Murders of the Rich and Famous
Fred and Maude Hudson had been happily married for over forty years. Their three children were grown and living happy, productive lives. Having recently retired from his job as a safety inspector for an automotive parts manufacturer, Fred and his wife planned on selling their four-bedroom home in New Jersey and moving to a log cabin house in scenic Kennebunkport, Maine, which offered the advantages of downsizing plus a wonderful view of the ocean.
"We worked hard to raise three kids and put them through college," Fred said. "Now we can relax and enjoy our golden years."
"It will be so wonderful to live in New England," Maude responded, her eyes sparkling with joyful anticipation. "I've dreamed about moving there since I was a little girl. I can't believe it's actually going to happen."
"Hold that thought," Fred laughed. "Wait until January when we're faced with three feet of snow and sub-zero temperatures."
"I won't mind. I'll have you to keep me warm. Besides, the winters in New Jersey aren't much better. Just make sure the movers put the snow blower in the moving van."
Fred smiled. Maude had changed very little in the forty-seven years since they had first met, and despite the disappointments and hardships they faced through the years, she was still warm, affectionate, fun-loving and young at heart. That was why he'd always remained faithful to her and why he loved her now every bit as much as he did when they were first married.
The week before they were scheduled to make the move to Maine, Fred took his wife out for a celebratory dinner and a show in New York City.
"Do you really think it's wise to spend so much money on a night out?" she asked guiltily. "After all, we're on a fixed income now."
"Oh, Maude, we'll be living in a small village soon where we'll most likely have to depend on video rentals and cable television for our culture and entertainment. This will probably be our last chance to see a Broadway show."
In the difficult months and years that followed, Fred would often remember that day and wish to God he had the opportunity to live it over again.
* * *
"You don't seem like you enjoyed it," Fred noted as he looked at his wife sitting quietly next to him in the passenger seat of their Toyota Camry.
They had just left the City and were returning to their home in New Jersey.
"It was good," she replied unconvincingly. "It's just that most musicals these days don't seem to have the same magic as those by Oscar and Hammerstein, Lerner and Lowe or Jerome Kern. Or maybe we're just getting older."
"Speak for yourself," Fred laughed.
"Okay, I'm getting older. I remember when we saw Richard Burton in Camelot at Lincoln Center. That was pure enchantment! Who wants to see a musical about ...?"
Maude's words were suddenly drowned out by the sound of screeching tires, grinding metal and breaking glass. A late model Mercedes that had been traveling in the eastbound lane of Interstate 80 had crossed the median and collided with the Camry, which had been heading west.
Mercifully, Fred remembered nothing about either the crash or the immediate aftermath. His first recollection of the accident was of waking up in a Bergen County hospital and calling for Maude.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Hudson," the doctor informed him. "Your wife didn't make it."
Fred had been badly injured himself, but the doctor assured him he would recover.
"What about the people in the car that hit us?" Fred asked.
"He's okay and so is his wife. Do you know who was driving the other vehicle?"
"No. Why?"
"It was Duke Shaughnessy."
It was a name nearly every American knew and respected. Duke Shaughnessy was one of the legends of the NFL, reported to be the greatest quarterback in the history of the game. When he became too old to play professional sports, rather than remain on the sidelines by taking a job as an announcer or coach like so many other retired players did, Duke chose to become an actor.
Given the ex-football star's good looks and muscular physique, Hollywood decided to groom him to follow in the footsteps of Arnold Schwarzenegger. In no time at all, Shaughnessy's success as an action star on the big screen matched his accomplishments on the football field. He was soon grossing more than twenty-five million dollars a picture. He married a beautiful swimsuit model—an aspiring actress herself—and they lived in one of the most expensive mansions in Brentwood.
It seemed that Duke Shaughnessy had it all: fame, fortune, not one but two extraordinarily successful careers and a beautiful wife whom he adored. Then one night fate put him behind the wheel of a Mercedes en route to New York City. He and his wife had been to a party given by an old teammate who was now working in the Giants organization. Duke left the man's New Jersey home and headed to a nightclub in the City. Tragically, Duke had too much to drink and not enough sleep the night before. While traveling at a speed in excess of ninety miles an hour, he fell asleep at the wheel, crossed the median and collided with the Hudsons' Toyota.
* * *
"Probation!"
Fred shook his head in disbelief at the light sentence handed down to the man who had taken his beloved Maude's life.
"He was drunk as a skunk the night he killed your mother," the widower complained to his oldest son, "and the judge let him go with nothing but a slap on the wrist."
"The court took his license away," Fred, Jr., added lamely.
"Only for one year and only in the state of New Jersey. But Shaughnessy lives in California, so what punishment is that? Why wasn't he tried for vehicular manslaughter? He ought to serve some time in jail."
"Come on, Dad," the son urged, trying to get his father out of the courtroom.
As Fred, Jr., opened the door to go outside, he and his father saw Shaughnessy and his lawyer on the courthouse steps. Duke was signing autographs for a group of municipal employees and law enforcement officers.
"What are you doing here, Duke?" a pretty court stenographer asked.
"Just a minor traffic violation," Shaughnessy said with a smile and a wink.
Fred fumed when he heard Duke's reply.
"Is that what you call it?" he cried, advancing menacingly on the well-loved athlete.
Shaughnessy tried using his charm to calm Fred down.
"I know how upset you must be," the former football player said, taking the angry man's arm and steering him away from the crowd, "but it was an accident. I didn't deliberately try to hurt your wife. And didn't my insurance company make a very generous settlement? That was quite a bit of money for a man like you."
"I lost the love of my life, and you talk about money!"
"Calm down, Mr. Hudson. People are beginning to stare. Okay, maybe the insurance payoff wasn't enough. Give my lawyer a call, and we'll negotiate. I'll kick in a few hundred thousand of my own money."
Tears came to Fred's eyes, and he shook his head with disgust.
"If it were your wife that died, would any amount of money make up for the loss?"
"Look," Duke said, beginning to lose his patience. "I can't bring your wife back. What's done is done, Mr. Hudson, and we've all got to move on with our lives."
"Everyone except Maude," Fred shouted angrily. "She's not going to get on with her life, is she, Shaughnessy?"
Fred, Jr., tugged at his father's arm, attempting to steer him toward the car.
"Forget about him, Dad. He's an ass. Let's go home."
"Home? What home? Without your mother there, it's nothing but a cold, lonely house."
The grieving widower turned away from his son and renewed his verbal attack on the ex-football star.
"You're going home, aren't you, Duke? Home to your mansion in California? Home to your beautiful, young wife and your two children? Home to your perfect life?"
"Yes, I am."
"Do you remember what Thomas Wolfe said?"
"Who?"
"Thomas Clayton Wolfe, the writer. He wrote, 'You can't go home again.' That goes for you as well as me, Shaughnessy. I curse you! I want you to know the pain I feel now. I want you to lose everything you hold dear just as I have."
Duke had had enough. He was not about to argue with Fred Hudson any longer, and he was certainly not in the mood for a lesson on American literature.
"Yeah right!" he said contemptuously and then turned and walked away.
* * *
"If I didn't know any better, I'd swear that old man in New Jersey really did put a curse on me," Duke Shaughnessy said to his best friend two years later.
"It was no curse," the friend replied with a laugh. "Althea left you because you drink too much, not because of a mysterious magic spell cast by a bitter old man."
"I didn't have a drinking problem until after the accident."
The friend raised his eyebrows questioningly.
"All right I drank before," Duke conceded, "but not nearly as much as I do now."
"Then it's your conscience bothering you, not a curse."
"It has nothing to do with my conscience. I don't feel guilty about that woman's death. It was an accident; pure and simple. And she was old, anyway. She probably wouldn't have had too many more years left."
"You have any new movies on the horizon?" the friend asked, trying to change the subject since he had grown bored with Duke's frequent displays of self-pity.
"No, it's just the same one with a different title," Shaughnessy grumbled.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means I'm being typecast. I play the same dumb, muscle-bound hulk in picture after picture, whether the role is a cop, a mercenary, a vigilante or a gangster. I have no opportunity to display my acting talents."
"Come on, Duke, face facts! You're an ex-jock, not Lawrence Olivier. What's the matter with you lately anyway?"
"I honestly don't know, Jim," Shaughnessy confided. "I think I need help. It's as though I'm two people sometimes. One minute I'm myself and the next ...."
Duke shrugged helplessly.
"... I turn into the kid from The Exorcist. That's really why I drink so much and why Althea left me."
"Have you seen a doctor?"
"Yeah, and he hasn't done me any good. I'm beginning to think I should consult a priest instead."
* * *
As the months passed, Duke slipped into his alien personality on a more frequent basis, particularly when he came into contact with his ex-wife. On two occasions, the former Mrs. Shaughnessy had to phone the police and have her ex-husband removed from her Brentwood mansion.
"It's my home, damn it!" he shouted. "I paid for it and everything inside of it."
"According to the divorce settlement, the place belongs to me," Althea argued, knowing that Duke could afford to buy ten such houses.
"I don't think it's fair that you got the kids and the house and that I have to pay you alimony on top of that. Why doesn't one of your many boyfriends pay the bills on this place?"
Before the breakup, Duke had never shown any signs of jealousy, but the green-eyed monster took hold of him once his wife began dating again after the divorce.
"Get it through your thick head," Althea screamed. "We're not married anymore. I can date as often as I want."
Duke used the two children as an excuse to visit his former home and keep a watchful eye on his ex-wife. At least once a week, he went to the Brentwood mansion; and at least once a month, he had an argument with Althea.
Then one night while Duke was wining and dining a sexy, young starlet at an expensive Hollywood restaurant, he saw his ex-wife sitting at a corner table, having a romantic dinner with a famous director. Duke seethed with anger and was barely able to contain his fury. After he dropped the starlet off at her condo, he drove to Brentwood and parked across the street from the mansion, but Althea did not come home that night.
Shaughnessy reported to the studio the following morning, ready for work. About mid-afternoon, however, the director advised him to take the rest of the day off.
"Your mind's not on the role. Go home, get a good night's sleep and report back here bright and early tomorrow morning."
Rather than return to his Malibu beach house, Duke headed back to Brentwood. When he saw a strange car parked in his wife's driveway, the rage he had managed to keep submerged exploded with full force. He barged into the kitchen where Althea was sitting at the table drinking coffee with a handsome young man.
"What are you doing here, Duke? You're supposed to give me twenty-four hours' notice when you want to visit the kids."
Duke didn't reply. He simply stormed across the room and slammed the young man's face into the kitchen table. The injured man screamed with agony, and the athlete-turned-actor slammed his head down again, causing him to slip into unconsciousness.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Althea screamed. "He's just a landscaper who I hired to take care of the lawn."
Duke was not listening, though. Like a man possessed, he was intent upon punishing his wife for imaginary wrongs against him. He reached out and backhanded her across the face, and blood spurted from her split lower lip.
"That does it, Duke! I'm pressing charges against you this time."
Althea turned, intending to run upstairs, lock the door and phone the police, but Duke grabbed her long blond hair with his left hand and reached into the kitchen drawer with his right. He got hold of a carving knife and repeatedly plunged it into her chest.
After murdering his wife, the ex-football star let her body fall to the floor. Then he proceeded to finish off the young man who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
His lust for blood finally sated, Duke collapsed with emotional exhaustion. As his temper cooled, the realization of his brutal crime set in.
"What have I done?" he sobbed, trying to wipe the blood off his hands.
* * *
Duke Shaughnessy listened with mounting fear to the news bulletin announcing his wife's murder. According to the reporter, the police had no leads in the investigation, but Duke was sure the detectives would eventually come to question him about Althea's death. Could he remain calm and not appear guilty? He didn't think so.
For days, the press hounded him, demanding to know how he felt about the double murder.
"I was heartbroken by her tragic death," he lied. "Although we were divorced, Althea and I remained on good terms."
The police, always under tremendous pressure to solve high-profile cases where celebrities were involved, worked long hours trying to find the culprit. They were stunned to learn that the physical evidence, once analyzed by the forensic lab, pointed to one man: Duke Shaughnessy.
The police questioned him on more than one occasion. Each time they showed up at his door, Duke felt panic rise within him. He only hoped his fear and anguish would be mistaken for grief over the loss of the mother of his children.
With no sign of an arrest in sight, a false sense of confidence descended upon the former football star. Just when he believed he was going to get away with the crime, three squad cars pulled into his driveway with their lights flashing. Duke panicked. If he'd had a gun, he would have killed himself and saved the people of California the expense of a trial, but there were no firearms in the house. Instead, he did an extremely foolish thing: he ran.
Television viewers across the country watched the police track down the legendary football hero on special news bulletins broadcast by all the major networks. Nearly everyone believed the police had made a mistake. Gridiron hero Duke Shaughnessy, people were sure, could not possibly have committed such a heinous act.
Although the police eventually captured and arrested him for the murders, a large portion of the American public was convinced the former athlete and current action movie star was innocent.
* * *
The televised murder trial entertained millions of fascinated Americans. While few viewers understood the highly technical forensic evidence, they listened attentively to the testimony concerning the private lives of Duke and Althea. As in most trials, the question of guilt and innocence took a back seat to the lawyers' ambition and the high-stakes game of winning and losing. The district attorney presented a thorough case that should have convinced even Shaughnessy's most loyal fans of his culpability, but the team of high-priced defense attorneys was much more skilled in courtroom theatrics and was able to wring an acquittal out of the jury. Not only did Duke avoid death by lethal injection, but he was able to return to the world a free man.
Nevertheless, that freedom came at a terrible cost. His exorbitant legal fees wiped out all of Duke's assets. Due to the notoriety of the trial, his acting career came to an abrupt end, and there wasn't a manufacturer anywhere in the world that would pay him to endorse its products. While he had literally gotten away with murder, he was a virtual pariah in Hollywood social circles.
* * *
Ever since the tragic accident took his wife's life, Fred Hudson had been slowly wasting away. None of his doctors could find the cause of the illness, but his son attributed his father's physical decline to simply not having the will to live. Day after day, the old man lay in his bed, waiting to die. He ate little and spoke even less. His only interest seemed to be tuning into Court TV and following Duke Shaughnessy's murder trial.
Fred, Jr., worried how his father might react to Shaughnessy's acquittal. He suspected the widower wanted to see "the Gridiron Duke" receive the death penalty. He was quite surprised then when the old man took the not-guilty verdict in stride.
"I never expected him to be convicted, not with his money. But I don't care. He'll get his eventually," the senior Mr. Hudson declared confidently.
Three months after the conclusion of what some reporters referred to as the "trial of the century" (a nickname also given to both the Leopold and Loeb murder trial and the Lindbergh kidnapping trial), Duke Shaughnessy appeared as a guest star on a Barbara Walters' televised special. An unusually animated Fred Hudson reached for the remote on his bedside table and tuned in to ABC. He watched with grim satisfaction as the haggard-looking former football star told Barbara's TV viewers about his ordeal of living under the constant cloud of suspicion and in a drastically reduced economic state.
"I've lost everything," Duke moaned with self-pity. "My life savings, my cars, my boat, my beach house ... my family. And my former in-laws were granted sole custody of my children."
As Duke's segment neared an end, Barbara asked him to sum up, in one sentence, his life as it now stood.
Duke looked very solemn. He cast his eyes down, trying to hide his tears, and spoke softly.
"To paraphrase Thomas Wolfe, 'I can't go home again.'"
The cameraman then zoomed in on a tear falling down Shaughnessy's cheek.
Fred Hudson pushed the power button on the remote. A terrible weight seemed to have been lifted from his shoulders. He closed his eyes and peacefully drifted off into an eternal slumber. His curse fulfilled, he could be reunited with Maude at last.
Salem appeared on an episode of "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous" and delighted audiences with a tour of his vacation home in the Hamptons.
