EDDIE: The Life and Times of America's Preeminent Bad Boy Read online

  EDDIE:

  The Life and Times of America’s Preeminent Bad Boy

  By Ken Osmond

  And Christopher J. Lynch

  EDDIE: The Life and Times of America’s Preeminent Bad Boy

  Copyright 2014 Ken Osmond and Christopher J. Lynch

  Edited by EbookEditingServices.com

  Cover design by DigitalDonna.com

  Cover Image courtesy of Universal Studios Licensing LLC

  Formatting by IRONHORSEFormatting.com

  Photo Clearance by Sparks Media Services

  All Rights Reserved. This book is based on true events, some of which occurred a very long time ago. Every effort has been made to accurately depict these events and the individuals involved as I remember them.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This book would not have been possible without the generous support of so many people who gave freely of their time through countless hours of interviews, numerous emails, and other correspondence. These individuals are listed here in alphabetical order:

  Alice Cooper

  Tony Dow

  Steve Fischer

  Henry Lane

  Brian Levant

  Jerry Mathers

  Bob Mosher III

  Christian Osmond

  Dayton Osmond

  Eric Osmond

  Sandy Osmond

  Kim Roderick

  Harry Shearer

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to my family, both immediate and extended.

  To my parents, who, even though they raised me in the difficult time of post WWII years, provided a foundation of my personal values that have stood the test of time.

  To Grandma and Grandpa, (Sandy’s parents) for taking me in as one of their own. They were instrumental in my sons’ becoming the best any father could hope for.

  To Eric and Christian, my sons. I couldn’t be more proud of them. They have become responsible adults. Both are professionals in their chosen endeavors.

  To my wife Sandy, who has tolerated me through so many decades, and has been my partner in all the decisions that have brought us to our senior years, and a comfortable retirement.

  Ken Osmond, 2014

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Foreword

  Chapter 1 Mortis Interruptus

  Chapter 2 Exodus

  Chapter 3 Showtime!

  Chapter 4 Plymouth Adventure

  Chapter 5 The Golden Age of Television

  Chapter 6 Eddie Haskell

  Chapter 7 Sputnik and the Beaver

  Chapter 8 “Dear Mr. Osmond…”

  Chapter 9 Universal Studios

  Chapter 10 Fort Ord

  Chapter 11 June 5, 1962

  Chapter 12 That’s a Wrap!

  Chapter 13 Helicopters Unlimited

  Chapter 14 The Intersection of Haddon & Montague, Pacoima, California

  Chapter 15 Sandy Purdy…And a Love of Motorcycles

  Chapter 16 Return to Gotebo

  Chapter 17 The Question

  Chapter 18 June 28, 1969

  Chapter 19 Frau Mugwomp, and LA’s Finest

  Chapter 20 LAPD Academy, Elysian Park, Los Angeles

  Chapter 21 The Boys in Blue, and Baby Blue

  Chapter 22 John Holmes

  Chapter 23 A New Assignment, a New Baby, and a New Rumor

  Chapter 24 Kim Roderick

  Chapter 25 Recovery, and Deja-vu

  Chapter 26 Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

  Chapter 27 1982, Back to Universal

  Chapter 28 1984-89 The New Leave It To Beaver

  Chapter 29 Wrap-Up

  Chapter 30 Eddie, on Eddie

  About Christopher J. Lynch

  Tony Dow as Wally Cleaver, circa 1958

  “A kid like Eddie Haskell only comes along about once in a couple hundred years.”

  Ken Osmond, circa 2014

  “Nonsense; there’s one on every block.”

  Foreword

  By Jerry Mathers

  Throughout the years, many people have asked me about Ken Osmond and if he really is like Eddie Haskell, who I think is one of the most memorable Leave It to Beaver characters. What I always say is, the real Ken Osmond is diametrically opposed to Eddie Haskell. He is nothing like him. Kenny is a great actor because he makes people believe that his personality is exactly like Eddie’s. In reality, he is a devoted family man, very active in the American Legion, he loves to square dance, is a decorated police officer who was shot in the line of duty, and he is a wonderful friend.

  I remember that when I had scenes with Kenny, he would always have his character and lines down, and he was the consummate professional. It was interesting to watch him, because other cast members on the show were pretty much like the people they portrayed in the series. Not that their personality was exactly the same, but for instance, Tony Dow was chosen because he was an Amateur Athletic Union swimming and diving champion, and he was very athletic much like his Wally character. Kenny was not chosen because he had a personality like Eddie Haskell, but because he was so good at acting like the two-faced, insincere kid that he portrayed as Eddie.

  The character of Eddie Haskell is the ultimate nemesis in Leave It to Beaver. When you watch the show you have Ward and June, who are the parental authority figures, and they guide Beaver so he knows the difference between right and wrong. As the older brother, Wally always tried to counsel and protect the Beaver when he was about to do something impetuous or foolish, by explaining the consequences. Many times I did not listen to his advice! Then you have Eddie, who is the little devil on your shoulder whispering in your ear. He always tries to tempt the Beaver by telling him that his bad actions will not have any consequences, as he guides the Beaver in his version of the ways of the world. The character of Eddie is that person in our lives who always gets us into trouble. Everyone knows an “Eddie Haskell” and that’s why the character is so easily recognized and remembered.

  Some of my fondest memories while filming Leave It to Beaver were every once in a while, I was invited to go to lunch with Kenny, Tony Dow, and Frank Bank at the local drive-in restaurant, Bob’s Big Boy, near our Universal Studios set. It was a really big treat if one of them would ask me to join the group. It would usually be Kenny who would say, “Oh yea, Jerry can come along with us.” I felt very grateful to him, because it meant that I could hang out with the “big guys.” Of course, in the very real life fashion of teenagers, and similar to their antics on Leave It to Beaver, the guys would sometimes make me hunch down in the backseat so that they could flirt with the girls and not be embarrassed that they had a little kid with them!

  I have always been able to count on Kenny. When I decided to buy a barbeque for my new house, Kenny asked me, “Have you ever built one before?”

  “No,” I said.

  “I’ll come over and help you,” he replied.

  Sure enough, the next day Kenny drove up to my house in his pickup truck which was full of bricks, sand, and cement. He showed me how to mix the cement, put the bricks up, and level them. And, in six hours, with a lot of laughs and a couple of beers, I had a brand new barbecue.

  “Oh, we had a good day,” remarked Kenny.

  That’s just the kind of friend he is.

  Speaking in true Eddie Haskell form…“It’s been a very lovely lifelong friendship we’ve had, Mr. Osmond.”

  Jerry Mathers

  Actor, Director, Lecturer

  P.S. Just another parting thought -- In real life, I was the oldest of five children in my family and Kenny only had one older brother. Ironically, in his family, he was really the Beaver. Who would have thought?

  ONE

  MORTIS INTERRUPTUS

  September 20, 1980

  LAPD Officer, Steve Fischer,

  “Don’t worry Kenny, you’re gonna be fine, everything’s gonna be just fine.”

  The words were meant to reassure me, but I never in my life wanted to hear them, especially lying flat on my back, after being shot three times at point blank range. I knew what Steve was trying to do and I appreciated it. He and I had gone through the academy together a decade ago. Inches away from me, my assailant, who in legal parlance would still be referred to as the suspect, lie bleeding out, as the result of a single gunshot wound to the head. A river of blood flowed out of his cheek, down the sidewalk, and into the gutter. In the darkness of the night, the blood looked black, like crude oil. In the distance sirens were wailing, as every officer in the vicinity was racing to the call of: “Officer needs help – shots fired - officer down.” I had done so myself in the past and joined in the screaming posse, I just never imagined they would be riding to me.

  I stared up at Steve. He was a good cop, and a good man. I could trust him to do what I needed him to do next.

  “I’m hurtin’ real bad Steve,” I said. “Tell my wife and my sons that I love ‘em.”

  * * *

  The night had begun as routinely as all the rest of them. My partner, Henry Lane, and I had done roll call and then stopped for dinner before beginning our evening shift on our motorcycles doing “Deuce Patrol.” This was our cop shorthand for DUI (driving under the influence) and slang for the drunk drivers we were tasked with spotting and apprehending as our primary duty.

  I loved working “motors” as it was called. In my ten years on the police department, it had been
my favorite duty, far better than vice, or residential burglary. Part of the reason was because I loved motorcycles, and I had been an enthusiast my entire life, even to the point of taking cross-country tours with my wife, Sandy. Henry and I also had a special bond, as we had worked together for so many years.

  I can’t tell you how much I love Henry. You get closer to your partner than you do to your own spouse. You depend on them eight hours a day to save your life… and they do. Your partner is the most important thing in the world to you.

  Our patrol area was in the Rampart Division of the LAPD jurisdiction. It was a tough, low-income neighborhood that was plagued by gang activity, drug dealing, and other violent crimes. Whether you were a cop or not, it was not an area where you could let your guard down if you wanted to survive.

  I remember reading a study once that the average human makes a little over six hundred decisions per day. Most of these are benign judgment calls that have very little bearing on a person’s safety or well-being: where to hang a bath towel, which shoe to tie first, what to eat, cash or credit, paper or plastic? As a police officer, I made all of the same decisions that an average person did - and then some very critical ones. Law enforcement is a profession like no other, a job where every “routine” traffic stop could be your last, and behind every door could be death. On the night of September 20, 1980, I made two life-altering decisions. One of these would be very good, and one of them would be very bad.

  There had been a heat wave, and it had been hot all week in Los Angeles. Even in the evening, the lingering heat rose up from the blacktop and combined with the warm air that came off my Kawasaki air-cooled 1000cc motorcycle engine. Besides having to wear the standard, heavyweight uniform of the police department; in motors, we also had to wear a pair of knee-high “stove-pipe” boots, designed to keep our legs safe from road rash should we go down. Because of this, we postponed putting on our bulletproof vests as long as possible. We were supposed to have them on all the time, but I liked to push the rules a bit.

  Finally, at about eleven o’clock at night, we stopped at a local fire station and went in to put on our vests. It felt like it always did to me, like I had wrapped my body in plastic.

  The vest was a Morgan Magnum level II, manufactured by The Safariland Company. This was the standard issue for LAPD motor officers at the time, they were constructed of Kevlar and heavy canvas, and designed to stop a variety of handgun rounds. Without realizing it, I would be testing the limits of my vest tonight.

  A little after midnight, we took up a post in a gas station parking lot on the corner of Alvarado and 8th Street and sat straddling the saddles of our bikes. It was one of our favorite hunting spots and we could usually count on at least a half dozen deuces a night from there. Just then, the radio crackled to life. A taxicab that had been stolen the previous day had just been spotted a couple blocks away. A few minutes after the call came in, we looked up and sure enough, there’s the taxi with the correct numbers on the side. So we called it in, and fired up our scooters.

  We fell in behind the vehicle and followed him for just a short distance, westbound on 8th Street. Before we could even switch on our lights to get his attention and pull him over, the guy pulled over to the curb on his own accord. Henry rolled up to the rear of the cab on the driver’s side and dismounted. I rode my motorcycle up onto the sidewalk on the passenger’s side and dismounted as well. Since it was a stolen vehicle, we both drew our guns.

  Henry Lane,

  “We both walked up to the car and he’s (the suspect) writing something in a book. Evidently he stole this cab the day before and had been running around the city picking up fares. (Laughing) I guess he found himself a real job.”

  I aimed my gun into the open passenger window of the cab, lined up the sights on the guy inside and yelled, “Freeze!” He floored the accelerator and the vehicle took off with a squeal of tires. Our investigative stop had now become a high-speed pursuit. The chase was on.

  We remounted our bikes, activated the sirens, and called in an official pursuit. A short distance away, at Rampart Street, the taxi turned sharply to the right, clipping a car parked on the right-hand side of the street, and then careened toward the opposite side, striking another. This guy was dead set on escaping, and didn’t even slow down. He made another sharp right onto 7th Street, the rear wheels of the cab fish-tailing all over the place. A few blocks later, he turned again, and skidded left onto Coronado Street. This time, when he turned onto Coronado, he crashed into another parked car so violently he disabled the cab. With no car left, he took off on foot.

  The suspect sprinted toward a large apartment building on the west side of the street, ducked into a driveway, and headed toward the rear. Henry and I stayed mounted on our motorcycles and just followed him until he ran out of room.

  At the rear of the building, the driveway turned to the north and then circled around to another driveway on the far side of the building. The driveway essentially surrounded the apartment in a giant “U” shape. By now, the suspect had crossed the back of the building and was heading eastbound down the second driveway, and back toward the front of the building and Coronado Street. At the end of the driveway, a heavy chain was suspended a couple feet above the concrete, blocking any vehicles. Henry and I knew we were screwed as far as following him on our bikes any longer and would have to pick it up on foot. What neither of us knew however, was that the chain was the least of our worries tonight. The situation was about to get much worse.

  Henry Lane

  “At the end of the driveway, I thought he was just going to jump the chain and keep running. But then he spun around, and I saw a six-inch, blue-steel revolver sticking out of his waistband. His hand was on it.”

  Realizing that the suspect had a gun, Henry dismounted his motorcycle and let it continue forward. The forward momentum of the bike struck the suspect hard and knocked him over the chain. He got up and took off running across the street.

  I dumped my bike, jumped the chain, and took off after him along with Henry. Then I heard my partner yell out, “Shoot him!”

  I knew at that point, that Henry knew something that I didn’t know - something very bad. I trusted my partner indubitably, and I wasn’t about to question his judgment. I pulled my service revolver out to shoot at the suspect, but Henry had gotten ahead of me, blocking my shot. Henry was firing and winged the guy a couple of times. The guy would fall, but then he’d get up again and keep running. Then Henry ran out of bullets. He tried to reload as he ran, but our weapons back then were old .38 revolvers, and we didn’t have “speed-loaders.” It was awkward and slowing my partner down. I knew it was all up to me. I sped past Henry and ran after the suspect.

  The suspect reached the corner of 7th Street and turned to the left, heading eastbound. I wasn’t far behind him. Then a short distance up the street, he turned left again, into the opening of what I thought was another apartment building. I’ll admit that it was poor tactics on my part that I thought he had continued running into the building, when in fact, he had stopped and was waiting for me. Then I turned the corner, and all I saw were flashes of light; I never even heard the gunfire.

  Three .38 caliber rounds slammed into me at point blank-range; one in the upper chest, one in the lower chest, and one in the lower abdomen. We were standing only inches apart from one another in the tiny doorway of an office building west of downtown LA. The door to the building was locked, so the guy just waited for me to catch up. Stupid, stupid, stupid on my part.

  I didn’t realize it at the time, but I had gotten off three rounds as well. One went high and took out the glass door behind him. Two bullets hit the suspect, one in the left forearm, and one in the “love handle.” It wouldn’t be enough to stop him.

  The force of the suspect’s rounds hit me like sledgehammer blows, knocking me backward. And the next thing I realized, I was flat on my back on the sidewalk and I couldn’t move. I was still cognizant of my surroundings and what was going on, but nothing on my body worked; I was totally paralyzed!