The Bainbridge Affair

by Charles Roland Berry

  All text and images, including cover image

  ©2011 Charles Roland Berry

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  Cover Image

  Title Page

  Copyright & Permissions

  I. With Witches

  Chapter One. Inadequate Reality

  Chapter Two. The Dead Man's Talisman

  Chapter Three. Missing the Boat

  Chapter Four. I Love You, Honey, Don't Get Killed

  Chapter Five. Digging up the Bones

  Chapter Six. A Family of Witches

  Chapter Seven. Skylark Cloudfeather

  Chapter Eight. For Art and Money

  Chapter Nine. Whacking Guido

  Chapter Ten. Good Reasons for Fiction

  Chapter Eleven. Charles Dickens and Hard Times

  Chapter Twleve. Susan Returns

  Chapter Thirteen. Choosing a Reality

  Below are the Classical pieces mentioned in The Bainbridge Affair

  I. With Witches

  Chapter One. Inadequate Reality

  All morning I kept hearing Guiseppe Tartini's Devil's Trill Sonata; those intense double-stops on the solo violin, incessant inside my head. I couldn't shake it off. My job as a writer of true crime stories had become much more complicated. I had begun to investigate the bones of a young girl found on Bainbridge Island, but with each passing day, the unfolding story read more like fiction than true crime. Nobody will believe this one. My publisher tells me I have finally lost my tenuous gasp on reality.

  At first, I made every effort to record an accurate journal of the essential facts as they occurred chronologically, adding only a few commentaries and quotes when I felt additional information helped me understand events and the characters involved. Within a few days, I determined the facts, as found in the police and scientific documents, were not sufficient to explain the charred skeleton, nor the gruesome implications of the symbols carved into the charred bones.

  Found by an elderly fisherman on the beach north of the Eagle Harbor ferry-landing, the skeleton belonged to a twenty-two or twenty-three year old woman of Italian and Hispanic descent. The date of death could not be determined, as the bones had been stripped clean and acid-washed prior to being thrown into icy winter waters of Puget Sound. The best guess was the bones had been in the water less than a week. The skeleton was sewn together with nylon thread, like a lab skeleton. A coroner's assistant, having knowledge of occult symbols, recognized the cursive runes burned into the thighbones to be Theban script, an alphabet invented in the 14th century and popular among sorcerers and witches. The translation read: “My love, you can no more escape your divinity than you can escape your own skin.” The woman in question had, in fact, escaped her own skin regardless of any type of divinity inside her or attributed to her. The writing was elegant and artistic, each letter perfectly formed and burned deep into the bones. Various astrological and alchemical symbols were burned into the woman's skull. These were being referred to occult experts for possible explanations. No other marks appeared on the skeleton to indicate cause of death. The physical content of the bones indicated the young woman had been slender, strong and in good health.

  Jensen Westcott, a retired lawyer living on Bainbridge Island took an interest in the growing mystery, which drew brief national attention in the tabloids, being referred to as the “Tattooed Skeleton Murder.” The tabloids speculated Dark Witchcraft or Aliens were involved in sacrificing the young woman to some evil purpose. One went as far as to say the woman offered her healthy, nubile and defiled body for a Satanic ritual.

  Westcott, began his own investigation and concluded there was no evidence a murder had been committed. There was a skeleton, but no physical evidence to determine the cause of death. There was some deliberate purpose, as great care had been taken in cleaning the bones and sewing them together, carving the mystic script, then dumping the remains in Puget Sound.

  No missing persons in the greater Seattle-Tacoma area fit the description of the woman, and for several months no other clues came to light. Nobody came forward saying their wife or daughter was missing.

  Everything changed in late May of that year. An archeological dig on the south end of Bainbridge Island had intended to recover artifacts of the Suquamish Tribe who were resident there in the 16th and 17th century. Pottery, bone and stone tools were found. At first, nothing was found from European culture. The first white men arrived on Bainbridge over one hundred years later, in 1792, with Capt. George Vancouver. Then, to the astonishment of the UW archeological team, ten well-preserved rune stones turned up among the tools of the 17th century Suquamish people. Carved into the stones were Theban letters. Being broken in many places the words were not complete and no translation could be made. Testing determined the rune stones were not planted at some later date. The stones were from the same period as the tribal bones, indicating a European presence far earlier than previously known. A few days later, an eroded fragment was found of a 17th century bronze astrolabe. The mariner's tool was determined to be of Dutch design. Several of the more unusual and rare astrological symbols on the artifact were nearly exact in shape to the symbols on the dead woman's skull. Westcott made this discovery and he kept the information to himself.

  Westcott did not want any further tabloid speculation, and felt this information might lead to the person who inscribed the woman's bones-- if the clue could be kept secret. He found a respected astrologer to look at photos of the woman's skull.

  By this time, local and state police had placed the file among unsolved missing persons, and moved on to more urgent matters. Wescott and myself were the only people who continued to pursue the case. During the first two years we were unaware of each other's inquiries, working independently.

  I learned about Westcott only because a math professor at UW told me of a colleague in the art history department, who was married to a lunatic lawyer. He rolled his eyes to heaven, and said, “The guy is investigating that famous 'tattooed woman'.” I approached Westcott only when I felt I had something to offer, a good reason for us to work together. I explored occult literature looking for a reference to the enigmatic phrase burned into the woman's thighbones.

  After several months of research I found a 17th century manuscript, a famous grimoire banned by the Inquisition, The Clavicle of Solomon. This book of magick spells and incantations was supposedly composed by King Solomon himself; the surviving manuscript was found in the library of Duchess Anna Amalia von Sachsen-Weimar-Eisenach, the daughter of the Princess of Prussia, born 1739.

  The princess was also a composer. Out of curiosity, I searched further and found a small folio of her art songs, apparently inspired by her love affair with the writer, Goethe. The texts came from a book of spells by the early 16th century astrologer, Paracelsus. Paracelsus invented an alphabet, called the Alphabet of the Magi, very similar to Theban. The young princess translated portions of Paracelsus's magic spells into German, and used those texts in her songs.

  One song in particular contained the exact phrase, “My love, you can no more escape your divinity.” I was not successful in locating the original source, the book of spells by Paracelsus. I did learn Paracelsus traveled widely through Spain, Hungary, the Netherlands, Denmark and Russia, and died in 1541.

  Though far from conclusive, I now had at least a thread of evidence tracing the Theban text. For me, the great significance of my find was its level of obscurity. How many people in Washington State would know ancient texts by Paracelsus? With this, I went to meet Jensen Westcott.

  Westcott was a portly man, about sixty, with a charming smile and a firm handshake. We met for coffee at the Blackbird Bakery. “A pleasure to find another
person as crazy as me, “ Westcott laughed. “I thought I was the only one interested in our mystery skeleton.”

  “My own imagination could not let it go. It seems so completely bizarre,” I said. “What possible motive would anyone have to scrub those bones and burn them with words from the late Middle Ages? That kind of effort requires serious motivation.”

  “I agree. This was no hobby. Our calligrapher planned his actions--- or her actions. The part which was probably not planned, was having the bones wash up on the beach. Who would benefit from that drama?”

  “No one as far as I can tell. It seems like a secretive act, accidentally made public and sensational. Do you believe it was a murder?”

  Westcott was silent for a moment. “The secrecy would make sense if it was a murder. But, no one has come forward missing a daughter.”

  “Someone must have known the woman. Where are the friends or relatives? There was enough press coverage. That is part of the big puzzle to me, the lack of contact by concerned friends or relatives.”

  Westcott nodded. “I agree. Anyone close would usually look into the loss, based on the general description of the girl. There was so much TV coverage that first month.”

  Westcott took small notebook and a pen from his coat pocket, opened the notebook and said, “Tell me about yourself, Christopher. How did you get into detective work?”

  I do not often talk about my past or my personal life with strangers. But, I felt I could trust this man, and I wanted to work with him. I decided he should know why I am as I am.

  “Jensen, catching bad guys is a serious business for me. I use true crime stories in my writing, and make some money now and then, but that's not the reason I do this.

  My dad was an undercover cop in Vancouver, BC. He was especially good at gaining the confidence of mobsters. He gave them information. Once he told them: 'There's a diamond-dealer arriving on the Victoria Clipper from Seattle, arriving in Victoria at 2pm. His name is Grüber. He will be carrying two million in uncut stones.' He did not tell the mobsters, that Grüber was the head of a crime organization in Paraguay. When Grüber was killed, the Paraguayan government quietly gave my dad a reward of $150,000. Toward the end of his career, my dad helped the mob set up six legitimate businesses, while planting bugs in their offices. The information from the bugs put several top Canadian bosses in jail for life. Five years later, the mob discovered what happened, and sent a hitman to our house.

  My mother was away visiting her sister in Ann Arbor. My dad was in his office downstairs, listening to Johann Strauss' Blue Danube Waltz on the radio. I was upstairs watching Star Trek, when I heard a man enter our house from the garage. I did what my father had taught me to do. I went into my closet and loaded a forty-five pistol. The man killed my father and came upstairs to get me. When he opened the closet door, he did not expect to get shot in the head. I was eight years old at the time.

  After that, my mother and I went to live with my uncle in San Francisco. He was a private detective, a former SFPD vice cop. I went to high school there, and was recruited by the FBI. I went through all their training, but I discovered I was really not any good at taking orders. When someone gave me a stupid order, I ignored them. Well, that got me in lots of trouble, and I was told to find other employment. That's when I started writing true crime stories, using cases I had worked on, and ones I knew from my dad and uncle.”

  I noticed Westcott did not write anything in his notebook. He closed it and returned it to his coat pocket. He said, “I am very pleased to know you, Christopher.”

  Westcott sipped his coffee for a moment, and said, “You should know a bit about me. I was a Special-Op officer in Vietnam. My specialties were personal weaponry, surveillance and hand-to-hand combat. In my forties I was the Attorney General of Connecticut. I retired from public service and started my own criminal law practice in Seattle, which I can say was very successful. It was successful mostly because I worked for people who were accused of crimes they did not commit. I learned early how to recognize liars. When a man or woman wanted to hire me to get clear of a murder they actually committed, I gave them the names of other fine lawyers who could help him with that, and sent them away.

  Over a period of fifteen years I gained the respect of the Seattle Police Department, the local FBI and many judges. I retired four years ago with a wealth of active contacts in law enforcement and in the courts. These people help me when I am investigating crimes.

  During the past few years I have toyed with the idea of opening a private-eye business, but so far I have only worked on three cases which personally interested me. I have been hired by no one. When I sense something has gone wrong with a particular case, I look into it, for the personal satisfaction of discovering the truth.

  I would like to work with you on this skeleton mystery. If we find we work well together, perhaps we can consider going into business together.”

  I replied, “Jensen, I like that idea very much. You have the discipline and the legal contacts which I lack, and I have street-contacts which you may not have. I am also a piano-player, and I meet all kinds of people in that work, mostly good people. But, a few very bad ones. I have discovered music gives me a passport into many different social circles, including criminal circles. We might make a good team.”

  Smiling, Westcott asked, “So what did you find out about that witch writing? You mentioned on the phone, you made some progress there.”

  I related to Westcott my studies of occult books in the Prussian online library. He listened intently, particularly as I spoke of the astrologer, Paracelsus.

  “Mmm...” Wescott hummed, rubbing his large hands together. “Paracelsus is often considered the father of modern medicine. He was one of the first Western physicians to use chemicals and minerals in his medicine.” He added, “I believe he invented laudanum. We should find his spell-book, and see if the last part of the inscription, the part about 'escaping your own skin' were words from Paracelsus, or added by some 21st Century murdering wacko.” He paused a moment, then said “I have my own discovery to share with you.”

  Westcott pulled a large sheet of paper from his briefcase and unfolded it carefully facing me. “Here we have a detailed interpretation of the astrological symbols burned into the woman's skull. I have full confidence in the man I consulted.”

  He allowed me a moment to view the charts, and continued, “The symbols give two specific astrological dates: a date of death, and date of birth. February 12th, 2011 at 2:10am was the date of death. February 13th, 2011 at 4:36pm was the date of birth. Both events happened in our specific longitude and latitude. Only two weeks before our skeleton was found.”

  “What are the other details?” I asked.

  “The chart details of the personalities of each individual. The two girls are very similar in temperament and talents, though distinctly separate people.”

  “How do you figure this relates to our girl?”

  “I have no idea,” Westcott laughed. “No idea, whatsoever! If I believed in witchcraft, I might say our girl died and someone else was born, and somehow the girls were related. Some sort of deliberate black magick. But I don't believe in that nonsense. ”

  I was stunned. I had come across strange phenomenon before, and I did not know what to believe. Among occult practitioners, I had seen things which could not be rationally explained. I was not able to dismiss the idea of black magic as easily as Westcott. I felt a sensation of vertigo, a dark swirling uneasiness, a nagging premonition, a knot in my stomach telling me I had grown up and lived my adult life in an inadequate reality.

  My rationalist, scientific, logical view of reality did not provide adequate answers to the death of the girl, nor the decoration of her bones.

  Westcott, seeing my discomfort, quickly smiled and said. “Don't take this as a setback. I think we have made great progress, and together we will figure this out.”

  I was still too shaken to speak. I found no words to explain to this self-confident, ch
eerful lawyer the depths of my fear. He felt thoroughly at ease with his view of reality, and this mystery was a thrill for his confident imagination. As for myself, I was filled with foreboding and dread. My mood was the quiet, restrained mood of the 2nd movement melodies in Mozart's Piano Concerto No.23, rather than the exuberant, self-confident bustle of John Philip Sousa's Washington Post March.

  Chapter Two. The Dead Man's Talisman

  Some days after our first meeting, I met Westcott's lovely wife, Susan. Susan Westcott was a professor of art history at UW, her specialty being 17th Dutch Masters. When I mentioned my interest in the astrologer, Paracelsus, her eyes lit up.

  “You know,” she said, “Astrology was still well respected in Holland in the 17th century. The Protestants had scared-off, or killed, all the witches and magicians, but astrology remained. Vermeer did a wonderful piece, The Astronomer, in 1668. Astronomy and astrology were not separate sciences at the time. Vermeer has the model touch the Celestial Globe lightly with his fingertips, as if it were a crystal ball. Regardless of the Protestants, belief in divination and magick were still strong in the minds of most people.”

  I responded, “Paracelsus spent time in Holland, but that was at least one hundred years before Vermeer. I have found he had several students in Holland. One student was apparently murdered over a bag of herbs. A policeman at the time wrote a detailed report. Two of Paracelsus' best students were in a quarrel over this magickal talisman. This pouch of herbs, when worn like a necklace, had the power to protect the wearer from evil forces. The policeman made a detailed line drawing of the talisman when the bag was recovered from the murderer. The murderer was hung, and the talisman pouch was stolen from the police station.”

  Jensen Westcott was very pleased by this story. “My friend, this is excellent. We now have a link between Paracelsus and magicians in Holland. It is quite possible one of those magicians was also a sailor, an adventurer, and that man brought his astrolabe to Bainbridge Island!” He clapped his hands together with joy.