Columnist’s Note by Rich Archbold: Today, I am turning my column space over to Dorothy Korber, a former Press-Telegram reporter who worked with Dennis McDougal, the brilliant journalist and book author, who was recently killed in a tragic car accident. Dorothy was one of McDougal’s best friends.
I knew McDougal as his managing editor. I still remember one day in 1980 when Dennis, who was answering phones on the city desk, got a call from my wife, who was seeing her doctor, asking him to tell me she was about to go to the hospital to deliver our second daughter. “Hey, Archbold!” Dennis yelled. “You’d better get to Memorial if you want to see your next kid come into this world!”
Dennis once wrote that his four years working in the Press-Telegram newsroom was “the best (journalism) education I ever got.” Here is Dorothy’s poignant remembrance of her friend and colleague.
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Dennis McDougal could drive you crazy. Paper cup of high-octane coffee in hand, he would turn up on your porch with no warning and stay a week. Alternatively, when he was supposed to be there, dammit – say for a surprise party or dinner in his honor — he’d roll in a day late.
Dennis was oblivious to the mundane niceties of human existence. But, oh, was he worth it.
Dennis Edward McDougal, a human comet with a twinkle in his sad eyes, died March 22. He was 77.
His loving and patient wife, Sharon, followed him two days later. Both were gravely injured in a multi-car collision on dusty Interstate 10 outside of Palm Springs.
Their treasured dachshund Bernie, buckled snugly into his bed in the back seat, was uninjured in the crash. Dennis would want you to know that.
The McDougals were on the last leg of a trek from their home in Tennessee, headed toward Southern California, where devoted family members and myriad buddies were eagerly waiting. They almost made it.
But this is not the story of Dennis’ death.
Dennis McDougal was the author of 14 books – ranging from titillating tales of true crime to serious biographies of such notables as Bob Dylan, Jack Nicholson and Los Angeles Times publisher Otis Chandler. He was an accomplished journalist of the muck-raking sort. He covered Hollywood for the Times and the O.J. Simpson trial for CNN.
But this is not the story of Dennis’ resume.
This is the story of a golden time more than 40 years ago, when a cadre of irreverent young reporters worked out of the Long Beach Press-Telegram newsroom. Dennis was one of that gang – so was I. Friendships forged then have lasted nearly a half century, thanks largely to his singular gift for cherishing and nurturing the people he cared about.
In the late 1970s, the newsroom at Sixth and Pine in downtown Long Beach still had an air of the “The Front Page.” Literally. Tobacco smoke curled up to the stained ceiling. Chipped mugs half full of stale coffee teetered on piles of old newspapers. Hard copy was dispatched to the composing room upstairs in a vacuum tube. The AP wire machine clacked constantly — and occasionally rang a series of alarm bells.
The single nod to modern times were a few rows of bulky computer terminals, green type on a black screen. They seemed to crash on the hour, resulting in obscene howls as precious leads and whole stories disappeared into the ether. It was heaven.
In a place with many oddballs and visionaries, Dennis McDougal stood out. He was brash, witty, brilliant, irreverent, skeptical, charming — with the work ethic of Mother Teresa and the time management skills of a wombat.
He had the look of an extra-large gnome: rotund in girth, with sturdy legs, a brush of a moustache, and a smile that could warm your heart or wither it with disdain. In those early days, a cigarette always dangled from his lips, later it was a toothpick. His invariable attire was an unbuttoned sport jacket, rumpled slacks, and a crooked tie.
He put those unassuming looks to good use, remembered Press-Telegram photographer Leo Hetzel. Hetzel and McDougal were frequent sidekicks, prowling freeways and backstreets in Leo’s ancient VW bug in search of the latest murder scene, flood or Christmas parade.
Dennis could be tough when necessary, Leo said, but he also showed empathy and – this was key to winning people’s trust — was open-minded and not judgmental. “We’d go to the homes of victims of drive-by shootings and Dennis was the kindest guy in those situations, crying with the parents. They’d say, ‘My son was in a gang, but he was a good kid.’ And Dennis would listen with respect and tell their story.”
Dennis’ writing style was distinctive: Often funny, sometimes over-the-top, but seldom relying on journalistic cliches. I’ve never forgotten one incredible lead of his.
The story was a complicated investigative piece, dense with explanations of fiduciary malfeasance and obscure financial jargon. Investigative reporters love to start such articles with a knotty 50-word sentence and five bullet points.
Here’s how Dennis began it: “This is the story of a little bank that grew.”
Mark Gladstone, a lifelong buddy from the fabled P-T newsroom, also recalls a sobering recollection of McDougal on the frontlines.
“Near the end of our time at the P-T, Dennis was the city editor one Sunday. I was his reporter. A young man was shot by a police officer in Belmont Heights. I walked the neighborhood and talked to people who offered a much different version of events than what the police had told us. Dennis let me write that story. The next morning all hell broke out from the cops. But Dennis stood by me and the story because it was true.”
As a nightside newspaper reporter, and later as the author of a batch of true-crime books, Dennis knew his share of good cops and bad cops. He became friends with some of the good ones. During one raucous night in Oregon, our Press-Telegram crony Bob Keefer saw that kind of friendship in action.
It’s classic McDougal – let Bob tell it:
“He shared my admiration for cops — not all cops, but the good ones, the smart and dedicated cops — and was comfortable dealing with them and talking to them.
“A few years after I moved from Long Beach to the Northwest, Dennis called up one day and said he wanted to come and visit. He had something to do somewhere in northern Oregon, and I should join him there one night at a certain bar.
“That evening, I headed north from our house in the woods outside Eugene to the bar, about an hour’s drive. I found Dennis at a long table filled with off-duty police officers from around the West. There were at least a dozen, probably more.
“These were the detectives who had spent years trying to solve one of the worst serial murder cases on record – and the subject of Dennis’ first book. They got together each year on the anniversary of Randy Kraft’s arrest, or conviction, to get back in touch with one another, rehash the difficult case. And Dennis was always invited.”
After Dennis moved on to the Los Angeles Times in 1983, visits from Dennis became an unpredictable but entertaining part of life for us in the Press-Telegram diaspora. He’d drop in with his dog, throw some cheese and crackers on the counter, then settle on the couch and the reminiscing would begin.
Kathy Cairns and Larry Lynch were a P-T twofer for Dennis. A married couple, Kathy was a reporter in Long Beach and Larry was the nightside city editor. They later moved to Northern California where Kathy got her history doctorate at UC Davis, then eventually settled in Paso Robles.
“A decade or so ago,” Kathy said, “I was walking to class at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo when my phone pinged. ‘Hey Cairns,’ growled the voice at the other end. ‘This is McDougal, and I’m on my way up there to see you.’ He was about an hour away on I-5.
“I wouldn’t be home when he got there, so I called my husband, Larry. ‘Go get some stuff to eat and grab a couple of bottles of wine from the garage. Just don’t take the expensive bottle I’m saving for our anniversary.’
“I got home to find the two old pals in the living room, reminiscing, eating and drinking. I grabbed a glass, then looked at the wine bottle. Of course they were drinking the wine I was saving for our anniversary! And they’d left virtually none for me.”
Still, Kathy loved his visits: “It was as if the years had never passed; as if we were still young, excited, and grateful to be working in a profession we loved, and alongside colleagues we — mostly — cherished.”
No denying it, Dennis could be a vexing imp. But sometimes he was nothing less than a guardian angel.
This is the story of how Dennis brought grace and light to the darkest night of my life.
Twenty-five years ago this May, I sat with my teenage sons outside the ICU in Kaiser’s faded old Sacramento hospital. My husband, David Levinson, was dying from Stage 4 colon cancer. The boys and I were about to take a vote.
“Guys, I think we need someone here to help us through this,” I said to them. Noah was 19, Nathan just turned 16. “Who should it be? Dennis?” Three hands went up.
I called Dennis down in Long Beach, 400 miles away, and told him the situation. He didn’t hesitate. “Dot, I’ll be there. I have to teach a class at UCLA tonight, but I’ll drive up tomorrow.” I thanked him gratefully and returned to our bedside vigil.
In the middle 1970s, David was the managing editor at the Press-Telegram. He hired both Dennis and me and many other reporters in our merry band. David and Dennis bonded instantly – two intellectuals with sardonic senses of humor and great joie de vivre.
After I married David, we lived in Bixby Knolls near Dennis and Sharon and we saw each other often. Then, in 1999, our family moved to Sacramento, where I worked at the Bee and David ran an online bookstore.
Barely a year later, we were in that ICU room. David, heavily sedated, was not conscious. Noah headed home. The nurse brought in some blankets, and young Nathan and I settled in for a long, sad night.
Then, around midnight, a bleary-eyed angel shuffled in. Without telling me, Dennis cancelled his UCLA class, drove for six hours straight, and somehow found us.
“Hi Dot,” he said. “C’mon Nathan, I’m taking you home. Be right back, Dot.”
And he was.
In his own words
To sample some of Dennis McDougal’s wit and wisdom, visit his blog at dennismcdougal.com.
To contribute to a journalism scholarship in the names of Dennis and Sharon McDougal, go to GoFundMe link https://gofund.me/bGdeb2f9.