I sat here gazing for a minute at the Pound picture. Not thinking about it really, or you. But having my head-the whole pan of my mind, my senses-feeling all the parts of your world coming to me through these black and white dots. Because I am so inextricably bound to you and you to the something that is, was, Ezra Pound. My nerves work differently. My heart and breathing speed up whenever I bump against one of the objects of your world. I cherish them all and no one can tamper with them in the least because what’s there that could be tampered with isn’t in the object but in the relation. And there for as long as I hold up my end, it is safe.
I have the control over things at last. The frustrations of not determining my world can ease. And there is peace and calm and quiet. The writing of these letters is an exercise in indulging myself-holding up of my end and revelling in the control and ownership. Generating rewards-exquisite ones-for myself. To end the letters becomes almost impossible. The stopping of the motion and the empty space and the thoughts that continue in my head but cannot go to you bring again the frustration that signals my entry back into the setting of things beyond my control. There is nothing else left to me but to make do with whatever it is that must be done to keep us together. Don’t worry, William. Sometimes I feel as if I surely must be getting wise.
Love me. Think of me. Something MUST be done to get around all the intricacies. I need your hugs.
Those who knew about Rachel were puzzled by the nature of her love affair with Bill Bradfield, Sue Myers in particular. Their relationship seemed as intricate as a DNA blueprint.
The letters that Rachel posted to Bill Bradfield at the school deal mostly with ethereal matters and a conviction that a unique notion of “sanity” is theirs. Sue decided that despite Rachel’s earlier marriage she was the icy Gothic maiden he’d always needed and if you took her picture it would come out sepia.
But in her Ezra Pound letter Rachel had mentioned “control” three times and hugs once, so if he controlled her three fourths of the time and hugged her for the remainder she might be quite obedient and happy. Probably, Rachel was more like Sue Myers and all the others than Sue cared to admit.
All of the Bill Bradfield cohorts led pretty ordinary lives on a day-to-day basis, lives revolving around school and books and papers, until Bill Bradfield, tireless as a laser beam, scorched them with the latest from Jay Smith.
Bill Bradfield was like an auteur film director who writes the scenario while he shoots the movie, and ends up with a plot so convoluted that he has to withdraw for a few days to let the players wait and wonder while he conceptualizes the next scene.
All in all, their lives were as sinuous and intertwined as an Argentine tango, but nobody was certain who was doing the choreography. Was this a Jay Smith production? Or a Bill Bradfield dance choreographed by Jay Smith?
Victims of confidence schemes, especially those that later appear childishly transparent, often report that in retrospect it seems dreamlike, but when it happened it was real, logical, even exciting.
Chris Pappas was in many ways the most vulnerable of all. This reflective young man who felt that he’d gained such confidence and insight through his close friendship with Bill Bradfield confided that he’d been disappointed when the Vietnam War ended. He’d thought that perhaps the battlefield would give him a chance to take up a challenge involving personal courage and determination. He’d always wondered how useful his intellectual and academic background might be in something as real as war. He wondered if the “epiphany” he’d felt as a student of philosophy would sustain him.
Well, he was about to get his chance at “combat.” The next months represented the most intense and vivid time of his life. He described himself as living with his antenna humming. He said he was electric. The high voltage was switched on by Bill Bradfield.
One memorable evening in the apartment when Chris and Bill Bradfield were alone because Sue Myers was off at the art store, the older man decided to stage a demonstration. He prefaced it by announcing that since Vince Valaitis was too excitable and timid to be of assistance during these terrible days, it was falling on young Chris’s sturdy shoulders to help him save the life of Susan Reinert. Testifying for Jay Smith in his upcoming trial was hardly discussed anymore. Bill Bradfields mission in life was stopping a killer who had as yet done nothing that could be proved.
Bill Bradfield excused himself and went to the bedroom and got into costume. When he returned, he wore a knitted woolen cap and his favorite blue ski parka with large cargo pockets.
“I’ve been forced to enter into a teacher-disciple relationship with Doctor Smith,” Bill Bradfield said, “to get the evidence that’ll put an end to him.”
With that he pulled the cap down over his face and revealed it to be a ski mask. Then he took objects from each pocket. He had chains in one, tape in another, plastic bags in a third and a pair of exercise gloves in the fourth. Suddenly he wrapped the chain around Chris’s wrists and padlocked the links together.
He wasn’t all that graceful about it, but he hadn’t had that much rehearsal time. It made the point. Young Chris was then unshackled and listened to the lecture that went with the demonstration.
“You have to practice,” Bill Bradfield said, “until you know without thinking which pocket contains each item. The tape’s for the eyes and mouth of Doctor Smith’s victims. The plastic bags go over the victims head to either suffocate or stop the flow should the victim begin bleeding from the mouth or nose. He never uses surgical gloves because fingerprints can be lifted from the rubber.”
Chris Pappas was informed that Jay Smith had given these instruments of murder to Bill Bradfield because he feared that with his trial coming up, the police might find some other pretext to search his home.
Chris agreed with his leader that the items were likely to be found in any household and in themselves didn’t constitute proper evidence that could be taken to the authorities. Bill Bradfield had decided to hold them until such time as he could accumulate enough circumstantial evidence to make a case against his former boss. However, with the Jay Smith trial approaching he was afraid the police might get upset about his being an alibi witness. They might decide to search Bill Bradfields apartment. And how could he explain his difficult mission to plodding policemen?
So he wondered if Chris could take the stuff home for a while? And Chris agreed that he’d do anything to stop the menace of Jay Smith.
Then Bill Bradfield asked Chris if he’d mind hiding a few other things. One was a big typewriter that Jay Smith had stolen from Upper Merion, and a tape recorder as well, and a film-strip projector that Jay Smith had stolen from Rider College. For all Bill Bradfield cared, Chris could throw this stuff away because it wouldn’t go toward proving much. They were after a killer. They needed killer-type evidence.
Chris Pappas made an astute observation that night. He said, “Bill, whenever you talk about Jay Smith I notice you always refer to him as Doctor Smith. What do you call him when the two of you’re alone?”
And Bill Bradfield thought for a second and said, “Doctor Smith.” Then he quickly added, “I have to appear subordinate. But I won’t relinquish control, don’t worry.”
Bill Bradfield then went on to give a dissertation on the M.O. of Jay Smith who didn’t want to be known as an “assassin.” He preferred “terrorist.”
Jay Smith, he said, theorized that it was far better to terrorize the survivors of a hit than merely to dispose of a victim. He “disappeared” people, left no trace of a victim. The person would vanish from the earth, and that was far more terrifying than an ordinary dead body could ever be. Besides, dead bodies could result in some forensic evidence that might lead back to the hit man.