Mindhunter by Mark Olshaker John Douglas Read Free Book Online

before."
    I respond, "Back where I come from, we don’t rat on people. We don’t do that kind of stuff." I’m playing George Raft, but I’m really thinking to myself,
Of course he asked for my ID, and I gave him a phony one!
All the while, it’s slipped so low in my shorts, it’s pinching my vitals. I don’t know if they’re going to strip-search us or what. I mean, this is the frontier out here as far as I’m concerned, and God knows what they do. So I quickly size up the situation and feign illness. I tell them I’m sick and have to use the rest room.
    They let me go in unaccompanied, but I’ve seen too many movies, so when I get in there and look in the mirror, I’m afraid they’re looking at me from the other side. I go way to the side of the room, stick my hands down my pants, and pull out the ID, then I go over to the sink and make out as if I’m throwing up in case they’re watching. I go over to the stalls and flush the Selective Service card down the john, then come back with a lot more confidence. I ended up with a $40 fine and probation.
    My second encounter with the Bozeman police came my sophomore year, and it was worse.
    I go to a rodeo along with two other guys from back East and one guy from Montana. We’re leaving at the end, driving a ’62 Studebaker, and we have beer in the car, so here we go again. It’s snowing like crazy. The kid at the wheel is from Boston, I’m in the front passenger seat, and the local is between us. Anyway, the guy driving goes through a stop sign, and—wouldn’t you know it?—there’s a cop right there. That seems to be the hallmark of my Montana life. Whatever they say about cops not being around when you need them—not true in Bozeman in 1965.
    So this idiot fraternity brother of mine—I can’t believe it—he doesn’t stop! He takes off with this cop in the back in hot pursuit.
    Every time we make a turn and get out of the cop’s view for a second, I’m throwing beer cans out of the car. We keep driving and reach this residential neighborhood, hitting speed bumps:
boom, boom, boom.
We come to a roadblock; the cop must have radioed ahead. We drive right around the roadblock, up across someone’s lawn. All the time, I’m yelling, "Stop the goddamned car! Get me out of here!" But this idiot keeps going. The car’s spinning, it’s still snowing like crazy, then right behind us we hear the sirens.
    We reach an intersection. He slams on the brakes, the car goes into a 360-spin, the door flies open, and I’m thrown out of the car. I’m hanging by the door and my ass is dragging in the snow on the ground, and all of a sudden someone yells, "Run!"
    So we run. All in different directions. I end up in an alley, where I find an empty pickup truck and get in. I’d ditched my black hat while I was running, and I’m wearing a reversible black and gold jacket, so I take it off and turn the gold side outward for some disguise. But I’m sweating and fogging up the windows. I’m thinking,
Oh, shit, they’re going to be able to see me.
And I’m afraid the owners are going to come back any minute, and out here, they probably have guns. So I wipe off a small area on the glass so I can see out, and there’s all kinds of activity around the car we’ve abandoned: cop cars, tracking dogs, you name it. And now they’re coming up the alley, their flashlights are shining on the pickup, and I’m about ready to shit my pants. But I can’t believe that they drive right by and leave me there!
    I steal back to school and everyone’s already heard about this thing, and I find out that the other two eastern guys and I got away, but they caught the one from Montana and he spilled his guts. He names names and they come after each of us. When they get to me, I cop a plea that I wasn’t in control of the car, that I was scared and pleading with the guy to stop. Meanwhile, the driver from Boston gets thrown in a jail cell with springs and no mattress, bread and water and