The scene outside New York’s spooky old Dakota apartment building on the evening of December 8, 1980, was as surreal as it was horrifying. John Lennon, probably the world’s most famous rock star, lay semiconscious, hemorrhaging from four flat-tipped bullets blasted into his back. His wife Yoko Ono held his head in her arms and screamed (just like on her early albums).
A few yards away a pudgy young man stood eerily still, peering down into a paperback book. Moments earlier he had dropped into a military firing stance – legs spread for maximum balance, two hands gripping his .38 revolver to steady his aim – and blown away the very best Beatle. Now he leafed lazily through the pages of the one novel even the most chronically stoned and voided-out ninth grader will actually read, J. D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye.
The Dakota doorman shouted at the shooter, Mark David Chapman, “Do you know what you’ve done?”
“I just shot John Lennon,” Chapman replied.