Guilt for being rich, and guilt thinking that perhaps love and peace isn’t enough and you have to go and get shot or something.
—JOHN LENNON, SEPTEMBER 1980
“It was a little kid that did that act of killing John Lennon. A little kid on his Don Quixote horse went charging up to a windmill called the Dakota with an insane, irreparable, tragic mission: to put holes through one of the sails of that windmill of phoniness.
“That’s what happened. It was a child that killed John Lennon. It wasn’t a man. It was a child killing his hero: the Beatles. It was a child that had been so hurt and rejected into adulthood that he had to cover up all his feelings. I maintained, I preserved my childhood. Even though I’d had twenty-five birthdays, inside I was sixteen years old like Holden Caulfield was. My only feelings were the feelings that came through that book to the sixteen-year-old Holden that was inside me—until something real finally happened.
“John Lennon was real and he was a hero. He was the hero of my childhood. But I wasn’t real to myself. I was just a hulk of hurt and rejection, a confused, unfeeling defense mechanism. A cyborg. A conglomerate of adult mannerisms and jobs, but a child’s heart. That was the conflict that came crashing down. That’s why I could never do anything. My child was always conflicting with my fake adult, my phony adult that I had erected around it.
“All that rage came spilling out and I killed the hero of my childhood. All the rage at the world and in myself and in my disappointments and disillusions. All those feelings I kept pent up, feelings that the child couldn’t handle. Feelings that the adult was supposed to handle, but couldn’t.
“The child got confused and angered. And since he’s so specially linked to the phony adult that I was, the phony adult that the child had created, something had to happen. An explosion had to happen.
“I was a child with an adult body. I threw temper tantrums like a child; but I didn’t, like a child, know how to kill anybody. So I summoned the forces of evil to do it, to help me do it. I did what I thought you could do to get the evil forces. You chant and you take off your clothes. You get angry and you say horrible things. I had to pump up to do it.
“Shooting a man is no easy thing, even if you are out of your mind. It takes a lot of inner strength to do something that hideous.
“The adult was just a front for an act of evil that was carried out by a child. It was a child’s anger, a child’s jealousy, a child’s rage. But the adult was so undeveloped, he didn’t know what to do with it.
“The adult was all surface, anyway. It was a front. It couldn’t handle anything. It diverted everything to the child, and the child put it in his black toy box, because he couldn’t handle adult feelings either.
“He would, the adult would take each feeling and say some words and then give it to the child. The child would put it in the toy box he never opened, except to put something new in it.
“The child would play with his new toys. But one day when he opened the box to put something new inside, he came across a toy that he had played with years ago. It had once been his hero, but it wasn’t the same. He showed it to the fake adult, the phony adult. He said, ‘Look! Look what one of my toys has become!’ and he threw a tantrum.
“Then the adult knew what to do. The adult knew about guns and he knew how to get on an airplane and he knew how to get money. So they kind of conspired together, the child’s anger and rage at his hero—at the toy that wasn’t the same—and the adult who had the knowledge, but who was shaky and who was thin and shallow, but who had the intelligence to give the child what he wanted.
“And they conspired together, the child and the child’s fake adult, to kill a hero. To kill the phony. To kill phoniness. To take some kind of a stand for the first time in their lives. To do something. To do something real. I was going to stamp out phoniness.
“The adult planned it out perfectly, precisely. The child turned to Satan for the power to pull the trigger. The adult gave the child a gun, and the child needed power to pull the trigger.
“Then they went to New York, but something happened that first trip and the child went away. The child went away and left the adult just a shaking hulk who went back home to his wife. There was some reality there. There was a touch of reality.
“But then the child came back. One day while the adult was back in Hawaii driving a car, the child started throwing his toys again and getting mad again and upset again. The child wanted to kill again.
“And the adult went along with the child again—they were so enmeshed. They were one, but separate. And the child got the adult planning again, the phony adult. He got the adult planning again how to do it. The adult obliged and got more money. The adult made up a story about the gun being thrown away, and made up a story about going to New York again. And, in a matter of days, they flew back to New York.
“Then the adult and the child got up that morning and laid out all the important things to the child: The Bible. The photo with the Vietnamese kids. The music. The pictures of The Wizard of Oz. The passport and the letters of commendation for my work with the Vietnamese kids.
“This was the child’s message, the tableau that said: ‘This is what I was. These are the things that I was. I’m about to go into another dimension.’
“Then the child and the adult went to the Dakota on the morning of December 8. The adult, very charming, knows his way around—even invited one of the fans to lunch across the street—the child, frightened, alternately praying to God and the devil to get him out of this. The adult was praying to God. He was a fake adult, but he was scared and he knew that the child was about to do something very evil and wrong. The child was praying to the devil and the adult was praying to the Lord.
“The spiritual dichotomy: Devil-God. And the inner dichotomy: the child-the man. They’re out there in front of the Dakota late at night, long after everybody else but the doorman has gone away. They’re cold, and the adult wants to go home. Even this phony, disheveled, shaking, trembling-inside adult wants to go home—just go home and show the autograph, John Lennon’s autograph, to his wife.
“ ‘She’ll never believe it’s his, but do it anyway,’ the adult says. ‘Get the first cab out of here. Ask that doorman to get you a cab.’
“Then the child screams: ‘No! No! No!
“ ‘No. I want to kill him. I want to kill him. He’s mine! I want him!’
“Then the adult: ‘God help me! Save me, God, from this. Help me. Get me out of here.’
“ ‘No, no, no! Devil! Help me, Devil! Give me the power and the strength to do this. I want this. I want to be important. I want to be somebody. Help me. I was never anybody. Nobody ever let me be anybody. I couldn’t be anybody, I failed at everything. Please. I want this. I want this so bad. I want this so bad.’
“It was getting late. Both the adult and child were very tired. It was almost 11:00 o’clock. Then a white limousine came up the street from Central Park. It stopped at the traffic light on the corner.
“They knew. The child and the fake adult, at that moment, somehow they both knew who was inside that limousine. And the child stood up with the adult in tow. The adult was resigned. The phony adult was resigned. He had no strength. He was merely an image, a surface. A tin man. He was a covering for the child to function in society.
“And they got up together and they reviewed together the adult’s plan: How to put the hand in the pocket. How to pull it out of the pocket, and when to do it.
“The light changed and the white limousine turned left. Then it stopped at the curb in front of the Dakota, just like they knew it would.
“The adult began to pray. The child began to scream. The adult said, ‘No.’ The child screamed louder. The adult began to panic and then he disappeared. There was just the child with his hand on the gun and dead silence in my brain.
“The back door of the limousine opened and Yoko got out first. The child nodded to her. He smiled at her. But she didn’t smile back and the child didn’t say anything. She just kept walking, up the driveway, under the archway toward the steps.
“Then John Lennon got out of the limousine. He had something in his hands. Some cassette tapes. The child looked at his hero and his hero—his broken toy—looked back at him. It was a hard look. The child was sure that his hero recognized him from earlier in the day, when he signed the album. Neither one smiled. Nobody said a word. There was dead silence in my brain and John Lennon walked past me. He started walking faster as he went under the archway. Yoko was a little ahead of him, but he was there, by himself. His back was to the child and the voice said: ‘Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it!’ ”
“I aimed at his back. I pulled the trigger five times. And all hell broke loose in my mind.
“It was like everything had been stripped away then. It wasn’t a make-believe world anymore. The movie strip broke.
“The explosions were deafening. After the first shot, Yoko crouched down and ran around the corner, into the courtyard. Then the gun was empty and John Lennon had disappeared. There was just the smell of gunpowder, a heavy, sickening smell. I saw Yoko come out of the courtyard and run up the steps through the door.
“Inside the Dakota, behind the door, some people were yelling. Somebody screamed. The child had left and the fake adult was standing there with the gun in his hand. He couldn’t move. The child shot and killed a music legend. Then the child vanished, and the shallow hulk of the phony adult was left there to pay the price.
“The doorman, Jose, was standing in front of me with tears in his eyes. ‘Do you know what you done?’ Jose was saying. ‘Do you know what you done? Get out of here, man! Just get out of here!’
“ ‘But where would I go?’ I said. ‘But where would I go?’
“Jose shook the gun out of my hand and kicked it across the driveway toward the courtyard. Somebody came up in an elevator at the corner of the archway and Jose told him to take the gun away.
“I took The Catcher in the Rye out of my coat pocket. Then I took off my hat and coat and threw them down on the ground. I knew the police would come soon and I wanted them to see that I wasn’t hiding a gun inside my coat.
“I was anxious. I wanted the police to hurry up and come. I was pacing and holding the book. I tried to read, but the words were crawling all over the pages. Nothing made any sense. I just wanted the police to come and take me away from there.”
In April 1981, Chapman described the murder of John Lennon to psychologist Dr. Richard Bloom:
“It was like after the photographer left, that’s where the struggle ended. It was after Paul left ’cause I knew it was all over. I knew I was going to kill him then. It was like, it was like toward the end there was no more struggle, but during I prayed, you know.… There was a point where I came to, where there was no more struggles, and I resigned myself, as far as I know.
“I stood up and I said, ‘This is it. This is it.’ I stood up, of course; I had my hand on the gun. The car pulled up. Yoko got out and walked about thirty feet from John. She looked at me. I nodded to her and she went toward the door.
“Then John did, and there was no emotion in my blood. There was no anger. There was nothing. It was dead silence in my brain. Dead, cold quiet, until he walked up. He looked at me. I’m telling you, the man, the man was going to be dead in less than five minutes and he looked at me and I looked at him and he walked past me and then I heard in my head. It said, ‘Do it, do it, do it,’ over and over again. ‘Do it, do it, do it, do it,’ like that. It was … my voice. It wasn’t anybody else’s. It wasn’t an audible voice. I walked a few feet, turned, pulled the gun out of my pocket, put my hand into my left hand. I don’t remember aiming. I don’t remember drawing a bead or whatever you call it. I just pulled the trigger steady five times. Then I believe I saw Yoko turn. She was facing me and she went, like, ducked around the corner.
“I just started pacing. You know, each time I would turn it would be something different. The first time I turned, nobody was there. I couldn’t believe it. I thought he’d be down on the ground, dying, bleeding.
“He wasn’t there! These bullets were extra-power. They were .38 caliber special hollow points. Do you know what a hollow point does when it enters your body? It blows you away. He wasn’t there.
“I was kind of glad that he wasn’t there because I thought I had missed him or I didn’t kill him or something. Feeling that … maybe a little bit … thinking I didn’t hit him.”
When police cars began arriving a few minutes after the shooting in front of the Dakota, Chapman was simultaneously relieved and frightened. Two uniformed officers stepped cautiously out of the first patrol car that pulled up at the curb as he continued to pace slowly beneath the dim light inside the stone archway. He held the red paperback tenderly, in both hands, close to his face. He still hoped that he would disappear into the ink of the book or that his body would shrivel into a fetal ball.
From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the officers rush past him, into the building where John Lennon lay dying. The other officer, a large and muscular man, approached the doorman who began nervously pointing at Chapman. In a quick, fluid motion, the officer drew his pistol and removed his hat. The hat, with a shiny badge that would offer a bright target for a hidden gunman, slid across the pavement like a Frisbee past Chapman’s feet.
Before the officer could speak to him, Chapman’s hands were in the air. He held the book tight against the top of his hatless head.
“Don’t hurt me,” he pleaded. “I’m unarmed. Please don’t let anybody hurt me.”
Barking orders, holding the gun combat style in both hands—the same way, Chapman observed, that he had braced a gun in his own hands minutes earlier—the officer approached the suspect. Glancing cautiously around the corner into the courtyard, Officer Stephen Spiro ordered Chapman to turn around, lean forward, and put his hands against the stone wall of the archway. When The Catcher in the Rye tumbled to the sidewalk, Chapman hesitated. The policeman pushed him forward and kicked his feet apart before hastily searching his clothing for a concealed weapon.
“I acted alone,” Chapman exclaimed, observing that the officer continued to glance cautiously over his shoulders and around the corners of the buildings. “I’m the only one.”
Satisfied that the suspect was unarmed, the policeman ordered him to turn around.
Chapman pleaded again with the officer not to let anyone hurt him.
“Nobody’s going to hurt you. Just hold your hands together in front of you,” the officer said, snapping a pair of handcuffs around Chapman’s wrists. “Just do as you’re told and nobody will hurt you. Now, just walk over toward the car there. Very slowly. And get into the backseat when I open the door.”
“I’m sorry,” Chapman said. “I’m sorry I gave you guys all this trouble.” He began walking toward the police car. Suddenly he stopped and turned around to face the officer.
“The book!” he pleaded. “My book!” He nodded to the red paperback with the gold letters on both covers that lay open, face down, on the sidewalk beneath the archway. Officer Peter Cullen had joined his partner outside the Dakota. Cullen picked up the book carefully, by the edges, to preserve fingerprints or any other possible evidence from The Catcher in the Rye. The officer slipped the book into a plastic bag.
“Thank you,” Chapman said as the officers locked him into the backseat of the patrol car and turned back toward the Dakota. The acrid smell of gunpowder still in his nostrils, the explosion of gunfire still ringing in his ears, the killer gazed mutely from the window at the chaotic aftermath of his violence. He was unable to avert his eyes as several police officers emerged from the door of the Dakota carrying a limp, blood-soaked body gently between them. After placing the bleeding body carefully into the backseat of another patrol car, one of the officers turned to face Chapman. The killer couldn’t hear the words but he saw the curses that shaped themselves on the officer’s lips.
Suddenly, the face of Yoko Ono appeared outside the patrol car several feet away from him. Chapman tried to slide down into the cramped seat, but found himself unable to avert his eyes from the gaze of the woman he had just made a widow.
“Please,” he murmured to himself. “Just go away. Please just go away.”
After several moments, Yoko disappeared. Other curious onlookers quickly began to take her place. They stared at him through the windows of the police car. He wanted it to be over. He wanted to be taken from the scene of his crime. He feared that, as word of what he had done spread through the city, an angry Lennon fan would appear and start firing bullets at him through the car windows. He prayed for God to turn back time. He promised God he wouldn’t do it again—if God would only turn back time.
As he waited for the police officer to return to the car, Chapman struggled against a growing realization of the enormity of his act. Time seemed to stand still. At last Spiro and Cullen got into the front seat of the car and drove away with their suspect. The officers chattered frantically with a dispatcher on the police radio. Red lights bathed the streets as the patrol car sped through traffic lights and swerved around corners and oncoming traffic. Chapman tried to press his large, handcuffed body onto the floor of the car, fearing that snipers already were searching for him.
“Please don’t let anybody hurt me,” he repeated to the patrolmen. “I’m sorry I caused you guys all this trouble.”
Between radio calls, Officer Cullen advised Chapman of his right to remain silent and to contact a lawyer. The driver, the officer who had arrested Chapman, began rocking his body excitedly forward and backward, pounding the steering wheel of the police car with his fists.
“I told you I felt it,” he said to his partner. “I told you that something big was going to happen tonight. Remember what I said?”
Cullen nodded.
“This is history, man!” Spiro was shouting. “This is history!”
When he heard the officer’s remark about the historic dimensions of his act, Chapman snapped to attention in the backseat. Both officers swiveled their heads briefly to look at him. Taking them into his confidence, he smiled.
“I am the Catcher in the Rye,” he said.
“Gradually the child came back. My adult didn’t know how to handle it. My adult escaped. My adult ran as fast as he could.
“It was dark and scary and this adult didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what the child had become. The child had mutated. There was no child as there was before. The child had changed. And then, the adult and the child, they were stitched into one. That was the mutation that occurred. There’s no other way to describe it. The child wasn’t a child anymore, but he still wasn’t an adult.
“In the mutation that occurred, I would later become a quasi-savior, and The Catcher in the Rye would become the Bible. I would become whole. I would become euphoric. I would not be a child and a phony adult any more. I would have a purpose and I would be strong and euphoric.
“This mutated creature that would arise after the shooting would become a guardian angel. Some type of a good force in his own mind. True and pure and real. Not phony. Something genuine. The child would finally get what he wanted: not celebrity, but purpose. An important purpose. This child with this little phony adult shackled to him, that he just used to get what he wanted, this child would become a star in his own movie. One of the rare children who was destined to become what he had idolized years before.
“The child would become the hero and want adults to read The Catcher in the Rye. He wanted them to read the book so they would see their own phoniness and become children again.
“There was no fake adult anymore. He was used and then buried. He had disintegrated. He turned to dust. He was gone.
“So the child killed John Lennon. He killed him. To be important. To be somebody.”