About Me - Brutal Awkening

I was born in California and spent thirty years working as a private investigator. I am also a CEO with expertise in security and executive protection, and I have long served as an advocate for victims. Ten years ago, I relocated to Las Cruces, New Mexico, where I have continued my investigative work alongside my writing.

I have provided security for high-profile figures such as Sharon and Kelly Osborne, Chaz Bono, Molly Ringwald, Queen Latifah, Randy Quaid, and Margaret Cho. 

I  have been involved in security and executive protection at prestigious events like the Golden Globes, the Academy Awards, and more. Additionally, I was a member of several organizations, including The Lambda Legal Defense and Education Fund, The National Center for LGBTQ Rights the California Association of Licensed Investigators, The Doris Tate Crime Bureau, Citizens Against Homicide, Peace Over Violence, The National Center for Victims of Crime, Project Sister, and The Doris Day Animal Foundation. 

People often ask whether being a private investigator is fun and glamorous. Fun? At times, absolutely. Glamorous? Not really—unless, of course, you are a Hollywood P.I.

As a child, I was relentlessly curious, always paying attention to things I probably should not have noticed at such a young age. I saw and overheard more than most children do. Playing spy was my favorite game, though I never imagined it would someday become my profession.

The news offers a filtered glimpse of the world’s darker side, but nothing compares to witnessing it firsthand. I have seen young boys using drugs and drinking alcohol before school. I have observed sexual acts carried out openly—by homeless individuals on the street and by cheating spouses in parked cars. I have stood in phone booths while intoxicated strangers relieved themselves nearby, unaware or unconcerned that I was there. Some cases—particularly those involving child abuse or deeply disturbing behavior—left me so shaken that I cried myself to sleep.

Even my vehicle has not been immune. During surveillance, people have spat on it, smeared mayonnaise across the windows, thrown objects, deflated my tires, and even attempted to steal it while I was inside. Once, two men leaned against my van and bragged about manipulating women with false declarations of love to get sex. Every instinct told me to confront them, but preserving my cover always came first.

These experiences have tested my faith and patience in ways I never anticipated. Many times, I have had to ask God for the strength not to take justice into my own hands. Through it all, I came to appreciate life’s simplest blessings: green grass, quiet streets, clean air, domestic animals, wildlife, and genuinely kind people.

Why stay in a profession that exposes you to so much darkness? Justice. I have the privilege of helping victims and survivors find answers, uncovering the truth, and holding dishonest people accountable. For those who feel lost or powerless, I can offer clarity, direction, and support.

Not every day is grim. Surveillance has also given me a front-row seat to the beauty of the world—crows demonstrating remarkable intelligence, squirrels darting with purpose, dogs and cats wandering freely, and breathtaking landscapes stretching across deserts, mountains, and coastlines. I was once even attacked by peacocks in Mendocino County, California—an occupational hazard I never anticipated.

Being a female private investigator comes with advantages. People rarely suspect me. Security guards open gates with a smile. Children and adults alike confide in me because I appear approachable, often dressed in Disney-themed clothing rather than something intimidating.

My work took on an unexpected level of public attention when Kirby Dick and Eddie Schmidt of Chain Camera hired me to investigate the Motion Picture Association of America’s rating system (MPAA). At first, I did not fully grasp the magnitude of what I was stepping into. The deeper I went, the more disturbed I became. The Classification and Rating Administration routinely rated extreme violence more favorably than something as innocent as two fully clothed women kissing.

As a lesbian, a mother, and a rape survivor, I found this deeply troubling. What message does that send to our children—that violence is more acceptable than love? The bias extended further, with gay and lesbian films consistently rated more harshly than their heterosexual counterparts. That injustice strengthened my resolve to expose the truth.

The experience forced me to reflect on the concept of “normal.” What defines a normal family? Some may not see my life with Cheryl and our family as fitting a traditional mold, yet we raised two remarkable children and now cherish our grandchildren. To me, family is defined by unconditional love, understanding, and showing up for one another. Embracing who I truly am allowed me to find the happiness I had long deserved—happiness grounded in love and sustained by faith.

As I continue my work—whether uncovering deception or helping someone heal from betrayal—I remain grateful. This career has shown me humanity at its worst, but it has also taught me to cherish everything I have. None of it would have been possible without Cheryl and God by my side.

I have been in a loving relationship for thirty-five years. Together, we are helping raise our grandson and granddaughter, a source of immense joy in my life. I recently self-published a children’s book, Oolygalees, co-authored with my granddaughter. I am currently completing my novel, Brutal Awakening, with two additional children’s books and my grandfather’s story, Kid from Hell’s Kitchen, planned next.

Brutal Awakening is both a personal reckoning and a broader examination of power, silence, and survival—offering readers an intimate, uncompromising perspective from someone who lived the reality behind the headlines.

My manuscript weaves together my personal history with the stories of my cases over the past thirty years. These include investigations involving domestic violence, child abuse, rape survivors, murder, terrorism, and kidnapping, as well as work within the entertainment industry. Notable cases and professional associations include Randy Quaid, Marilyn Monroe’s assistant Pat Newcomb, comic-book legend Stan Lee, producer David G. Riggs, the exposure of the MPAA through the documentary This Film Is Not Yet Rated, and my longtime friend Peter F. Paul.

Brutal Awkening is both a personal reckoning and a broader examination of power, silence, and survival—offering readers an intimate, uncompromising perspective from someone who lived the reality behind the headlines.

Why James Patterson Believes Marilyn Monroe Was Murdered

I’ve read about yet another book repeating the same claims about Marilyn Monroe, and I genuinely cannot understand why people continue to buy and read them. James Patterson has just published a new book asserting that Marilyn Monroe was murdered, but this is hardly new information. Many authors before him have made the same claim for decades. His book adds nothing original—it simply recycles theories that have already been published countless times. When are they going to stop?

James Edward McClure - The Monster Who Came Back Into My Life- excerpts from my book

It was Easter 1988, and my husband Russ was overseas. We had just moved into the brand-new officers' housing at Camp Pendleton, where the ocean greeted us each time we stepped into the room. Only a few months had passed when Russ deployed for six months. It was the first time I had ever lived alone.

Still, I loved where we lived. Our home sat at the end of a cul-de-sac with only six houses. Just outside our door was a small park where Kevin could play, though I rarely saw anyone else.

That Easter morning, Kevin and I were excitedly driving to the city park, where our family gathered each year to celebrate. The sun streamed into the car, casting everything in a golden glow, while the sky stretched endlessly blue above us.

We arrived at a small park—simple yet inviting—with a few scattered trees, picnic tables, and a modest playground buzzing with kids. My relatives had already claimed a table beneath a large oak tree.

As we parked, the cheerful sounds of laughter swirled around us, blending with the mouthwatering aroma of roasted chicken drifting through the air.

“It was a good idea for us to come today,” I said to Kevin, smiling as we walked toward the gathering.

I settled beside my mom, content to soak in the warmth of the moment—laughter, chatter, the sight of children running wild. Eventually, the food made its rounds, and to my surprise, I had an appetite. I ate heartily for the first time in what felt like ages. Afterward, my mom wandered off while I relaxed in the breeze, sharing stories and laughter with family, my eyes always drifting to Kevin as he played on the grass nearby.

Amidst the chaos of play, Kevin suddenly broke away from his cousins and began walking toward me. I smiled at him—until I noticed something behind him.

A figure in the distance.

At first, just a silhouette against the sun. But as he approached, the shape grew clearer: a man in Levi’s and a red short-sleeve shirt. My stomach clenched.

The way he carried himself—the broad shoulders, the confident stride—I knew it before I could stop myself from knowing.

No. Not here. Not today.

But as he stepped closer, the impossible became real.

Jim McClure.

My cousin. The man who had molested and raped me as a child—and not just me. He had violated others, leaving a trail of shattered lives. Now he stood before me as if no time had passed, as if nothing had happened.

“Hello,” he said casually, like we were old friends. Like he wasn’t a monster.

I froze.

Panic exploded inside me. Without a word, I grabbed Kevin and turned away. My vision blurred as sunlight pierced my tears. I walked fast, breathing hard, trying to escape the weight of memory that had crashed down on me.

Then, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

I flinched, my whole body bracing.

Was it him?

I turned.

It was my mom.

“Why are you acting this way? You didn’t even say hello to Jim!” she remarked, confusion painting her face.

I was taken aback, my silence profound as I struggled to comprehend her words. 

“You should treat him better; he's a nice person who has paid for his mistakes. The years have changed him. He's truly sorry for what he did,” she continued, her voice dripping like a child.

Disgust surged within me, and I started walking away again. Mom hurried after me, her voice unwavering.

“Listen to me, Becky! We’ve talked since his release. He mentioned how you and he played together when you were young."

I stopped short, battling to find my voice as rage and humiliation closed in. My cheeks burned with shame. How could my own mother misunderstand everything so completely?

“I think it's sweet that you had a childhood crush on him. There's no need for guilt, honey.”

But my frustration finally erupted. 

BECKY

“I... NEVER... HAD... A... CRUSH... ON... HIM... MOM! THE... TRUTH... IS... JIM... MOLESTED... AND... RAPED... ME... THROUGHOUT... MY... CHILDHOOD... AND... I... AM... AFRAID... OF... HIM!”

Her reaction was startlingly dismissive.

“If that makes you feel better to say that,” she said flatly.

“When did he get out of prison? Where is he staying? I need to know where to avoid.”

“He’s staying with me. He has nowhere else to go.”

The weight of her words crashed over me like a wave of betrayal.

“Well then, I guess you’re the one I need to stay away from.”

“Becky, you’re being ridiculous. When are you going to grow up?”

I turned away from her, my heart heavy with sorrow and frustration. I grabbed Kevin’s hand, and we walked to the car, leaving my mother behind—both physically and, in many ways, emotionally.

As we drove off, I glanced in the rearview mirror. There she was, standing with Jim, talking to him like nothing had ever happened—as if he hadn’t shattered my childhood. Their casual proximity sent a chill through me. I turned my eyes back to the road, my grip tightening on the steering wheel.

When we got home, I took Kevin to the playground. He deserved normalcy—laughter, sunlight, a few moments of joy. I sat on one of the empty benches, my body still, but my mind spinning. The breeze moved softly through the trees, the swing chains creaked gently, and for a moment, it almost felt calm.

But inside, I was unraveling.

I began drinking heavily again. It was the only thing that dulled the pain, the betrayal, the shame that clung to me like a second skin. I felt completely alone. There was no one I could talk to. Russ was far away, and even if he’d been closer, it wouldn’t have mattered.

When I told him what Jim had done to me as a child, he got upset—not at Jim, but at me, as if I had done something wrong. Like I was the one who should have been ashamed.

Would you like to continue from here? We could explore what pulled me out of that dark place—or go deeper into the isolation and the resilience it took to survive it.

--To Be Continued!--