He was a slight, older man living above what's now Mr. B's bar in Royal Oak. I use to see him heading to the lamplighter diner north of 11 Mile Rd. Other than the nazi memorabilia collector he hung around with, most of us didn't know the unassuming townie had subversive tendencies. Then he Rube Goldberged a "death" machine and helped Janet Adkins end her own life in the back of a beat up VW van (keep this on the down low, but my husband sold him used parts to keep it "operational"…the accomplice).
By the time he had his art opening at Ariana Gallery in town, he was well known as Dr. Death and a media superstar. I could only imagine the circus. Of course a preeminent business owner like myself needs to represent, this is gonna be good. His attorney was showboating for his own reality show in front of all the cameras. I braved the crowd and finally got to the paintings. A bleeding neck stump and the soldier with weapon, I fairly squealed in delight. Provocative, so my move. I should have bought it. Jack was so small you could barely see him in the crowd, the horrified bourgeoisie of Oakland County couldn't tear themselves away.
That he would not be the best spokesman for this important cause notwithstanding, he put the issue on the docket, served his time and put his life on the line. God forbid anyone should be trapped in a tortured body with no way out. That's beautiful, that's Detroit. Now who has those bus keys. Only qualified drivers should apply. 
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