the rage. The first quote unquote pop group to dominate the charts and America was obsessed, including most everyone in L.A.'s early folk scene. A couple of Ledbetter's regular folk singers were making noise about teaming up and starting their own folk group. L.A.'s answered to the Beatles, they're going to call

themselves, the birds, and they had their sights on John Denver to join their ranks. Well, all but one of them anyway, one future member of the birds had his doubts. David Crosby did not share Roger McGuins or Gene Clark's enthusiasm for John Denver. They were sitting at one of the back tables at Ledbetters after John's short set earlier in the night, Crosby, McGwin, Clark, John, and a couple of coeds from UCLA. Crosby was on a tear, drinking, smoking reefer, also getting. up to God knows what else in between. He had one eye on the coeds and the other on John. And John was playing it cool, trying to impress what he hoped were his soon to be bandmates with his knowledge

of the Beatles. The way they wrote songs, how they worked their craft and dingy clubs just like this one, slinging covers before bringing their original songs into the studio, sort of like what he himself was doing. Crosby wasn't buying it. Fuck that. We're ready now, slamming his hand down on the table. John didn't agree but said nothing. He was too nervous, too polite, too insecure. Crosby went on. Songs are in the air, man. Doesn't make no difference if you write him or not.

I could go in the studio tomorrow and knock out a hit as big as anything the Beatles have done in America. And it don't matter if I write it or the mailman does. Roger McGuin shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Gene Clark pulled on his cigarette nonchalant. John smiled awkwardly and summoned the courage to protest. Oh, come on, David. You don't really mean that, do you?

The fuck I don't! Crosby snapped back at him. The girls were shocked. And so was John. He recoiled and just stared at Crosby. The fuck are you looking at? You doubt me, Nature Boy? Again, John said nothing.

McGu leaned over to David and whispered something, tried to calm him down. John suddenly felt dizzy. Felt the cigarette smoke hanging in the air start to thicken, heard the stringed instruments from the main stage the adjacent room morph.

Crosby just stared at John. John couldn't take his eyes off of him. The co-eds next to him suddenly radiated intense heat. There was a fucking sauna in there all of a sudden. John swore he could hear the peanut shells on the floor sizzling under his feet. Crosby stared.

McGuin whispered. Clark dragged deeper on his cigarette. A long, single ash protruded from its tip, bending slightly at its edge, dipping down toward the round table they crammed around. John felt a slight tremble to the table. He heard the hoot nanny in the next room morph some more,

and then big bad bangs clanging violently in succession. It filled up his senses, shotgun blasts, or discharges from the rifle. John couldn't be sure. He tried to shake it off. Crosby stared some more. John couldn't look away. Crosby's chin began to quiver. His eyes hardened.

The edges of his face quaked. His whole head started to shake. The hoot nanny turned to hellfire. More shots, blasts. John swore on the corner of his eye. Those weren't peanut. shells. They were shotgun shells. The sound they made when they hit the floor. Unmistakable. They sizzled from the emanating heat and John was sweating. The coeds were now panting. The sweat,

dripping on their tropicana skin, dripping like the honeysuckle, dripping down Mahalin. Sticky, sweet. Crosby deadlocked John's eyes. John wanted nothing more than to look away. The room closed in. It was just the two of them around the table now. Enveloved by intense heat, darkness and the throbbing sounds of the hoot-nanny hellfire from the other room. Now, and her mixed with sounds of a John Philip Sousa-like marching band, all cacophony and chaos, soundtracking the room. Crosby's chin started to quiver more. His cheeks began to shake with even more ferocity. His eyes rolled back into his sockets, pure blackness. His head then began rattling back and forth, side to side in the most violent, horrific, inhuman motion you could imagine.

Crosby wasn't possessed. He wasn't human. He wasn't of this world. John was petrified, shocked, dead still. Catatonic. He blacked out. John opened his eyes he was back home. Fort Worth, Texas. He was a boy again, outdoors where he was most comfortable, with his dad a military man enjoying a rare day off. Ever since the incident in Roswell, the one John's dad never spoke of to anyone ever. The military had made much use of his unique talent. He made Lieutenant Colonel, and the Air Force kept in busy. He was a test pilot, one of the best. He not only knew his way around a cockpit, he also knew his way around a rifle. But when it came to shooting, Dutch Deutscheundorf was nothing next to his 14-year-old son, John,

who seemed preternaturally designed to shoot. He could hit anything. He could shoot a straw off a camel's back at a thousand yards. He could shoot a gnat at the end of a country mile. When it came to scope math, he could judge distancing crunch a sniper trajectory formula in his head like a human calculator. The formula solution was always the same. Dead center. John Denver was as sure a shot as there was.

For him, when his eye hit the scope, there was nothing else. It wasn't even like he had to concentrate. The whole world just fell away. It was more feeling than anything else. There was form, of course, lock on target, load the chamber, adjust rifle up from line of sight and proportional arc to distance from target, re-lock on target, take the shot. And when he pulled the trigger, he knew he absolutely knew he was going to hit his mark.

He never missed. He couldn't miss. John Denver opened his eyes again. The bright lights of the backstage dressing room jarred him, jerked him away from his blackout dream rapidly. He snapped too, and there was a show to do, not just any show, a television show, his own television show. John Denver's Rocky Mountain Christmas, a variety special with guests Steve Martin and Olivia Newton John,

cozy as a mountainside fireplace in winter, and the ABC network's highest rated program of 1975. 60 million viewers, roughly one in every four Americans, would watch, a downright astounding audience size, and it was a surprise to pretty much no one, because that's how famous John Denver was at the time. Long gone were the days of Ledbetters and David Crosby. By 1975, a mere 10 years later, John Denver had taken his safe, middle American, environmentally conscious crossover folk, and turned himself into one of the biggest stars on the planet, selling more records in that year and having more hit records than any other artists.

Billboard magazine named him best top singles artist, best overall pop artist, best easy listening artist, and crowned his album, Windsong, Best Country Album. Newsday, in 1975, said of John Denver, what Frank Sinatra was to the 40s, Elvis Presley to the 50s, and the Beatles to the 60s, John Denver is to the 70s.

A phenomenon. John took to the stage, the bank of Fresno Lights gave off a familiar heat. He gazed out at his made-for-TV studio audience, smiled slightly, clutched his acoustic guitar and launched into his song, Aspenglow. In between the tender strums of his acoustic, the subtle root notes of the bass and high fills of the piano, John could hear another sound,

a sound that was available only to him. It sounded like fear and guilt and shame all rolled into one. It sounded familiar. It sounded like the crackle and roll of spent bullets hitting the ground. I'm Kate Winkler Dawson, host of the Wicked Words podcast. Each week I sit down with the true crime writers behind some of the most compelling true crime stories and discuss their years spent investigating and why it still matters. He sees his father coming out of the woods with his hands over his face,

and he knows something happened. His father just grabs him and says she's gone. She's gone. These are the cases that leave survivors, families, and the journalists who cover them, changed forever. Working in national television, it'll push you to your limits, and you'll end up doing things you never thought you'd do. You know, you look back at it and you're like, I can't believe that really happened.

Join me and step inside the investigation. New episodes drop every Monday on the exactly right network. Listen to wicked words on the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Remember when you'd walk into your local video rental place? and there were always those two employees behind the counter arguing about movies? Well, that's us. I'm Millie de Cherico.

And I'm Casey O'Brien. And now we're arguing about movies on our podcast, Dear Movies I Love You, from the Exactly Right Network. Can I say something about the Criterion Clause? Go ahead, dude. They're letting too many people in there. Okay, that's another film grape I got two. Sadly, that rental place doesn't exist anymore. It's probably a store that sells running shoes.

Or an ice cream shop with an extra pee and an E at the end. So consider us your slacker movie clerks in podcast form. I would like to establish a timeline of the moment you figured out who Channing Tatum was. Every Tuesday, we dig into the movies we can't stop obsessing over, from hidden gems to big screen favorites. New episodes drop every week on the exactly right network. Listen to your movies I love you on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Your husband is not who you think he is. Your body is not what you thought it was.

Your identity is formed by a secret history. I'm Danny Shapiro, and these are just a few of the stunning stories I'll be exploring on the 14th season of family secrets. And just then, we felt the plain turn in the air, so much so that the bags that were under people's seats just kind of flew into the aisle. Each week, we dive head first into the complex power of secrecy, how it shapes our identities and relationships, and how it ultimately can reveal to us our truest selves. My daughter, she's pretending she doesn't know, but is trying to cook and feed me and keep me alive because I wasn't eating anything.

And me pretending like everything was fine. He kind of shoved me out of the way and said, move. And he went out of the front door, and he jumped in a car and drove off, and that was the last time I saw him. Listen to season 14 of Family Secrets, starting May 7th on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

John woke up in a state. It was like he was possessed. He ignored his soon to be ex-wife and beelined it through their sprawling 7,500 square foot Aspen Mansion, custom built with seven bathrooms and three wet bars. John passed all of it on his way out to the garage. The dream he had just suffered was a familiar one.

It was so intense, so painful, he would do anything to erase it from his memory, to cut it out. He knew just the tool. Grab the fucking chainsaw. The dream, the suck. The fucking, it was so wrong. What started as an innocent night under the stars,

he, his wife, some friends gathered on his Aspen property to view the Perseid meteor showers was supposed to be a far-out communion with Mother Nature on one of her most miraculous nights. The meteor showers were an annual late summer visit from the cosmos, when Earth passes through the debris field from a distant comet and the sky lights up like God's own kaleidoscope.

At a little past midnight, After most of the drink and smoke had been ingested by his guests, the first meteor blasted through the sky, better late than ever, and then the second, the third, fourth, fifth, giant, fiery swishes exploding into Colorado night. The sky was on fire. The spirit of the natural beauty lifted John's guests into song, singing and dancing around their camps at its fire.

The singing was inspired. The singing grew more spirited, the dancing grew more intense, Counting John, there were about six others, including his wife. A tight circle of dancing wound itself around John's wife, and John was on the outside of the circle. He tried to see in. He caught glimpses of his wife's hair, flailing about. A flash of flesh here, a dash of sweat there.

With every explosion in the sky, he caught a better glimpse inside the dance circle. His wife writhes, his wife undulated, sweated, the rhythm of it all was suddenly very sexual. John's guess, the dancers were changed. and locked into some sort of unheard beat, a rhythm that it seemed to John only they could hear. Meteors flashed above. John saw his wife's near naked body inside the circle.

He tried to push through, but the dancers were too tight. The circle would not be broken. John tried to break through again, caught another glimpse of his wife, dancing, pounding away to the beat. It was all sex now. It was like she was in the throes of passion with some unseen adonis. It was the most sexual thing John had ever witnessed, and he was on the outs.

way out. He wanted in. He was denied. His wife continued to ride to grind. She moaned. Her eyes rolled back. Another meteor flashed. John saw it, the black in her eyes, solid black. His wife moaned some more in the midst of her dance. She opened her mouth again to moan and there it was in a quick flash. John saw it. He swore he did. His wife impaled through the mouth by the horn of Satan mid-orgasped and sweat the same as he was the last time he had the dream. But this was it. The chainsaw would solve the problem. John fired it up outside and stormed back into the house with the motor in full ground. He passed the papers on the kitchen counter, the ones from his lawyer, the ones he couldn't bring himself to sign,

the ones that said his wife got half, half of everything, half of this insanely large house, half of the cars in the garage, half of his guitars and half of his royalties. But why stop there? If she wanted half of everything, then she should truly get half of everything. How about half the pain in the ass it was to keep the money flowing? How about half the shit he had to swallow for those bullshit television and movie appearances? The one episode guest spot on Olin Marshall, Counselor at Law, the role of Deputy Dewey Cobb in the McLeod episode.

And the goddamn Muppets. How about she'd jump up on stage and sling it with Miss fucking piggy? And then he'd half the shame pie he had to swallow for doing the gig with the pig. Half! John stormed through the house with a chainsaw motoring away, scaring the shit out of the help in the process, ranting like a schizophrenic, in a trance, take half the guilt, take half the nightmares,

take half the bed I have half the goddamn nightmares in. John busted into the master suite and took the chainsaw to the California king he shared with his wife, splitting it down the middle, foam, feathers and springs spit into the air for the teeth of the chainsaw ripping through the mattress. When he was done, he dropped his tool, stumbled back to the wall and slumped down to the floor.

The smell of gas filled his nostrils. He could hear the nut hatches and the pines outside singing, and their melodies were accented with the oh-too-familiar random click-clack of spent shell casings hitting the ground. John closed his eyes, exhausted, and let his subconscious check him into the dreaded memory motel. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. Remember when you'd walk into your local video rental place and there were always those two employees behind the counter arguing about movies? Well, that's us. to Cherico. And I'm Casey O'Brien. And now we're arguing about movies on our podcast, Dear Movies I Love You from the Exactly Right Network. Can I say something about the criterion closet?

Go ahead, dude. They're letting too many people in there. Okay. That's another film, Gripe I got two. Sadly, that rental place doesn't exist anymore. It's probably a store that sells running shoes. Or an ice cream shop with an extra pee and an E at the end. So consider us your slack or movie clerks in podcast form. I would like to establish a timeline. of the moment you figured out who Channing Tatum was. Every Tuesday, we dig into the movies we can't stop obsessing over, from hidden gems to big screen favorites. New episodes drop every week on the exactly right network.

Listen to Dear Movies I Love You on the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. I'm Kate Winkler Dawson, host of the Wicked Words podcast. Each week I sit down with the true crime writers behind some of the most compelling true crime stories and discuss their years spent investigating and why it still matters. He sees his father coming out of the woods with his hands over his face, and he knows something happened. His father just grabs him and says, she's gone, she's gone. These are the cases that leave survivors, families, and the journalists who cover them changed forever. Working in

national television, it'll push you to your limits, and you'll end up doing things you never thought you do, you know, you look back at it and you're like, I can't believe that really happened. Join me and step inside the investigation. New episodes drop every Monday on the exactly right network. Listen to Wicked Words on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Your husband is not who you think he is. Your body is not what you thought it was. Your identity is formed by a secret history. I'm Danny Shapiro. And these are just a few of of the stunning stories I'll be exploring on the 14th season of Family Secrets. And just then, we felt the plain turn in the air, so much so that the bags that were under people's seats just kind of flew into the aisle.

Each week, we dive head first into the complex power of secrecy, how it shapes our identities and relationships, and how it ultimately can reveal to us our truest selves. My daughter, she's pretending she doesn't know, but is trying to cook and feed me and keep me alive because I wasn't. eating anything and me pretending like everything was fine. He kind of shoved me out of the way and said, move. And he went out the front door and he jumped in a car and drove off. And that was the last time I saw him. Listen to season 14 of Family Secrets, starting May 7th on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts,

or wherever you get your podcasts. E. Howard Hunt was too old for this shit. If the director himself hadn't asked him to fly out to Godforsaken Fort Worth, Texas, then he sure his shit would have told whatever pencil neck analyst who gave him the memo to stick it where the good lord split it, Texas. The kid better have been what they said he was, a sure shot. And better than that, afflicted, in the best way, with catatonia. It was a strange and potentially very valuable to the agency anyway, combination. Catatonia is a rare type of psychiatric disorder that manifests in multiple ways. It can make those

who are afflicted immobile and speechless, catatonic, and stuporous catatonia, can cause those who have it to basically black out while repeating their physical movements, their motions over and over and over again. Their brains are essentially blotto, but their bodies continue to move. And what the big brains back at E. Howard Hunt's shop, the Central Intelligence Agency, figured out was that if you gave blacked-out catatonics a controlled dosage of lysergic acid diethylamide the new drug the agency was experimenting with LSD, then the catatonic's repetitive motions could be controlled by another party's command. Now, what if that motion wasn't random? What if it was a precise action, like the shooting of a gun by a highly skilled sure shot?

Now imagine what kind of shit a slick outfit like the CIA could stir up with that kind of asset. Hunt knew the director was on to something, so he hopped the first flight he could from D.C. to Texas. And the kid didn't disappoint. Hunt hadn't ever seen anything like it. The kid could hit milk bottles off logs at 500 yards. He could account for wind, air temperature, humidity, and gravity with a shrug of his shoulder,

like it was the most intuitive thing in the world. His minute of angle, the standard measurement of relative sniper accuracy, was in the 90th percentile as an amateur, and the kudegra was the blindfold. They moved the kid back to 600 yards, set up a target on a bale of hay far across the range. And the kid took his stance, adjusted his scope and the angle of his barrel. They dropped the blindfold on him. He swore he saw the kid's breath stop and his body achieved total stillness.

And then he pulled the trigger. And sure as shit, the shot was true. Bullseye, dead center. The kid looked up sheepishly, as if he'd just done something as simple as pouring a glass of milk. Hunt caught his eye, insecure, vulnerable, a bit scared, eager to please, hunt reddem in an instant. This is going to be easier than he thought, provided the old man would play a ball. Dutch and Irma's Fort Worth, Texas home. It read post-war, suburban military modest. Ranch house, maybe a thousand square feet, pair of Chevy's in the driveway, American flag in the front yard,

white picket fence and well-manicured hedges, regulation height, of course. milk, cookies, a 19-inch magnivox to watch the Lawrence Welk show on. Right now, though, the magnivox was showing Jack the haircut, eating Dick Nixon's lunch on the televised debate stage. The kid said nothing, sat on the sofa, knees locked, hands clasped, staring not at the television but at the acoustic guitar leaning up against the wall aside it. His old man cursed the Catholics, he cursed the commies, he cursed the Jews, the pinkos, and the pencil necks.

No group was safe. Hunt sipped his milk and tried to suppress a smile. The old man would play a ball all right. This is going to be easier than he thought. Hunt swapped a natural waspy eloquence in his voice for near blue barracks bravado. You see, your son is a gift, sir. I've never seen anyone shoot like that. And like you, I did my time for Uncle, Navyman, then the Air Corps.

Like you, a wingman, then unlike you, the OSS. I've seen men shoot is what I'm saying. And maybe in the Air Force you don't get to see as many men work the way around a rifle, but your son, he ain't like anything anyone has ever seen anywhere, at least when it comes to firing a gun. The old man was listening. In the background, Kennedy's good looks, his toothy smile, that fucking East Coast entitlement, all of it stoked a raging inferno of insecurity in the old man. It was thick, palpable. To the kid, it was genetic. He was fucked. You see, Hunt nodded to the television. Now, right now, more than ever, now, we need boys.

like your son, sir, capable boys. The world ain't what it was when we were his age. Times are changing. And we need all the help we can get, keeping things the way they should be, keeping the country pure, keeping our ideals in place. There are enemies among us, sir.

Some of them even have designs on the White House right there. And there are conflicts springing up all over the place. Cuba, French Indonesia. That commie genie that FDera let out of the bottle, it ain't going back in. No, sir, Ree Bobcat, not without a concerted effort for men like me, like you and like your son.

The old man was wrapped. Hunt went in for the clothes. His gift, his ability, it deserves special attention, special cultivation. We have an elite sniper school affiliated with the agency that is aces, and we think your son would be well utilized there, and he'd be making his country proud. Nixon sweated on the screen with indecision. The old man did not share Nixon's inability to make up his mind.

His decision was easy. Get me the papers. I'll sign him. The Boyle report for duty Monday morning at 0500 hours. With nothing but a gym bag full of clothes and an acoustic guitar, 17-year-old Henry John Deutschendorf reported for duty to the newly formed United States Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, Colorado in September of 1960.

The Elite Academy was so new that it had just graduated its first class a year earlier in 1959. John was ushered through basic training like all of the other students, but by the time November rolled around, John had been reassigned to a smaller group of students in a different type of training. Academics, fitness, airmanship were all sidelined for the moment, in place of one thing and one thing only.

Shooting. John, along with two other highly adept shooters, students like himself, were moved out of the dorms and into their own living facility on the outskirts of campus. Every morning at 0500 hours, they were awakened and guided through their day by their professor, a man by the name of Doc.

Doc was effectively the only person other than themselves that the cadets now saw, and Doc took care of everything, ushering John and his classmates through their morning routine, transporting them out to the shooting range through daily maneuvers, including marksmanship, battlefield intelligence, stalking, and other sniper-related skills.

Doc's primary mission was to impart upon his students' long-range precision fire-sniping skills. To this end, everything was perfectly calibrated during Johns in his fellow students' days, their meals, their study, and even their free time. Meals were prepared by Doc, quote-unquote academics consisted of Doc literally reading to his students, usually military history and almost always something from either Roman history or U.S. Revolutionary War history. In free time, consisted of Doc sitting in the middle of the military. of the small sniper student living facility and regaling his students with stories of his days in the European Theater of War during the big one, hunting Nazis for uncle. It was a highly structured,

highly sheltered time of constants for young John. Patriotism, dedication to country above all else, along with marksmanship training, were all that John was exposed to every minute of every day. And everything else was the same as well. The routine, the time, the place, it was as if everything in John's life were wrote, right down to his daily meals. Everything was a repetitive motion of the time before, always the same. Breakfast, oatmeal and hard-boiled eggs every morning, lunch, tuna sandwich with cheese and butter on white bread every afternoon, dinner, mystery meat, mashed potatoes, and boiled carrots with a white bread roll, water, milk, juice, where all they were allowed to drink ever, and of course, dessert was always followed up with a shot of mandatory fluoride. A small

shot glass-sized pull of tasteless warm water, the Doc insisted they swallow every last drop of. He'd watch each of them intently to make sure it was all swallowed and inspect their paper cups afterward to be sure they were empty. John and his classmates would pass out soon after. John would dream intensely, usually about shooting, sniping, some scenario mixing the training he'd endured that day with one of Doc's war stories and often involving music. John playing his acoustic in the bombed-out streets of Dresden, playing his acoustic aside Washington and his men at Valley Forge, playing his acoustic with the Centurians at Carthage,

or often back home in his living room, serenading a sweaty former Vice President Nixon to the approval of his father and to the disapproval of the now-president John F. Kennedy. When it came to music, to playing music, that is, John's dreams were all he had. His acoustic guitar was confiscated when he showed up at school, and along with everything else going on in the outside world,

music was not allowed in any way, shape, or form at the academy, at least not at the part of the academy where John was stashed away. Years later, by the time John had become a singing sensation, these days at the academy were barely even there in his memory anymore. His time there was merely a decade removed and still, trying to conjure images of this time was next to impossible. Even more difficult to remember were the years following, a black spot in his memory bank.

John did his time in the academy. He remembered nothing of his classmates. Doc, his teacher, was basically all he could recall. Him and the mysterious Mr. Hunt, who visited every couple months or so, observed his training and said little. Hunt with his big black, soulless eyes and giant Dumbo ears was hard to miss, never mind, forget.

When John would try to remember those days and come up short, the feeling of frustration would quickly turn to. to shame, to guilt, and John had no idea why. Perhaps it was due to his time in the war after the academy. The goddamn Vietnam War, it had torn the country apart. And John was not only ashamed of his personal participation, but also, like most men's age in the 1970s, John was ashamed of his country's participation as well. It seems so long ago, and like his days at the academy, John could remember little. Less even. He lay back in bed, sipped on his red wine, and tried telling the very sexy half-naked career-minded gal

and decide what it was like to kill a man. You know, I can't remember hardly anything. I'd just sit and wait, and wait some more. And by the time the enemy would cross into my sight, I'd pull the trigger. It was as if all the humanity had already been drained from the situation. I did it so many times that it was all routine. But now the guilt, it's heavy, heavier than it should be.

I mean, we were at war for a reason they were the enemy. It was kill or be killed, you know? She nodded, shocked, barely able to process with John Denver. One of the country's biggest pop stars, a man known for his peaceful, kind demeanor, was telling her that he was a secret assassin in the Vietnam War before forging his way in the music industry. John went on. I appreciate you letting me tell you this, even though we just met.

I feel like I can share this with you. If Jerry ever found out, though, that I was telling you this, he'd kill me. Thank God for Jerry. Jerry was John's manager, and John was an absolute sap when it came to sexy women. And the one in the bed next to him at the moment was Jerry's new secretary. She'd be Jerry's ex-secretary as soon as Jerry found out she was stooping the talent.

Jerry was Jerry Winthrop, the ubiquitous concert producer and talent manager of the 1970s. He took Sinatra out of retirement. He put Elvis on the road. He introduced Led Zeppelin to pubes teenagers all over America. In 1970, he was an immensely powerful manager, and John Denver was his charge. Jerry was all street. He got by on charm and grit. He took no shit. He read more Bronx gangster than Colonel Tom, and no one questioned it. He saw John Denver as the precious resource he was. He

deserves special attention, special cultivation, and from the moment he was first exposed to his act, Jerry Weintraub knew that John Denver was a special type of performer. He appealed to the younger hippie generation, but could also appeal to their parents. In short, America would welcome John into their living rooms, through their televisions, in a way they wouldn't, other rock stars. So Jerry went to work. He twisted arms to get John on the Murr of Griffin Show. He took out full-page spreads in the trades with touched-up photos showing John performing to enormous crowds,

and by the time he was done, John's television. television appearances poured the requisite fuel needed onto the fire set by his singles, leaving on a jet plane and take me home country road. And in the process, John Denver burned up the charts. By 1975, his music was ubiquitous and he was every bit the household name as Sinatra or Presley. And none of it would have happened without Jerry Weintraub. And not just because of his music management skills either. Jerry could make things happen, sure, but he could also make things go away. Like John's military record. Years later, Matt Damon and his dad went golfing with Jerry Weintraub.

Damon's dad gave him shit for not finishing school at Harvard and graduating. And Jerry Weintraub interjected ever the problem solver. You want a diploma? I can get you a diploma. Damon looked up from his tea. How are you going to give me a diploma? Jerry, I know a guy. Damon, you know a guy?

What the fuck does that mean? Jerry, there's always a guy. Weintraub's street smarts informed his worldview. There was indeed always a guy. And when it came to John Denver in his time in the Vietnam War, Jerry Winthrop most certainly knew a guy. He had John's record completely expunged, concocting some Fugazi story and records to back it up,

that John was marked 4F due to his flat feet, so John was able to avoid the draft, and thus the military, had a time when he most certainly would have been shipped off to Vietnam. But that was all bullshit. John Denver definitely served in the military. By the time he'd become a pop star, though, under the making and guidance of Jerry Weintraub,

having a military record wasn't an option. It would not have played with a peaceful, pacifist image that John incongruently radiated and that America was so attracted to. Furthermore, Jerry Weintraub cooked up another for Cockta story to completely account for John Denver's time in the military, including his time in sniper school at the Air Force Academy prior. The story went that John ran away. from college to change his name and explore the emerging folk scene, sing for his supper. Air Force

Academy? What Air Force Academy? Vietnam? What Vietnam? John was lost in scores of other wannabe folk musicians in L.A. at the time. How could he possibly be serving Uncle Sam like the rest of America's unfortunate sons? Not at that time. No way, Jose. This story had the benefit of being partially true. John wasn't in the actual Vietnam War, but he was in Vietnam. It's just that America wasn't at war yet, and the conflict hadn't yet been given the name the Vietnam War. Not yet. But John was one of the first quote-unquote military advisors in Saigon at the turn of the decade, whereupon he became the most prolific sniper in military history,

recording a total of 105 kills in just one quick tour, a record that stood until the war in Afghanistan where it was broken by Chris Kyle, aka Clint Eastwood and Bradley Cooper's American sniper. John had shipped out of San Diego and landed. it back on the West Coast when his tour in Vietnam was through to begin his music career in earnest at Ledbetters before he moved east to sling his acoustic in Greenwich Village's folk scene, where he would ultimately meet Jerry Weintraub and begin his career in the music industry in earnest. But there was an in-between time that neither John nor Jerry could account for,

time between the Air Force Academy, Sniper Academy, and the war. John couldn't call it up in his memory. The closest he got to any type of recollection of that lost in-between time was just a nebulous feeling, a feeling of intense guilt. What happened to him between Sniper Academy and the war? Why, he wondered, could he not remember that in-between time? We'll be right back after this word, word, word. That in-between time, that forgotten time, that time of intense guilt for John Denver. Only recently a music and history scholar has been able to be able to be.

piece together what happened and bring light to the truth of what has been regarded as one of the most disturbing and unbelievable rumors about one of America's most beloved pop stars. We have the Freedom of Information Act to thank for this. But before we begin to unpack this recently leaked treasure trove of innuendo, we must go back again to the early 1960s in America's place in the world. President John F. Kennedy had the establishment on edge. The Bay of Pigs was a debacle. Kennedy, because he had believed he had been hung out to dry by his own government,

had threatened to destroy the CIA, E. Howard Hunt's CIA, by splintering it into, quote, a thousand pieces. In Cuba, Fidel Castro's revolution resulted in the loss of millions upon millions of the American mafia's dollars due to their casinos and banks being nationalized by Castro's new government. The mafia was out. Cuba had gone calming and Cuba was closed for business. And communism was spreading elsewhere, too. But it wasn't all that bad. In Vietnam, the Soviets had begun backing the oppressive North Vietnamese government, who were on maneuvers to overtake the rest of the country

and establish a bigger commie footprint in Asia. And this sounded worse than it actually was. To the American military industrial complex, this little flare-up far from home was more of an opportunity than a threat, an opportunity to rouse support for democracy, and in the process built up gazillions of dollars in government companies. contracts for military hardware, helicopters, explosives, artillery, etc. Vietnam was a goddamn gold mine if played correctly.

But the problem was, John F. Kennedy wasn't playing. Not with Vietnam, not with Cuba, not with the mafia. He resisted his military advisors on doubling down support for the South Vietnamese, saw the conflict as the potential quagmire it was, someone else's problem. And for the foreseeable future, he had no interest in getting America's ass kicked again in Cuba. so Castor wasn't going anywhere. And JFK had turned his pit bull brother, U.S. Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy,

loose on the mafia, effectively threatening to destroy it just as he had explicitly threatened to destroy the CIA. Who, by the way, were the one American institution with deep interest in all of the above, in Vietnam, in Cuba, and in their unofficial partners, the mafia?

E. Howard Hunt's CIA, that is. Hunt knew this was coming. So did his boss, the director, and so did the American business tycoons and political leaders whose interests the CIA actually served. Kennedy was a problem. He was an explicit threat. As if his unwillingness to play ball in Vietnam and Cuba weren't enough,

he was a fucking Catholic, no doubt taking orders from the Pope. And to add insult to injury, Kennedy seemingly could give a fuck about American social norms, sticking his dick brazenly in anything to move while he was president of the United States, and apparently not caring at all who knew about it. It was an affront to their natural conservatism, a blatant fuck you.

By the end of 1963, with the shitstorms swirling around them all, the CIA and the mafia, put their collective assets together to stop what it become an existential threat to their well-established way of doing business. John F. Kennedy. He didn't know for sure which asset he would call into action on that day. The Day. November 22nd, 1963. Codename the big show. Dallas, Deely Plaza, America's Revelation Day.

But he had an idea, it would be the kid. He was as sure a shot as he'd ever seen. He said little, showed little signs of individuality, had taken every single drop of Doc's LSD-Laced boot camp Digestief, and he was ready. And there were other assets as well, run by other agents. Hunt didn't know or care who was running who or how many shooters would be placed in Dallas's Dealey Plaza that day.

The less he knew. the less other people knew the better as well and the less any of them talked to each other, the less likely it would be for history to piece together the conspiracy through its conspirators. All Hunt knew was that the agency would provide a couple shooters, as would Traficante's boys in New Orleans. Hunt had an inkling that Hoover's men would be on cleanup duty, and if either of their outfits were worth a yard bird shit, there would be some sort of homegrown patsy on the scene for the local unies and national press to devour postmortem. Mr. Lee Harvey Oswald They're ready for your close-up.

Hunt's asset said nothing on that morning. He just sat in Hunt's car, secure in the fact that no matter what he was being deployed to do down here in Dallas, that his rifle was close by, in the backseat, and that whatever Hunt had planned for him, that it was God's work. John's mind was too scrambled that morning.

John knew it now as he sat in the cockpit of his Routan-Long-E-Z, a small, experimental plane with an oversized wingspan and he had long pined over some 34 years later. It was all coming back to him now. The guilt was crystallizing into fully formed memories, prompted by the news of late, and the news was this. Sooner or later, the truth was coming out.

Who killed Kennedy? The government knew. They'd known all along, of course, as far back as LBJ, and then the Warren Commission, despite whatever bullshit findings they made public regarding Oswald as the fall guy, the lone gunman, the truth, was in those documents.

John got wind from Jerry Weintraub, John's old manager, who'd helped him cover up his Vietnam War record so John Denver could go on playing the part of America's most docile, environmentally friendly, post-hippy, all-American nature boy. John ran into Jerry at a charity event in Hollywood. It had been years since they'd been in the same room together, since John fired him. It seemed that enough time had passed for the wound to heal

and for Jerry to let the warm fuzziness of me, nostalgia overcome his spite for John. After an awkward hello, followed by sincere smiles and an even more awkward hug, the two men let their bygones steal away under the din of clinking champagne glasses and the murmur of the Hollywood elite in attendance, dutted out in tuxes and the latest from Versace, Gucci, and Prada. Soon a familiar scene took shape. Jerry Winthrop was holding court at the bar. A crowd had gathered, including John, to hear Jerry Wax poetic on his pre-showbiz days in Brooklyn. He exaggerated his connection to the Bonano family to gather big-screen socialites. Jerry's stories were a typical Jerry. Body, street.

Jerry-wrapped beefs, Jerry-wrapped pussy, Jerry-wrapped politics. Sure, he knew Traficante. Met him in Vegas way back in the day. The lawyer Ruggano introduced him. Sinatra knew him, too. Not too well, not as well as Frank knew Momo and Jerry knew Momo, too. Shame about Big Mo. He was a sweetheart.

Despite his reputation, he had a big heart. He'd love you if he let him. But he was a vengeful son of him. bitch. Like most Sicilians, wouldn't let a slight go, any slight, small or big. And that was Kennedy's problem. He went back on his old man's word and Momo made him pay. Momo didn't shoot him, of course. No, that would be stupid, but don't talk to me about Oswald and no single bullet theory. And there were multiple shooters, of course. In fact, Jerry had it on good authority that the real shooter, the one stationed on top of the overpass, that his identity was close to being leaked nationally

to the press. And the government had it. Jerry had a guy. His guy let him know. This, if the Freedom of Information Act was ever successful in compelling the government to release its full findings on the Kennedy assassination, that there was a name, the name of another shooter, not Oswald, not Woody Harrelson's old man with the two other tramps, but the actual shooter, the one who fired the kill shot from the top of the overpass at Dealey Plaza, the one that hit Kennedy's head straight on, airing it out the back. Jerry's guy even gave him the third shooter's name. Why not? It would be public knowledge any day now. Deutcheon something, Deutchenfeld, Deutchenberg, Deutchenfeld.

Deutchenfeld. Deutchenzorff. Deutchendorf. John Denver nearly dropped his drink. What the fuck was Jerry saying? John felt woozy. Why was Jerry talking about this? Why had Jerry just publicly uttered that name?

Why did that name sound so familiar? Why did it sting? It was vengeance, pure and simple. That's why. Payback from Jerry for John firing him back in the day. John was going to puke. or pass out or both. He felt another blackout coming on.

The sound of Jerry rapping JFK to party revelers faded into the background. It was replaced by the sound of some other sort of celebration. And then, that familiar clinking sound. John put it all together before Jerry Weintraub got the full name off of his tongue.

John Doyshendorf, a.k.a. John Denver. John's memories flooded back, recovered, full, streaming, a torrent of guilt. He felt dizzy even now, thinking about it days later in his plane high above Monterey Bay.

Of course he thought. Dallas, 1963. That was the place. That was the last time he saw Hunt. That was the time between Sniper Academy and the war. That was the in-between time, the source of all the guilt. He was remembering it all. Hunt in the driver's seat.

Hunt with his instructions. Shoot to kill. He's a commie. He's not what he appears. He's a mole, a spy, working internally to sink a marijuana. America, remember your training. You're the weapon. Aim, fire, aim, fire, aim, fire. I'll be here when it's done. I'll take you out. Hunt's words were succinct. They made sense. Hunt dropped John on the side of the road and gave him a stick of gum for good luck.

John remembered taking it, remembered how chewing it made him feel, like the sides of his skull felt like they were collapsing in on his brain. His stomach knotted up and John carrying the feeling of repressed giggling with him off into the crowd. All of it felt like a way more intense version of the feeling John would get at night at the academy. The feeling Doc's after-dinner Digestief gave him. The feeling you would have while listening to Doc's kill stories. Stories of assassins trained to do one thing. Kill on command. With honor, with purpose.

God, country, your rifle. In that order. It was all wrote to John. John knew what to do. He focused on the task at hand. Hunt's orders. Aim, fire. Aim.

Fire, aim, fire, aim, fire, aim, fire. He sprinted out of Hunt's car and up the hill to the overpass, rifle in hand. He could hear the coming motorcade. It was seconds away. John took his spot on the overpass. The motorcade turned off of Houston Street and onto Elm. Headed straight Torajon on top of the overpass. The book depository was on the motorcade's right.

John lined up his body down the barrel of his scope. John heard Hunt in his head. John set his trigger figure, a second pass. The car drove dead into John's sights. John pulled the trigger and heard a trifecta of sonic blooms ring out. First, for a split second, there was silence, followed by the sound of a flock of birds flying off en masse. And then, there were screams, cries of terror from the crowd,

confusion, sirens, and epic fuck show. John ran straight into it, got swept up into the chaos, into the crowd, and somehow made it out of Dealey Plaza, out from the clutches of history, unscathed. John made it back to the academy. It was later learned that E. Howard Hunt was arrested behind the grassy knoll with Charlie Harrelson, Woody Harrelson's father, and Frank Sturgis. The two, along with E. Howard Hunt, are now known by JFK conspiracy theorists as the three tramps. One or all are theorized to have been part of a triangulating shooting team set up strategically to assassinate the president.

Oswald in the book depository. the three tramps behind the grassy knoll and a third shooter up on the overpass. Until now, there have been no solid theories on who that third shooter was. John was shell-shocked flying high above the Pacific West Coast. Jerry's words from the other night peppering his braid, Doysendorf, Doysendorf was the name, the name that was about to be leaked, the name of the assassin. And John knew it was also his real name.

John Denver's real name. John Denver knew it then, knew it for sure, unlike before, before Jerry spilled it at the bar. There was no more unaccounted in between time. John knew exactly where he was and what he'd done and who he was. He was Henry John Deutschendorf. He was the assassin. John Denver killed John F. Kennedy.

It said so right there in those documents that Jerry was talking about, the same documents that were about to be released to the public, That's what the guilt was about, the shame, the in-between time. That's what John Denver's memory blocked out, the time between the Air Force Academy and Vietnam. Because PTSD memory triggers are like rubble from an explosion, scattered pieces of what was once something whole, lying in a pile semi-recognizable, but still dangerous. As the name Doyshenorf spiraled from Jerry's lips to John's ears,

it was like all the interior parts of a combination lock falling into place. What had for so long but a black hole in John's memory was now lit up to reveal his own horror. And the guilt was stronger than ever. John sailed on, high above the water and his wide-winged rutan. He knew that when he landed, he'd never be the same. Not with the knowledge he now had. He'd never be able to look anyone in the eye again knowing what he'd done, how he'd affected history. And to think, John thought Jerry Winthrop was evil.

He, John Denver, was the evil one. the most efficient sniper in Vietnam history, and a fucking political assassin to boot. John Denver couldn't let himself hold on to the guilt anymore, so he let go. Let go of the plane's control column and cut the engine. When they found him, the wreckage from John Denver's plane crash was so grisly

it took fingerprints on the plane to identify the body because dental records weren't going to be an option. To what would be John's relief, the federal government stepped in and John Denver's real name remains cloaked behind courtroom debates over extended statutes of limitations on remaining redacted parts of the Kennedy papers. And because of that secrecy, John Denver's untarnished legacy lives on, thanks in part recently to our current president Donald J. Trump, who on April 26, 2018, upheld the redacted parts of the Kennedy papers,

presumably the part with the name John Deutcheendorf mentioned as the assassin. And so, John Denver's secret is safe, for the moment. But JFK conspiracy theorists know the truth. Recently, the name Deutschendorf has been going around the internet in connection with the Kennedy papers, which is how I came to know of it. It's only a matter of time before some journalist's freedom of information request wins in court, and the papers get released.

Currently, the papers are scheduled for a 2021 release, and from there, once widely available to the public, It won't take non-music scholars too long to piece together John Deutchendorf to John Denver, the man who killed John F. Kennedy. I'm Jake Brennan is an April Fool's edition of disgrace. Happy April Fool's Day, everyone. Thank you for hanging out there with me on this episode. John Denver and the long, totally false rumor that he was one of Vietnam's most prolific snipers, has been a myth forever that I've wanted to mess with, and I was happy to do so in this episode.

Of course, again, totally not true, and neither obviously is his involvement of any. kind in the JFK assassination. It is all, as I said, at the introduction of this episode, satirical. I hope it got you. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at disgracelandpod.com. If you're listening as a Disgraceland All Access member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to disgracelandpod.com slash membership.

Members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland ad-free. Plus, you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month. Weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collections, and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelampod.com slash membership for details. Rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter, and Facebook at DisgracelandPod. And on YouTube at YouTube.com slash at DisgracelandPod, rockerola. season on Dear Chelsea with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When like young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever.

My first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that. David O'Yello. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Dennis Leary, Gaten Matarazzo from Stranger Things, Tana Monsu, Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver, and more.

Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Sometimes a suspect is found guilty before a verdict is ever read in court. On the Wicked Words podcast, I talk with the writers who dig deep into the cases that changed history, including Marcia Clark, who went from prosecuting one of the most famous murder cases to writing crime fiction.

It doesn't matter that you didn't take part in the murder. If you were at the scene at all, you're guilty of murder. Every week, the real story is revealed. Join us every Monday for new episodes of Wicked Words. Listen to Wicked Words on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Movies can make you feel, make you dream. Sometimes they even make you appreciate architecture. Is there anybody who's been hobbs?

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