When ran into third party, near Crackerbox, decide it was O.K. since all could go to lunch together.
Since McK and W not available took off after lunch with third party.
Possible approach could be: Told Mitch I remember I saw him in D.C.
He said he also remembered incident. Indicated that you (Fred W.) should have remembered it as JCS called FW a couple times re McKinley appointment. Even told FW that it was to be JCS recommendation.
B: Fred, I think I sensed that JCS may feel you are afraid of Supt. That’s why you have a “bad” memory re Smith in D.C.
Stress silence so other side knows nothing.
The cops called this their “little treasure,” a letter from Jay Smith to Bill Bradfield scripting an alibi performance, even as to how he should try to flimflam Fred Wattenmaker into “remembering” what had not happened on August 27, 1977.
The letter was unsigned, but the task force didn’t care. On the typed envelope were the fingerprints of Chris Pappas, which was to be expected. And a fingerprint of William Bradfield, which thrilled them. And some beautiful huggable fingerprints of Dr. Jay C. Smith.
Bill Bradfield and Jay Smith were gettimg double billing, even with Joe VanNort. They were an item. They were scripting each others performances. They were Gable and Lombard, Tracy and Hepburn, Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy.
Joe VanNort now said he wanted to see Jay Smith in the electric chair with Bill Bradfield on his lap.
They wanted to put Chris Pappas in a glass bubble. He was more than valuable. He was the most priceless Greek treasure since Schliemann found a mummy he thought was Agamemnon.
Through the weeks of secret interviews, Chris sat and pleaded with them to understand that even if Bill Bradfield had conspired to perjure himself for Jay Smith, and even if he’d swindled Susan Reinert out of twenty-five big ones, he couldn’t have murdered anybody.
Chris Pappas told every agent and cop he met that Bill Bradfield had been sincere on the airplane when he drank a toast to saving Susan Reinert’s life. He tried earnestly to make the cops understand that any man who could discuss Aquinas and Summa Theologica couldn’t possibly commit murder.
They cherished Chris Pappas so much that they humored him about Bill Bradfields absence of malice, even when Chris turned over the practice chains and locks that Bill Bradfield had asked him to keep during the rehearsals. They agreed that perhaps Big Bill wasn’t a Bluebeard even when Chris gave them the acid and his mentor’s magnum pistol.
They humored him even after Chris told them how Bill Bradfield had coached Shelly on her testimony before the grand jury, describing for them Shelly’s anguish over swearing to falsehoods on the Bible.
They showed Chris nods of understanding when he assured them that Bill Bradfield would probably set up trust funds for the kids if they could be found alive.
But the humoring had to stop when he told them one last incredible incident that they would never have believed if they hadn’t become so thoroughly familiar with the Bradfield disciples.
Just before June, 1979, graduation at Upper Merion, Bill Bradfield had come to the Pappas house with urgent news.
“I received a call from Doctor Smith tonight,” he’d told Chris. “He said he’s going out. I know that means a hit, but I don’t know who or where.”
“Do you think it’s Susan Reinert?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t think so. He gave me a hint.”
“What’s the hint?”
“He said, ‘I’m getting all dressed up for it. But I won’t be going inside.’ ”
“What’s it mean?”
“What do you make of it?”
“Getting all dressed up … The prom! This is prom night!”
“That’s silly,” Bill Bradfield said. “Who would he kill at the prom?”
Chris went home feeling silly about the prom idea and went to bed. Thirty minutes later the phone rang. It was Bill Bradfield.
He said, “I’ve got it all figured out. That cop who searched his house. He’s working off-duty at the prom tonight. Doctor Smith wants him dead so he can’t testify!”
Forty-five minutes later, the capeless crusaders were speeding to Upper Merion in Chris’s Datsun. Bill Bradfield was relaxed and cool and chatty. Chris Pappas was so energized he could see everything in detail. Even in the darkened car he could see wisps of gray in Bill Bradfields coppery beard. He saw oil drops on that goddamn homemade silencer that Bill Bradfield held in his hands. Chris Pappas glowed in the dark.
As if Chris wasn’t terrified enough Bill Bradfield calmly rolled down the window and said, “If we’re going to kill a human being, we’d better test our weapon.”
He fired three shots into the night sky over King of Prussia.
Chris Pappas literally felt his pulse jerking in his neck. It was like some maniac version of a Gidget movie: Prom Night, starring Jay C. Smith with a supporting cast of disappeareds and remotes.
They stayed till the last dance but, as usual, Jay Smith danced alone whenever he danced.
Bill Bradfield said, “He must be killing somebody else. Let’s go home.”
The cops could only sit dumbstruck when Chris told this tale.
One of the troopers couldn’t help himself. He looked at Chris like he was something that had materialized at a seance, and said, “Chris, I gotta understand how you felt. When Bradfield had you shinnying up that rope, did you maybe think if you let go you’d fall and vanish forever in a lake of drizzly bullshit?”
Chris later said that he wished the police could’ve tried harder to understand him.
Chris Pappas received two memorable phone calls after Bill Bradfield obviously sensed that Chris was talking to the task force. The first call was angry and contained an implied threat.
Bill Bradfield not only accused his young pal of turning Sue Myers against him, but of having an affair with poor Sue.
He said, “Read the last chapter of the Odyssey, Chris! Read it!”
During the long rambling conversation, he repeated it five times.
Finally, Chris said, “You mean the next to last chapter. You’re talking about when Odysseus comes home and reclaims his woman and his betrayers are killed.”
“Don’t get snotty!” Bill Bradfield wailed. “Read the last act of Macbeth!”
Another call came even later at night. Bill Bradfield was crumbling fast. He wasn’t threatening anybody. He was certain now that Chris was talking to the task force and said so.
Chris described Bill Bradfield as speaking in a “quaking grandmother’s voice.” It sounded like the grandmother was dying. Chris had to press the phone to his ear to make out the feeble little sounds.
“Is … is that you, Chris? Is … is that my friend? I … I don’t understand why you’re doing this to me, Chris! Why does my friend turn against me? They’ll trick you, Chris! They’ll get to you!”
“Somebody’s already gotten to me, Bill,” Chris Pappas said. “That somebody’s you.”
It was the last time in his life that Chris Pappas ever spoke to his friend William Bradfield.
21
By February, they were able to secure a search warrant to seize all relevant material described by Chris Pappas as being in the former attic of Bill Bradfield who was now on sabbatical and living with his mother, keeping a very low profile out in the country.
Sue Myers had been alone for nearly a year and still hadn’t been allowed to return to her Upper Merion classroom. She had no money in the bank and owed legal fees to her attorney and got lots of nutty phone calls from Bill Bradfield accusing her of betraying him. She was taking Librium to keep herself together. It was probably a perfect time for search warrants. She needed a pal.