Searching for the Santa Claus Bandit

It was the typical Christmas Day lunch. I was sitting at the table with my parents and brothers, listening to my father wax nostalgic for the holidays of his childhood when he dropped this shocker:

“Mom’s brother was the Santa Claus Bandit.”

My brothers and I stopped eating and stared at Dad. “What does that mean?” I asked. “Santa Claus Bandit?”

It was no secret that one of Grandma Betty’s brothers “had done time” in prison, but she would never talk about it, telling anyone who dared to ask that the past belonged in the past. Out of respect for her, I never pressed her on it.

However, this was our first Christmas without her, and my father’s comment caused my journalistic instincts to go into overdrive. Just who was this Santa Claus Bandit?

He was Abraham Dean, the oldest of Grandma Betty’s brothers. Named for their alcoholic, abusive father, he was nicknamed Jock and inherited what my father calls “the bad Dean gene.” He spent most of his life in trouble, having petty brushes with the law until for some unknown reason he started robbing banks. He earned his nickname because he apparently said “Merry Christmas” as he made his escape. He was eventually caught, served time in the state prison in Joliet and never saw his family again.

My father claimed not to know anything else. I told him he would have made a lousy journalist and I must have inherited that particular set of skills from Mom. I was disappointed that someone who grilled me so hard about the buffet at my hotel in Las Vegas that I felt like I was talking to a gluttonous Barbara Walters didn’t think to ask more questions about the Santa Claus Bandit. My brothers echoed my disappointment, claiming that for once Dad had an interesting family story and didn’t bother getting any of the details. They’ve forgotten about it, but I can’t let it go.

I am no longer a full time journalist, but I still know how to research a story. I could find out who the Santa Claus Bandit is. The question is do I really want to? See, I could find out the facts about the Santa Claus Bandit . . . who, what, when, where and how. But what I really want to know is why, and that’s not as easy to find. And I know I won’t find the why I really want to know because the one person who can answer that for me is gone.

What I really want to know is why Grandma Betty never talked about this brother, why she clammed up whenever anyone tried to ask her about it. She took his secrets to her grave, and I want to know why. I’m not sure that answer could be found in dusty old court and prison records.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to try.