Let me take you down
inside the mind of Mark David Chapman, the man who killed John Lennon
1st. ed.
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Author
Publication
1992 - Villard Books, New York, N.Y, New York (State)
Language
English
Word Count
70,250 words, Guess
Page Count
281 pages
Identifiers
- Internet Archiveletmetakeyoudown0000jone
- Internet Archiveletmetakeyoudown0000jone_j4d5
- Internet Archiveletmetakeyoudown00jone
- Internet Archiveletmetakeyoudown0000jone_j6a6
- ISBN-100679411445
and 4 more
- ISBN-139780679411444
- LibraryThing738982
- Library of Congress Control Number92053655
- Open LibraryOL1744653M
Classifications
- DDC364.1/523/092
- DDCB
- LCCHV6248.C397 J66 1992
Description
A top crime journalist reveals precisely how the world-shattering murder of John Lennon happened—and why In Let Me Take You Down, Jack Jones penetrates the borderline world of dangerous fantasy in which Mark David Chapman stalked and killed Lennon: Mark David Chapman rose early on the morning of December 8 to make final preparations. . . . Chapman had neatly arranged and left behind a curious assortment of personal items on top of the hotel dresser. In an orderly semicircle, he had laid out his passport, an eight-track tape of the music of Todd Rundgren, his little Bible, open to The Gospel According to John (Lennon). He left a letter from a former YMCA supervisor at Fort Chaffee, Arkansas, where five years earlier, he had worked with refugees from the Vietnam War. Beside the letter were two photographs of himself surrounded by laughing Vietnamese children. At the center of the arrangement of personal effects, he had placed the small Wizard of Oz poster of Dorothy and the Cowardly Lion. “I woke up knowing, somehow, that when I left that room, that was the last time I would see the room again,” Chapman recalled. “I truly felt it in my bones. I don’t know how. I had never seen John Lennon up to that point. I only knew that he was in the Dakota. But I somehow knew that it was it, this was the day. So I laid out on the dresser at the hotel room . . . just a tableau of everything that was important in my life. So it would say, ‘Look, this is me. Probably, this is the real me. This is my past and I’m going, gone to another place.’ “I practiced what it was going to look like when police officers came into the room. It was like I was going through a door and I knew I was going to go through a door, the poet’s door, William Blake’s door, Jim Morrison’s door. . . . I was leaving what I was, going into a future of uncertainty.”
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