Run, Bambi, Run: Cop, Playboy Bunny and Accused Murderer
Why Campside Co-founder Vanessa Grigoriadis wanted to tell the story of Laurie Bembenek
This is part of Inside the Tent, a series going behind the scenes of Campside’s award winning podcasts.
Listen to Run, Bambi, Run now on Apple Podcasts, Spotify or wherever you get your podcasts.
I'm attracted to the flashy and iconic as a journalist — I’ve never been able to see my way through a story with low stakes — and have interviewed many women in the spotlight over the years, from Madonna to Nancy Pelosi and many stars in between.
But before beginning work on my Campside and Apple TV+ podcast Run, Bambi, Run, I had never heard of one incredibly famous icon of the 1980s, with a life you can’t quite believe. Her name was Laurie Bembenek, or Bambi, for short.
At first blush, Laurie's life may seem like a quotidian one. Brought up in the Bayview neighborhood on Milwaukee’s South Side, Laurie, born in 1958, was the favored daughter of a homemaker and a policeman turned carpenter. As a child, she was an academic standout and a diligent student of the flute.
Then, in her late teen years, she blossomed into one of the world’s great beauties, with a corona of curly blonde hair and the carriage of a supermodel. She dated furiously and could’ve walked runways, but since this was Milwaukee in the late 70s, she’s best known for her appearance in a Schlitz Brewing Company calendar, posing in a slinky dress and a string of pearls as “Miss March.”
“Miss March” didn’t pay the bills, though, so Laurie started taking whatever jobs she could find: strapping on her leg warmers to teach aerobics at the gym; draping clothing on department store mannequins; and then, after reading in the newspaper that women and minorities were newly recruited to join the notoriously brutal Milwaukee police force, deciding to apply to become a cop.
This may seem shocking in 2024. But in 1979, in her post-collegiate state of mind, Laurie was an A-student seeking a job with stability and a pension, and the police force had both. (Plus she was quite the fan of men, and uniforms).
You’ll have to listen to the podcast to hear all about what happened there, but within months of passing every test with flying colors, Laurie — nicknamed Bambi by the boys in blue — was pushed out, along with many of the other women who had signed up for the force. Seems like the police chief didn’t really want women cops in Milwaukee; he just wanted to file some paperwork with the diversity commission showing he'd recruited some.
Again, a relatively quotidian life. But there were so many twists in Bambi’s life to come: a gender-based lawsuit over her firing with the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission; a job as a Playboy Bunny at the Lake Geneva Playboy Club (I did say she loved a uniform); and marriage to a handsome detective, one with his own nickname, Disco Fred.
By now it’s 1981, and on a warm summer night, Disco Fred’s ex-wife turns up dead. Whoever could’ve done this dastardly deed? To the cops, there’s only one choice: it has to be Bambi, the innocent doe turned killer Playboy Bunny. One of America’s first televised trials began quickly thereafter, focusing on the good looks and evil nature. She was found guilty and sentenced to life in Taycheedah women’s prison in north Wisconsin.
And again, this could’ve been the end of Bambi's story. But all good icons become that by having a story that grows over time, with twists and longevity. Next Bambi found feminism in prison, and linked up with female activists who were sure she was not guilty of the crime. She also met a guy who would help her get out of prison.
The little deer who ran away was the biggest story in America in 1990, and since we love an underdog in our culture, some commentators began saying she hadn’t committed Disco Fred’s ex-wife’s murder after all, but had been set up, possibly, by some combination of forces within the Milwaukee police department.
By the time she was captured waiting tables under an assumed name in Thunder Bay, Ontario, she was an international cause celeb. The courts hammered out a deal with her: she needed to plea to second degree murder (rather than first), and she would be set free.
Bambi took the deal, even though she insisted until her death that she was innocent. And death came far too soon. Always a party girl, Bambi fell into depression over the difficulty of reentering society as a convict, and became an alcoholic. She died in 2010, at 52.
I didn’t start reporting the story until ten years later, and when I began, I realized that she was far from the only character who passed away. Many of the cops, Laurie’s friends, and even the boyfriend who had broken her out of prison, were no longer with us. A lot of hard living had gone on in Milwaukee back in the 70’s, and the story was disappearing before my eyes.
And I didn’t want to be one of the only people who knew who Laurie was — I wanted her iconic story to be remembered for years, in all of its important beats and tabloid excess. I’m proud of the podcast I made with Ashleyanne Krigbaum and Mark McAdam, and the history that we helped live on.
Thanks for reading, and I hope you’re curious enough to take a listen to the podcast. Plus, subscribe now and come back Inside the Tent next week for more Campside stories.
Vanessa