Doc: The Rape of the Town of Lovell (40 page)

Over nachos at the Big Horn restaurant, Judi talked demographics with Dave Wilcock and the area's new rape counselor, Patricia Wiseman. By now they'd interviewed two dozen victims and had the names of more. Of the total, four were Hispanic Catholics, one a Lutheran of German descent, and the rest Mormons. "Does that make sense?" Dave asked. "No Methodists, no Presbyterians, no Baptists? Not one member of the Bible Church? This town's only half-Mormon, you know."

Pat Wiseman said the numbers made sense if you understood that rape was a crime of hatred and rage, not passion. Dr. Story had abused ethnics, whom he'd always referred to as "those people," and Mormons, whose "satanic" doctrines enraged him, and poor Hayla Fink Farwell, who seemed to qualify for rape because of her German ancestry. He'd made a move on another woman of German descent, the motelkeeper Eloise Benson, but she'd stalked out of his office in anger. Minutes later, he'd told a nurse, "Those damn Germans!"

Judi picked up a nacho and put it back down. "He's pretty consistent," she observed. "Don't you wish we had stats on all his rapes? I wonder what they'd show."

Pat Wiseman said that only about one rape in five was reported to police, and most went unsolved or unprosecuted. Reliable figures were hard to come by, but it was doubtful that more than one rape in every thirty or forty resulted in hard jail time. Judi wondered how much more shocking those estimates would be in a back-eddy town where women were afraid to say "vagina."

In the office, the investigators set about bringing their files up to date for the demanding county attorney, Terry Tharp. Under the heading "real good," they listed the victims who'd seen Story's penis or been asked to guide it in. Under "pretty good," they listed the women who hadn't seen or touched it but were positive they'd been violated. Under "not-courtroom," they listed the ones who were "pretty sure" or merely had patterns of unusually frequent Pelvics. In trial, these weaker cases would diminish the impact of the others.

Then
there were the "ah-hahs!"—the fondled children, the
Women
who were asked to do
naked
gymnastics, the victims who
Went
in for sore throats, the ones like Dorothy Brinkerhoff whose
intimate parts had been stroked. Wilcock and the two women agreed that the "ah-hahs" constituted sexual abuse, but not the kind that would sway a jury.

Pat Wiseman explained, "That kind of abuse is a power and authority thing. 'I can make you do something, bitch. You can cry and blush and be embarrassed, but by God you'll do it.' It's
the
classic woman-hating syndrome."

"It may not be courtroom material," Judi put in, "but it sure makes the pie whole."

Toward the end of October, the investigators had a thick sheaf of statements and more leads than they could check out. Wilcock was working two shifts a day and losing some of his rotundity. His pretty wife's fingers were sore from typing reports gratis. And Judi was having nightmares.

"Let's set a deadline," she suggested wearily, "and then let
the
prosecutor take it from there." They agreed on Halloween night.

A week before the deadline, she drove her red Fiero two hundred miles over the Rockies to Evanston, in the far southwest corner o the state, and interviewed a former Lovell physician, Henry Es-kens. She typed up the report herself:

Dr. Eskens said that he was aware, through conversations with some of his patients and friends, that Dr. John Story raped women in his office during examinations. Dr. Eskens recalled that the first day he entered the North Big Horn County Hospital in Lovell W Y, a man walked up to him, asked him if he was the new doctor and what he could do to keep Dr. Story from what he did to his (this man's) wife. . . .

Dr. Eskens said that there were two major reasons for his
leav
ing Lovell. . . . One reason was a disagreement with the hospita board. The other reason was that Dr. Story's unethical conduct concerned Dr. Eskens, and he felt that if he remained in Lovell, his reputation would be tainted. Dr. Eskens said he did not want to be known as one of those dirty little doctors from Lovell. Dr.
Eskens
said that Dr. Story was a very strange man, that when you talked to him, you couldn't get in touch with his emotions.

Dr. Eskens said that at least twenty women told him about being

JUDI CASHEL

assaulted by Dr. Story. Dr. Eskens said that his wife, Esther, had headed the legislative committee which rewrote the sexual assault statute. The subsection which specifically refers to doctors, Dr. Eskens referred to as Dr. Story's own law.

When I spoke to Esther Eskens, she confirmed that she, too, had conversations with women about their being assaulted by Dr. Story, and that because of Dr. Story, a special subsection referring to doctors had been included in the sexual assault statute. Dr. Eskens said that what Dr. Story did to women while examining them was certainly not a matter of malpractice, but was felonious misconduct. . . .

Dr. Eskens said "that a properly done pelvic examination would take about twenty seconds," "pelvic examinations are not done on pregnant women except occasionally on an early first visit and then near delivery to check the cervix, unless there was a special problem," that when he gives pelvic examinations, he never is closer to the patient's body than about 14 inches, and that there is no examination tool used to give pelvic exams which could be mistaken for a penis.

Judi showed her report to Wilcock and asked, "Enough?"

"Enough," he said.

62

ARREST

I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day. What hours, O what black hours we have spent This night.

—Gerard Manley Hopkins

Dave Wilcock knew their cover was blown and the arrest had to be quick and dirty; otherwise there might be more trouble than a seven-man police department could handle. He was firmly convinced that Story's supporters were capable of violence.

It was noon on Halloween, Wednesday, October 31, 1984. The justice of the peace didn't seem to understand the urgency. He read the warrants with aggravating slowness, then read them again. He kept wringing his hands and saying, "This is so sad. Oh, this is so terrible."

He asked Judi if she realized what she was doing to Dr. Story. Judi said "Yes, sir" and kept smiling. At last he signed the warrants and handed them over.

The arrest plans had been carefully laid, but Wilcock had spent ten years learning that nothing was predictable in the Rose Town. The program called for officers to serve a search warrant on the clinic while Judi, Dave, and Deputy Sheriff Bill Dobbs carried out a quiet arrest. Before Story's hot-eyed supporters knew he was in custody, he would be pressing his fingertips to an ink pad in the Big Horn County Jail.

Mrs. Story answered the front door of the house on Nevada and Judi asked, "Is the doctor here?"

"No," the small woman answered. Her wide brown eyes told them that she knew why they were here. Lately the Storys had seemed to know everything before it happened. "He went downtown on an errand," Mrs. Story explained. "He'll probably be right back."

Judi Cashel said, "Thank you, ma'am." Wilcock thought she sounded like a waitress who'd just accepted a nice tip.

As they walked back down the driveway to the two police cars, the chief blew on his hands. When he'd finished his day's work at 3
a.m
. the night before, the temperature had registered 14. He guessed it was now in the forties. But he still felt cold and apprehensive. Any minute now, he could be out of a job.

They were driving downhill toward the Town Hall, Deputy Dobbs in one car and Judi and Dave in the other, when Wilcock spotted a short, slight man in front of the Coast to Coast store at Main and Nevada. It was the only intersection in Lovell with a stoplight and the last spot in town he would have chosen for the arrest.

Story was walking toward his parked car with a large package under his arm. Wilcock jumped out and said, "Dr. Story, we have a warrant for your arrest. The charge is second-degree assault. You'll have to come with us."

Story blinked through his heavy-rimmed glasses. "Oh, you're kidding," he said in his thin voice.

"No, sir," Wilcock said. "Will you come with us?"

Story stepped toward the curb and the chief grabbed his arm. It felt like a child's. Story looked annoyed and said, "I just want to put my package in the car."

Wilcock let him unload the package and guided him into the backseat of the patrol car between himself and Judi. Normal arrest procedure called for handcuffs, but they'd decided to waive their own rule.

"Doctor," Wilcock said, "this is Sergeant Cashel." Story offered no handshake or acknowledgment.

On the half-block ride to the Town Hall, he said, "This is utterly ridiculous."

Wilcock read him his rights and handed over a written Miranda waiver. He refused to sign. The chief said, "Dr. Story, this paper just confirms that we've given you your rights."

"I'm not signing," he mumbled.

Judi had been rehearsing the interrogation in her mind. She didn't expect to get much—a minor admission, a slip of the tongue. That was about the most you could expect from a fox like Story. She was glad that the plan called for her to conduct the interview. This was the county attorney's case and technically she was his investigator.

She wasn't surprised when Story immediately demanded to know who'd sent her from Cheyenne to get him. The old sexist power game was on. It fit his profile perfectly. The unstated message was that a female couldn't exercise authority on her own. "Was it the Medical Board?" he asked. "The governor's office?" Judi thought, What a grandiose little egoist you are!

She'd already arranged the furniture in the front room of the police office. There was a "hot seat" for Story and a large chair for Wilcock. Judi would sit behind the desk, slightly elevated. It was basic interrogation technique, rooted in upmanship psychology and taught in every police academy.

Story made a beeline for Wilcock's chair. "No, sir," Judi said firmly. "You'll have to sit here." The hot seat was the lowest chair in the room.

From her position behind the desk, she opened her notebook, penciled in the time—1442—and said, "Your name is John H. Story. Is that correct?"

"Yes." He seemed bemused.

"What's the 'h' stand for?"

"Is that important?"

"It's just for our records."

"My middle name is not important," he said, peering through his glasses. She had to strain to hear.

"Date of birth?"

His eyes narrowed as he asked, "Why do you need that?"

Judi knew exactly what he was doing. He was trying to trivialize the interview and put her on the defensive, a standard technique of miscreants from speeders to mass murderers.
Who, me? You've made a serious mistake, officer.
... If Story only knew how banal his performance was. He peered at her as though she'd just crawled from a swamp.

Dave Wilcock had already done a 10-27 through the sheriffs office and collected Story's driver's license vitals, but she repeated her request for his date of birth. He waved his hand as though chasing gnats. Such biographical minutiae were plainly beneath his

notice.

She wrote in large block letters JOHN HUNTINGTON STORY and added his D.O.B. She angled her notebook to make sure he could see it. He looked at the printing and nodded. He almost seemed to be enjoying the game.

She showed him a copy of the arrest warrant and asked, "Doctor, do you know the women on this list?"

"Yes," he said.

"Do you have any idea why they would want to bring charges against you?"

He sniffed and said, "I have
every
idea."

"Well, would you tell me?"

"Tell
youl"
he said. "No." Once again she caught the subtle putdown. "You'll find out at the proper time. I might be filing suit." She thought, When is he gonna say,
I'm the doctor here?

He confirmed that he'd given pelvic examinations to some of the women on the list. He denied ever discussing sexual complaints with any hospital official; he said he'd never been advised to have a nurse in the examining room, but one could come in if she wanted to; he'd never given pelvics to patients with broken wrists or sore throats, and he'd never abused a woman.

For a while they talked about the paraphernalia of pelvic exams —speculums, swabs, stains. She asked if it might be possible for a woman to mistake a doctor's fingers for an erect penis.

"Not unless she was strange," he answered.

She asked if he'd offered to void the bill of Minda and Scott Brinkerhoff. "That's correct," he said. "That young man was using profanity and I didn't want a nickel of his money with those profane thoughts."

"Why'd you stop billing Julia Bradbury?"

"I didn't. She just refused to pay."

"But why?"

"I never tried to find out. Some of those women on your list, they're quite hyper ladies—I mean women."

Judi smiled and said, "Why'd you change your wording, Doctor?"