After a recent gym workout, I ran into my friend Larry in the locker room and while exchanging pleasantries, we touched upon a topic we had discussed before, Vietnam. Incredibly, Larry had been part of a fourteen-man team that routinely engaged in hand to hand, life and death confrontations with the Viet Cong. Mind blowing in that Larry is one of the nicest, friendliest guys I have ever met, and I would easily and quickly say that his distinguishing features are a ready, hearty laugh, and an easy smile…
My Dad has been updating his autobiography of late and I have been helping him with some editing work. One of his stories recounts the near-death experience that he and my Mom experienced while driving home to Southern California from a trip to Arizona. He had fallen asleep at the wheel. After a truly terrifying forty seconds or so that included TWO 360-degree spins across all lanes of I-10, they ultimately came to rest at the bottom of a gently sloped 30’ embarkment adjacent to the freeway. Both were completely unscathed, and their car suffered only minor damage. Interestingly my wife Karen had a similar experience in Oregon on I-205 that was equally terrifying and yet she too drove off with no injuries and amazingly, absolutely no damage to the car. Both my parents and my wife attribute their good fortune to divine intervention.
All of this got me thinking about a handful of harrowing personal experiences that I have compartmentalized in the nether regions of my brain. It isn’t so much that they haunt me in any way as they clearly do not (perhaps they should!). It is more a stone-cold realization that life is surreptitious, timing is everything, and that ultimately “man plans while God laughs.” Having said that, I find myself pausing as I truly believe that we have complete freewill as humans. We are not robots whose every move and every action are controlled by God. While I do believe that God ultimately is in control, I do not believe that God is controlling. Discussion for another day, yet I will simply say the complexities of life and the ways of God are far beyond my ability to generalize or summarize despite my brief attempt to do so… I simply feel there are times in all of our lives when we experience the inexplicable. Sometimes that “inexplicable” is more a case of something that didn’t happen rather than a case of something that did. Or possibly, something that did happen, yet it happened in a way that wasn’t exactly as it could have happened. Make sense? Probably not, and this is fine, as I believe that I am cognitively wrestling with the unknowable.
The time is early 1989 and I am living in San Diego after having graduated from college in Santa Barbara. Though I didn’t realize it at the time, I was on the cusp of some big changes in my life. I was 25 years old and one of the biggest priorities in my life at that time was distance running and I had attained a level of competence that I would now describe as “upper level mediocrity.” I was hoping to turn that into “upper level excellence” but at that point (and beyond) it was never more than a work in progress. Part of my daily routine included awakening at an ungodly hour and heading out to train / run before work. I look back on those days and am really amazed by the discipline it took to get this done (60-70-mile weeks were pretty routine). January 31st was simply another day for an early morning run; I put on my reflective vest, doubled knotted my running shoes, and headed down from the third floor of my apartment building in Cardiff-By-The-Sea (a small seaside town in northern San Diego County), exiting by way of the east facing doorway, just as I had done many times before. I do not recall the exact time, though I believe it must have been sometime between 5:00am-5:15am. Being that it was so stinking early, and that predawn commuter traffic was not nearly as big of an issue in 1989 San Diego as it is in 2019 San Diego, I rarely saw anyone as I started my runs; this morning was different. I exited the double doors and noticed an occupied older model pickup truck parked directly in front of me in a parking spot twenty feet or so from the sidewalk on the opposite side of the narrow road that wound through the complex. I didn’t think much of it other than the fact that it was a bit odd as I usually saw no one around the apartments at that early hour. I do remember that the two passengers of the pickup looked up at me, and though I could not see them especially well in the darkness (they had backed in, headlights lit, with a weak light illuminating the cab) it was a look that didn’t seem quite normal. I paused for a second and considered asking them if they needed something, but it was a little chilly and I had a fairly long run planned. I knew I needed to get on it if I wanted to get to work on time.
Orange Glen High School students Anthony Pilato and Isaac Hill were in fact waiting for someone with the worst of intentions on their respective minds. Their glance was a glance of hardheartedness and opportunistic malice though I obviously didn’t detect any nuance at the time. And, I wasn’t their intended target, though I’m pretty sure my appearance was an unwelcome surprise.
Not giving it a second thought, I started my run in the cool, damp, coastal air (perfect running weather). Though I cannot remember how far I ran that morning, I do remember that it was long and difficult, and that I was happy to have reached the crest of the hill that wound down the aforementioned road which ultimately led to the eastern entrance of the complex. As I got closer, I could see there was a large police presence there and that the officers had placed yellow police tape all around the area I had intended to enter. I was told by an officer that it was a crime scene, for now I could not enter the building. I was hot and wet with sweat but cooling off quickly; I needed to get into my apartment, take a shower, dress, grab a bite and head to work. So, I decided to take the long way around the building and see if there was any chance that I could gain entry through the west side entrance. I figured it was worth a try, perhaps I could get out of the cold if nothing else. At this point, I had made no connection between the mysterious strangers I had encountered at the start of my run; I had no idea what had happened. That all changed when I did manage to enter via the west side of the building. I soon saw blood and large amounts of it on the carpet leading to the elevator that was much closer to the east side of the building. I couldn’t get particularly close and I didn’t really desire to do so. I do remember seeing several policemen in the building, and I cannot recall how I ultimately made it up to my apartment, I just remember that I did.
It turns out that Robert (Wayne) Pearce (40) lived in the same building, on the same floor as myself, though he and I had never met. He was in the midst of an extremely acrimonious separation from his estranged wife Roberta Pearce (41). She was living in Valley Center in northeast San Diego in the home she had formerly shared with her husband of fourteen and a half years. He had left her for a younger woman and was now living in Cardiff and working on a construction job in Vista at the time. Roberta was a teacher’s aide at Orange Glen High School. She seems to have gone into a downward spiral as a result of the impending divorce. While living in their Valley Center home she had taken in a young female student and had also allowed her home to become a hangout for her housemate’s friends which included Pilato and Hill. Apparently, a scheme was concocted which included the promise of a large payment and two cars if the teenagers would agree to kill her soon to be ex-husband. Her motivation included an attempt to reap the windfall of a $200,000 life insurance policy that would allow Roberta to hold on to the Valley Center home which she stood to lose at the conclusion of the divorce. Part of her story includes drug use and sex with at least one of the teenagers who spent time at the home.
As I briefly saw the two sitting in a stolen older model pickup truck, little did I realize that they were armed with knives and a small hatchet which they would ultimately use to slash and stab their victim nearly 50 times before fleeing the scene and ultimately heading back to the Valley Center home. A badly wounded Robert Pearce would somehow stagger into the building, take an elevator to his apartment (with a knife still embedded in his back and his stomach sliced open). At this point one of his two roommates (which included his new girlfriend) called for help. Pearce died approximately 90 minutes later despite the fact that he was life flighted to a nearby hospital; he had suffered horrific wounds and there was nothing that could be done.
In the aftermath of the brutal slaying both Pilato and Hill admitted their role in the murder and implicated their former teacher. Conversely, Roberta Pearce maintained her innocence throughout and while admitting to drug use and sexual encounters in her home with the students, she rejected the notion that a plot was formulated with Pilato, Hill, and the female student who was living in her home. The case went to trial and Roberta was found guilty of murder with special circumstances that could have led to her execution in the gas chamber. Ultimately, she was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole. Pilato and Hill were sentenced to be held by the California Youth Authority until their respective 25th birthdays.
Soon after this sad and tragic event I would find myself living in Ventura, California starting a new life in the world of financial consulting with Merrill Lynch. As a matter of reference, I started at Merrill Lynch in late August of 1989 and the final sentencing in the murder trial came in March of 1990. In a pre-Internet world stories such as this tended to stay pretty local. Hard to imagine, but it really was a very different world in terms of the ability to follow stories from afar… I did not think about it much after the move, although I do recall hearing of the final outcome from family and friends who knew of my eerie connection to the murder. I was mostly preoccupied with my new life and job in Oxnard California. Several years later I would find myself in the middle of another truly odd set of circumstances that loosely connected me to what would culminate in the deadliest mass murder in the history of Ventura County at that time.
Alan Winterbourne chose the Merrill Lynch offices on Esplanade Drive in Oxnard (just south of Ventura) as one of many places he went to seek employment over a seven-year period of time dating back to 1986. Sporting unkempt, shoulder length, mound-like hair, a long, thin, scraggly beard, and attire more suited to an engineer (his former profession) that included a clip-on tie, Winterbourne made numerous visits to our office seeking employment. He was always nice and very polite, and I remember speaking with him briefly, yet superficially on several occasions. Despite his rather disheveled look, I do remember that he seemed to possess a kindly look about his eyes. Our office manager and good friend Richard Kraft laughed about the whole thing as did many of the rest of us as he was certainly the antithesis of the type that Merrill Lynch was seeking. We jokingly called him “Jesus” and I remember that his frequent appearances at the office became a bit of a welcome distraction from the humdrum of a typical day in the life of a “stockbroker” as we were called in those days. Most of the time, Richard completely brushed him off as he was hoping to discourage his efforts.
By December of 1993 I had been with Merrill Lynch for just over four years and I had seen lots of fellow brokers come and go. My good friend Thomas Kennedy was part of the younger gang in the office who were tight-knit and a bit bewildered by the strange world of retail stock brokerage. I will never forget the morning of December 3rd, 1993 when TK (his nickname in the office) asked me if I remembered hearing a bunch of sirens the previous day? I told him that I had and that it did seem like quite a commotion. He looked at me with a look of complete and utter disbelief and shock, informing me that Alan Winterbourne AKA “Jesus” had gone berserk and killed several people including a police officer in a fit of rage ostensibly over his inability to find work. I didn’t believe him at first, yet I knew TK well, and I knew he wasn’t the type to joke about something like this. I believe we both seemed to realize simultaneously that it could have just as easily been our office that he chose to vent his frustration.
It seems that Winterbourne awoke on the morning of December 2nd, 1993 and something simply snapped though most likely, it had been simmering for a long time. Interestingly, his odd appearance made his quest for work essentially impossible, yet he chose instead to lash out violently at anyone and everything remotely associated with his failure to find work. His first stop was The Star Free Press where he dropped off an envelope containing documents related to his long unemployment. He politely asked the opinion page editor to look them over and that he would call him later. And, a great clue as to the genesis of his odd behavior leading up to the mayhem of December 2nd was contained in this envelope. Within the envelope contained a transcript of his appeal to an administrative law judge related to his “resignation” from Northrop Corporation in 1986. The date on that transcript was December 3rd, 1986 (one day shy of seven years). Winterbourne had filed for unemployment six months later but was denied as he left voluntarily. Looking back on it, this was certainly the flash point of his path to frustration and a year by year intensification of his inner rage.
At this point it seems the dam had now burst, and Winterbourne was a man on a mission of vitriol and mayhem truly beyond comprehension. His next stop was the local offices of the California Employment Development Department and he was armed to the teeth with a pistol, shotgun, and ample ammunition as he entered the modest building. Witnesses say he targeted EDD workers. When he was done three lay dead and four more were wounded. Just as suddenly as he began, he stopped. Police were already arriving on the scene, and Winterbourne exchanged fire with them as he ran to his car which he had parked across the street. His next intended stop was the Ventura unemployment office. Tragically, in an exchange of fire with local police who were somewhat cautious in their pursuit / approach as there were civilians in harm’s way, Winterbourne, firing a scoped .300 hunting rifle managed to direct a shot at an unmarked police vehicle, instantly killing a decorated Oxnard detective. Apparently, Winterbourne had some expertise with guns and perhaps he had even been planning for this day for quite a while. No one will ever know for sure. Winterbourne had no previous police record. By this time, Winterbourne had six police cars in pursuit as he turned into the parking lot of the unemployment office. Brandishing yet another high-powered weapon Winterbourne brazenly emerged from his vehicle and was killed instantly by a barrage of bullets, he was 33.
This became a huge story around the community and in our small office in the aftermath of the shooting. Many of us had spoken with Winterbourne and we all had in one way or another, laughed and joked at his strangeness. And finally, we all realized that our office could have just as easily been his target as we were a symbol of everything that he wasn’t, and the tacit message was pretty clear in that he was essentially disqualified immediately. Not fair, but that was simply the way things were in the financial services business of the early 1990’s and I really do not believe it has changed much since.
Once again, just like with the murder in Cardiff, after a few weeks and months, I never thought about it much, yet I never forgot his name. Once again the vicissitudes of life took over and I would ultimately find myself in the Portland, Oregon area working for the family Christmas tree business after having moved to Oregon in 2002 after many systemic changes within the stock brokerage industry that I had enjoyed, yet often endured for thirteen years. By this time, I was married and had three young children. The move and change of profession were very difficult. I felt like a bit of a failure and yet I always had my lifelong companion of competitive athletics that I used to “exorcise” the demons and I truly believe that healthy diversion had helped to keep me sane in a world that is, at times, quite challenging. By this time, I had traded in my pair of running shoes for a pair of tennis shoes and I had become pretty committed to that sport. My body was fairly beat up from all of the years of high intensity distance running. Mainly, I had a nasty stress fracture in my right shin courtesy of a love of overindulgence. Tennis, which I had played for much of my life provided a decent substitute. And, then, out of nowhere I had one of those encounters that changed my life in many ways and ultimately led to my third and final brush with the unspeakable.
After the move, I quickly found the local 24-Hour Fitness and slowly but surely began to meet a few people. I noticed that there was a loyal group of runners that would meet early (same time I was there as I exercised before work) and run from the gym. As I watched them, I would often smile as I remembered that life and quite frankly, I missed it. I had also joined a local tennis club and I was starting to become a fixture at a club in the town of Gresham. Running was yesterday and tennis was today (and tomorrow), as I was now on the north side of forty. One day after the gym had shut down its old rundown location and opened a brand-new location, Thomas Joseph, The Pied Piper of running at the club befriended me and asked if I would like to join him on a run sometime. I told him my story and that I was now officially retired from running. Thomas persisted like only he could, and before I knew it, I was launched into a second career as an endurance athlete. I became so enamored with the whole experience with multiple new friends, hours of hard training with incredibly able and competitive people, and a final resume that has included five additional marathons, multiple half marathons and 10K’s, twenty or so triathlons, and seven Hood to Coast team runs. I had rediscovered “upper level mediocrity” well into my late forties. I even retired from tennis completely so I could focus on getting better. It was great and I am eternally grateful for all of it.
One of the accomplishments for which I am most proud, is running a marathon fast enough so that I could qualify for the Boston Marathon. As a way of defending my claim of “upper level mediocrity” it is probably important that I state the fact that only 12% of all marathon finishers run fast enough to qualify for Boston. If the figure is extrapolated to all runners, then the figure plunges to less than 1%. It just so happens that myself and a number of runners from our group managed to qualify for the infamous 2013 Boston Marathon.
The Tsarnaev brothers had sinister intentions for the running of the 2013 Boston Marathon and once again I found myself in a situation, which if not for a few fortuitous twists and turns, could have turned out much differently for me (and our group). The following excerpt from my Boston Marathon 2013 piece (written soon after the race) does a decent job of capturing the series of events that allowed me to experience a sad and tragic event as a mere bystander rather than a potential victim. I will say however, that all Americans were in a sense, victims on that day.
“I finished my private 26.2-mile ordeal feeling somewhat bittersweet; I enjoyed the run in many ways and even managed to “smell the roses” knowing that it would be the last one for me. Until mile 23 or so, story for another day…
I crossed the finish line and was immediately processed through a series of post-race traditional courtesies. For anyone who has run a marathon, they know the strange mix of euphoria, fatigue, gratitude, and relief that is swirling through your system at this point. I have experienced it many times and though it is very familiar, it is also quite unique. After receiving my Finisher’s Medal, a metallic wrap, a host of fluids, several bananas, and a few other items that escape me now, I made my way to one of the countless yellow buses lining the finisher chute that held my personal items. After changing shirts, I made a decision that most likely saved me from being in the infamous “wrong place, at the wrong time.” Again, one would need to be a marathoner to truly understand this… I actually SAT ON THE GROUND AND CHANGED MY SHOES AND SOCKS. Sitting prone on the ground is a dicey proposition after 26.2. I did it, and it was a SLOW undertaking, thankfully…
My next move was equally fortuitous. I wandered over to the metal railing and proposed to scale the roughly four-foot fence in order to get to the Starbucks more quickly; luckily for me, no way, no how… The legs just wouldn’t cooperate; I later learned that Rochelle had tried a similar technique. As a result, I followed the rest of the throng up Boylston and the “official exit point”. Those extra minutes proved to be quite valuable for both of us.
As I’m making my way toward the Starbucks, I meet a couple who tell me that they are headed to Starbucks as well; almost immediately we hear the first explosion and see a plume of smoke followed by the second explosion (more distant). The woman cries out that it is an explosion at Starbucks and that their kids are there. At this point pandemonium breaks out (sort of lost track of a concept of time at this point) and I have a few distinct thoughts that I recall. My initial reaction was surprise at the relative quietness of the explosions; then I was struck by the strange mix of screaming, crying, and frantic people intermixed with others who seemed completely unconcerned. At this point, I saw no one who was actually injured so I really had no idea what was really happening. As mentioned, I’m not really sure how long I stood there trying to wrap my brain around the surrealistic scene. I remember that I needed to get to Jen and Jason, and I had no idea if the others had managed to make it to meet them. I knew she was fairly close, and I truly sensed that she was fine; I also knew that Jason would be with her. Finally, I call Jen to mention that I am heading her way and I remember going numb when she mentioned there had been fatalities and that Jason had witnessed some severed body parts. I vaguely remember hearing that everyone was fine and that she was coming to find me on a street off of Boylston. Finally, the call was lost as we later learned that cell service had been restricted in the area as a precaution against any type of remote detonation. As I waited, I met four female Harvard students who congratulated me on the run and it was obvious they had no idea what had happened; I told them all that I knew, took note of their shock, and then I spotted Jen.
In the aftermath, I learn that Jason and Jen had been extremely fortunate and had played a leading role in helping to get stunned people out of the Starbucks. Terry and Rochelle had taken Jen’s advice and walked down Newbury rather than Boylston in route to Starbucks- amazingly lucky. And, that Jamie and Brittani were with Jason and Jen and were both close enough to the Finish Line blast to see blood on the sidewalk.
All and all we were extremely fortunate and nevertheless quite shaken, none more so than Jason who not only helped customers exit the Starbucks, he also came to the aid of a visibly bewildered father and his young children just outside the Starbucks entrance.
My heartfelt emotions go out to the deceased as well as the many injured. We were afforded the opportunity to see mankind at its best and at its very worse. The race volunteers, policemen, and average citizens are by far the biggest story of April 15, 2013; all that I saw reacted to a horrific act in an extraordinary fashion.”
I have occasionally pondered the “what ifs” of all of these situations. What if I had come down to start my run when Pilato and Hill were in the middle of their savage attack? What if Winterbourne had chosen the Merrill Lynch office as one of the stops on his path of revenge? What if I had managed to scale that fence at the conclusion of the marathon? Or, if I had even run my normal time? None of these are questions I can answer unfortunately. I’ve never wasted a lot of time even trying, for better or worse.
Nevertheless, over my years, I have learned a few things about the randomness of life; I have come to believe that God truly is in control and that we should live our lives the best that we can. Terrible things happen to great people sometimes in much the same perplexing way that bad people often thrive for long periods of time. I know exactly what some readers are thinking. “Why would a loving God allow terrible things to happen?” Unfortunately, I do not have an answer that works for every person. Perhaps it truly only works for me. Quite simply, human beings have freewill and that means that over the course of our lives we will experience the full range of human behavior. History teaches us that mankind has the (often used) capacity to behave terribly. And yet, sometimes, the very worst of calamities often lead to displays of the very best of human behavior. It is all very perplexing and it is all quite opaque to the intellect. I do know that we should all truly value and cherish the moments we have with family and friends. While this is perhaps the most prosaic cliché I could choose to close this writing, I still feel the need to state it as much for myself as for others that might need a jolting, tactile reminder.
“I returned and saw under the sun that— The race is not to the swift, Nor the battle to the strong, Nor bread to the wise, Nor riches to men of understanding, Nor favor to men of skill; But time and chance happen to them all.”
Ecclesiastes 9:11
“The best thing you can do for death is to ride away from it.”
Gus McCrae / Lonesome Dove
https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1989-04-22-me-2090-story.html
https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1990-02-21-me-873-story.html
https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1990-03-24-me-484-story.html
TMC
12/7/19
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