After all these years of having witnessed something as horrible as the disposal in several trash bags of someone you knew (Off-handedly) while waiting, under orders, clicked into a trained Celiac's Sprue Disease Symptomatically-induced hypnotic state; For a phone call that would make you next; Listening to the sadistic bragging, the anxiety, the grandiose hopes of those responsible; Then being let go, then ordered to secrecy, then framed and treated as if the homosexual mutilator/killer yourself, as well as for two others, for 24 years until 2001; Trying your best to fulfill military orders to not divulge a thing to even the most persistent authorities, and far worse, Shrinks and "Mental Health" Workers with power, money, obtuse theories, and a Court Order; And then to finally understand - Because they don't tell you why - What it's all about because you see the murderer on TV, and he's a Congressman...
And you start to remember. The more details in the media, the more you remember. Even when hypnosis was used to make you forget - Until the day would come for you to testify - But that just never keeps on coming.
You wonder about your own sanity, and only the magnitude of the ruination of your life by government agencies can convince you that it's very, very, real, and you try to survive.
I'm on my last $7.42 at present, with no prospects for employment, endlessly harrassed by Social(ist) Agencies who seek to shut me up, vague hopes for a subpoena, stripped of family, home, career, social status, and way beyond bankruptcy. This is a real, live, field test of Hillary's "Village," and I think I'd just as soon live in Moscow under the KGB.
You eventually come to experience the horror of 9/11 - And it's not until much, much later that you find out that you may have had something to do with it's happening.
On 9/11/02 - And NOT on 9/11/2008... But the authorities just never believe you... Because of your Celiac's "Dumbed Down" demeanor.
These are the events that lead up to what I heard and saw in the Condit's townhouse apartment near London, with explanation. BEWARE, THIS IS GRAPHIC AND HORRIFIC BEYOND BELIEF. I DIDN'T MAKE IT UP, I HAVE A VERY GOOD EIDETIC MEMORY AND THIS CELIAC DISEASE'S "NEUROPATHY," HYPNOTICALLY-BASED INTELLIGENCE METHODS AND MEANS OF PUTTING ME IN HARM'S WAY WAS HOW I WAS USED IN ESPIONAGE WHILE IN US ARMY MI.
Check out my Photo Page for military documents and time/dated photos and my Picasa Album for just how far back my relationship to Gary Condit goes - And WHY.
I limit this file to what I saw and heard in London and then by intelligence authorities to describe the events and the scene as could not be known any other way. The cause of death of other more recent murders connected in the media to the Condits becomes quite clear as you read this, and IT IS NOT NICE, I WARN YOU.
I guess the Agency knew in the mid 70's that there was some kind of British connection to assassinations of conservatives in CA, and of the Director of the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, for which much suspicion was cast my way. More details are in my "Novel," SAPPHIRE, which you can order on my website if you wish.
Thus, I think in retrospect, the hurried creation of the "Land Liaison Office" in the British sector of Germany at the US Consulate at Duesseldorf, and another similar one in Hannover. This meant a senior GS Intelligence Officer having a couple of young Army aides to do his bidding on the surface, at least. The reality was in deliberately letting the enemy see what they wanted to see, as in a continuance of the KGB's successes with homosexual British Intelligence Officers, as well as noting the Homosexuality Theme they were starting to perpetuate in the US at that time.
(You can note the effects of it real-time, now.)
The secret, secure and remote locations, the extra TDY pay, the civilian clothes, and all the trappings and created illusions were designed to make the enemy think it was more than it looked. I was assigned to Duesseldorf, SP4 Larkin (Made into a Secret Service agent for operational reasons - See photo page on website) was assigned to the other office, but my boss encouraged us "To get together often."
Because "Of the high cost of housing," it was arraigned that I be assigned a barracks room at the British base at the international airport. That was handy, as the Director of the CIA, under whom I was run directly, and others could come into the country without having visas stamped. I'll bet the same was true of Condit's visa.
Since he was available to do Cheney's ("Office of Economic Opportunty" - A CIA front) bidding in the "Black bag of dirty tricks world" of espionage, things like that could be arraigned.
I only knew that I got a new roommate one day, and he claimed to be a British Special Air Services Non-Commissioned Officer, like our Special Forces. Wiry and lean, he showed me bruises and scars on his back, saying he'd been undercover with the IRA, got found out, beaten, and was on medical leave.
Hence, his lack of name, rank nor insignia on his plain British Army Sweater.
He was charming, and convincing. Yet his eyes could be seen to reveal murderous intent at times, something all men who have killed can show. (See photo on website.)
He invited me over to "Merry Old England" for a three-day weekend. I'd already been issued a visa and a German Driver's Licence, pursuant to my intelligence duties, as sometimes I was ordered to deliver classified material across borders and other matters.
He said he would drive, and we'd take the ferry over.
My visa is stamped for that, but I remember him giving the bartender on the ferry, who did the stamping, both visas with like a 50 Pound note in his, and some kind of explanation in whispers.
Yet, in retrospect, I do remember the visas looked identical, and I wondered why. (They were both American.)
He encouraged me to go over and speak to one of the British soldiers on the ferry, but to not tell him to join us. His name may have been Ron, but mainly I remember that he dined at breakfast at the NCO Open Mess, where I got mine free, and was a fairly nice guy. (See photo)
But, I had learned, that he was "Gay," but was tolerated for his delicate soldering repair work in the radio shop.
I remember the (man who was portrayed to be to be the )British Criminal Investigation Division NCO being on the ferry, as well, watching it all from the background. Condit had said we must go upstairs to the bar while the ship headed out, then we could go back to the car.
I went over to Ron, said "Hi," he stuck his hand out and I shook it, only to be shocked by the gentle caress of his middle finger against my palm. It is a secret sign among homosexuals I'd been told as an adolescent, and was remarkably what the murdered DLI Director had done to me, as well, as he'd issued me my textbooks.
I turned bright red, especially when he said, "Oh, it's going to be a wild sex party, eh?" With a certain look on his face.
"Uh, yeah." I stammered, thinking this was why Condit had said not to invite him to join us. "See 'ya later." And I walked back to the bar.
I guess I was slipped a mickey or two, as that first beer was very good, and the second better. I only remember waking up as we were driving around the next morning.
"You up, then? Righto, you sure were passed out!" Condit really had me convinced of his British accent, and laid it on thick, but he appeared somewhat angry. (I think this is why one at first never heard his voice at all on TV during the Chandra Levy affair for fear I'd recognize it.)
"Yeah, wow. I've never passed out before." His little sports car was a convertible, and he liked to drive fast. We arrived at his place and he told me to hold on while he pulled out his wife's car from their special parking place.
But someone pulled in as he was pulling out his wife's car, and he had a brief argument with the man before backing his own car into the spot. It was the closest spot to their apartment door.
"Carolanne, we're here!" Condit announced.
"What took you so long? The other one's already come!" His wife said.
"What! You let him in!? He passed out! I had to drive around for hours while he came to!" He responded as he motioned to me.
"Why didn't you come on time? I was expecting you this morning. And don't call me that, you know I don't like it." The sort of chubby woman said.
"I couldn't be seen by all these nosy neighbors carrying him in, now could I?" He glared, but looked about in a nervous, angry way.
"Carolanne! Call her Carol, call her Anne, but don't call her Carolanne! Damn Carolanne of the Baskervilles, is what!" He angrily tossed the words in her direction.
"I got my bag. Where should I put it?" I mumbled something to that effect, trying to be consolatory.
"Oh, right there by the wall. The other one's here!? Where is he, then!?" Condit demanded.
"In the kids' bedroom. They're out with Grandma, shopping."
"What! What if...?" He demanded.
"Don't worry. They won't be back until the evening. I've done him, already, just the way you like it to be." She, too, spoke with what to me was a British accent.
Condit said something to me, and I had that then-familiar hypnotic reaction, and just sort of stood at attention. Standing THERE, my back to the wall on the left side of the doorway. He closed the door. It was a small room with a overstuffed sofa for two on it facing the other wall, where an entertainment center was and the phone, a black one.
To my left was the kitchen, separated by a dining bar. Or, if one bore right, there was a hallway where the kid's bedrooms and a bathroom were. There was a staircase to the master bedroom above. There was an ornate glass case or cabinet filled with multicolored glass ornamental trinkets.
"What do you mean, you've done him?!" Condit demanded, worried all of a sudden. "You were supposed to wait for the phone call!"
"Oh, they called. I said you hadn't arrived yet."
"Did you tell them!? You'd done it?"
"No, of course not! I just said for them to call back." She replied. (Mind you, this might vary some from other times I've tried to write this down, but this is still the gist of the conversation.)
Condit was now in a fret. "What if someone had seen you!"
"What was I to do!? Just leave him standing there on the street corner all morning!? Didn't you give him our address?"
"Not an exact one, of course not. But what if you got the wrong one?" Condit demanded.
"Ha! He was a military man, they all look the same even in civilian clothing!"
"Bloody Hell! So... In the kids' room?!" Condit went to check, and I could hear the sounds of rustling plastic bags, for some reason. "What are your panties doing in here? Where's the Goddamn head!?"
"They're not mine. Don't worry, darling, I've set that one aside, it's the one to the far left."
Condit appeared a bit relieved, but anxious as he returned, giving me an evil smile, as if to say, "You'll understand soon enough."
"What's he standing like that there, for?" She asked.
"Oh. He's a CIA Manchurian Candidate Study they've got going. They use a phrase on him, he goes into trance like that, tell him what to do, he outs and does it, and then doesn't remember a thing. Do you, Rickie boy?" Condit smiled, realizing the fun he could now have.
Please note that with all the moles I was worked against, they would be told some story about me, such as "We think he's selling classified information, could you help us catch him? And the suspected mole would usually steal info I had, and get caught selling it, then get "Turned."
Condit, what with his "Intelligence connections," thought he was all the more clever, as in telling Ron something similar to get him to make that public scene on the ferry.
The phone suddenly rang and Condit answered it, trying to explain that a mistake had been made, and wanting to know if the rest should be carried out. But the party on the other line had to make a call, first, and would call back.
"What about the bathroom!? Is there splatter!?" And he rushed off to check, coming back a moment later apparently satisfied.
"Don't worry, I used the Clorox, like you do." She said.
"Yeah. Clorox. Fixes everything." Condit was deep in worry and thought for a minute, and suspicious as if he'd been set up.
"You're just upset that you didn't get your sexual jollies, is all." She needled him, the way a wife does. "I'll just go ahead and make the tea, then. Wouldn't you like a nice cup of English tea?" She smiled at me in a peculiar way and went into the kitchen area, while Condit answered the ringing phone.
"Yes... I think about that much." And she smiled at me, intuiting the fun that could be had with me in that state of hypnosis, as she boiled some water, and prepared a cup and saucer, putting something in it.
"Yes, about 90 kilos, I think..." She studied me as Condit talked on the phone, in a worried, studied sort of way. Then she came back over to me and took up my left arm, moving the elbow joint back and forth the way a doctor would do a checkup.
"Yes, this one will separate nicely, I think. A Keeper." She looked into my eyes, enjoying my sense of confusion and growing terror.
"You and your bloody scalpels! Why can't you just chop them off like a bloody chicken!" He was off the phone now. And she turned to go back to the kitchen.
"You! And your bloody dull knives! They'll find you out some day! Leaving nicks like that!"
"Ah! What's the difference!?" He was still angry and showed it. Ignoring me like a piece of furniture. Then he brightened and looked at me, with an intent look in his eyes.
"They'll NEVER be able to figure it out, you know. It will keep them mystified." She added with a sense of seeming reverie.
(I now know from reading what such means from a forensic point of view. I've also come to understand that she is a licensed veterinarian, explaining her having scalpels, and as I now understand, dosages of drugs persuant to body weight.)
"What if he tried to get away! How could you stop him!" Condit turned to her, again.
"Oh, that little fairy! He did try to crawl away, but I just sat on him until he stopped. Then I tied his legs with his cute little pink panties. And your duck tape. Why do they call it that?"
"It's for ducks, I guess." And they smiled together.
He continued. "Yeah, I saw the cute little pink panties. They're all a bunch of faggots, all of them." Condit shook his head in disgust.
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, the one who contracted this. And his boss. And HIM." Condit glared at me, again, thinking on what to do.
I believe the phone rang a third time, and he answered it, talking for a minute or two.
"It's off. Quit making that bloody tea." He announced, worried and thinking what to do. She took the pot off the stove.
"Why?" She asked. "What do we do now? I've got the sweetmeat pie prepared, you know."
"Aaah. Yes, good. Good English sweetmeat pie." He smiled at me, as if I'd understand soon enough, but I could only figure it to be the British antecedent to the American Pot Pie.
"Oh, we have pot pies, you know. Is it like that with crust on top?" I tried for conversation.
She smiled and they looked at each other. "Oh, vegetables and LOTS of meat! Maybe you'll be in one, one day." And I thought such to be some kind of witty, digging English joke. The Brits at the base often showed their resentment of my higher pay and quicker rank.
"I've saved some liver, you know." She told him.
"Oh, good! Liver and onions! I love that! Don't you, Rick? Maybe for breakfast, then!" He smiled and leered at me at the same time. And I thought that odd for a breakfast item, but I was their guest, after all.
"You can't..." She warned. "What if he barfs on the ferry back?" And Condit nodded, "You're right."
He continued. "It seems the boss likes this one too much. Kind of attached to him in a special way, you see... Changed his mind. They've got some other means to deal with him, I take it." Condit peered closely at me, and started thinking what that meant for him, brightening somewhat.
"Just make sure he gets the idea, is all, they said. Tell him things... In his state..." He turned his head to tell her.
"Oh, I see. And no one would believe him, anyway, even if he remembered... He won't tell anyone." She got a gleeful sort of smile.
"Did you do it exactly the same way?" He asked her.
"Yes, exactly. But why?"
"Because. It's the coming thing. Faggots and Serial Killers. And Copycats, they tell me. Everyone terrorized to death by things. So the public goes mad to be able to catch one, right, Rick?" He evilly smiled at me.
"So, you mean he...?" She pondered.
"Yes. He's our pay chit. For our career. Since we've done this for the top man, we'll get to go the whole way." Condit's face seemed to fill with grandeur and fame, smiling.
"The top man?" She asked.
"Oh, yes, the very top. Almost as high as the US President himself. Over the cops. Over the FBI. Damn Director of the CIA." He answered in a thoughtful sort of way.
"Uhhh. So what's your kids' name, then? I thought you only had a son. Or two sons. The two photos, I thought there was two." I stammered, trying to bring some kind of cheerful sense to the conversation.
"What!!!" Condit demanded of me, as if I'd deeply offended him by asking about his children.
"What's he talking about?" She demanded.
"I've got two photos of Chad. One younger than the other. Or did you think I should have a whole family ablum out?" He glared at her.
"You're not thinking of our daughter? Hmph!"
"Argh!" He shook his head.
"Uh, yeah. Do you want me to use one of the bedrooms, or something?" I asked, trying to make some kind of sense of things, for I was supposed to stay for the three-day weekend. The Consulate had closed for the three days, and it think it had to do with a special laser/light marble facade cleaning operation they had planned, or something similar. How I got the extra day off, I believe it was.
"Oh. No, uh, you'll just use the couch, then. I've got a boy and a girl. He's named Chad and she's Caydee." He answered in a studied sort of fashion.
"Why are you telling him that?" Mrs. Condit demanded of him. "What if he remembers?"
"That's the point. We'll be in the papers, so will our family. They'll think he's read it somewhere, and is coming up with some wild story to protect himself. Serial killer!" He grinned.
"Uh. What's a Chad? I know what a Caydee is, isn't that one of those British singing insects, or something? You folks sure have funny names, you know." I said, in my hypnotic stupor.
"Oh. It's a hanging Chad, you know." Primly smiling at the dumb state I was in, happy to tell me weird things to remember.
"What did you say! What are you saying about my son!" She demanded, as she carried another bag past, a smaller and lighter one than the rest.
"Oh, it's those little things that hang off of voting ballots, don't you know?" He told her.
"What are you talking about?"
"Agh. Some kind of political agenda they've got planned. That we can plan our own career on. Some way of rigging the election in Florida, or something." He seemed disgusted with them all, yet appreciative of how he'd be able to ride the coattails.
(Look. I totally risk losing the reader's credibility by dutifully reiterating what I heard, and even I didn't catch on to what a "Chad" was until the Florida election deal. But there are other references embedded in my novel - Like the burning of the St. Louis military records in '72 that buttress this story I was told of a long-term political, family, and espionage agenda that was counted on by all sides. And that I'm supposed to eventually report about.)
"Oh. Why don't you go to sleep now, then." Knowing it was a hypnotic command.
"Oh, good, I'm really tired." I was so groggy, even without the hypnotic effect and the incomprehensible, mind-numbing, nature of the conversation.
"Uh, what'll we do with the bags, then?" Condit asked his wife.
"What bags?" She asked.
"The trash bags! In the bedroom!?"
"Oh. Well, take them to the dumpster, then!" She answered.
"I can't use our dumpster!"
"No, go find another one, silly! Everyone uses public dumpsters!"
"Which one has the head!" He shouted from the bedroom, going through them. Then coming out with a couple of extremely heavy and bulky black trash bags.
"Want to see, Rick?" His eyes were bright with enjoyment.
"No, don't! I told you I didn't want to do this in our own house! My new carpet!" She hurried into the bedroom to get another.
"Ah! You and your bloody carpet." He put one bag down and said to me. "I bet it's in here. I bet the penis is still in the mouth, what do you think, Rick?" Going as to undo the wire tie. Enjoying the uncomprehending terror in my eyes.
"No, DON'T!" She came from behind with another heavy bag.
"I bet that's it." He motioned to a hard bulge on the side of the bag, purposely banging me on the knee with it, looking me in the eyes as he did so.
"Tell him things, what you like to do." She told him as she passed me. Trying to get him to think of other things. "You know."
"Oh, yes." He remembered they were supposed to terrorize me as much as possible.
"You like candies, don't you, Rick?" He smiled horrifically, then added, "Yes, do you like S&M's? Rick? Very nice candies..."
"You mean M&M's, don't you, darling?" She played some little familiar conversational game.
Coming back, he stood really close to me, grabbing me by the crotch, saying, "I bet that one will do! A REAL candy bar!" Looking into my eyes of horror and shame.
On the final trip, I think it was, he said "I can't be seen putting all these bags into one dumpster!"
"Well, use more than one dumpster, silly!" She told him, bringing out another one.
"Damn Carolanne of the Baskervilles!" He muttered. (I only recently found and read that novel for his meaning.)
"Darling! Why don't you tell him what your ultimate is!? When we retire!?" And she got a bit of the hypnotic glaze in her eyes, as if remembering some kind of euphoric association. So did he, only more.
"Oh, yes, no more than one a year. To let things and the cops cool down." He was also ruminating, the sort of mini-trance one goes into due to subliminal suggestion that I used to be so familiar with.
"No, I mean the LAST ONE!" She instructed.
"Oh, yes! A pregnant one!" He brightened as he drew nearer. She listened in passing.
"What do you think of getting the little one out and holding it before her eyes, eh? Cutting the little wacker off while she watches? Or maybe, Rick..." His face got close to mine.
"Eating the little one's heart as she watches, eh? S&M's?" His eyes had borne into mine. I was already behind disbelief, as he made a motion as if popping a morsel into his mouth.
"Oh, no, darling! A little baby? I want to take care of it for a while!" She protested.
"But then she can't watch!" Meaning the post-pregnant women would be dead by then from the procedure he'd of performed. He was angry with her, again. And frustrated. It was as if a man and wife arguing about the color of new carpeting, or something, where the woman does it merely for the sake of seeing if her man really cares about her, or not. That bizarre.
"Yeah, well, I'll figure something out." He muttered, wondering how to plan this climatic event, studying me for a moment. As if a Manchurian Candidate puzzle to solve placed in their heads to have them constantly ruminate on retiring - From a "Successful (long) career."
"OK, then. I'll go take care of this." He reached in his right pocket for his car keys and looked at me warningly. "Rick, you just lay down and go to sleep, now."
She came to me holding one of the trinkets from the glass case. It was a little ambulance, and she told me, "Here, keep this to remember us by. Maybe one day you'll get a ride in an ambulance. Or in two of them." Implying being in both at the same time, she put it in my shirt pocket.
(Condit later found it on my bookcase at the barracks and angrily took it back.)
"He'll be OK, then?" She asked him a bit worriedly, and I headed for the small couch, wondering what kind of sleep I'd get on it, but not caring so much, for in that I felt relatively safe going to sleep.
I think he suggested I take one of my "Pills," or something.
Even if I didn't wake up, I wondered, sort of falling into a deep well of horror, shutting out the world until the next morning. I barely remember the trip back, and then remember being called to the Consulate on Sunday.
There was a certain section of the LLO Office that was "Clean" from eavesdropping devices, and I remember standing there while the Director debriefed me.
Your new roommate, who is he?" The Director asked. It was like he'd just flown in on the Red Eye, or something. He was there only occasionally, like when a special problem came up.
"Umm. I'm bad with names." And I was in a sort of horrific state of shock and bewilderment, not wanting to even think about these things. Let alone having the Director know about such things that could influence my security clearance.
"Was it... Gary?" He gently asked.
"Ah, yes! Yes, I remember, now. I'm bad with names, so I try to make a mnemonic of them when I meet people, and I know you wanted me to be the US Army representative with them, and..." I babbled away, the effects of the hypnotic state, and sometimes they'd give me a shot of sodium pentathol, I think, as well.
"But, that's different! Because I think of 'Gary' like my brother's name, and HE's a real criminal! Just the opposite of this 'Gary,' because he's a British Special Forces Sergeant, SAS, you see, and..."
"OK." The Director cut me off. "And his last name?"
"Oh, I remember now. I was standing there in the barracks room and remembered memorizing his last name. It's, uh, Conduit. Yeah, Conduit. Like a pipe for wires, you know."
"Are you sure it's not Condit?"
"Yeah, yeah, that's right! It's LIKE a Conduit, but you know, these British names are funny, sort of. I mean if it was Smith, or Baker, you'd know his family baked bread, or something... And her name is funny, too, really British. Carolanne, but she doesn't like being called that, and..." I had babbled on.
And he asked me the details of what had happened over there, and I told him. It was a week later, I believe, that he returned with the transcript, and I signed it. He co-signed it and had one of the ASA types sign as witness, I believe.
But he explained to me that they'd had their experts try to figure out what it was all about. That the the British NCO's head had been found in a very bad state, decapitated, with the penis in its mouth, and other parts of him dismembered, with not all found. "Very mutilated." It was said.
The Director was somewhat especially aghast at the sexual mutilation, and went on to tell me more of the analysis. He told me that some CIA Shrink believed that what they did was to drug their victims with some kind of paralyzing drug first, after luring them into a trusting home setting, where they'd accept a drugged drink.
That, apparently, said drug would lower blood pressure, and there'd be little blood splatter in the bathtub, where they'd be carried after being completely disrobed. And tied mostly with their own clothing. But that it was some kind of intelligence operative method to also use such a common material as Duct Tape.
(There was mention from another separate conversation that Jamaican Witch Doctors use Datura, a drug found in the Angel Trumpet plant or the Fugu fish family, to drug their victims with. It paralyzes the muscles to near death, and people often get buried alive this way. The Jamaican Witch Doctors actually bury them on purpose while drugged and then dig them up and revive them with another drug, having driven them stark raving mad, their "Zombies." For which some enemy of the victim has paid to have done.)
That there was some kind of sexual power trip to it for the Condits and the Shrink thought that Condit would enjoy cutting off a male victim's penis (Or a woman's breasts) and placing it in the victim's mouth, probably masturbating at that point.
That, in the midst of such horror and pain, and loss of personal control over themselves, should the victim somehow survive; should the Police suddenly beat down the door, they would still know irrevocably that their sexuality was forever lost. A sort of ultimate sexual/power/terror trip.
The Shrink thought tourniquets were used, for in that the bodies found and the amount of parts found separately removed, yet not a total dismemberment, that the torture process was quite prolonged. Apparently, Mrs. Condit had a fetish about joints and the like, and would probably then hold each dismembered part up, one by one, before the victim's eyes, "Until lifeless eyes looked back no longer."
(I was told to specifically remember and use that phrase when telling this story, for whatever reason, by the Director.)
That the study of serial killers was (in 1977) in its infancy, but some things seemed to follow a pattern. That these two were probably a specialized "Hit team," a couple of psychos more or less put together by foreign and hostile intelligence psychologists with an apparent intent to infiltrate Congress.
That they probably ritualistically ate some of the organs, probably the heart. ("Sweetmeat pie.") That they probably kept trophies, which seemed to be supported by the findings of only partial remains.
(I reference a news article I'd noticed over a year ago, where it was stated that a grisly discovery of "Mummified and unrelated body parts had been found in a Sacramento dumpster." SOMEBODY ditched their "Trophies," I take it. Where's the DNA testing!?)
That Condit probably kept the head and sexual parts to masturbate on for a while, but would eventually in disgust and revulsion badly damage it, probably doing something to the eyes. Again, this was pursuant to what they'd been finding so far, and what I'd reportedly seen and heard.
(I faxed the DC Police with much of this as I remembered it then after seeing Condit on TV. They subsequently DID find Chandra's body totally consistent to this description. I note reading that Chandra's head was found somewhat separate from the rest of the body, "Nearly cleaved in two," according to one press report, over a cliff not far from a road. In an area where it would eventually be found, after great decomposition.)
On his own, I think, I was set up to date a British WAC for in the fact that she was a Lesbian. Again, her "Cooperation" was obtained by being told she was needed to investigate MY sexuality and potential blackmail susceptibility, "They want to know your sexual orientation," she told me on our single date.
And yet this loyal British Soldier WAC was related, I remember, to British Royalty. Simply doing her duty, as did the other Brit.
Unknowingly, I later sold her my car at too high a price, and she was angry. (See webpage photo.) The last time I saw her was with Condit driving off base, after he'd told me, "Don't worry. I'll take care of it all."
The Brit CID NCO later accused Condit of being "No investigator in Intelligence! You're just a politician from California!"
"No! I DO have Intelligence connections! I am here to investigate the deaths of my constituents!"
And then he told me, "I tried to help you, Rick! But they KNOW YOU DID IT!" By the large tree in the courtyard of our BAQ. Simply enjoying looking into my terrified eyes.
Some time after that, I was secretly sworn in as a Warrant Officer, CID, MI by the Director with his aide co-signing as witness on the contract and financial papers. This is a specialized rank for undercover investigators, and I was told I'd be made into a long term one. I was told the day would come when I'd be called forwards to testify on this before Congress, and would then recieve my military pay and benefits.
Since the time frame was known, I was also set up as bait for the American Psychological Association, a suspected KGB Front Group from the 70's on, in that I was told to sign a Waiver Form of my Constitutional Rights. That, as part of this "Cover-up," I was being made into a "Study Of The Manchurian Candidate Effect." It would be a "Blind Study" of their "Study" of "Me."
(In other words, could they, with all their wizardry and lots and lots of government money, TELL the difference between hypnotic compulsive behavior and true mental illness? NO. Between "Sleepers" and people with true problems? NO. So why were they demanding to take the place of Judges, Police Chiefs, Principals of schools, and even Fathers in the home? Demanding to be overseers of the CIA's Covert Operations Division, without the approval of Congress?)
About 13 years ago, (May 13th, 1994?) I was dragged before Hawaii Judge Komo on trumped-up false gun registration charges, who, upon the words of FBI Agents there, sentenced me to be Committed, unless the FBI's suggested program of "Out-patient treatment" was successful. The FBI and APA wanted to do a "In situ study of Serial Killers," Like "Me."
But the FBI Agent specified a certain date for the review, another Friday the 13th mnemonic, I'm sure now (August), and also had the Judge seal some other specific records without being able to look at them. And move the case to the Federal Court in Phoenix, AZ, for, he said, my "Psychological profile said I would eventually move to the mainland and become a truck driver, probably for SWIFT."
I was forced to move from Maui to Wyoming, where this starving community has been quite eager to sponsor this "Test Program," and gets all kinds of government funding. As if a "Sexual Offender," they were all warned that I was suspect of being a "Homosexual Serial Killer," and as such, vigilantes have tried to kill me several times, the authorities to frame me for anything possible, normally decent people have made my life hell, and even going out into my front lawn meant the police would come cruising by in less than two minutes to stare me down.
The Druggies feared me because I dutifully used my trained talents to report on their activities, and I believe the local Drug Baron actually offered drugs to McKinney and Henderson to kill me and my son while camping in a spot he suggested going to. They kidnapped and raped a mixed race couple nearby in hopes of luring me up their site, but I didn't go. It was reported in the papers as the "Spring Creek Assault," but when I wrote the Sheriff with the licence # and other details, it was ignored, and these two went on to do their gay-bashing thing with Matthew Sheppard in Laramie.
So one point was proven, anyway: One is stripped of all credence by the APA as a political arm as a "Mind Thought Criminal." Without Due Process.
Finally, these last years, I've been forced to undergo more "Experimental psychological treatment," as in being forced to drive for SWIFT TRANSPORTATION. I guess the theory was, that I was suspect of being some kind of "Paranoid schizophrenic homosexual prostitute for superiors, and would then would become disgusted and go out to find another to kill in such a horrible way." So, the three trainers I was given tried very, very hard to reorient my heterosexuality in such close quarters, under such great emotional, financial, and physical pressures under the licence of Court Order.
I am sure they wanted to "Create identical conditions," so I'd "Do it again," and they'd get all kinds of federal funding for permanently putting me away.
I was cleared by their very own methods of being such, but the lure of not only massive funding has kept them going after me, but it is quite a massive political power play, as well. The APA and National Alliance for the Mentally Ill see putting me away as a very big favor (or blackmail) to the Bush family, who would institutionalize their kind in a new layer of powerful beaurocracy. Our own KGB, in effect, part and parcel of the post 9/11 Dictatorship we almost had. So this is also my own career pinnacle as an espionage professional. (See doc's and photos on my website.)
And, finally, there is obviously "Political resistance" to letting this come out, and the Democrats' favorite way of silencing the truth is to call the messenger a "Nut Case" or other derogatory things. Needless to say, it will be the Democrat Party in Congress who would most be purged by the exposure of Condit's Client list.
It was a way of keeping me alive, I guess, as with me in such a legal and social despicablity state, Condit felt free to continue his activities, I'm sure, while thinking me no risk, but as blackmail material alive and well, instead, until the promised day came and he'd undoubtably be asked to finish me off. Or he'd just do it on his own, and who would stop him?
I kept my orders and wouldn't even think of the above (Read how that can be accomplished with a bit of "Surgical pain" in the opening of my novel, "SAPPHIRE.") until the Chandra Levy case was publicized and then understood the grand import of it all. If Condit pinned three murders on me in 3 years, and he's obviously involved in 2+ in the last two, what of the intervening 27 years? Why did 9/11 take his story - And his connections to Dick Cheney - The Director's "Aide" in those times - Off the front pages?
It's not an accident that Mr. Robinson and another reporter from the National Enquirer(American Media building) was in contact with me about my novel, and the characters in it, did a full biography on Dick Cheney, revealing his CIA past, and then they got anthraxed.
(Do note that Rich Green of THE RUMOR MILL website made a big point of interviewing me about this, and kept coming up with another similar case in CA involving a Spanish pregant woman. Did the two Condits each get their "Dream kill," I wonder? One time keeping the baby for a while?)
In monitoring this "Sexual embarrassment (Or other) disposal service" for the high ranking, untold numbers of Congressmen, Judges, Generals? And the like have thusly unknowingly revealed themselves as security risks and were probably counter-run, to say the least.
Yes, this IS part and parcel of an overall Agenda that would have led up to a Coup D'Edat on 9/11, but prempted by us at the last moment, and riding out the "Rocky road" of the adjustments since. It could all have been much, much worse. My "Novel," SAPPHIRE, explains much more.
While this is about as horrific as it could get, the idea is that, now hopefully, the US Government can be returned to the American People at this next, multifaceted, set of elections.
Bottom line? President Nixon ordered Director of Operations George Bush to steward the Presidency until a new generation of leaders had reappeared. Until we got over Vietnam.
CA Rep. Poloski has asked President Bush to order a special session of Congress to hold hearings on the 9/11 Commission suggestions. Let's hope this is the vessel of change in time to make the next election in November for more than just the new President.
At least for the curious, and those with the need to know, I believe you now can acertain the cause of death in those cases.
I am sorry and apologize if you are offended by this writing, as most normal people should be. I especially express dismay to the families involved, but, frankly, there was nothing I could do about it. Excepting trying to do something about it, these last years, my ordered duty.
Rick A. Hyatt
Warrant Officer III Class (As of 9/11/2008, anyway)
US Army MI, CID
111th MI Bn,
Fort Huachuca, AZ
(Or so I was told phantom payroll and records identities are kept for long-term undercover officers, and what should be my rank by now.)
- A really interesting point is how all these murder-for-hires can be connected not only by their high-ranking political protection, but BY THE LAWYERS!
- Like... L. Wood and Geragos...
