Life After Death of My Twin: And Their Fbi Story

By Sheldon A. Chrysler

Represented in this book are the true life stories of identical twin rothers, Barry and Sheldon Chrysler. The twins grew up in Denver, Colorado. During the course of their lives, Barry and Sheldon's interests would differ. Barry's interest was aviation and music while Sheldon's interest was art, machinery and electronics. Later in life, both twins would become involved in aviation and start their own business together in that field. The turning point in their lives was the day the FBI paid each twin a visit. From that day forward, their lives would never be the same.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 7, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450077309

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Copyright © 2010 by Sheldon A. Chrysler.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO MY LATE IDENTICAL TWIN BROTHER BARRY B. CHRYSLER, AND OUR LATE PARENTS LOUIS AND FRIEDA CHRYSLER.

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

LIFE AFTER DEATH OF MY TWIN AND THEIR FBI STORY

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8 / EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to credit the following individuals, and organizations for the part they played on making this book possible:

To my many friends, who have stood loyally by me and helped me financially, morally and in many other ways throughout the critical times in my life. Thank you.

To the doctors and staff of the Veterans Association Medical Center, who have helped me deal with my severe depression and who have encouraged me to continue writing the manuscript for this book and followed through finding me and providing me proper medical treatment, particularly Dr. Seth Wintroub, Dr. Patricia Alexander, and Dr. Dorothy Hansen (private practice). Thank you.

To the American Legion Veterans Service Officers Jeff Hewitt and Chuck Terry, and Denver Veterans Administration Service Officer George Cassidy, who have worked hard to find me some financial resources to help financially sustain me. Thank you.

And finally, to the editor of my book, Rob Bignell, who worked diligently to complete the edit of my manuscript. Thank you.

LIFE AFTER DEATH OF MY TWIN AND THEIR FBI STORY

INTRODUCTION

Do you truly want a novel that is filled with intrigue, emotion, sorrow and laughter?

If your answer is yes, then this book is for you. It will unveil the true-life story of identical twin brothers, Barry and Sheldon Chrysler, beginning with their birth, and up to the time of the death of one twin. You will take a journey through their lives, from beginning to the end.

You will experience the lives each one of the twins led, and you’ll be a part of their good and bad experiences that include a high profile federal criminal case that was brought against the Chrysler twins by the FBI (Federal Bureau of Investigation) and United States Department of Justice. You will experience the Federal trial the twin brothers attended. The judge in the trial was Judge Richard Matsch, who presided over the Oklahoma City Bomb Trial here in Denver, Colorado.

You will feel the pain and anguish when one twin learns of his twins death and much more. Part of the sale proceeds from the purchase of my book, will be going to various well-known charitable organizations.

Thank you for your purchase of this book, and I sincerely hope you enjoy it.

Sheldon A. Chrysler

The Surviving Twin

CHAPTER 1

Friday the13th of February 1987, a cool morning in Denver, Colorado. My day started out as a usual workday at my radio shop at Stanley Aviation. The cool day it was would soon heat up dramatically by the end of the day for my identical twin brother Barry and me. Barry recently purchased a facsimile machine for me to use at my business. The sales representative came to my office, and began instructing me on the use of it. A telephone call interrupted me. It was Barry. Barry was very excitable on the telephone saying to me, Shelly, I just got a visit from the FBI. They’re now headed over to see you!

What the hell does the FBI want with you and me? I asked.

Shelly, I think we have a big problem. Barry went on to tell me what had happened. Two FBI agents began to interrogate Barry about stolen aircraft parts. The aircraft parts the FBI was talking about were the one’s Barry and I had purchased.

I asked myself, What the hell did I get my twin and me into? I was visibly upset to the point of breaking out in a cold sweat. I felt my body trembling, and my sense of logical thought lost. In spite of that however, I returned to conclude talking with the facsimile machine representative. I made just brief conversation with the representative, and was rushing him to conclude his operational instructions with me. He left, and I was alone. Intuitively, I envisioned the hell Barry and me were now headed for.

On Saturday morning, a friend of mine, Gil Rhoads, was scheduled to meet me at the Denver University ice rink to skate that morning. I was running late when I got a phone call. It was Gil. Gil called to confirm he’d meet me at the ice rink at 11 a.m. It was about 10:30 a.m., and I told Gil I was running late but would meet him as soon as I could. Shortly after the phone call with Gil, the phone rang again. I wasn’t sure whom it might be calling again and I didn’t want to be any later than I already was to meet Gil, so I let the phone ring. I headed for the back door of my house. The call I received came over the speaker of the telephone recorder saying, Shelly, call me right away. It’s about Barry. Immediately, I knew something was terribly wrong. I ran to answer the phone, and it was my brother Ron. He told me what had happened. Shelly, Barry passed away! I yelled into the phone. No! No! I got hysterical, and began to cry uncontrollably. My legs buckled, and I fell onto my dining room table in total shock and despair.

*     *     *

We grew up known to family and friends as the twins, namely Sheldon and Barry Chrysler. We were born identical twin brothers to lower middle class parents, Louis and Frieda Chrysler, at Mercy Hospital in Denver, Colorado. There were four children in our family—besides Barry and me, an older sister by eight years, Beverly, and an older brother by six years, Ron. Our father was a small, thin man with wavy hear and mustache; he had a rather mellow voice. Our father by trade was a welder. Our mother was a small woman, thin with dark hair, who wore glasses most all of the time. She regularly donned a housedress and an apron. We grew up on the west side of Denver, at 1365 Meade Street. Our house was a two-bedroom, English style, blond and dark red brick. From the street, there were several steps needed to get up to the house. It had an unfinished full basement and detached four-car garage. Our house was next to an open field that later would become known as the Westwood Housing Project, which accommodated low-income residents. Our house still stands at 1365 Meade Street. On a recent visit to the old neighborhood, very little has changed there over a period of years. What had changed, however, is Barry and I growing up following the days we left the Meade Street house. The transition of moving from West Denver to East Denver seemed to liberate the personalities in both of us. Barry was more outgoing than me. I was more introverted. Our outside interests, however, were in total contrast to each other and diametrically different. Barry became interested in airplanes, photography and music, and I became interested in art, machinery and electronics.

At birth there was about a five-minute difference between Barry and me. We were born at Mercy Hospital in Denver, Colorado on October 6, 1946. Shortly after our birth, at home one of us (Barry) went into convulsions. Barry was rushed to the hospital by ambulance where he fortunately recovered.

One day our grandmother decided to bathe us together. Each one of us had on bracelets marked with our names on it: Barry B and Sheldon A. The small bracelets fit very loosely on each of us. As our little wrists entered the water, our grandmother was shocked to find both of our bracelets floating in the bath water.

At that point, our grandmother got very excited and swiftly placed the bracelets back on our wrists. There was only one problem: She could not tell either of us apart and therefore had no idea what bracelet went on which twin. Our grandmother made a guess and arbitrarily placed a bracelet on one twin then the other.

To this day, it is not known if Barry was truly Barry and if I am truly Sheldon. After all, in the mid 1940s, who would bother to make an effort of matching footprints or whatever else is needed to verify identity? As it turned out, however, we were who we were, Barry being Barry and I being Sheldon. Later, we were nicknamed Shelly and Bare.

It wasn’t until we reached the age of five years or so that we truly began to identify with one another, believing that we were each other. We looked into the mirror and saw each other.

While Barry and I were relatively mindful children, we still were mischievous and would get into trouble with our parents. Unlike today’s more legally restrictive child constraints, our father would spank Barry and me and then send us to bed.

I recall physically fighting with Barry as children. It would begin with a bout of pushing one another, spitting on each other, and attempting to break the other’s toys. There were times where the fights between Barry and me were so violent that we drew blood on each other. I worried then about what was to come in the future during physical fights between us. But in the end we were the best of friends. If anyone picked on either one of us, we would come to each other’s defense.

Very close friends and neighbors who lived across the street from us truly loved Barry and me. Their names were Martin (Marty) and Anne Debber. Marty was a small, thin man, bald with a mustache, and a coarse gravelly voice. Marty truly loved kidding and teasing Barry and me, and no doubt, we liked it as well. He nicknamed us The God Damn Hoodlums. In turn we would call him the Hoodlum when we talked to him. Marty was by profession an investigator for the Denver District Attorney’s Office. Anne was a small woman, thin, dark hair, and a typical housewife. From time-to-time Barry and me would visit the Debbers, finding Anne doing her cooking of kosher meals, or washing cloths or cleaning the house.

Marty’s sense of humor would make anyone laugh. For example, he’d have kids loaded into his police car, going down the road with his siren blaring. Marty would be laughing and having as much fun as the kids. Anne would call both of us by the name she’d given each of us—Barry/Sheldon—to avoid miscalling us by our real names, since she couldn’t tell us apart.

It became almost automatic that on extremely cold days, Marty would load Barry, me and his daughter Joyce into his gray 1946 Ford sedan and drive us to school before he would go to work. The routine before Barry and me left for school would be to salute and wave goodbye to our parents. We would repeat this routine daily before going to school and to bed at night.

Our father would sometimes drive us to school; however, dad usually worked late into the early morning hours and then could not get up in the mornings to go to work. Our mother would be furious with him. She would have dinner ready for him, but dad would not return home until early next morning. In spite of dads’ different ways, he had a very good nature and enjoyed helping others. However, dad was too good-natured, and often people would take advantage of his good nature by not paying him for his work. As a result, our mother would verbally fight with him on a regular basis because of his inability to make a living. Dad would leave home for several days, leaving our mother home with us. When he returned, it was as though nothing ever happened. Our mother and dad were back on friendly terms.

The older neighborhood we lived in was not that friendly or safe. Crime was common, and included drugs, knifings, shootings and fistfights. I vividly recall walking home one evening with Barry and our parents from our aunt’s house a few blocks away, only to find a pool of blood on our porch. It led down the steps from our house to the end of the driveway into the curb. We later learned someone had been stabbed on our porch.

Our family did not have much money. We had outside help, usually from my aunts on our mother’s side, just to pay bills and buy groceries. Our parents had a limited education. Our mother had worked in a sweat shop as a seamstress, and our father was a welder and machinist. Although our father had only an eighth-grade education, he was very intelligent. He had designed and built heavy machinery and many other things that amazed others for a person with his limited education. Our father was born and raised in Denver, while our mother immigrated to the United States from Hungary when a little girl.

Though we had little money in our family, Barry and I had a great deal of love from both our parents. Our mother would make gourmet dishes for us from leftovers. Our father would take us to a junk iron yard, so we could pick out the toy of our choice. More often than not, the toy would be broken, and we’d take it to our father’s welding shop where he would help us fix it. We played with these toys for many years, and especially appreciated them because they were something we had fixed and got operating again. We did receive gifts (toys, etc.) from our friends and some relatives. Still, none were more enjoyable and appreciated than the toys we got at the junkyard.

As very young children, Barry and I had a fascination with flashlights. We had a few different types that each of us would carry with us. On one occasion, Barry and I were taken to Saint Anthony’s Hospital to have our tonsils removed. As the nun/nurse turned out the lights in a dorm-type room several of us children were in, Barry and I would turn on our flashlights, keeping the other children awake. It didn’t take long for the nun/nurse to see what was going on, and she walked in the dorm and confiscated our flashlights.

At the age of about five years old, we entered kindergarten at the old Cheltenham Elementary School at West Colfax on Irving Street in Denver. The school was a big red brick and light stone building, built in the later 1800s; newer sections were added in the early 1900s. Our kindergarten teacher’s name was Mrs. Pendergast. There were students in the class that were deficient on learning how to read and other studies as well. Barry and I were among those who were deficient. I recall we were separated in groups according to the ability to learn to read. This deficiency affected both Barry and I in years to come throughout school, up to and including college. In spite of the tough time both of us had academically, we both managed to make it through school.

One day Barry and I walked to Cheltenham Elementary School, and found one section of the school was closed off. The section closed was due to a fire the previous day or so. As we entered the opened part of the building, I recall the wrenched odor of burnt wood. The section that burned was rebuilt with fire doors and updated safety features added to the building.

After Mrs. Pendergast would adjourn the class, our mother would be outside the classroom door waiting for us. From there, it was sometimes a visit to the small grocery store next to the school, Baker’s Grocery, and/or bakery shop named Forman’s Bakery. Sometimes our mother would stop at the drugstore. That would be GEM Drugs, a small drugstore on the corner of Lowell and West Colfax. All of these stores would be located on the path leading to our house.

Arriving home, I recall our mother would begin baking cookies or cream puffs from scratch for us kids. She had the very minimum of ingredients but was an innovative person when it came to cooking and homemaking. Most of all, our mother was very compassionate. Her warm smile and sense of humor could win the hearts of anyone. I know for a fact it did with Barry and me.

Our mother didn’t drive. To take us to the doctor in downtown Denver, our mother would call a relative or take a bus. Either way,