Feb. 25, 1958

The biggest hero is often the last heralded.

He acts with such quiet, automatic efficiency that he destroys the
drama of his own actions. He remains anonymous, unknown and unthanked
for his service.

Today I have a nominee to join the ranks of such men. His name is Bill
Squires. He’s a mechanic by trade and he lives in a section of Carbon
Canyon, near Pomona, known as Sleepy Hollow.

He was involved in a headline story over the weekend. He was, in fact, its hero.

But he performed his heroics so well, so quietly, so efficiently that not one article about the incident mentioned his name.

Although he didn’t know it at the time, Bill became involved with the
story at 6 p.m. Friday, when he stopped off at a neighborhood cafe on
his way home from job-hunting.

The cafe–ordinarily jammed on Fridays–was without a customer.

Bill joked with the owner about it. "What have you been feeding them?" he asked.

The owner laughed, grimly. "Haven’t you heard?"

Bill hadn’t.

"There’s a maniac on the loose," the owner continued. "Killed a
policeman and ran off into the woods. Supposed to be around here
someplace. The police have warned everybody to stay inside."

Although it didn’t particularly worry Bill, he decided to get along
home to his wife and five kids. When he reached there, a few minutes
later, he mentioned the incident.

Then it was dropped, forgotten.

Shortly after dark, the Squires family retired. Garey, the oldest boy
at 9, went to his bedroom on the upper level of the hillside house. The
others retired to their rooms downstairs.

At about 11:30, Lucille, Bill’s wife, heard someone walking around
upstairs. She called out, but Garey didn’t answer. Her husband awakened,
and he called too. Still no answer.

So he moved quietly up the stairs, with his wife following him. The
Squires’ living room, with an outside entrance and kitchen, are also on
the upper level.

Bill checked the bedroom. Garey was asleep. Then he walked into the
living room and by the dim light of the night, he saw a figure lying on
the couch.

"Hello there," Bill spoke.

"Hi," was the reply.

Bill flipped on the light. The figure was that of a man, bearded and
slightly wild-eyed. The man was smoking. His wet shoes and socks and
pants lay on the floor, and he was covered by some clothing belonging
to Bill’s children.

Bill asked, "What’s the matter? Are you lost?

The man grunted. "I’m just tired."

Are you hungry?" said Bill. "You want some coffee?"

The man said yes. So while Mrs. Squires went into the kitchen, Bill
remained. He figured this was the dangerous fugitive whom 150 police
were tracking the hills to find. He knew the man was armed, but he
couldn’t see the gun. So he made conversation–easy, friendly
conversation.

The Squires had no phone. So when Mrs. Squires returned with the coffee, Bill made a decision.

"How would you like a beer, mister,?" he asked.

The man grunted yes.

Bill explained that he didn’t have one in the house, but that there was
a store about a block away. He’d go down and bring back a couple
bottles, he said.

It was tough to decide who should go, Bill admitted later. But his wife
was expecting a child within a few weeks and he didn’t want her running
down the hill to the store.

Bill left when he decided the intruder would be content for a few
minutes. The round trip–to get the beer and notify police and
return–took about three minutes.

He poured his guest’s bottle into a plastic mug, gave it to him and
then continued with the idle conversation. The man wasn’t much of a
talker, but he did mention that he’d picked cotton in Texas and
Mississippi.

The 10 minutes it took the police to arrive seemed like hours, but when
they came they moved in fast. And before Lester Dean Bonds, the
deranged killer of an Ontario policeman, knew what was going on, he
found himself handcuffed and on the way to jail.

[Note: California death records say Lester Dean Bonds died April 13, 1986, in Alameda County at the age of 73.]