by J. D. Barker
Everything was there.
Although Porter had read those reports, he found himself unable to acknowledge or deny the accusations—he simply did not remember. There were flashes, but nothing resembling a complete picture. He had no recollection of ever meeting Warnick.
Hurry, they’re coming.
Poole had told him what he said about Weasel moments after being shot, but even that was gone. A fleeting glimpse of his past hidden again behind a closed door.
Poole also told him they found an empty vial of the SARS virus in Porter’s hotel room down in New Orleans. Two more were still missing. Porter said he had no idea how it could have gotten there or where the others were.
Porter had not been infected.
Upon arriving at the hospital, he was immediately quarantined. Additional precautions were taken during the surgeries and all care that followed until tests revealed the virus was not in his system. When he was finally well enough for an interview, Porter told the FBI what Bishop had told him—the virus was in the breakfast he ate on the plane. When the plane was searched, there was no trace of the virus, nor did they find any proof Bishop had set foot in the private jet. The food was long gone. Poole had not been there for the interview. The agent who was there simply took his statement stone-faced and left. Porter knew they didn’t believe him.
From a doorway at the left front of the courtroom, a bailiff entered and turned toward the large crowd. “All rise for the Honorable Judge Henry Schmitt.”
Along with Special Agent Frank Poole on his left and all others in the courtroom, Porter stood, the chains on his wrists and ankles forcing him to hunch a little forward.
128
Porter
Day 198 • 3:21 PM
Along with his attorney, Anson Bishop stood at a table at the front of the room. His hair, now neatly cropped, had been cut for the trial. He wore a dark blue suit. Porter stared at the back of his head from his seat in the third row, willing Bishop to turn around. He did not.
“You may be seated,” the bailiff told everyone.
Porter must have remained standing just a little too long. He felt Poole’s hand on his arm, tugging him back down onto the bench. The bullet wound in his chest was still tender, and while it no longer hurt all the time, there were the occasional twinges of pain to remind him just how close to death he had come—a little less each day but always there to remind him of February seventeenth.
Throughout the trial, Bishop insisted he was innocent of all crimes. During his testimony, his story never faltered—yes, I changed my name, but I killed no one. Detective Porter told me I was part of an undercover operation to help capture the real 4MK. During closing arguments, Bishop’s defense team played Klozowski’s confession and ended with one simple thought—he admitted to killing so many people. Was it hard to believe he was actually the one who killed Calli Tremell and the others? All those Anson Bishop stood accused of murdering? After all, Klozowski admitted to tampering with video evidence, directing the investigation, killing others as retribution for their crimes…was it really so hard to believe Edwin Klozowski, not their client, was really responsible?
From the far right corner of the courtroom, the jury filed in. Seven men, five women, ranging in age from early twenties to the oldest at seventy-three. Four black, five white, two Hispanic, and an Asian woman. For the past three months, they had been sequestered in a nearby hotel without access to the Internet or television. Family members were searched prior to meetings to ensure no outside influences found their way into their deliberations. Each day of Bishop’s trial, Judge Schmitt reminded them only evidence presented at trial should be considered. Shortly after the start of Bishop’s trial, it became abundantly clear that evidence was far more limited than the lead prosecutor had hoped.
From the bench, Porter retrieved his notebook. He’d started the notebook while still in the hospital and had intended to give it to the prosecutor, but the District Attorney’s office did not want his notes.
The black and white composition book had evidence written across the front.
On the top of the first page, written in large blocky letters, was: Confession at 314 West Belmont.
When Porter had found Bishop on the eleventh floor of Talbot’s office building, under construction at the time, Arthur Talbot had been near death, secured to an office chair, as Anson Bishop confessed to his crimes. Emory Connors had been far below, at the bottom of an elevator shaft. In the moments leading up to Talbot’s murder, Bishop told Porter how he blamed the real estate mogul for destroying his family, how the man had his hands in a multitude of criminal enterprises. Porter tried to stop him as he pushed Talbot across the floor and into an open elevator shaft to his death.
One month into the trial, the Chicago Examiner had run a first-page story outlining Porter’s actions and memory lapses. Although they refused to divulge their source, they included transcripts of conversations thought to be private, between Porter and his doctors. Damning conversations clearly detailing his missing time. Under subpoena, Bishop’s defense team managed to obtain copies of Porter’s medical records. As a result, he was ordered to speak to a court-appointed psychologist tasked with determining his current and past mental state.
Ultimately deemed unreliable, Porter had not been permitted to testify. Because only Porter had born witness to Bishop’s confession at Talbot’s office building, his written report had also been struck from evidence.
In his notebook, Porter drew a line through Confession at 314 West Belmont.
Although Porter had also detailed how Bishop stabbed him in his apartment, that event was also stricken from evidence.
Phone calls.
Conversations.
Unreliable.
If there wasn’t a third party to corroborate the information, all interactions between Bishop and Porter alone were struck from evidence.
In his notebook, Porter found all the others and drew lines through those too:
Confession at the Guyon
Murder of Jane Doe/Rose Finicky
Every phone call.
The focus of the trial shifted to physical evidence, primarily Bishop’s fingerprint found on the railcar used to transport the body of Gunter Herbert in the tunnels beneath the Mulifax Publications building. In his testimony, Bishop insisted he’d never been down there. The fingerprint placed him at the crime scene. The defense team made quick work of it—the fingerprint was collected by Mark Thomas, a member of the SWAT team, and given to Detective Porter. Porter had sole possession of that evidence for how long? Hours. He then gave it to Detective Nash for transport to the lab—isn’t Detective Nash the one on camera kicking my client?
Porter held little hope for the fingerprint evidence. He drew a line through that too.
Several people in A. Montgomery Ward Park had seen Bishop when Emory Connors was initially taken. None of them were confident enough to identify him in a lineup.
Emory’s boyfriend, Tyler Mathers, was unable to ID Bishop.
Emory, held in the bottom of an elevator shaft, had never seen her captor’s face.
The origin of all the 4MK diaries came into question, and although Porter insisted he hadn’t commissioned Upchurch to create them, had never even met Upchurch, he was faced with apprehension and disbelief. And that was by the prosecutors from the district attorney’s office. Unwilling to roll the dice, they didn’t admit them into evidence.
Hearsay.
Speculation.
Circumstantial.
One by one, the defense tore apart the case. As Porter went through his notebook, drawing lines through this and that, he eventually closed the cover and set it aside.
The jury had deliberated a little over six hours.
Judge Henry Schmitt cracked his gavel. “Order please, order.”
Larissa Biel and Katy Quigley were sitting together up in the second row.
Clair and Nash were in Porter’s row, on the opposite side of Poole. When Porter glanced over, he not
iced the two of them holding hands.
The judge turned his attention to the jury. “Madam Forewoman, has the jury come to a conclusion?”
The Asian woman stood. “We have, your honor.”
Turning to Bishop, he said, “Please rise and face the jury.”
Anson Bishop stood, buttoning the jacket of his suit, and turned toward the group of twelve.
The judge surveyed those in the gallery with a stern glare. “When the verdict is read, I expect all of you to remain composed and respect the fact that this is a court of law. I will not tolerate outbursts of any kind.” He turned back to the woman at the head of the jury box. “And what find you?”
She looked out over the crowd in the gallery, glanced in Bishop’s general direction but quickly looked away, unable to make eye contact. Clearing her throat, she read the index card in her hand. “In the case 15-85201008, Cook County vs. Anson Bishop, find the defendant, Anson Bishop, not guilty in violation of Penal Code Section 187(a), a felony upon Calli Tremell, a human being. Not guilty in violation of Penal Code Section 187(a), a felony upon Elle Borton. Not guilty in violation of Penal Code Section 187(a), a felony upon Missy Lumax. Not guilty in violation of Penal Code Section 187(a), a felony upon Barbara…”
Porter didn’t hear the rest. The rush of blood in his head, the thumping of his heartbeat in his ears, drowned her out. The gallery erupted with loud gasps, shouts—some cheered while others broke out in tears.
Poole tapped his shoulder and nodded toward the door on the far right of the room. “We need to go.”
PORTER’S NOTES
ANSON BISHOP VICTIMS
Calli Tremell
Elle Borton
Missy Lumax
Susan Devoro
Barbara McInley
Allison Crammer
Jodi Blumington
Emory Connors (alive)
Gunther Herbert
Arthur Talbot
Rose Finicky
Detective Freddy Welderman
Detective Ezra Stocks
Dr. Joseph Oglesby
PAUL UPCHURCH VICTIMS
Floyd Reynolds
Ella Reynolds
Randal Davies
Lili Davies
Darlene Biel (alive)
Larissa Biel (alive)
Kati Quigley (alive)
Wesley Hartzler
EDWIN KLOZOWSKI VICTIMS
Mayor Barry Milton
Anthony Warnick
Stanford Pentz – Stroger Hospital
Christie Albee – Stroger Hospital
Dozen + left at the Guyon Hotel
ANTHONY WARNICK (DIRECTED BY BACKPAGE) VICTIMS
(Children from Finicky’s)
Libby McInley
Tegan Savala – Rose Hill Cemetery
Kristina Niven – Red Line tracks – Clark Station
Vincent Weidner – Left in Porter’s apartment
WELDERMAN, STOCKS, HILLBURN VICTIMS
Weasel
UNKNOWN
Tom Langlin – Simpsonville courthouse steps
Jane Doe – Finicky Farmhouse
129
Porter
Day 199 • 3:18 PM
“I don’t want to hear another word about those goddamn diaries!” Captain Henry Dalton slammed his hand down on the table, his face burning red. He glared at Porter. “You and those books. I’m not sure what’s worse, the fact that it looks like you had them written or the possibility that you didn’t and let the rantings of some madman run this investigation into the ground.”
“I didn’t—”
Dalton pointed at him, his finger shaking. “Enough.”
“Do I need to remind you that my client agreed to attend this meeting today willingly and is under no obligation to be here?”
This came from the man on Porter’s left. His union-appointed legal representative: Bob Hessling, late forties, poorly colored thinning dark hair. He turned to the district attorney. “Your office rushed to trial. You let the media pressure you. You tried Bishop for all the murders at once rather than one at a time. He’s free because of shortcuts taken by your office, not the actions of my client.”
The district attorney’s eyes narrowed. “Law enforcement didn’t deliver the evidence, and what little they did give us was tainted. We had to group the cases together—they wouldn’t have held water individually.”
“And now Bishop is off, and with double jeopardy, you can’t try him again. Wonderful job.”
“If your client would prefer to return to his cell, that’s just fine. I think he’s done enough here.”
“I can help,” Porter said softly.
“Shut up,” Dalton replied.
From the opposite corner of the table, Special Agent Frank Poole sighed. “You need to tell us about the woman, Sam. The one we found in the farmhouse.”
“A farmhouse owned by you, by the way,” the District Attorney added.
“That’s not my house. I don’t own that any more than I own the property in Simpsonville.”
“But you don’t deny being there with that woman?”
Hessling placed a hand on Porter’s arm. “Don’t answer that.”
Porter shook him off. “I was there with Bishop’s mother, the woman I know as Sarah Werner. She and I left together. We’ve been through this. I don’t know who you found.”
The D.A. tossed several photographs across the table at him. “That’s who they found.”
Porter had seen the images before, but they still made his stomach lurch. Using a razor blade or some other sharp implement, someone had repeatedly written I am evil over every inch of exposed skin. Her eye, ear, and tongue had been removed and placed in white boxes, like all the other 4MK victims. Her fingerprints weren’t in the system, and her face had been so disfigured there was no chance of identification. Nobody held out hope for a DNA match.
Porter looked up from the photos. “I left with Sarah Werner. I don’t know who this is.”
Poole asked, “Could this be the woman you knew as Sarah Werner?”
Porter shrugged. “Same hair, same build, but it’s not her. She was alive when we left.”
“Then who is this?” The D.A. pressed.
“I don’t know.”
The room fell silent for a moment, then Poole turned to the district attorney. “Are you going to tell him?”
The man waved a hand through the air. “Go ahead.”
“Tell me what?”
Poole said, “The real Sarah Werner, the one I found murdered in her apartment in New Orleans, she was heavily linked to the people behind www.backpage.com. She represented some, provided legal services to others. Klozowski detailed her crimes in the notes he left behind.”
“So she was dirty.”
“Yeah.”
Porter turned back to the DA. “So if someone manages to ID the woman from the farmhouse, I think you’ll find she was dirty, too. The woman I know as Sarah Werner is still out there somewhere.” He tapped on the top photograph. “This isn’t her.”
“You can’t be sure.”
“I lost her at the airport.”
“You lost her at the airport,” the DA repeated. “The woman nobody else saw but you.”
“That’s right.”
From his briefcase, Poole took out a thick file, one Porter recognized. His treatment file from Camden. Poole slid it across the table to Porter. “This file says you imagined her.”
“That file is bullshit.”
Poole looked at the DA, then at Dalton and Hessling, before looking back at Porter. “I know.”
Prepared to argue, Porter’s mouth opened, but he said nothing.
“I don’t think you were ever treated at Camden,” Poole said. “We think Upchurch might have created this file, maybe with Klozowski. It’s not real. Camden Treatment Center has been closed for nearly three years.”
Porter was confused. “I…I met with the doctor. I was there, just last…”
Poole’s gaze remaine
d on him. “You met with a man who claimed to be a doctor named Victor Whittenberg. A man who claimed to have treated you after your gunshot wound. There’s no record of a Whittenberg ever on the staff of Camden. When you were there in February, someone went through great lengths to make it appear Camden was still a functioning institution, but it wasn’t. They broke in and were gone shortly after you left. They knew you were coming. The blood that was found, the evidence of a crime left behind after your visit, that was all a hoax. The blood wasn’t even human. It was feline.”
“Feline?”
“A cat.”
Bishop’s cat.
Poole understood too. “Bishop framed you. I learned that after finding Oglesby.”
130
Porter
Day 199 • 10:21 AM
“You found Oglesby?”
“Well, I found a record of Dr. Oglesby,” Poole corrected. “He was on staff at Camden for nearly eleven years, but he didn’t leave much of a paper trail. Because they’re healthcare related, most of Camden’s records are confidential. I was able to confirm he signed a number of reports, but I can’t get access to the contents. We think he vanished in late ’95, but there’s no police report. Camden had job abandonment listed as their cause of employment termination, but the rest of his employment file is sparse.”
“You’ll find him in the lake back in Simpsonville,” Porter said softly.
“Is that where you put him?” the district attorney asked straight-faced.
“That’s where Bishop would have put him after retrieving his knife.”
Poole and the district attorney exchanged a glance, then the DA asked, “Did you kill Tom Langlin in Simpsonville?”
Porter’s fingers tightened on the edge of the table, but he managed to keep his anger in check. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
The DA blew out a frustrated breath and nodded at Poole. “Just tell him.”
Poole rolled his fingers over the edge of the table, then turned back to Porter. “The woman found at the farmhouse had been dead at least two weeks, maybe longer. Her body had been stored in salt, like the others. We don’t think you killed her. We don’t believe you killed Langlin or any of the others. I think it was Bishop, Klozowski, maybe others. If we ID her, I’m fairly confident she’ll have ties to www.backpage.com and the trafficking ring, like the bodies we found at the Guyon.”
