Another item read, “inheritance expected in future, $500,000,” with no further description of that inheritance.
Once again, Bill Bradfield told Sue that the agreement was for her protection and that she should trust him. Once again, her hummingbird eyes darted all over the place and she said she’d think it over. And he whirled off in his dervish frenzy on some errand.
She got herself to the telephone and made another urgent appointment with her lawyer, deciding that Bill Bradfield had more financial secrets than the Teamsters’ Union.
Also in February, Muriel Bradfield got an important visit from Bill Bradfield that eventually led Sue Myers to the discovery that not only was Muriel his legal wife, but that Fran, Muriel’s predecessor, had also been his legal wife.
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? I’ll 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 Pappas’s 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 victim’s skin and wipes it off with a damp cloth after they start to talk.”
Chris Pappas’s 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.”