Jerry Lee Lewis and wife Shawn Stevens Lewis attend a Pre-GRAMMY Party at the Biltmore Hotel. February 23, 1983| Credit: Ron Galella/Getty Images.
“The Strange And Mysterious Death of Mrs. Jerry Lee Lewis”
Jerry Lee Lewis (born September 29, 1935) the American singer-songwriter, musician, and pianist, often known by his nickname, The Killer. He is often viewed as “rock & roll’s first great wild man.
Tragedies have cast a pall over much of The Killer’s life. At age 22, after helping lead the rockabilly revolution with such hits as Great Balls of Fire and Whole Lot of Shakin’ Goin’On, he watched his career tailspin into scandal when he took his 13-year-old cousin Myra for his third wife. In 1962 his 3-year-old son, Steve Allen Lewis, named after the talk-show host, drowned in the family pool. Eleven years later Jerry Lee Lewis Jr., 19, was killed in an auto accident. Lewis’ bouts with drink and drugs came to be as commonly publicized as his marital woes, and in 1980 his estranged fourth wife, Jaren, took him to court, accusing him of threatening her life. While awaiting a final divorce decree, Jaren, 39, also drowned in a swimming accident.
The killer was in his bedroom, behind the door of iron bars, as Sonny Daniels, the first ambulance man, moved down the long hall to the guest bed- room to check the report: “Unconscious party at the Jerry Lee Lewis residence.”
Lottie Jackson, the housekeeper, showed Sonny into a spotless room: Gauzy drapes filtered the noonday light; there was nothing on the tables, no clothes strewn about, no dust; just a body on the bed, turned away slightly toward the wall, with the covers drawn up to the neck. Sonny probed with his big, blunt fingers at a slender wrist: it was cold. “It’s Miz Lewis,” Lottie said. “I came in…I couldn’t wake her up….” Sonny already had the covers back, his thick hand on the woman’s neck where the carotid pulse should be: The neck retained its body warmth, but no pulse. Now he bent his pink moon-face with its sandy fuzz of first beard over her pale lips: no breath. He checked the eyes. “Her eyes were all dilated. That’s an automatic sign that her brain has done died completely.”
Matthew Snyder, the second ambulance man, had barely finished Emergency Medical Technician school. He was twenty, blond, beefy, even younger than Sonny, and just starting with the Hernando, Mississippi, ambulance team. Even rookies knew there wasn’t anything uncommon about a run to Jerry Lee’s to wake up some passed-out person. But Matthew saw there was something uncommonly wrong now, as he caught the look of worry and excitement from Sonny over at the bed. “Go ahead and check her over,” said Sonny, and Matthew restarted the process with the woman’s delicate wrist. He saw, up on her forearm, the row of angry little bruises, like someone had grabbed her hard. He saw the little stain of dried blood on the web of her hand. He shook his head at Sonny: no pulse.
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