A listener note. This story contains adult content and language.

John Michael Meann may or may not have had some connection to organized crime.

Whether to intimidate people or to impress them with his dark glamour,

he bragged frequently about his underworld ties.

He claimed to trace his bloodline to the prolific east coast hitman who ran murder ink itself.

He lied about everything, so who really knew?

What unnerved people, once they got in his bad side,

is how he talked about the mob's way of doing things,

with a touch of real admiration in his voice.

Like the mob's tactic of getting back at enemies,

they didn't go after the enemies themselves. A dead enemy couldn't suffer after all.

You went after the loved ones. You went after their families.

Jacqueline Newell was living with her mother, Deborah, at the Carlisle apartments in Irvine near the airport.

They were afraid of Deborah's estranged husband, John.

They kept waiting for police to charge him with lighting Deborah's car on fire,

but two months had passed, and there had been no arrests, no restraining order.

Deborah had cut John off from her money. She wasn't taking his calls or texts.

She and her kids were looking after John's golden retriever Murphy, which he'd left at a pound.

And Deborah had the Buick Enclave he'd been using, which had been impounded after he ran it into a gate.

John had been staying in Henderson, Nevada, but nobody knew for sure when he might appear here in Irvine.

Jacqueline felt he was watching them. He didn't have a car. He didn't have his dog,

and he was just spiraling out of control. He didn't really have much to live for. He didn't have

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