A Toyota pickup was just north of the van with the door open and keys on the floorboard. A Lincoln Continental with the license plate “MT TT” was near the top of the driveway. The wooden taupe-colored garage door, affixed with the letters “MT,” contained three bullets.
Other bullets were found a few feet from Mickey’s body and under his head, indicating the final shot happened when he was lying down. In all, it appeared that eight rounds had been fired from two different 9 mm guns.
After the Thompsons’ housekeeper arrived and deactivated the burglar alarm, the detectives searched the house. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.
Detective Griggs went into the garage and saw two carpeted steps leading up to a wood-paneled office adorned with numerous plaques, framed black-and-white photographs and awards. A rack with several rifles was affixed to one wall and a mannequin resembling Thompson dressed in a racing outfit stood in a corner. An adjoining restroom contained a wall safe.
Griggs videotaped a self-guided tour of the crime scene, starting on the street and proceeding to the garage/office. As he stopped beside each corpse, Griggs lifted the blood-smeared plastic for the benefit of the camera. The cameraman noted the blood flowing along the gutter and down the top of the driveway.
Behind the 3,558-square-foot two-story house and to the west was a separate two-story, 5,000-square-foot building that had been the former offices of the Mickey Thompson Entertainment Group. He had moved his business operations to the Anaheim Stadium five months earlier, so now the building was a car barn that housed several racing vehicles. Pieces of junk cars and automobile debris were strewn about.
Just past Mickey’s body on the pathway leading to the back of the house, criminalist Elizabeth Devine found some cut orange peels that appeared to be fresh. Griggs didn’t think they were important, so she just made a note of them in her report. She did not collect them or take any photographs.
But the most intriguing piece of evidence was a gray stun gun found on the driveway between the two bodies. It was a hand-held contact-style weapon with two prongs that are placed against a body. A base plate containing the serial number that normally holds the battery in place was missing.
The Thompsons’ German shepherd mix, “Punky,” was found behind the house staggering around, as if he had been shocked with the stun gun.
Trudy and Mickey Thompson (family photo)
courtesy of LA Superior Court
Detectives theorized that the Thompsons were ambushed as they were getting ready to leave for work; Trudy was backing out the van and Mickey was closing the garage door. One gunman fired a shot into the van and Trudy jumped out, attempting to escape down the driveway. Another shot Mickey to prevent him from helping her. Both were killed within the next few seconds, and the suspects fled the scene on bicycles.
High drama even by Los Angeles standards.
Chapter 2: On the Trail of the Killers
Police radio broadcasts of the crime were immediately sent to all sheriff’s patrol deputies, and everyone was on the lookout for two men on bicycles. Tips started flooding in—it seemed like any man riding a 10-speed bike was going to have a pretty unlucky day.
Several men were detained and then released after it was determined that they didn’t match the correct description.
In neighboring Baldwin Park, Oscar Vezar had been driving to work an hour after the shootings and heard news of the murders on his car radio. He saw a Caucasian man about 35 years old, with long golden-blond hair, riding a 10-speed bike and looking around nervously. The man rode to a bus stop, got off the bike and tried to stop cars, apparently desperate to get a ride. Eventually a motorcyclist stopped and picked up the man.
Police retrieved the bike from the bus stop and took it back to the crime scene to be dusted for fingerprints. A check of the serial number revealed that nine such bicycles were shipped to Montgomery Ward stores in California during June 1985.
Meanwhile, several concerned friends and family members began showing up at the crime scene after hearing on the radio that a shooting had happened in Bradbury. This included Thompson’s son, Danny, from a first marriage, his sister, Collene Campbell, and Bill Marcel, vice president of operations at Thompson’s company.
Danny Thompson, a successful race car driver in his own right, had been notified about the shootings by a friend who heard it on the news. At that time, it wasn’t clear if anyone had died. Danny had been at work in Huntington Beach, 40 miles away, and drove the agonizingly long car ride, listening to the news for updates and praying that everything would be OK.
“I had a ray of hope that they weren’t dead,” Danny said. “He was invincible in my eyes. When you are invincible, you can’t die. You aren’t allowed.”
Deputies waved him through a roadblock set up at the bottom of Mount Olive Drive, the public access street bordering the Thompson property.
Danny wasn’t allowed on the premises but could clearly see two bodies on the driveway that weren’t yet covered in plastic.
“I was in disbelief,” Danny said. “Even though I could see him lying there, it was unrealistic. This couldn’t be happening….my dad. He was immortal.”
Those who knew Mickey best echoed a name that would become synonymous with his during the next 19 years: Michael Goodwin, Mickey’s former business partner. The duo bitterly parted ways over a financial dispute that resulted in several years of contentious litigation.
Mickey had been telling anyone who would listen that Goodwin wanted him dead.
“If anything ever happens to me, it’s Michael Goodwin,” Phyllis Triarsi parroted Mickey’s words to investigators.
“Mickey told me that Michael Goodwin had put a contract out on him,” recounted neighbor Walt Dahlem, the best man at Mickey’s wedding to Trudy.
“I immediately thought Goodwin had done this,” Danny said. “I told Sgt. Verdugo that I was certain of it. My dad called me a few weeks before he died to tell me I needed to watch my back because Goodwin was up to something and was going to kill him.”
Escape route bordering home
photo by Gene Blevins
Detectives and patrol deputies began the arduous task of going door-to-door, talking to neighbors about what they might have seen or heard. They identified eight people in and around Bradbury believed to have seen the shooters.
They discovered that four days earlier, on a Sunday, Terrence and Roberta Moll were entering Bradbury through the main gate at Royal Oaks Drive when they spotted two black men inside riding bikes up Woodlyn Lane. Terrence Moll remarked to his wife that it was unusual to see blacks in that community. It was about 3 PM.
Dahlem, who lived about a block away, outside the Bradbury perimeter, reported seeing a black man standing next to the Thompson property on Monday. It was between 5 and 6 AM, and the man was wearing dark athletic clothes and a knit cap. When the man noticed Dahlem looking at him, he bent over and appeared to be tying his tennis shoe.
Wall where suspect spotted
photo by Gene Blevins
Also on Monday, Richard Passmore was driving along Royal Oaks Drive near Mount Olive Avenue when he saw a new maroon Volvo station wagon parked on the wrong side of the street. Two black men in dark sweat suits were removing two shiny, new-looking 10-speeds from the back of the car.
Detectives tried to narrow down the description of the suspects:
One neighbor described them as black, about 6’2”, 220 pounds and around 30 years old. “The OJ Simpson type,” he said.
Another offered a similar description, although he thought the suspects were about 10 years younger.
Anthony Triarsi told a deputy that he only saw the suspect who shot Trudy. That man was 5’10” to 6’0”, 170-180 pounds, with a muscular build and long, curly wavy hair, “like the Night Stalker Richard Ramirez.” He was “possibly black,” Triarsi said. However, Triarsi had described the suspect to the 911 operator as “a white guy with black pants” and “about 5’7”-5’8”, slight build”—an apt d
escription of the bicyclist at the bus stop.
Sketches of suspects
After performing several cursory interviews at the scene, Sgt. Rey Verdugo and his partner, Gerald Jansen, were given the assignment of investigating Mickey’s business dealings. They arrived at the Anaheim Police Department at 3:15 PM and interviewed Carl Schiefer, who had worked with Mickey at Thompson Entertainment Group. One night the previous November, Mickey told Schiefer that he had written proof of a contract that Goodwin had put out on his life.
“You should call the Orange County District Attorney’s Office immediately,” Schiefer told him.
“I hesitate to do this because he might harm Trudy,” Mickey replied. “We’re afraid to walk outside our house because of Goodwin.”
Other business associates knew of the threats as well.
“He was concerned about leaving work at night and would keep the drapes drawn,” Bill Marcel said. “We are up in the offices at Anaheim Stadium, and when it’s dark, everyone can see inside. I think he felt really vulnerable at the stadium but secure at the house.”
Marcel said Mickey didn’t dwell on his problems with Goodwin, but had once said, “Goodwin says he’s going to kill me and he wants me dead.” To counter that, Mickey said he would take precautions.
Marcel wasn’t sure what they were other than the fact that Mickey owned a shotgun.
Goodwin lived 55 miles away from the Thompsons, in Orange County’s Laguna Beach. An officer from that city’s police department called Verdugo to say Goodwin had been in to the station shortly after the murders.
“He burst into the lobby and put on a show, saying: ‘My God, they got Mickey and they are going to get me next!’” Verdugo said. “The desk officer said, ‘Wait, sir!’ Goodwin said, ‘I can’t!’ and fled.”
“Everyone was calling in saying Goodwin, Goodwin, Goodwin,” Verdugo recalled.
In the detective’s experience, people who publicize their actions following a murder are usually the suspects. “The average person doesn’t need to document that they were here or there,” Verdugo explained of Goodwin’s behavior. “A normal person wouldn’t run out into the street, yelling to everyone that someone had just died in their house. They’d just pick up the phone and call 911.”
Detectives worked about 20 hours the first day, chasing down leads phoned in by witnesses or given to them by neighbors. It would continue like that for the first week, as hundreds of clues were investigated.
“I remember going home and coming back four hours later. We didn’t get very much sleep,” said Griggs’ partner, Sgt. Doug Oberholzer. “It was like that the whole week.”
Then a series of roadblocks were set up; detectives hoped to find someone who had pertinent information. Deputies passed out thousands of flyers asking for help.
A woman jogging near the intersection of Mount Olive and Royal Oaks drives told a deputy that her husband was at work in the area on March 16 when he saw two black men walking along, pushing their 10-speed bikes. They were both tall, looked like Crips gang members, and were overheard saying: “Didn’t we have fun killing those white people.” The woman refused to identify herself or her husband to the deputy.
“We’re just afraid,” she said.
A composite of the killers was released to the press, generating another flood of calls from people who thought they had seen the gunmen. Detectives chased down every one of the leads, but couldn’t find any sign of the shooters.
They had just vanished.
Chapter 3: Thompson and Goodwin
Marion “Mickey” Thompson was born on Dec. 7, 1928, in the Los Angeles suburb of Alhambra. Ever since he was a young boy, he was fascinated by cars. With the help of his father, he constructed a soapbox derby car with its own battery, enabling it to go uphill.
Mickey Thompson
photo by John Crosthwaite
In school, he excelled at math and dreamed of inventions. He got his chance in 1954 by pioneering a type of race car in which the driver sat behind the rear axle. A year later, he started winning a series of races that set American speed records, each one topping the next. In 1958 he won the title “Fastest American on Wheels” with a speed of 194 mph, according to the International Motorsports Hall of Fame.
But then he constructed a car called the Challenger 1 that would cement his name as a legend. Mickey took the car to the Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah, a desolate area where racers often practice their craft. In 1960, he raced the Challenger 1 to an American speed record at 406 mph.
He went on to claim 392 national and international speed records, while securing dozens of patents for engine parts, tires, and safety barriers. A performance tire named after him is still in existence today.
Mickey also founded an off-road racing circuit in Baja Mexico named SCORE International. He then brought that type of racing to a more comfortable venue, the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum, in 1979, as the first such stadium event. It was a success, and he started staging similar races across the nation.
Along the way, Mickey divorced his first wife and married Trudy in Las Vegas. He doted on her, ecstatic that he had met the love of his life, who shared his enthusiasm for racing.
By now Mickey had cut back on participating in races himself, content with being the brains and money behind Mickey Thompson Entertainment Group, where the Thompsons worked together every day.
The off-road racing endeavor led him to the flamboyant Goodwin, a former rock music promoter who hung out with legends like the Rolling Stones, Janis Joplin, and the Carpenters. Goodwin had been a promoter of stadium motorcycle races, and they decided to pool their talents instead of competing against each other.
An uneasy alliance began in 1984, but lasted just six months, when Mickey accused Goodwin of misappropriating funds and fraud. It resulted in a bitter lawsuit and countersuit that Mickey eventually won, totaling $814,388.
“I believe Goodwin’s plan all along was to steal from my dad and take over the business,” said Mickey’s son, Danny.
But Mickey wasn’t finished with his former partner. Mickey had the name recognition and reputation, and used it to squash Goodwin as the pair competed for the same contracts. This eventually put Goodwin out of business and caused him to declare bankruptcy, losing his beachside home in the process. Just the mere mention of Mickey’s name had to be a dagger to Goodwin’s pride.
The Los Angeles County Coroner’s Office is a drab, three-story gray building surrounded by an ominous wrought iron gate near downtown. It’s the last chance for the dead to offer clues to probing detectives who hope to find a cause of death and the perpetrator.
Detective Griggs already had his answer to the former; the latter would not be forthcoming.
At 9 AM the day after the murders, he stood in one of the three autopsy rooms, looking at Mickey’s and Trudy’s bodies on adjacent stainless steel tables. It took the medical examiners four pages to describe Trudy’s bullet wounds, five for Mickey’s. The doctors were able to tell where the bullets entered, the path they took through the bodies and where they exited—complete with wound size and measurements of the penetration angle. Mickey was shot behind the right ear from back to front; three times in the abdomen, and once in the hip. Trudy was shot in the abdomen and the back of her head.
Trudy was 5’4” tall, weighing 140 pounds. Mickey was almost 5’8” tall and weighed 205 pounds. He had two tattoos, on his right upper arm and shoulder. Trudy’s body was “extensively” tanned and she had naturally brown hair that had been tinted blonde. Her toenails and fingernails had red polish.
The consensus of the medical examiners did not change from an initial report dispatching the coroner’s office to the scene: “Gunshot wound to the head—execution style.”
On March 21, the Thompsons were buried at Rose Hills Memorial Park in east Los Angeles County. The sprawling, 2,500-acre cemetery is the last resting place for numerous celebrities and sports figures.
More than 1,000 mourners packed into the cemetery cha
pel that seated only a few hundred. A greater number stood outside and lined the paved roadway leading to the burial site. It was the biggest thing Rose Hills had ever seen, attracting a who’s who of the racing world.
“We were competitors and not the closest of friends, but we had a lot of respect for each other,” Indy 500 legend Parnelli Jones told The Orange County Register newspaper at the time. “I never needed it, but if I’d needed help and asked for it from Mickey, I’d have gotten it. He was that way. And anybody who got hurt in any of his events, he went out of his way to take care of them.”
Son Danny was a pallbearer, as was Mickey’s brother-in-law, Gary Campbell, and two Indy car mechanics who were long-time friends.
“I was in a trance, still in disbelief,” Danny said later, adding that he didn’t deliver one of the eulogies. “I didn’t want to get up and talk in front of all those people.”
Meanwhile, detectives continued with their interviews during the next several weeks in order to learn more about the Thompsons and a possible motive.
Friend Harrison Haslan told detectives that he had met Goodwin in 1987 during a business deal. Goodwin made clear his dislike of Mickey.
“I don’t understand why he won’t leave me alone,” Goodwin allegedly said of Mickey. “If that son of a bitch takes me down, I’ll take him down or out.”
It wasn’t long before Goodwin decided to retain Al Stokke, one of Orange County’s most prominent criminal attorneys. Sgt. Verdugo had been trying to reach Goodwin to interview him after getting an earful from Mickey’s employees about how Goodwin wanted Mickey dead.
“Stokke calls out of the blue—‘I understand you are looking for him, let me arrange for you to meet him in my office,’” Verdugo recalled later.
Killers for Hire Page 2
