Where Mercy Is Shown, Mercy Is Given - Duane Dog Chapman [55]
Now, most people know I don’t carry a gun. First, I’m a convicted felon, so by law, I am not allowed to. Second, there are already too many unnecessary deaths from the use of firearms, especially by people who aren’t trained to properly use their weapon. I am now and have always been adamantly against the bullet. However, several years ago I used to have a toy machine gun that was an exact replica of Bonnie and Clyde’s Woody Woodpecker, a .45 Thompson fully automatic. No one knew it was a fake gun, because it was a perfect copy—not even Mary Ellen or Fred, who had both seen it numerous times. I used the gun on several bounties over the years in Denver, especially when I had to go into one of the city’s rougher neighborhoods. I’d walk up and down the streets holding that gun up saying, “This ain’t Avon calling!” I’d warn whoever I was chasing they’d better surrender or it would be rat-a-tat-tat time.
When Mary Ellen called about David Guenther, I told her and Fred it was time to bust out old Woody. I started developing leads on Guenther and was soon able to track him down to an old phone booth he’d used to make several calls. I took a black Magic Marker and left him a note right next to the coin slot that simply said, “David, this is Dog. I’m going to catch you.”
People often ask me how I can tell when someone will respond to something like that. Here’s how I know. Have you ever stood on line at a bank after coming right from the gym? You’re wearing workout clothes, maybe a sweat-soaked shirt and a baseball hat, while everyone else in the bank is dressed up for the day. You feel grungy, but you stand there anyway so you can make your deposit or withdrawal.
Multiply that feeling times one hundred to walk into that same bank with a gun and say, “Everybody in this fricken place put your hands in the air!” That takes a lot of guts, bravado, stupidity, and a certain amount of smarts. Now, if someone moves to shoot, that’s beyond guts. It’s insane. That’s the guy I look for when I’m out on a hunt. I ask myself, How far will this guy go?
I know the answer because I was once that guy, and still am that guy on the other side of the law. I know exactly how he thinks, and feels, and what his next move will be. He will go to the edge of death and I am willing to chase him to the gates of hell. When he has nothing to lose and I have everything to gain, the hunt is on. No one has ever outrun me and they never will. Sometimes I’ll taunt those guys by saying, “You’ll be famous if you can outrun me. You’ll be the cat that got away from the Dog!” because I want him to run. If he does, I will catch him because he will, without a doubt, mess up.
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