Echoes in the Darkness (17 page)

It had taken Sue fifteen years to find out that her lover was a married man. Muriel had married Bill Bradfield in a civil ceremony before a Virginia justice of the peace in 1963. They'd lived as man and wife for three years.

During his visit, Bill Bradfield told Muriel that he was going to need a fast divorce. He assured her that she could remain in his house and he offered to send her on a paid vacation to the Republic of Haiti for the quickie. He explained that his art store in Montgomery Mall was in dire trouble and that there might be some liens and encumbrances cropping up very soon. He convinced Muriel that, as his legal wife, she might find herself in the middle of a lawsuit that was not of her doing. In short, he wanted to protect her from harm.

To Sue, Bill Bradfield explained the need for the divorce by saying something about civil marriages in Virginia not being exactly legal in Pennsylvania, so that's why he'd never considered himself married. But now that Jay Smith was on the rampage and might get Bill Bradfields name in the newspapers, he didn't want the publicity to stigmatize his wife Muriel, who wouldn't be quite as stigmatized if she was divorced from him.

Sue Myers didn't think the explanation made any more sense than Ezra Pound's translation of Confucius, but what the hell difference did any of it make at this point? She knew she was sticking around till the final curtain; she just prayed that the props wouldn't come crashing down on her head.

Sue Myers would later say that nothing really meant much to her as far as Jay Smith and Susan Reinert were concerned. Bill Bradfield had been crying wolf so long that she'd just humor him and go about her business, because she had the whole thing figured out: he was in the midst of a world-class, monster-size, life-threatening, mid-life crisis. She figured that the hunt for Jay Smith was an interlude. Bill Bradfield, at the age of forty-five, was a middle-aged Tom Sawyer run amok, but from all that she'd read on the subject there was every reason to hope he'd pull out of it in a year or so.

Meanwhile she was enduring her own mid-life agony. The sex therapist assured Sue that the libido couldn't atrophy like a broken leg, so she could hold out for hope for resuscitation. She felt like dialing 911.

One chilly day in February, the branch manager of Continental Bank in King of Prussia was informed by a teller that a customer insisted on withdrawing $25,000 in cash from her savings account, which showed a balance of just over $30,000.

To bankers, large cash withdrawals often signify confidence schemes, so the managers policy was to question customers to make sure they weren't being flimflammed.

The manager was a very large fellow, a bit younger than the little lady in the big coat. He introduced himself and told her he simply could not understand her demand.

"Mrs. Reinert, there's no need for cash," he said. "In a legitimate investment there's no purpose served by handing over cash."

"It's my money. I'm not a child. I want cash," she said.

"Why not accept a cashier's check?" the manager said. "It's every bit as negotiable as cash."

"I need cash for this transaction."

"How about a wire transfer? The money could be moved from our bank to the credit of your person in his bank."

"No, that's not acceptable," Susan Reinert said. "Are you going to give me the money or not?"

Her high-pitched voice was getting a bit screechy, so the manager said, "Mrs. Reinert, let's continue this in the conference room."

When he got her to a private place he said, "Let me do you a service. I can call the person you're investing with. I can ask a few questions on your behalf. This pressure you're under to provide cash is not reasonable."

"I'm not under pressure," she said, "but I don't want to reveal the investment information. I can tell you that it's for a very high percentage of return."

"I haven't heard of anyone offering more than nine percent," the banker said.

"It's for much more than that," Susan Reinert countered. "And I don't want you to call anyone for me."

"All right, then," the bank manager said. "How about a compromise? Take your person a cash deposit of, say, fifteen hundred dollars. Ask your person why the balance couldn't be provided in a more conventional way. That's fair, isn't it? Ill make you a withdrawal ticket for fifteen hundred dollars in cash."

The banker would later say that there was a little-known legal banking prerogative that allowed his refusal to release cash if he was certain there was something amiss. He had never done it before and doubted that he would ever again.

Susan Reinert took the $1,500 and left the bank. On February 21st, she telephonically transferred $11,500 from her savings account to her checking account. A few days later she transferred another $5,000. She then opened a new account at the American Bank in King of Prussia and transferred all her money there. On March 13th, she wrote a check for $10,000 in cash. On April 11th, she wrote another for $5,000 in cash.

The money was given to her in $50 and $100 bills. In all, she made six cash withdrawals bringing the total amount withdrawn to $25,000. Thus, she eventually succeeded in getting all of the "investment capital" in cash.

There was at least the promise of spring in the air when Bill Bradfield drove to Chris Pappass home one afternoon. He was wearing his blue parka with the big pockets that were capable of holding all sorts of Jay Smith death devices. He indicated that Chris might be named custodian of the chamber of horrors, and that it included acid.

"Acid?" young Chris Pappas said that day. "What acid?"

"He says he uses it to destroy parts of his dismembered victims," Bill Bradfield said blithely. "I may have to hide it for him."

And then Bill Bradfield added, "He also tortures living people with it. He uses an eyedropper full of acid to elicit cooperation. He drops it onto the victims skin and wipes it off with a damp cloth after they start to talk."

Chris Pappass recollections of the events of that time always remained exceedingly vivid. His total recall impressed many outside observers. It was as though his memories were etched by that very acid.

"I'll hide it out back under your boat," he told Bill Bradfield. "How long do I have to store it?"

"Just like everything else, Chris," Bill Bradfield told him. "Until we deal with this man. I have to pretend to be his disciple. If he says store it, I store it. If he wants it back, I have to obey."

And then Chris Pappas asked questions about young Stephanie and her husband Eddie because any talk of dismembered bodies and acid would lead to the grisly speculation that was keeping everyone guessing.

"He's not that confident about me," Bill Bradfield said. "If he were, if he'd tell me anything I could prove regarding their disappearance, we'd have all we need to have him locked up."

"We've got to keep trying," Chris said.

"I can tell you this," Bill Bradfield said. "He's talked about using truth serum on victims. And you know that Stephanie and her husband had access to methadone and other drugs. There's a drug connection somehow, but I can't quite put it together. One minute he talks about taking over the drug operation in Chester County and the next minute hes preaching an antidrug sermon. The mans demented."

"Do you really believe all of it?" Chris said. "I mean about cutting people up and acid and all that?"

"He places newspaper on a carpet when he kills his victims. The bloody newspapers wrapped in foil and then the whole things wrapped in plastic trash bags. Then the bodies're taken to a landfill above the Vince Lornbardi service area on the New Jersey Turnpike."

"Maybe some of its true," Chris said.

"He uses out-of-town newspapers for the bodies. In case they're ever found."

And there it was. A Bill Bradfield detail: the alligator shoes, the hairnet, the out-of-town newspapers.

"I guess it has to be true," Chris Pappas said. "I guess what he tells you has to be true."

"We can doubt some of the details," Bill Bradfield said. "Because the man uses marijuana. I find that shocking in light of his daughters drug problems."

While Bill Bradfield was shocked about pot smoking, but not so shocked about chopping and dissolving human beings, Chris Pappas got a brainstorm.

He said, "Maybe I should conduct a reconnaissance on Doctor Smith's house! After all, you're exhausted. You can't do all this alone."

Bill Bradfield said, "We might try that, Chris. I'd never let anyone else take such a risk, and certainly not Vince Valaitis. But I think you have what it takes to pull it off. Only don't ever try to follow him. He's very alert for tails."

"I could just take down license numbers and descriptions of any cars that visit him," Chris offered. "When we do go to the cops we might need all that."

"I can tell you this: his actual number of mob hits, and I'm relatively sure of it, numbers between twenty and thirty. And he's sent away for banana clips because he's going to rob an

armored truck eventually. He's got a rifle that he's altering to fire full-on automatic."

And that led Bill Bradfield to an inquiry as to whether his handyman had made any progress with the armament, so Chris took Bill Bradfield out to the back of the Pappas property where his father raised flowers.

Bill Bradfield had a .357 Colt magnum, a gun he said he'd had for some time, and wanted Chris to tinker with it and oil it and make it ready in case something big happened. He'd also brought along a .30 caliber rifle and a bag of bullets.

With the rifle Bill Bradfield brought a story that was so tortuous that at a later time several outsiders dismantled and inspected it, saying it was like a homemade eggbeater held together with Krazy Glue.

It seemed that the .30 caliber rifle had its barrel cut down and the stock removed. It was a Jay Smith killing instrument, of course. Chris was asked to alter the illegal weapon even more. And the reason was only acceptable to performers in a play within a play within a labyrinth.

It seemed that the sawed-off rifle might actually belong to Bill Bradfield. Yes. It seemed that he had once owned a similiar .30 caliber rifle and kept it in his parents' farmhouse. He made the mistake of mentioning this to Dr. Smith, and of course, given Jay Smith's demonic powers he very soon turned up with this rifle in this altered condition. Bill Bradfield immediately suspected that Jay Smith had drifted into his parents' home in Chester County and spirited the gun away, disguising it in this fashion to torment Bill Bradfield by revealing just how omniscient and omnipresent he could be.

And yes indeed, the Bradfield .30 caliber rifle had mysteriously disappeared from his parents' home, so this might be the very gun! But he couldn't tell because it was cut down, and disguised.

And what did he want Chris to do with the gun? That was easy. As easy as an elephant's pedicure. He wanted Chris to grind the serial numbers off the weapon so that if Jay Smith recalled the weapon from his bogus disciple, Bill Bradfield, and if Bill Bradfield couldn't stop Jay Smith from using the weapon to kill someone, like Susan Reinert for instance, and if the murder weapon should happen to fall into police hands, it could not be traced back to Bill Bradfield who might in fact be the registered owner of the rifle in the first place!

It was just that simple. If you're more Byzantine than Constantinople.

And Chris said something like "Makes sense to me!" And started up the old grinding wheel.

While the handyman was grinding away at the serial number, he inadvertently damaged the barrel of the rifle. Chris later learned that Dr. Smith thought it was a lousy grinding job and that it screwed up the weapon.

Chris expected Bill Bradfield to be pleased that he'd ruined a Jay Smith death weapon, but Bill Bradfield didn't seem too happy about it.

Chris Pappas made up for the lousy grinding job by calling Bill Bradfield over to the house a few days later to see what he'd managed to accomplish in the ordnance department.

The young man had a small .22 caliber handgun of his own, and he'd tinkered and experimented with some pieces of pipe and steel wool and screen and anything else that would act as a baffle. It was like constructing a miniature car muffler.

This time he could show off a little, even as Bill Bradfield perused the monograph he'd given Chris to work with. When Bill Bradfield read the monograph, his fingers slid over the pages at incredible speed so that Chris, always a painfully slow reader, continued to marvel at the older man's many skills. But Chris showed him some skill of his own that day and addressed all the problems in the pamphlet on silencers that Bill Bradfield had loaned him.

As Jay Smith had purportedly explained it, the gun mechanism was noisy and had to be coated with a rubberized material. The second noise in a gun shot was caused by the explosion of the powder. The third noise Jay Smith defined was the sound of the traveling projectile. He added that he used .22 caliber short ammo.

The methodical, reflective, pondering handyman had gotten some specifications at a gun store that listed muzzle velocities, and he'd computed that there's only one bullet that travels below the speed of sound: a .22 caliber short. Therefore, the tiny piece of technical information relayed to him by Bill Bradfield, that the traveling projectile makes a sound, seemed absolute proof to Chris that Bill Bradfield was spending a great deal of time with a firearms expert, a military man like Jay Smith.