The state cops found out that the 79th USARCOM comb was one of thousands given away as a recruiting gimmick. A tiny bit of ridge detail was lifted from the comb. The ridges were similar to two of Jay Smiths fingerprints, but there wasn’t enough for a comparison.
Jay Smith’s telephone bill showed calls to his attorney’s office that weekend: one at 3:50 P.M. on Friday, and another on Sunday at 8:37 P.M. One more call was made to O’Brien’s home telephone, also at 8:37 P.M.
At that time, the FBI and state cops knew nothing of the two men from South Carolina working at Three Mile Island who had reported seeing Susan Reinert’s car at about 7:00 P.M. Sunday evening. As far as the lawmen knew, the car could have been driven to Harrisburg anytime before late Sunday night when it was first seen by the patrol cop. The times of the telephone calls to Jay Smith’s lawyer had no particular significance yet.
It was time to see the prince of darkness face to face.
Joe VanNort and Jack Holtz paid him a visit at the state prison in Dallas, Pennsylvania. But a more significant visit was made by Special Agent Hess of the FBI. Jay Smith told Hess he was willing to cooperate because he had nothing whatever to hide, and he didn’t need all this publicity about the Reinert murder when he was busy trying to appeal his conviction.
He’d decided that it had been a mistake not to take the stand in his own behalf during the Sears St. Davids case, but every FBI agent and state cop who ever talked to Jay Smith was inclined to think that his lawyer John O’Brien had been correct in not putting Dr. Jay on the stand. You just got the feeling that this was not a wholesome fellow the second you looked him in the eye.
Jay Smith told Hess that during that last weekend in his house on Valley Forge Road, he’d completed a few chores prior to turning the house over to the new owner, Grace Gilmore. He said that he was supposed to cut the lawn for her on Saturday but hadn’t had time. He said that she’d been at the house on Saturday from early morning to late afternoon getting her own things in order, and that she’d returned on Sunday and was there from 9:00 A.M. until noon. He said that she’d walked in on him once and surprised him when he was working in his basement apartment.
Jay Smith told Hess that he drove his 1973 Mercury Capri to the store to buy some groceries for an apartment he had been ready to move into before the judge sent him to prison. He said that his youngest daughter Sheri had been in a couple of times over the weekend, and that Friday, June 22nd, was her birthday.
When Hess asked if they’d spent Friday night celebrating the birthday, Jay Smith admitted that he hadn’t bought her a card or a present of even seen her on that day, because Friday night he had to visit his dying wife in Bryn Mawr Hospital, a duty he performed twice daily.
Jay Smith said that on Saturday he’d gone to Wayne to pick up a letter from a minister attesting to his sterling character to present in court the following Monday. He claimed that he’d made four or five phone calls having to do with character witnesses.
As to his personal opinion whether William Bradfield was the kind of guy to go around killing people, Jay Smith said that anyone could kill a man or even a woman in a fit of rage, but he didn’t think Bill Bradfield could ever kill children. He said he’d only seen Bill Bradfield a couple of times outside of school to discuss his alibi testimony.
As to the other Bill Bradfield cohorts, he said that Sue Myers would do anything Bill Bradfield ordered her to do and that Vince Valaitis was a polite young fellow who was completely under the control of Big Bill. He figured that latent homosexuality was rampant in the clique. No discussion with Jay Smith would be complete without a little sexual innuendo.
He was forever implying that it wasn’t so bad being called a thief and murderer, but as far as sex was concerned he was as regular as the next guy. As to the exotic stuff he seemed to agree with Voltaire that if you try it once, you’re a philosopher. He ignored the other admonition that if you do it twice you’re a pervert.
* * *
Joe VanNort could say what he wanted about the FBI, but they were thorough. They showed Jay Smiths picture to every doctor, nurse, patient, technician, secretary, janitor, security guard, gift shop worker, cafeteria employee, anyone who could feasibly have seen him during the weekend of June 22nd on any of the three shifts at Bryn Mawr Hospital.
Then they started on the volunteer workers. They talked to every candy striper, priest, nun, minister and rabbi. Cataracts and comas provided the only escape from the feds with their photos.
Many said they’d sure remember that face. Some of those on Stephanie’s ward knew him, but no one had seen him on the weekend in question. By the time the FBI finished checking out Jay Smiths version of the weekend, they could at least prove that he was lying.
Nobody had seen Jay Smith from Friday until late Sunday afternoon when he drove away from Valley Forge Road.
Jay Smith was down but not out. After his dead wife’s friend turned over the “lovecock” letters and all the rest of Stephanie Smith’s diary to the press, he launched a $30 million libel suit against a couple of newspapers. He was turning into quite a jailhouse lawyer. Convicts came to him for help with their appeals.
And he fired off a bulletin to his former colleagues at Upper Merion to brighten their school year. It was as windy and droll as any of his former open-mike interludes. He called it “Letters from State Prison.”
Some of his old subordinates said with a shudder that it was almost like having him back.
Copyright, 1979
Jay Smith, K-4891
Drawer-K
Dallas, PA 18612
Friends,
I want to thank all of you who were able to attend any of the trials or who gave me support during them. Such support takes a great deal of grit in the midst of the horrendous publicity I received and am still receiving. I do not expect it to cease, ever. Annually, you can expect a re-doing of the whole scene. It is a pre-school attention getter in doldrum August, and it is good box office. Frankly, I prefer a free press motored by personal profit than a controlled press motored by bureaucratic propaganda; but we need to lance a few warts and get a few of the bad apples out of the free press barrel. I am hoping that the drift to the right that is detrimental to my current situation will be beneficial to my civil trial conflicts. Decreasing some of the press libel immunity might generate the necessary circumspection they should bring to prosecution feedings.
Regarding the persons whose names have been flung at me, viz., William Bradfield, Kenneth Reinert, Chris Pappas, Sue Myers, and Vince Valaitis, I can say sans any fear of being gainsaid that I never met or saw any of these people off the school grounds. I would not know Kenneth Reinert if he came up to my cell door.
I have had no romantic involvement with Sue Myers or Susan Reinert or any teacher or any student or any parent in the Upper Merion area school district, in or out of school, since I’ve lived and worked there. No sexual involvements either.
I never considered William Bradfield an “adversary” as he puts it; and I never had a “secret close relationship” with him as Mr. Anonymous or Mr. Synonymous puts it. I viewed William Bradfield as a superior teacher who had an uncanny influence on the brightest students and on much of the staff. He also had an unusual influence on the powers that be (superintendents office and the school board). Thus, he could influence the operations of the senior high. I viewed him as someone I had to be alert about, always. The principal’s office is not a windless isle in a tranquil academic ocean. It is a turbulent place with many winds blowing. Bradfield was a strong wind. Not friendly. Perhaps hostile. Perhaps.
Susan Reinert was a pleasant, conscientious teacher, always willing to do more than was required of her. I knew nothing of her out of school activities. The same applies to Sue Myers, an excellent teacher and person. I knew nothing of her out-of-school life.
There was no secret meetings with any witnesses or anyone at any time. I met with each of my witnesses. The topics were substantially the same: don’t let the police scare
you off; tell the truth; keep it succinct. At the direction of my lawyer, I met with William Bradfield. We met openly in a public place.
I was never a member-(echoes of the fifties)-I was never a member of any sex cult or Satan cult. I have never participated in any group sex or abnormal sex. As defined by my interrogators abnormal sex includes homosexuality, anal sex, bestiality, sado-masochism, bondage and discipline, or the use of any accompaniments such as vibrators, dildos, or special clothes. My home has been searched many times, legally and illegally, by police and lord knows who else. They have my permission to display at any place they choose any items they took from my house that relate to sex cults or Satan cults. They can even display my trash.
Not only was I never a member or participant in any cult activities, but in my whole time in Upper Merion I never heard anyone discussing such things. Until “those authoritative sources close to the investigation” initiated the rumors, it was unknown to any in-school or out-of-school dialogue. I am eager to see their proof of this slander on me, and the Township of Upper Merion, and the other professionals reputed by the rumors to be members.
The first letter is a short introduction to what I want to tell you. There is much, much more. I hope that you will give me a chance to give you my views before you slam the cell door on me and throw the key away. You still have not heard of my SECRET LIFE, as one Harrisburg paper put it. But now I want to ask your help.
Please send me any newspaper clippings you have or any ideas you have concerning the following matters: my wife’s property. It should all be in the hands of the court. (My wife’s will and my will are the same, viz., what we have goes to our two daughters.) Susan Reinerts murder. Especially newspaper items that indicate my involvement. The Satan cult slander: items that include my name are especially important. Drug use or sex orgy articles. Any that name me as a participant.
Embarrassed, I end this letter as a mendicant. No matter what the amount, I ask you to please send me a postal money order or bank money order. Personal checks and cash are verboten. If you do not wish to think of it as alms for IRS purposes, think of it as an IOU that I will redeem from you in the future. Regardless, no hard feelings; I know you just got back from a huelga.
Ciao.
Jay
P.S. I am sure there is no Satan cult in Upper Merion even though I am just as sure that Satan is active there as everywhere.
The chains, and much that surfaced in Stephanie’s diary, along with Bill Bradfields use of women, got the FBI wondering about something new: could there be a homosexual bond between Jay Smith and William Bradfield?
Vince Valaitis told them that Bill Bradfield had warned that the FBI might try to find out about his long-ago lodger, Tom. The feds tried to track Tom out on the west coast, but agents in Los Angeles who located his apartment were never able to speak with him directly. Nor could the FBI ever verify that Bill Bradfield had gone to Cuba with or without Tom to kill for Castro.
At about the same time that the Terra Art store was going under, and Bill Bradfield was trying to unload the stock and dissolve the corporation, Sue Myers learned a little something about the elusive Tom. When the publicity hit, Tom sent a letter to Bill Bradfield along with a book of Ezra Pounds poetry.
Bill Bradfield was deeply touched by the gesture from an old friend and read the letter to Sue, but not all of it. She noticed an ellipsis in his reading.
When he turned his back she dashed straight for his files and read it for herself. Tom told Bill Bradfield about his new life as a married man, and how content he was. In the context of the letter it was clear that Tom was married to another guy.
And then Tom told Bill Bradfield that despite his conjugal bliss he would always remember Bill Bradfield as the only man he ever truly loved.
Sue Myers had one thought when she finished that letter. She later said, “I wondered if he’d been any more faithful to Tom than he had to the rest of us.”
Ken Reinerts favorite FBI agent, Matt Mullin, was the quintessential FBI prep. He looked as though he could be Big Brother Biff to any of the coeds at Bryn Mawr. He looked like a cousin of The Main Lines most famous daughter, Grace Kelly.
His old man might have pumped gas at Sloan’s Super Service, but to Joe VanNort he was Eights-with-coxswain. The agents clothes had something to do with it. Matt Mullin always wore the FBI prep uniform: three-button suit, button-down Oxford shirt, paisley tie okay but only if you’re feeling revolutionary, cuffed pants at least two inches over the wingtip brogues, and those well run over at the heels because you’re a lawman, after all.
Matt Mullin’s strawberry-blond hair had never seen stickum or spray, and he was forever pushing it off his forehead, boyishly. He looked like he’d spent his entire life blushing, or his systolic pressure matched Rod Carew’s batting average. His accent even sounded like a Kennedy’s. Okay, so he’d gone to college at La Salle in Philly, he was still more Ivy League than F. Scott Fitzgerald. When you saw guys that looked like Matt Mullin, you didn’t bother trying to spot the bulge under the coat. They had to be FBI.
The FBI’s sex research had outdone Masters and Johnson. They’d interviewed several women who the gossips claimed had been intimate with Bill Bradfield. One of them, described unkindly as “another plain-Jane schoolteacher,” agreed to meet Matt Mullin to reveal some information of an intimate nature.
He asked the lady in question to meet him at a precise location in the Sears parking lot at St. Davids, and informed the state cops that he wanted a backup unit. After all, the talk was going to be of a sexual nature, and he didn’t want the woman to accuse him of anything.
The cops were amused by this to start with, and Jack Holtz and another trooper agreed to provide the backup for Matt Mullin so there could be no accusations of rape in either direction. Before they left for the parking lot, Matt Mullin started telling Jack Holtz how not to be seen, and where to park, and how to behave, implying that the staties didn’t know how to conduct a surveillance. That did it.
In the late afternoon, Jack Holtz and his partner were running all over the Sears store trying to find fake noses and glasses. They arrived at the meeting place fifteen minutes early and roared in fifty miles an hour, sliding up bumper to bumper with the FBI unit. Both state cops then picked up newspaper pages with eye holes cut out and pretended to read.
Matt Mullin told them okay, you’ve made your point, and now could we please get down to business, but the cops weren’t through yet. They wanted to see Matt Mullins scarlet kisser go into terminal blush.
They went to an observation point and composed a report while the agent interviewed the schoolteacher. The next morning at the regular task force briefing the special agent in charge read a state police report detailing Matt Mullins surveillance.
1703 hours. White female parked car east of SA Mullins car. Female exited vehicle and entered FBI car.
1730. Windows began to fog. 1740. Car rocked violently.
1750. White Kleenex thrown from car window. Large German Shepherd seen roaming parking lot. Door opened drivers side. German Shepherd entered FBI car.
1815 hours. Kleenex obtained by reporting officers. Sent to lab for analysis. Refer lab report.
The information revealed to Matt Mullin by the former lover of Bill Bradfield was noteworthy. Just before Rachel arrived in May at the downtown hotel, Bill Bradfield had persuaded this schoolteacher to meet him at the same hotel for a quickie. He told the teacher that he often thought of their past romance and because he’d been celibate for so long he now needed her “to bring him back to manhood.”
This, when he was already juggling Sue Myers, Susan Reinert, Shelly and Rachel. So okay, the agent wanted to know, is this guy a superstud or what? And to his surprise she told him.
Bill Bradfield was a creamy cuddler and a super snuggler, but not worth a nickel when it came right down to the real stuff, ostrich or no ostrich.
It verified what several of the feds were already beginning to suspect: the charismatic woma
nizing Renaissance man of Upper Merion was, alas, a bum lay.
Bill Bradfield, Chris Pappas and Sue Myers weren’t talking at all, but toward the end of the year Jack Holtz and Chick Sabinson took a trip to Boston to talk with Rachel. That conversation was about as relevant as the Harvard football program. As to the murder weekend she said she’d been alone looking at architecture in Philly, and that she’d never heard of Jay Smith before the murder. She’d desert Bill Bradfield, they figured, when they started pronouncing their r’s in Boston.
Jack Holtz was relieved to get a few days off over the Christmas holidays. He spent them back in Harrisburg with his son, and saw his brother and parents. It was impossible to be with his boy and not think about Karen and Michael Reinert. He’d never thought he’d still be working this case after the New Year, but he assured his family that they’d have to get a break soon.
When they asked if there was any hope that the children were alive, he shrugged.
Ken Reinert had a Christmas of sorts for the sake of his wife and stepdaughter, and the new baby. His parents, John and Florence Reinert, could not bring themselves to celebrate anything.
They all refused to think that the children were not alive. Ken Reinert had recurring nightmares and sleeping disorders. These people were in torment.
About Susan Jane Gallagher Reinert, it could be said that there were mixed feelings that Christmas. The lawmen said that she’d walked into danger with her eyes open, holding a child by each hand. The more that was learned about the $25,000 investment, and especially the $73,000 worth of insurance policies, the angrier the task force became. It would’ve been hard to find a cop or special agent who spent much time pitying the woman who ended up in the trunk of her car in a Harrisburg parking lot. You would often hear a lawman say, “She got what she deserved.”
But every one of them was working hard in the hopes of finding the children dead or alive. The bulletins showing those handsome young faces were heartbreaking.
Echoes in the Darkness Page 25