Phil Spector with a Bullet

He was an aging eccentric rock genius, more famous for guns and tirades than for hit records. She was a beautiful B-movie actress who needed a break. When the sun rose on their late-night meeting, she was dead, and he was in handcuffs. The timeline of a tragic Hollywood intersection

On another night, under different circumstances, Lana Clarkson's visit to the house in Alhambra would have been mysterious and exciting: A chauffeur piloting a white 1964 Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud, or maybe a new black Mercedes S430, picks her up at her modest rented bungalow in Venice and drives her across Los Angles to a suburb a few miles northeast of downtown. They travel a short distance down Alhambra's main drag, Valley Boulevard, a nondescript street lined with aging one-story buildings and dingy mini-malls; turning off, they drive a couple of blocks up a small hill, past single-story homes. Near the top of the hill, the chauffeur drives through a pair of 10-foot iron gates that bear three signs warning interlopers of high voltage and security cameras.

Once inside the gates, the driver stops and opens the door for the six-foot, 40-year-old blonde actress. Mr. Spector," he says, "likes people to walk from here." A broad stone stairway leads her from the driveway up the hill to her left, until she approaches and imposing, turreted château. Over the front door is a weathered sign that once hung above the Sunset Strip offices of the hottest producer in the recording industry: Phil Spector International Productions.

Inside the house, Clarkson would have noticed the mementos: John Lennon's guitar, a photo of Spector in his cameo role as a drug dealer Easy Rider, candids of him with Chuck Berry, Nancy Sinatra and others. There are no family portraits. Heavy draperies cover every window, and a musty smell hangs in the air. As an actress who studied the classic films of Hollywood's golden age, Clarkson might have conjured thoughts of Charles Fosters Kane alone in his Xanadu, or of Norma Desmond, the aging star whose mansion became a mausoleum in Sunset Boulevard.

Then he appears, wearing a velvet jacket, perhaps, or another favorite, a monogrammed black silk robe, three-inch heels on his shoes, sunglasses on his nose. "Hello," he says softly. "I'm Phil Spector." He is known to be a gracious host—a touch theatrical, but a solicitous and friendly man who is ready to regale a guest with stories from a life spent as one of the titans of rock and roll.

But that's not how Lana Clarkson came to be at Phil Spector's home on the morning of February 3, 2003. She arrived there in the middle of the night with her host, compelled to his faux castle in the suburbs by the promise of something. A job? A connection? A friend who would understand what it's like when youth slips away and you realize that your moment has passed? Any of those comforts would have made Clarkson grateful. Even if Spector spoke not a single promise to his beautiful partner in the hours they spent together, she had to know that simple proximity to him created a world of possibilities.

What was the exact nature of the transaction between these creatures of Hollywood? Clarkson had turned 40 in April 2002, a B-movie actress of fading beauty, thought that summation seems unfair to the orderly, striving life she led. Spector, a gun-loving eccentric, one of the original architects of rock and roll, hadn't produced a hit in 30 years but had battled to a standstill personal demons that included alcohol and mental illness.

The evening Spector and Clarkson spent together ended two hours before dawn with gunfire and a call to 911. When police arrived, published reports asserted, Clarkson was already dead from a head wound, blood puddling around her on the cold marble floor. Spector was led away in handcuffs and booked on suspicion of murder. The full story of what happened in their final moments alone will take moths for police to piece together. What's becoming clear is the progression of events that drew them together from opposite sides of Los Angeles only hours before.

The town considered them past their prime, but Phil Spector and Lana Clarkson were still pursuing their dreams in Hollywood. Spector, who turned 62 last December 26, had the growing urge to make music the way he once had. "He said to me, 'Let's make some records.' I hadn't heard that in a long time, so I said, 'Do you really want to make records, or is this just wishful thinking?' And he said, 'No, I'm really ready to do it.' "

For Clarkson, it wasn't a matter of getting back to where she'd been; the actress wanted to move on. "She was reinventing herself," says actress Athena Massey, a friend of Clarkson's "Whatever that took, Lana was driven to do it. She was a lifer."

•

From the upstairs windows of his hilltop mansion, Phil Spector could look out through the trees and survey his domain. He'd wanted a castle, a hard thing to come by in southern California these days. But in 1998, Spector found his dream house atop a small rise in Alhambra, a middle-class community tucked between the high-rises of downtown LA and the hillside mansions of Pasadena, where Spector had been living.

Sitting on a heavily wooded hill, the 8600-square-foot, 10-bedroom house was dubbed the Pyrenes Castle, though the beige walls and red tile roof gave the home more the appearance of a château than a castle. Spector bought it for $1.1 million, a bargain in the southern California housing market; its value to many buyers was diminished by its proximity to fast-food joints and the occasional tattoo parlor.

To his neighbors, he was indeed a specter. He rarely, if ever, spoke to those who lived on the other side of his high walls. (Local teens believed the castle was owned by skateboarder Tony Hawk.) But Spector had always stood apart, separate and often distant from those around him. He was a short, asthmatic boy, the son of a father who'd killed himself in a bout of depression and a mother who smothered and protected her child. He had lived in New York City, and then, after his father's death when Spector was eight, in the Fairfax district of Los Angeles.

I don't know that we had an official 'least likely to succeed' tabulation, but if we did he'd have won the honor," says writer Burt Prelutsky, who attended Fairfax High School with Spector. "It always seemed like he was on the outskirts, the only person at Fairfax who didn't plan to go to college. Of course, a year later he had the number one record in the country."

That came when Spector wrote, produced and helped perform the song To Know Him Is to Love Him, borrowing the title from a phrase on his father's tombstone. His group, the Teddy Bears, didn't stay together long, because the teenaged Spector quickly realized he preferred producing to performing—a wise choice, say classmates who remember his notoriously bad debut at a high school talent show. He started up Philles Records and began masterminding hit after hit: Be My Baby, Da Doo Ron Ron, You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin'.

More important, Spector revolutionized the sound of pop music and gave the role of producer an importance seldom enjoyed by others. He used an army of musicians to fashion what became known as the wall of sound: two drummers, three pianists, four guitarists, background vocalist upon background vocalist. He mixed the records in Mono, adding layers to make a dense sound that captured the intensity of teenage passion and would have a profound influence on musicians like John Lennon and Brian Wilson.

Still, he felt hated and resented. Prelutsky remembers that Spector showed up at his 10-year high school reunion in a limo, with three bodyguards to keep his former classmates at bay: "He said he did it to let every body know that he felt about them the same way they felt about him when he was in high school." Twenty years later, Spector again attended a reunion, but this time he didn't even deign to enter the hall. "He sat in the foyer." says Prelutsky. "But he made sure everybody saw him on the way in."

Spector essentially retired when he was in his mid-20s. He married Veronica (Ronnie) Bennett, lead singer of the Ronettes, and took her to his heavily guarded Beverly Hills estate. He went back into action to produce the Beatles' final album, Let It Be, as well as solo hits for John Lennon (including Instant Karma and Imagine) and George Harrison (My Sweet Lord). By the mid-Seventies, though, Spector's output had become sporadic, and stories about his eccentricities and his rages grew. Ronnie Spector fled in 1972, later saying that she was sure she would have died in the house she stayed.

•

On Sunday, February 2, Spector prepared for another late night on the town. He has been falsely accused of being a recluse, says Bob Merlis, a Los Angles—based publicist who has been friends with Spector since 1979. "He goes out, goes to clubs. When he shows up at your house, it's in a white Rolls, not a Toyota Camry. But that's the only difference."

Although Spector would sometimes put on a wig to go out in public, this time he didn't bother. His hair, long and curly, was once dark; now gray and white strands dominated. In the Sixties, he dressed in Edwardian suedes and velvets, often with a gold watch fob in his vest. But this night he threw on a wrinkled gray jacket. He was rumpled and disheveled. Before leaving, though, he slipped on his tinted sunglasses. Whenever Spector left the house, or when people came to see him, he wore shades. They were theatrical, mysterious. The sunglasses made Spector seem a little bit (continued on page 78)Phil Spector(continued from page 68) forbidding. He like that.

"He knows he has that reputation: Phil Spector, megalomaniacal hermit." says Hudson Marquez, an artist (and co-creator of the famed Cadillac Ranch in Texas who calls himself a longtime acquaintance of Spector. "People go nuts around him, and he knows that. He's aware of everything he does. He knows the effect of what he does on people before he does it."

Spector's life had been slowly changing. On the night of February 2, he employed a single driver, a radical departure for a man who'd routinely used three bodyguards. He'd curtailed his drinking three years earlier—and since late 2002, his staff had been shrinking as well. The Los Angeles Times reported that Janice Spector, the third of his ex-wives, who worked for him for more than 10 years after their divorce, had recently left his employ. So had Jay Romaine, a former LAPD officer who served as Spector's bodyguard. In an unpublished manuscript about Spector, LA writer and producer and longtime friend Harvey Kubernik noted the changes and wrote, "Thankfully, the only beverages offered around Phil this century are diet coals and Sprite, and I'm in no danger of being hit by a stray bullet. The mind games and bodyguards have been replaced by a lone driver. I am really happy to see him function like this around town the last few years. He's a gas"

But not everyone was convinced that Spector's irrational days were behind him. Writer Ruben Carson, who rented a garage apartment in the San Fernando Valley to an alleged girlfriend of Spector's, says he received strange, abusive letters from the producer when Carson tried to evict the woman late last year.

"A messenger would show up with a threatening letter in which Spector would drop the names of about five lawyers, including Robert Shapiro and Marvin Mitchelson," says Carson. "It was basically extortion—he was making these outrageous demands and saying, 'If you don't do this, I'll get my entire legal team after you.' Like any sociopath, he thinks if he wants something it becomes reality."

On this night, thought, the main thing Spector must have wanted was to leave the suburbs behind and find some nightlife. He slipped into the backseat of a black Mercedes sedan so new that it still sported dealer plates, and his driver negotiated the long, curving driveway that led from Spector's house to the gates of his property. Within minutes, the car was speeding west on Interstate 10, heading for Hollywood.

•

Twenty miles west of Alhambra, in the seaside town of Venice, Lana Clarkson got ready to make the half-hour drive across town to West Hollywood, where she worked at the House of Blues. Clarkson, who had a husky voice and a firm handshake, idolized old-time movie stars like Lana Turner, Bette Davis and especially Marilyn Monroe. Actress Sally Kirkland befriended Clarkson back in 2000 when the two co-starred in Powder Room Suites at the Court Theater in West Hollywood. "She reminded me of a younger sister," Kirkland says. "We're both big and blonde, and simultaneously shy and outrageous."

If it were up to her, friends say, Clarkson might have dressed in something colorful for work—bright red, maybe, or a leopard print and high heels to emphasize her height. "The Big L," she called herself at clubs around town. But the House of Blues preferred its hostesses to dress in black, and spending an entire night on your feet was tough in heels. So Clarkson subdued her flamboyant nature.

"I'm used to Lana being 5'11", over six feet with heels, with mounds of blonde hair and a spectacular figure," says Kirkland. "But when I saw her at the House of Blues there was this woman with her hair in a bun, with flat shoes, wearing a very straight, boring black suit. The corporate Lana. She told me she was hosting there as a part-time gig. I told her I thought it was great because she was always so friendly and charming and outgoing. Lana's nature was a trusting one. Whether it was Phil Spector or John Doe, she wanted to see the good in everyone. That was the last time I saw her alive."

At the age of 40, recuperating from an accident at a charity event in December 2001 in which she had broken both wrists, Clarkson, a native of California, knew it was time to compromise and regroup. Her résumé already listed modeling, television ads and TV shows that included Happy Days, Fantasy Island and Three's Company. Her film debut consisted of a one-word role ("Hi!") in 1982's Fast Times at Ridgemont High, but she became best known via producer Roger Corman's B-movie factory, playing the title role in the sword-and-sandal flick Barbarian Queen and its sequel.

Clarkson embraced the role of a queen B, putting in long hours at comic book conventions. She even made it a point to carry extra Sharpies for signing the autographs.

A gig as a ticket taker and hostess at the House of Blues was far from ideal for an actress looking to sustain her career. But acting jobs had been tough to come by, particularly after her accident. "I think her career might have gone further if people hadn't typecast her," says Corman. "Because she was so tall and beautiful, they thought of her as a James Bond girl or Barbarian Queen."

As she drove up Sunset Boulevard toward the House of Blues, Clarkson had to notice a building across the street, a large, squarish structure, painted black with a round marquee affixed to the front and dozens of celebrated entertainers' names adorning the awning. It was this venue, the Comedy Store, that represented the direction she hopped her career would take.

"She had been the starlet, the ingénue," says Ray Cavaleri, Clarkson's agent for the last few months of her life. "She wanted to make a transition to sitcoms, and we were gearing toward pilot season." In addition to doing stand-up comedy, Clarkson had recently gone into Corman's office to assemble a reel to spotlight her comedic skill. In it, she played a variety of characters, including a lesbian police officer, Little Richard and a Barbie Doll—type character. Lana Unleashed, she called it.

But the video hadn't won her any serious gigs; that's where the House of Blues came in. "She wanted to get a job that didn't interfere with her being able to go out and audition," says Cavaleri. "The House of Blues kept her free during the day."

When Clarkson walked into the club Sunday night, she might have felt as if she'd already been at work all weekend. The club had held its monthly staff meeting the previous morning, which meant Clarkson had to be there some nine hours before her usual starting time. She'd gotten dressed up for the meeting, too: One of the items of business was the ceremony for the Employee of the Month award, and Clarkson had joined in the presentation, donning a little black dress, long black gloves and even a mock tiara to hand out the award—as if, said one co-worker, "she were a Price Is Right presenter."

When Clarkson returned to work in the early evening the next day, at least one colleague thought she looked unusually tired. (House of Blues employees have been ordered not to speak about Clarkson and Spector, so those who did talk requested anonymity.) By the time she got upstairs, though, she knew better than to let her fatigue show.

"She was a hostess, she was using her personality," says Cavaleri. "People do what they have to do to get by."

•

Driving through West Hollywood on his way to dinner, Phil Spector would (continued on page 155)Phil Spector(continued from page 78) have had time to reflect on the things he was doing to get by. If most of his friends thought the signs were good for the future, Spector himself knew he was also facing serious setbacks.

Spector stayed out of the studio for most of the Eighties and acquired a lasting reputation as a gun-toting recluse. But he began making public appearances late in the decade, became actively involved in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame—championing everyone from TV host Dick Clark to Chantels singer Arlene Smith—and started attending Los Angeles Lakers games and going to clubs.

His latest studio project, however, had not gone as planned. His 20-year-old daughter, Nicole, with whom he had a close relationship, had taken him to see the British band Starsailor at a concert in LA. He loved the band and produced two songs for them. Then, in late 2002, he had gone to London's Abbey Road studios to record what he hoped would be an album. But after four songs the sessions ended, and Spector returned home.

In January, Spector gave his first extensive interview in decades to the British Paper The Daily Telegraph. Admitting that he has a bipolar personality and take medication for schizophrenia, Spector stated: "I would say I'm probably relatively insane, to an extent."

•

Sometime between midnight and one A.M., Spector's driver pulled up to the yellow cottage that houses Dan Tana's restaurant. The old-fashioned Italian joint hasn't been trendy in decades, but it's favored hideaway for starts more interested in anonymity than celebrity. It's dark and clubby with tuxedoed waiters, chianti bottles hanging from beamed ceilings, red leather booths and red-and-white checked tablecloths. The cluttered walls sport the occasional movie poster, but much more common are unremarkable art prints and soccer posters, evidence of owner Dan Tana's former life as a soccer player in Yugoslavia.

Dan Tana's was a quiet celebrity hangout even before Tana agreed to lend his name to the character played by Robert Urich in the Seventies television series Vegas. Clint Eastwood used to be a regular. Bob Dylan ate there often; So did Bruce Springsteen when he lived in Los Angeles in the early Nineties. Drew Barymore. Jim Carrey and Jay Leno are frequent visitors. In 1999, Jerry Seinfeld held his 45th birth party at the restaurant and was visited during the bash by Milton Berle and George Clooney.

Spector, who has been a regular at Dan Tana's for years, walked into the dimly lit interior accompanied by a conservatively dressed strawberry-blonde woman carrying a portfolio. Reports later identified the woman as Spector's "caterer" and said she was working at the Grill on the Alley, a popular entertainment-industry business-lunch restaurant in Beverly Hills. Suzannah Mays, a woman who often bragged to friends about being Spector's girlfriend and on whose behalf Spector had intervened in a rent dispute, works at the Grill. (Mays did not respond to repeated calls and e-mails.)

Spector and his companion sat at the producer's usual table, number four, at the back of the restaurant, far from the front door and close to the kitchen. Over the booth hangs a framed poster from an obscure Karl Malden movie from 1983, Twilight Time. "Its truth will set you free," reads the poster's tag line, "and its dream will keep you going."

"It looked like a date," says Martin DeLuca, a Los Angeles talent manager who says he was seated near Spector that night. But DeLuca also thought the producer looked as if he had been drinking. "He was kind of sweaty, and he kept getting up an going to the bathroom," he says. "He looked like he was under the influence of something."

Spector picked at a small salad but showed little interest in it. He downed one rum cocktail, then ordered another. To the staff at Dan Tana's, this way unusual: They knew Spector hadn't been drinking lately, so the bartender delivered the second drink himself, walking to the table and asking Spector if everything was OK. Spector assured him it was.

Others close to Spector would have viewed the drinking as a warning sign as well. "I don't know if his drinking was a problem," says David Kessel carefully. "But it certainly aggravates his agitation." Kessel's brother Dan, who has also known Spector for years, adds: "He just seemed a little more relaxed after he stopped drinking."

Jim Bessman, a New York—based writer who has been friends with Spector for more than a dozen years, remembers alcohol-related problems at one party. "There was one night when Phil got in trouble because he was drinking," says Bessman. "People were goading him into the behavior that was legendary."

Nobody tried to goad Spector into anything at Dan Tana's, but DeLuca approached the producer. "I tried to give him my business card and have a conversation with him," he says, "but he didn't say a word. He just started at me."

Spector's friends say they've seen him in this kind of situation before. "Being Phil Spector takes a lot energy, because there are a lot of people who want something from him," says David Kessel. "I don't know how many times I've been with him in a restaurant when a stream of people come up to him and say, 'I've written this song,' 'I've got a demo in the car,' 'Can you listen to this?' "

"He's a funny guy, and very clever, but he's also shy and uncomfortable in social situations," says Bessman. "It was very hard for Phil to become a social person."

At Dan Tana's, Spector spoke briefly to the bartender and the headwaiter, shot dirty looks at DeLuca and spent most of his time deep in conversation with his guest. Spector paid the $55 bill, left behind a $500 tip and walked past the worried staff. It was past 1:30 A.M.

•

Tall blondes are rarely in short supply in the House of Blue's Foundation Room, but Clarkson was one of the tallest, blondest and most striking. She stood under a sign that read Capacity 256, but as Rob Halford played his loud, slick, hard rock music downstairs, the room was nowhere near full. Only a few people leaned against the long, carved wood bar, setting their drinks on the pounded-copper top. A few more sat on the two velvet sofas opposite the bar, flanking a large gas fireplace framed by an intricately carved dark wood mantle. A handful of guests eyed the room's three video screens, which showed Halford, former lead singer of Judas Priest, going through his paces on the stage two floors below.

Clarkson couldn't have been expecting a big crowd this early in the evening. In the short time she'd been on the job, she'd learned that the Foundation Room didn't get busy until close to midnight, when the musicians downstairs finished and the action began to migrate upward.

Since it opened on the Sunset Strip in 1994 (third in the chain of clubs co-owned by a consortium that includes Dan Aykroyd), the House of Blues had become the preeminent nightclub for touring musicians in LA. The music Hall had a capacity of almost 800, with room for more in the restaurant upstairs. The club was packed for shows that featured everyone from Lucinda Williams to Tom Jones.

The building sits across a side street from the Mondrian Hotel and Skybar and directly across Sunset Boulevard from the Hyatt West Hollywood. The club is designed to look like an old shack on the Mississippi Delta—in fact, its exterior is said to be adorned with tin imported from the Delta. But sitting as it does on this particularly flashy and crowded section of the Strip, the effect is less of a genuine juke joint and more of a Disneyland simulation.

The stage is on the bottom level of the club, which is situated on a hillside that drops away from Sunset. The restaurant takes up the middle level, while the dressing rooms and the Foundation Room sit on the top level. The Foundation Room, where Clarkson spent most of her time, is at the end of a long hallway covered in tropical-print fabric and hung with paintings of legendary blues musicians. Designed to be used by guests who pay membership fees that are reportedly about $2500, the room is also open to performers and their guests—and sometimes to the general public, or at least the members of the public who dress well enough and look presentable.

One of Clarkson's jobs was to decide who fit that criterion. As Halford performed, show stood by the entrance to the main room, manning a small desk with a computer keyboard and video screen. She greeted members and took care of those who'd reserved the private rooms, but she was also supposed to eye everyone coming into the room to make sure they had the right wristbands.

Halford finished his set sometime after midnight, and things began to pick up. Guests filtered into the main lounge, where Persian-style rugs covered the floor and walls. At the far corner of the room, a deejay spun records and an anemic light show flashed red, blue and white spots on the ceiling. Small sets of stairs led to the Buddha Room and the Ganesh Room, two smaller, Indian-themed areas designed for smaller parties that could shut the curtains for privacy.

On Sunday nights the Foundation Room was more accessible to the public because a couple of outside promoters took over for what they dubbed "Club BS." House of Blues employees had their own name for it: "Suck Night"—or, to be more accurate, "Suk Night," because the name of one of the promoters is Suk.

As Clarkson handled the influx of patrons arriving for Suk Night, she didn't expect to see many celebrities. Compared to skybar only a block to the west, the place was purely hit or miss. But Christina Aguilera had brought in a party a few weeks earlier, taking over the Ganesh Room. And Phil Spector himself had been in a short time after that, escorting Nancy Sinatra.

"He came in frequently," says one House of Blues employee. "He would ask for a private room for his group. He was sort a valued guest."

•

Close to two in the morning, Spector's black Mercedes pulled into the House of Blues driveway, stopping in front of a small desk, above which sat a blue neon sign that read Foundation Room. Spector passed the desk and headed up a few short flights of stairs on the outside of the building. At the top, he turned right into the main hallway; another right turn would have taken him into Halford's dressing room. Instead he made a quick left into the Foundation Room, to the desk where Clarkson was stationed.

With the House of Blues closing at two o'clock, Spector didn't have much time to hang out. "He went into one of the private rooms," says another employee, "and I know he ordered at least one rum drink. Somebody else said Lana was in there with him and they had a bottle of champagne, but I didn't see it."

Several employees did, however, see Clarkson and Spector talking for some time in the parking lot after the club had closed. Between 2:15 and 3:00 A.M., they got into the Mercedes and left.

"From the get-go," says one employee, "some people around here said she should have been smarter than that. But she was an actress looking for work, and she wasn't the types of person to turn something down. A lot of the people who work here are actors, and some members have a lot of money, or they produce. It pays to be friendly with those people, because you never know?

•

There were guns in the Alhambra house. Not everyone saw them—Bob Merlis was a friend for more than two decades, and he said he never saw the producer armed—but some claimed there were times when Spector carried a different gun every day. In the studio in the Seventies, his bodyguard George was always armed; Spector would often show up sporting a .38 as well. Both Leonard Cohen and the Ramones, whom Spector produced in 1977 and 1979, respectively, tell of firearms in the studio. On occasion, Dan and David Kessel would pack .38s in shoulder holsters when they went into the studio to record.

"When he would have visitors in the studio," says Dan Kessel, "he would do a run-through to balance the sound, and he'd call to the musicians section by section. 'OK, horn section!' The horns would play. 'Ok, string section! OK, gun section!' People would react, but it was just in fun. He didn't mean 'pull out your guns,' he meant 'play guitar,' "

It was just a gag," insists David Kessel. "You could say, 'What kind of a gag is that?' But Phil had so many gags in the studio. Still, the guns alarmed people more than the other gags."

What happened after Spector and Clarkson left the House of Blues is murky. At least two hours remain unaccounted for prior to her death. All that is know conclusively is that Spector's driver heard gunfire coming from the house around five A.M. and called the police. Response was almost immediate. Clarkson was lying on the imported Italian marble of the foyer, dead from a shot to the head. Spector, wearing what looked like pajamas, was standing nearyby.

Spector resisted arrest and was subdued with a Taser-like device. He was booked on suspicion of first-degree murder. But after calling attorney Robert Shapiro, he posted $1 million bail and was released later in the day. (In California, bail is automatically granted in murder cases that do not involve special circumstances.)

According to his friends, Spector did not say a word to police about the circumstances of Clarkson's death. "Bob Shapiro is the only person he's spoken to about any of it," says one friend. "He hasn't even said a word to his kids about what happened."

Spector had made his way back into the headlines, but not the way he wanted. "I'd be willing to bet you that Phil posted his bail and got to a TV that night to see his own media coverage," says a person who has spent a lot of time with Spector. "And he had to wait 20 minutes into Entertainment Tonight to see himself pop up briefly as 'Sixties Beatles producer Phil Spector.' I'm sure he was watching, and I'm sure that destroyed him."

Arraignment was originally scheduled for March 3 but has ben postponed indefinitely. Early that month, the Los Angeles Country Sheriff's homicide investigator in charge of the case said he was awaiting results from the crime lab and was planning to conduct additional interviews. "It's our job to conduct a very thorough, nonbiased and comprehensive investigation before we present our findings to the district attorney," said Lieutenant Daniel Rosenberg. "It's only speculation, but I don't think we'll be ready for another three or four months."

On February 23, some 250 friends and family members attended a memorial service for Clarkson at the Henry Fonda Music Box Theater in Hollywood. Spector, meanwhile, remained out of sight, though among his friends different scenarios began to circulate. Many agreed with the assessment of one of Spector's longtime friends, attorney Marvin Mitchelson: "I believe his defense will be that this was a tragic accident." Others began to advance what became known as "the intruder theory," that an unidentified person was present in the house and had fired the fatal shot. Another theory surfaced that Clarkson had left Spector's house and was planning to have the driver take her home when she realized she'd left something behind. When she returned to the door, the theory went, Spector thought she was an intruder and shot her in the dark. On March 10, radio station KFI-AM in Los Angeles suggested that leaked evidence has shown that Clarkson had shot herself accidentally; the sheriff's department declined to comment other than to say it had ruled out suicide, but within hours of the intial report, Spector had sent out a flurry of e-mails suggesting he'd been vindicated.

"We hate to use the words 'I told you so,' but I did tell you so," his e-mail reportedly read. He went on to claim to a reporter that he never should have been arrested that night.

The homicide investigators, thought, continued sifting evidence and, according to Caption Frank Merriman, "investigating this thing as a criminal act."

Along the canals of Venice, the bouquets that had ben laid at Clarkson's front door had long since withered and died. In the hills of Alhambra, the gates to Spector's castle remained closed.

Phil Spector Photography by © Mary Ellem Mark

To Know him is to Fear him: Phil Spector Through the Years

With the Teddy Bears, Spector releases his first hit, To Know Him is to Love Him. Teddy Bears singer Carol Connors says Spector once pulled a gun on someone who made fun of his hair.

1958

Marriage to Ronnie Bennett of the Ronettes. According to Ronnie. Phil Would not let her leave the house without permission and used intercoms to spy on her. At one point, Spector shows Ronnie's mother a glass coffin and says if Ronnie leaves him, he'll kill her and stow her corpse in it.

1968—1974

1969

Spector works on John Lennon's Rock 'N' Roll album. Lennon later claims Spector pointed a gun at Stevie Wonder—"an awkward way to threaten to kill a blind man."

1973

According to Ronnie, Spector coerces her into singing away all future royalties in her divorce settlement: "Phil threatened me several times. He told me, 'I'm going to kill you.' "

1914

Spector points a gun at Leonard Cohen. "He put his arm around my shoulder," says Cohen, "and shoved a revolver into my neck and said, 'Leonard, I love you.' "

1977

During recording sessions for the Ramones' End of the Century, Spector threatens Dee Dee Ramone and "levels his gun at my heart," according to Dee Dee.

1979

According to his son Donté, the 10-year-old runs away from home after what he describes as years of abuse. Years later, he refers to their relationship as "a thin line between love and hate."

1980

Spector's then girlfriend Devra Robitaille adds to the Spector legend by saying, "He'd turn from a lover into a monster in a split second. He always carried two guns."

1987—1989

Spector is inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

1989

In January, Spector tells the UK's Daily Telegraph, "I have devils inside that fight me." In February, Spector is arrested after Lana Clarkson is shot dead in his home.

2003

In a recent interview, spector admitted he is Bipolar. "I would say I'm probably insane to an extent," he added

Bad Vibrations

In Rock and Roll, Genius and Madness can go Hand in Hand

Who: Brian Wilson. Moment of Genius: 1966's Pet Sounds by the Beach Boys. Cracking Up: Wilson had his first nervous breakdown in 1964, following a screaming fit on an airplane. He had another breakdown during the sessions for Smile an unreleased "teenage symphony to God." Full-on Lunacy: Wilson installed a huge sandpit so he could feel the beach beneath his feet as he played piano. During the Smile sessions, orchestra members were forced to wear fireman's helmets. Last Seen: Released solo material and continues to tour.

Who: Syd Barrett. Moment of Genius: 1967's See Emily Play by Pink Floyd. Cracking Up: Barrett was legendary for his intake of LSD and erratic behavior. He was booted from the band in early 1968. Full-On Lunacy: In 1974 he surprised his bandmates at their studio. He had shaved his head—and eyebrows—and "was jumping up and down, brushing his teeth," recalls Rick Wright. Ironically, they were recording Shine On You Crazy Diamond, a song about Barrett. Last Seen: On the doorstep of his family home, in his undies. He's diabetic and nearly blind.

Who: Roky Erickson. Moment of Genius: You're Gonna Miss Me (1966) by the 13th Floor Elevators. Cracking Up: Arrested for pot possession in 1969, Roky pleaded insanity rather than serve a prison term. He was diagnosed as "floridly psychotic" and received electroshock therapy and huge doses of Thorazine. Full-On Lunacy: By the Nineties he was living in subsidized housing near Austin, Texas. He would leave multiple TVs and radios constantly blaring to drown out the voices in his head. Last Seen: Released a solo album, All That May Do My Rhyme, in 1995.

Who: Jim Gordon. Moment of Genius: Co-wrote Layla with Eric Clapton. Cracking Up: By 1969 relatives were urging him to get psychiatric help because of voices in his head. Full-On Lunacy: Gordon became convinced his mother had killed Karen Carpenter and Paul Lynde. In 1983 he attacked his mother, hitting her head repeatedly with a hammer, then stabbing her to death with a knife. Gordon maintained he was acting in self-defense to shield himself from her voice. "She's tortured me for years," he told police. Last Seen: In the California prison system.