by Richard L. Thornton, Architect & City Planner
The Shenandoah Sagas move to Georgia
The last words that I ever heard the Anti-Wife speak to me were, “Well, you have gotten rid of me, but now you have to deal with your father.” Indeed, I learned far too late to save several people that the Anti-father hated women as much as she hated men. Both sought to destroy any person or thing that they could not control. Both had multiple personalities, but he also hated animals and children.
On December 12, 2005, shortly after sunset, my dog was shot with a tranquilizer dart then poisoned with antifreeze in my backyard in Jasper, GA. I was rather quickly able to identify the criminals as a policeman from Woodstock, GA and a Georgia State Wildlife Ranger from Canton, GA. The policeman had been cheating on his wife with a female cop, so she was out for revenge. She soon was able to learn that the Anti-Father paid the Mafia $5000 to kill my dog and the Mafia paid these two men, $3000. When I confronted the Anti-father with a photocopy of the cancelled check, his excuse was, “Because you loved your dog more than you loved me.”
Totally confused as to why a father would do such a dastardly, senseless act just before Christmas, I went to a criminal psychologist for a consultation. I was also puzzled by the strange statements made by the Anti-father during the period covered by this last chapter. He repeatedly referred to me not loving him as the justification for me being punished and my sister (whom I a great relationship with) being rewarded.
After hearing the story, you are about to read, the psychologist immediately said, “He is not your biological father. He is behaving like a stepfather.” Then she gave the situation more thought and said “I think he has multiple personality disorder and one or more of those personalities are both homosexual and a pedophile. He has a sexual obsession toward you and thus sees any woman you are with as rival. His attempt to destroy you was a last ditch effort to force you to have sexual relations with him. Obviously, his efforts didn’t work.”
The psychologist urged me to secretly get a DNA sample from the Anti-father and have a lab compare it to mine. She was right. I couldn’t be more different genetically than him. And now the conclusion of the Shenandoah Sagas, where good people fight evil people in a war that is mirrored in the spiritual world. Most of the story’s mysteries will be answered.
Late February through Early March- 1993: During this period, I took a several Senior Civil Service exams and had twelve interviews at the Department of Interior and State Department. I was one of the few people there, who were not currently a government employee.
Vivi and Aimee stayed at the Danby house in Alexandria most of the time, but I was only able to spend the night when there was an early morning exam or interview; alternatively, exams in the afternoon, followed by an exam or an interview in the morning. Vivi had put on weight in all the right places. She looked great after deciding that it was no longer necessary to starve herself in order to play the parts in movies of women 18-22. She even had to switch to a larger bra size.
We really only had a couple of “romantic” dates. Most of the time, we went out with Aimee in Vivi’s car as a family – visiting museums and the zoo. I loved being both a husband and farther. Even at her tender age, I think that Aimee realized that she looked like my daughter . . . almost identical to many of the kids in my mother’s extended family. She always called me Papa, not Richard during this period. Of course, when I was there at night, Aimee was delighted to sleep in her surrogate grandmother’s bedroom, so her mother would be “happy.”
I now know that Vivi had told Sara that she was pregnant, but didn’t want to tell me until after the exams were completed . . . for fear it would upset me. Actually, I would have been excited, because it seemed that I at last was about to get out of the marriage from hell.
March 15, 1993 – The Perfect Storm: The eastern side of the Southeast and Mid-Atlantic States experience the worst winter storm in recorded history. It was a counter-cyclone winter hurricane. Winds blew up to 55 mph. There were constant bolts of blue lightning that exploded on our pastures. When it was over, a minimum of 38 inches of snow lay on our pastures, but over 15 feet of snow piled up over the west side of our barn. The temperatures stayed near zero for five days. Even though my tractor was under a shed, it was completely covered in snow for two weeks. We also could not get out of our driveway nor have telephone service for a week.
Once I had phone service, I sent a fax to Monsieur Marcel Duval at the winery in France (Vivi) stating that my wife and I had been confined to our farm because of a severe blizzard and only that day had telephone service again. It would probably be a week before I would be able to drive off the farm. Duval (Vivi) faxed back that he had been concerned about me, because the TV news in France had show videos of massive snow drifts in the region around Virginia. He (Vivi) thanked me for contacting me about the delay in determining the septic tank situation on the proposed vineyard site.
During this period, my wife began cycling back in forth between wanting a divorce and wanting to file for bankruptcy. She constantly belittled me because I stayed with an “old married couple” in Alexandria, when I should have been picking up women at bars and “expletive” them in motels. During the last week in March, she began urging me to visit my parents at Easter, since they spent Christmas with my sister, so I had not seen them in 15 months.
April 3, 1993 – Kickoff ceremony for the American Battlefield Protection Program: Jay Monahan (Katie Couric’s husband) and I were on the Citizens’ Advisory Panel of the National Park Service and so were invited to this ceremony. Fortunately, the weather had warmed significantly. Jay recommended that we sit in the bleachers next to National Park Service Director, Roger G. Kennedy and his wife Frances. He said that it would be good for my career. Jay didn’t know that I had met him at a party three years earlier. I hoped that Roger didn’t remember that either.
First, Roger didn’t seem to recognize me, then he blurted out, “goat cheese!” You’re the guy who made that incredible goat cheese we had at the Smithsonian Christmas Party in 1990.” I responded, “Yep, that’s me.” I hoped that he stopped at that point, but he didn’t. “Hey Richard, did you ever marry that gorgeous French actress, who was at the party. She was all over you and crazy about you too! We were talking with her about her past studies at the Sorbonne, but then she said that she had to get back to her man to get warmed up!”
Jay looked at me dumbfounded. He had always viewed me as somewhat a rustic, who worked all the time. He never conceived me being at posh Washington parties or being attractive to international celebrities. I whispered, “I’ll be silent about you, if you remain silent about me.” Jay got the message. The previous fall, early one Saturday morning, I had come across his Explorer, stalled in a Woodstock, VA restaurant parking lot. I jump started it for him. Oh, did I mention that his passenger was a lovely lassie of about 25 years, who Jay was hesitant to introduce?
April 6, 1993 – First exam results: I received a letter from the National Park Service. I had scored number one in the technical exam for Architect of the National Capitol, but a white male government employee had received 10 bonus points for being a veteran and 5 points for administrative experience. A black female had received a 20 points bonus for being both a veteran and an African-American. So, my modified ranking was Number 3. I might be interviewed again for the job, if the other two didn’t work out. I could expect were many more exams and interview scores to arrive in the next few days.
Black shorts and black shirts
April 8, 1993 – Easter in Georgia: As was a long tradition, my wife asked for a divorce as I was about to leave for Metro Atlanta. This time it was different. Enough was enough. Soon after I arrived at my parents’ house, I told them that <anti-wife’s name> had repeatedly been asking for a divorce, so I was going to say “yes” this time when I returned back to Toms Brook. They were not upset at all. They said that maybe I should have divorced her years ago. I agreed. This was good news. As soon as the paperwork was filed, I would tell my mother about Vivi then show her photos of her and Aimee. The fact that both Vivi and Aimee looked like mixed-blood Creek Indians would be a big plus with my mother. My new family would fit right into her family.
April 12, 1993: I primarily brought with me a toilet bag and a second change of clothes, so I was off for Virginia early on Monday morning. I also had made what would prove to be a catastrophic mistake. I had not bothered to bring my address book, because this was just a five-day trip. I went to fill up my gas tank and my gas company credit card was refused by the pump. I went to the other two brands for which I had credit cards and they were refused. I then tried to use my Visa credit card and my bank debit card and they were refused.
This is a very critical fact. About the only other item that I brought with me to my parents’ house was a box containing the original copies of all the evidence that I presented to the Georgetown Hearings and a 550+ page book containing all the depositions made by witnesses, plus the names and addresses of the investigative team. After showing the top-secret documents to my parents and explaining their importance, I hid the box in a remote storage space underneath the basement stairs.
I had to wait until 9 AM when the First Union Bank opened to find out what had happened. On Thursday, my wife had deposited a large check from an architecture client then at 11:45 AM on Saturday morning, my wife cleaned out our checking account. We no longer maintained separate accounts for the cheese creamery and my architecture practice. I immediately tried to call her on my new cellular phone. There was an error message . . . “Account cancelled by subscriber on April 11, 1993 via land telephone.”
I returned to my parents’ home and told them what had happened. They didn’t seem the least bit upset. My mother then suggested that I live with them for five years while I got a law degree. A law degree? Had she gone bonkers? In retrospect, I now realize that it was odd that my parents did immediately offer to loan me enough money to get home. However, I was so upset, that never even crossed my mind. I did notice something odd. Then, I noticed . . . and for the rest of the summer, my father only wore black shorts or pants and a black shirt.
I called all the 1-800 numbers on the backs of my credit cards. All had been charged to the limit between April 8 and April 11. Apparently, she had invited all her friends to fill up their tanks with our credit cards. The Visa card had been charged to the limit by taking a large cash advance out.
Vivi wouldn’t hesitate to send me money, if I needed it. I got permission from my parents to use their phone to call Bob and Sara. Sara could then contact Vivi and get her to wire money to my parents’ checking account. Directory assistance said that they had an unlisted number! That unlisted number was in an address book 625 miles to the north in Virginia. There was absolutely not way to contact Vivi. I didn’t even know her address in Paris.
Almost immediately, my father said something odd. Just out of the blue he announced, “You think you are smart, but I am going to prove that I am smarter than you.” He was playing some sort of mind game that I did not understand.
Rather than offering a loan, my father told me that he knew some people who might need menial work done. My mother said that she could get me supply teacher assignments from the school system, where she taught before retiring. So that is what I did for the next three weeks, until I had enough money to return to Virginia. I mowed lawns, spread grass seed, plus unloaded straw bales and agricultural lime. Of course, I did all these things as part of running farm, but my father seemed to get sadistic pleasure out of me having to do it to earn minimum wage pay checks.
Friday April 16, 1993: I received a certified mail from a law firm in Winchester, VA stating that their client, <wife’s name> had informed them that without warning I moved to the Atlanta Area to live with a woman (at my parents’ address.) Obviously, the attorney did not know that I was staying at my parents’ residence, The legal firm had filed a Motion for Marital Separation form with the District Court of Shenandoah County. The attached notice stated that I could not enter our property without her permission. The law firm seemed unaware that this was a large working farm and that my architecture office was on the premises. Under Virginia law, an innocent marital party cannot be barred from a work-related property, if that is his or her primary means of support.
Through the future months and years, I learned that on that same week, my wife had called virtually every person in my address book, even going back to friends from college, to tell them that I had cleaned out their checking account and then moved in with an older woman in the Atlanta suburbs. Several of the people called were asked for money so she could buy food. They were not told that she had four secret savings accounts in Florida banks, whose total value was over $100,000.
Vivi also arrived in Washington, DC on April 16th. She and Aimee stayed at Bob and Sara’s for the remainder of the month. When attempts were made on Bob and Sara’s lives, they quickly departed for a place unknown to Vivi. Vivi then moved into a motel in Winchester, which she used as a base for searching the Shenandoah Valley to find information on me. She even went to my house, pretending to be the wife of Marcel DuVall. My wife saw the big diamond on her finger, but claimed to not know where I was. Had my parents given me the money to rent an apartment in Winchester where I could continue my architecture work, I am certain that sooner or later, I would have run into Vivi.
April 20, 1993: That weekend, I was able to find the home number of a long-time architecture client, for whom I had designed several nursing homes. He agreed to advance me a payment on incomplete work, so I could drive up to Virginia and get my computer, drafting machine and architectural references.
I drove up to Virginia on Wednesday the 21th, obtained the check from my client and then go by Bob and Susan’s house to tell them where I was. However, once there I decided I better retain a divorce lawyer in Winchester, since I was living 650 miles from my home. First, the female attorney called my wife’s law firm and told them that I did not run away from my wife, but was visiting my parents over Easter Weekend. Her attorneys refused to allow me on the premises to retrieve my work-related equipment without a letter that would be co-signed by my wife. Having no money for a motel room after paying the lawyer’s retainer and past due bills in Virginia, I had to head back home, but first I dropped by Susan’s townhouse to see if she was living again in Winchester.
My keycard still worked, but she was not there . . . and had not been there for several months. The folks in the sales office remembered me and so took a note from me to Susan in which I explained my situation and gave her my parents’ address. They agreed to forward the note to Susan’s secret address.
I had NOT signed any Marriage Separation Agreement. I decided to stop by the farm, since my wife was at school teaching. It was so sad. My three beloved herd dogs raced up to me, overjoyed to see the only human on the farm, who gave them love. Soon the goat herd raced up to the front of the house, overjoyed to see me. How could I explain the situation to animals. At least, I would be able to get my address book, computer and accessories. Unfortunately, my wife had changed the locks on the house, but the barn was unlocked. I was able to get my bicycle out of the barn and put it in the back of the pickup. At least, now while stuck in my parents’ house, I could get some exercise by bicycling.
Shortly, after returning to my parents’ house, I discovered that my top-secret box containing the depositions for the Georgetown Hearings were missing. My parents denied ever seeing them, but within minutes after I arrived at their house on April 8, I had explained to them that these items were top secret and should not be viewed by anyone. What could I do in the short run? I had been manipulated into a situation of being penniless and homeless.
April 23, 1993: My attorney was informed that my wife has refused to co-sign the letter. After telephoning me with the bad news, my attorney sent another, much shorter, letter that reminded my wife’s attorney that Virginia law requires that she let me retrieve my work-related and personal items. There was no response. My attorney sent me a bill for $1200, along with the copy of the second letter. That ate up most of the $1500 check that my architecture client had given me and I still had not done that work, because I didn’t have my computer, plotter and design drawings.
Periodic escapes from living hell
April and May, 1993: I was in living hell. Being at my parent’s house was a hundred times worse than being in the farm house part time with my now estranged wife. My father was treating me like his prisoner of war. My mother was treating me like a 17-year-old. Repeatedly my father was calling me a failure. Both of them were repeatedly saying crazy things like “if you loved us, you would want to be like us” or “what we want you to do is live with us in the suburbs like normal people and commute to downtown Atlanta.”
Again and again, he told me that the only thing I was qualified to do was work as a salesman at Home Depot or as a construction laborer. Remember, at the beginning of the month, I had been sitting beside the Director of the National Park Service and discussing my appointment to jobs the paid the equivalent today of $150,000 to $250,000 a year.
Their home was a typical brick rancher from the late 1960s, with tiny rooms and too much furniture. I missed my animals, my pastures, Toms Brook, the Virginia Mountains, the highly educated friends in DC, the cultural sophistication of the Washington, DC Area. and especially the almost daily instant message exchanges with my beloved in France. The Separation Agreement stated that “both parties are free to live as single people, except that they cannot remarry until this marriage is permanently dissolved.” That meant I could immediately live with Vivi and Aimee . . . if I could only find a way to communicate with them. Remember this was about six years before the world wide web and email came of age.
When I was not laboring on construction sites or working as a substitute teacher in nearby high schools, I went to the main county library in Jonesboro, GA and looked up everything I could find on Georgia and Virginia Domestic and Divorce Laws. I also obtain all contact information for the Sheriff’s Department and the French Embassy in Washington, DC. Without a court order, my wife had absolutely no legal right to bar me from the house or even living in the house. I did not need an attorney. All I had to do was submit a Right of Access Warrant to the Shenandoah Sheriff’s Department and they would be required to set a date and time for me to enter the house in the company of a deputy. I typed one up, got it notarized then faxed to the Sheriff’s Department from a photocopy and business supply shop. A couple of hours later, they faxed back an acceptance letter and set the date/time for 9 AM on Monday, June 7th.
I then typed a letter to Ambassador Jacques Andreani at the French embassy, which reminded him how he knew me, explained that I had suddenly been required to relocate temporarily to the Atlanta Area and asked him for contact information for Vivi in France. A response was mailed back to my parent’s house. It did not arrive until Friday, June 4, 1993. The brief response was written by a low-ranking mailroom clerk in the embassy. It stated in French and then in English that the policy of the French government was that only French citizens could be assisted by embassy staff. Obviously, Ambassador Andreani never saw my letter.
A miracle in Peachtree City, GA
Peachtree City is now a very successful planned city on the southern edge of Metro Atlanta. When I arrived there in early 1973, there was no much there. The Wikipedia article on Peachtree City is incorrect. Joel Cowen did not design or even conceive of the path system in 1959. I did in 1973. By 1993, the path system had grown to about 30 miles long, so it was a logical place for me to bicycle my anger and grief. PTC was about 10 miles from my parent’s house.
I was bicycling away in PTC on May 9, 1993, when another bicyclist pulled to the left and slightly behind me. I glanced for a mini-second and saw a blond lady with sun glasses on. A few seconds later, I heard a familiar voice say, “Well, Richard, aren’t you going to say hello to your second wife?” It was Susan Karlson!
To be succinct, Susan was horrified when she heard what had happened to me and promised to help me forget the pain. She could not tell me where she lived in Georgia or what she was doing. She had no clue how to contact Vivi or where Bob and Sara Danby were. We could not travel together in the daytime in the same car. However, she really missed the good ole days of making out at the Wayside Inn and so we spent a lot of time making out in her big Volvo. She begged me not to mention her to my parents, relatives or friends. I would be putting her life in danger. I could only call her from a pay phone. She also would not tell me how she knew where I was living or when I was riding my bike in Peachtree City.
Susan suggested that I stay in her townhouse when in Virginia because it was dangerous for me to stay in a motel (and a lot more expensive). Her only demand at the townhouse was that I smoke a pipe with her. It turned her on!
She had another set of keys made for me and told the condo management that I might be staying alone at the townhouse from time to time. However, during almost all my trips to Virginia until 1996, she managed to be in Winchester when I was there. We would arrange our next rendezvous each time before departing.
June 6, 1994: Susan was never able to find out where the Danby’s or Vivi were. She did learn that things were in condition “red” in northern Virginia. A female covert federal agent in the Shenandoah Valley was murdered in late April. The Danby’s were among many investigators and witnesses at Georgetown, who had experienced life-threatening situations since mid-April. Apparently, they are participating in something akin to the federal witness protection program.
June 7, 1993: The Shenandoah County deputy was waiting for me when I arrived at my farmhouse. He was very polite and friendly. He said that the same thing had happened to him, when a man moved in with his wife. My wife looked terrified. Things were not going as planned. She had expected the Winchester attorneys to bleed me dry financially. Instead, I was becoming my own attorney.
I was able to obtain all of the items on the list given the Sheriff’s Dept., including the secret codes for our Instant Messaging system instead a file cabinet in the cheese creamery. However, my wife claimed that the address book had been given to her attorneys. I told her that she herself said that I was too stupid to find a girlfriend. Her attorneys never did return the address book, because my wife never paid them a red cent.
While I was at the farm, Susan called the security section at the French Embassy. They found my name listed as a “friend of the ambassador.” They then contacted Direction générale de la sécurité extérieure. Vivi had resigned from the agency in January, but they promised to contact her at her apartment. The next day, while I was still at Susan’s townhouse, an embassy official called Susan and told her there was no one at Vivi’s apartment. Neighbors said that she had been gone for several weeks.
After I returned back to my parent’s, I set up my computer and FAX in hope of contacting Vivi. I don’t know if didn’t work on a different phone number or what. My FAX never received a message that the FAX message had been transmitted and received by Vivi’s FAX machine.
July 1993: Susan and I had dates, several times a week . . . mostly bicycling, picnics on the banks of the Chattahoochee River or meeting at a movie theater in Fayetteville. One time, we were in line at the movie theater ahead of a gal who looked like Jo Evelyn Kelly, a close friend from high school. Jo Evelyn is mentioned in several of the “The French Courtesan” chapters. Susan remembered her name. The lass turned out to be Jo Evelyn’s look alike daughter and a student at Georgia Tech. Sometimes, we went to restaurants that were a considerable distance from where she lived. Susan also had use of a gated vacation cabin in Carroll County, GA, when we wished to have privacy.
Shortly after our Fourth of July picnic, Susan informed me that my father had hired a private eye, who had been following me from day one. That meant he had spent an enormous amount of money to keep tabs on me. Two FBI special agents contacted the PI and explained to him that he could go to prison for up to 10 years for interfering with a criminal investigation. Henceforth, he was not to report seeing Susan’s Volvo or Susan being near me. He complied with their wishes.
During the third week in July, my wife’s psychologist in Winchester called me. She was very friendly and immediately advised me to start seeking my “nurturing” elsewhere. My wife was going to require years of therapy. I told her that my wife had put me in a situation where I had very little money for going to bars and discos to meet women. She said that my wife had first come to her, claiming that she had many emotional scars from living with an abusive husband. “Richard, I quickly saw through her lies and was convinced that you were the abused spouse. The more I explored that woman’s mind and past, the more concerned I became.
The psychologist then told me that my wife had been keeping many secrets from me. She added that her profession’s standards prohibit the passing along of “secrets” to other parties, but the Commonwealth of Virginia did require that all information connected with human reproduction must be told to the husband. For starters, my wife had borne a child out of wedlock prior to us meeting. She had several abortions while we were married, dating back to when we first moved to Asheville, NC. For years, she had sabotaged fertility treatments by using spermicide after artificial insemination. “Richard, I asked her why she told you that she wanted children, before you two married. She said that a priestess had told her that she would be killed if she had a child with you. She knew that if she told you that she really didn’t want children, you would have divorced her.” I told her that I almost got an annulment after our honeymoon because she told my Mexican friends that she didn’t love me.
“Your wife has requested that the two of you have a joint counseling session on your anniversary, August 3. It is against my own recommendations, but under our professional standards, I am required to have at least one joint session, if my patient requests it.”
The psychologist closed her telephone conversation with this warning, “Richard, you estranged wife is very dangerous. Stay away from her. No matter what she tells you, don’t stay in that house with her!”
August 2, 1993: I drove up to Susan’s house, where I would spend the night. Susan was there waiting on me. What we planned to do was drive in her car to Alexandria after the counseling session and hope that we could find out where Bob and Sara Danby were.
August 3, 1993: I was apprehensive about being in a joint counseling session with the semi-ex, but the psychologist quickly made me feel comfortable and really asked me few questions. The only question that I remember now is if I had ever hit my wife. I told her, “No, I have never hit any woman, but she has hit me several times without provocation. The worst attack occurred after I fixed her a gourmet dinner, complete with wine and candles and served in our fancy dining room. As soon as she came in the house and saw the table set, she went into a rage, ultimately hitting me several times on the head.” The Anti-wife confirmed that it was all true.
The only other thing that remember distinctly is the anti-wife looking me straight in the face, in front of the psychologist and saying, “I didn’t love you when we married and I never loved you.”
In front of the psychologist, I stated that I needed to get my fall and winter clothes, while I was up here. I was going to drive back to the farmhouse then leave after I loaded the clothes. The psychologist told me not to remain in the house any longer than necessary.
This is a scene that comes back to me again and again in nightmares. After I loaded the clothes, I came in the kitchen to say I was leaving. My wife was leaning backward against the same cabinet where Katie Couric had leaned the previous summer. My wife said, “Honey, I no longer drink coffee or tea, but I made a special tea for you that I think you will like.” I was an absolute fool and drank that tea.
First, there was something in it that made me physically weak. A pathologist later determined that was some form of muscle relaxant . . . perhaps curare poison. Then a terrible pain was felt in my abdomen. I told her that I needed to lay down for a moment. I couldn’t get up until the next morning, when I was in excruciating pain. I dosed in and out of consciousness, but either there was something like Viagra or she gave me several pills when I was unconscious. Whatever the timing, she raped me much of the night, with me being too weak to stop her. I now realize that she expected me to be dead by morning, which was my birthday, but I didn’t know what was going on. It was some sort of bizarre ritual.
As soon as I had the strength to get up in the morning, I raced off to my family doctor. He found that my urine was extremely alkaline and that I had a severe peritonitis infection in my abdomen. An xray showed many holes in my intestines and my abdominal muscles had ruptured.
The good doctor, an Irishman, gave me a heft cup of “stop leak” which would temporarily seal the holes in my intestines. He then used a massive syringe to inject the amount of antibiotic into my abdominal cavity that would normally be given an elephant. He told me to go straight to the emergency room in the county hospital . . . but I had very little money and the county school’s insurance would no longer pay my healthcare bills, since we were separated. I bought a rawhide doggie chew bone. Put in my mouth and then drove 650 miles to my parents’ home in South Metro Atlanta. The next morning, I went my mother’s internist, a Mexican physician, who x-rayed me and then sent me to the hospital, where they drained my intestines and then began serious treatment for the peritonitis.
Susan had freaked out when I didn’t show up to go to Alexandria. She drove by the farm and saw my truck, but did not like that at all. Somehow, she later found me at the hospital and posed as a nurse for the internist to get inside my room to find out what had happened. It helps to have a professional spy as a girlfriend! She chewed me out for not divorcing my wife three years earlier, but I protested that my wife would have then tortured the animals instead of me. For the next 14 months, I had to live with constant sharp pains and keep a bandage around my abdomen to hold the organs in place as they healed. In December 1995, I had the surgery to sew 110 stitches in my colon and place a nylon mesh over my organs.
Roswell United Methodist Church: Susan really didn’t like the fact that my father was spying on me, because it might blow her cover for the main investigative assignment she had. As soon as I was able to get around, she suggested that we start attending Roswell United Methodist Church in North Metro Atlanta. It had over 8,000 members, which included over 1200 single adults. The single adult classes were huge and had social events every weekend. The church was 32 miles north of my parent’s home. It would be very difficult for any PI in the southside to keep track of me. We could pretend to be indifferent to each other in the large Sunday School classes and then use the social events to have real dates. That plan worked like a charm because I could easily claim that I was spending the night with friends on weekends because of the social events.
September 18, 1992 – Vivi birthed a healthy baby boy at a hospital near Alexandria. She is living in a rental townhouse in Alexandria.
November 18, 1993: During the second week of November my wife called several long-time friends to tell them that she had no heat and little food for her and the dogs because I had left her alone on that cold farm. She didn’t tell them that despite the fact that she was making $38,000 a year ($76,000 today) and had over $100,000, I was paying most of the bills. My friend called me up and chewed me out. Even though I was earning a third of her income, I drove up to the Shenandoah Valley and gave her $800. I refused her invitation to stay in the house and instead made her think that I was heading south again, but actually stayed alone in Susan’s Winchester townhouse.
At this time, Vivi and her two children were living in a townhouse in Alexandria, VA.
January 1994: I was offered a short-term contract with an architecture firm in Midtown Atlanta and so soon after rented the rondette on Roswell Road, which was mentioned in the previous article. Susan started staying over a lot, but always arrived in the dark and left early in the morning. She showed no affection for me in Sunday School classes and we did not sit together in Sunday School . . . but did in church services. That ended the problem with my crazy parents, controlling every aspect of my life.
April 1994: I was hired by another architecture firm in Midtown and soon was named Director of Design.
May 27-28, 1994: My realtor called to tell me that my wife was giving away my tools and farm equipment to men she dated. She had already given away a $5000 tractor to one boyfriend. He had observed a boyfriend pull my $2500 canoe out of the barn, but he couldn’t mount it on his pickup truck. It was sitting out in the rain and the wood was rotting. I drove up to the farm and quickly mounted the canoe on the pickup then drove to Alexandria.
A new family was now living in the Danby House. They did not know where the Danby’s were living. HOWEVER, a beautiful French woman had come to their house one day and asked to photograph certain rooms where she had met the love of her life. That means that Vivi had not forgotten me.
The Anti-wife was still refusing to proceed with a settlement of our divorce. She said that unless I agreed to file for bankruptcy, she would destroy me forever financially.
June 1994-August 1994: My wife spent the entire summer in Europe, running up huge credit card bills. She made no allowance for feeding the dogs and goats. My realtor paid the vet bill for my dogs being treated for flea and worm infections. He then fed the dogs for the rest of the summer. There is nothing that I can do about the situation, since I live so far away and in a constant state of poverty, because I am having to pay most of the bills for both me and my wife. She is still trying to drive me into bankruptcy.
October 1994: I called the Farmers Coop in Shenandoah County to get the balance due on feed for the goats and sheep. A little later one of the women there called me back to complain about my wife’s behavior. She had traded her Ford Thunderbird for a station wagon. The woman said that she was going all over the county and picking up teenage boys to have sex with her in the back of the station wagon. She asked me to do something about it. I told her that we were separated and I was 650 miles away.
February 1995: Susan learned that she was going on a mission overseas. She began scoping out the other 50+ women in our Sunday School class as a replacement for her. Eventually, she noticed an oriental girl, who the Gringas in the class were ignoring. She intentionally sat down beside the lady, who went by the name of Julie.
March 1995: My wife has taken the two female dogs to the animal control center and asked that they be immediately killed. My realtor, was furious because he had been feeding and providing veterinary care for my dogs for almost a year. He would have been delighted to take the dogs home with him, since she completely ignored them. My realtor called to tell me about this latest stunt of hers and that she was asking around to find someone, who could shoot the goats and remaining male dog in front of the house. She hoped that the rotting animal carcasses would prevent anyone from buying the farm. A family friend offers to go pick up the dog and surviving goats then car for them on his farm in Dewey Rose, GA next to the old home place, where we used to have family reunions.
April 1995: A mysterious lady, who I named Barbara for this book, visited my rondette at night then told me that I must move as soon as possible, but I still must stay there until the lease expires. Nothing particularly bad happens for the remaining time in the rondette.
May 12-14, 1995: My realtor asked me to drive up to the farm to make repairs to the exterior of the house and cheese creamery. He notified my wife, because she is living with a guy near the Dulles Airport. When I arrived there, I noticed that all of the extremely valuable Mexican silver coffee and tea service is sitting on the floor of the Keeping Room. It is my property, but apparently, she wanted me to break into the house and retrieve it, to make me “look bad.” That stunt is suggested in A Woman’s Five Year Plan for Winning at Divorce. I spent Friday and Saturday night at Susan’s townhouse, but she was not there, since I had started dating Julie in a serious way . . . if you get my gist. On the way back to Georgia, a van pulled up beside me on I-81 in far western Virginia. The passenger fired two shots at me with a semi-automatic pistol. Both of my windows were open. Both of the bullets flew just in front of my nose and went out the other window.
May 13, 1995: At this time, Vivi and her two children were living in a townhouse in Alexandria, VA. She drove over to the farm on Saturday to say goodbye to my soul and remember the wonder summer we spent together there in 1992. She noticed that there was a ladder leaning against the front of the house, but did not see anybody. She arrived at just the moment that I was a mile away at Bakers Store, getting supplies to make sandwiches for lunch! Just a few minutes before after her actual arrival and she would have seen me.
June 1995: Ambassador Jacques Andreani is retiring from full time service to his country. He is moving back to France. The lease is up on Vivi’s rental townhouse and she has given up hope of ever finding me alive. Vivi visited the office of National Park Service Director Roger Kennedy in hope that he knew where I am or what happened to me. He also was puzzled why I suddenly disappeared, but believed that my former wife was lying, when she said that she didn’t know were I was. He told Vivi that he planned to offer me the choice of several important positions. She then flew back to Paris with her children, but remained in mourning for several years . . . not wanting any other men in her life.
September 1995: My wife refused to sign a real estate sales contract that would have given each of us over $100,000 cash, after paying all of our dates.
October 1995: I discovered a fascinating law in the OCGA (Official Codes of Georgia – Annotated). It is an old law from the early 1800s. If both spouses were born in Georgia and married in Georgia, the spouse living in Georgia may file for divorce unilaterally for a divorce. I am no longer forced to wait until my wife’s attorneys in Virginia amend their Marriage Separation Agreement into a Divorce Petition. I file my Divorce petition to the county district court. It is perfect legally and put on the calendar for December 1995.
December 17, 1995: The same buyer offered more money for our farm, which would have given us $110,000 each with all debts paid. My wife refused to sign the sales contract then secretly filed for bankruptcy in the US Bankruptcy Court of Western Virginia. She used the loan of the farm property as her primary debt, even though she has made no contribution to paying the load since early 1993.
December 19, 1995: We had our first divorce hearing in the District Court. The judge rejected all claims from my wife’s attorney for alimony or for granting grounds of desertion after I presented multiple copies of charge card bills signed by her in Atlanta bars and restaurants throughout the summer of 1992, plus an affidavit by my parents that I had originally intended to be at their home on Easter Weekend 1993. He rejected my petition to grant the divorce on the basis of fraud . . . ie She claimed to want children, but actually had multiple abortions, on the basis that he could not accept the psychologists medical records unless they were presented in person by the psychologist. He ordered the parties to divide the property and appear in court in two months.
My wife committed perjury by filing a document in the divorce court, which said that she had not filed for bankruptcy. Neither the judge nor I ever knew that she was in bankruptcy. The judge could have intervened on the use of the farm as collateral for her bankruptcy. However, he gave me possession of the farm, since she had not contributed anything to its maintenance or loan payment in three years. That also would have affected the bankruptcy case . . . if the folks in Virginia had obeyed the law.
March 1996: I now have a complete copy of the several hundred pages of my ex-wife’s bankruptcy proceedings. They cost me $139, but at least now I know everything I suspected was true. It is to late to charge her with multiple felonies for perjury and fraud . . . but at least I know the facts.
The Federal Bankruptcy trustees never contacted me until December 1996 – a year later than required by law, but in March 1996, a trustee accepted a sales contract on our property, even though the court did not own my property, nor had advertised it for sale. The realtor was from New Jersey and associated with the Mafia. He did not have a license to do business in Virginia. By law, he would have had to present the sales offer to my realtor, who had the listing. The buyer was the next-door neighbor of the Gambino Mafia Family! The court trustee accepted a sales contract for less than ½ the appraised value of the property. Normally, a bankruptcy sales contract is not signed until after it is advertised by a local realtor for several months. The clear intent was to make sure that I did not get a penny from all that work I did on Toms Brook.
April 17, 1996: Our divorce petition was approved by the judge. I was a free man. I didn’t know where either Vivi or Susan was . . . and now was in love with Julie, too. It was my intent to propose to her on Christmas Eve in December, after she graduated with a masters from an Atlanta area university.
April 18, 1996: As part of the divorce settlement, I was to change the loan on my pickup from my ex-wife’s Teachers Credit Union to a First Union bank loan in my name only and also change the title to me only. I was chatting with a loan officer about getting a small loan to pay off the balance, when she surprisingly said, “Mr. Thornton, we are always delighted to make loans, but with this money in savings, why would you want to get loan. She had found four First Union Savings accounts in Florida with my and my ex-wife’s name on them. Their total value was about $110,000! Three of the accounts had been started when we lived in Asheville, NC in the late 1970s and 1980s.
My immediate response was to immediately draw out half the balance of the accounts, because that was specifically stated in the divorce decree. The loan officer turned the matter over to a Vice President, who immediately began typing up the withdrawal and transfer to my checking account. There was a problem. All four accounts were jointly in our names, which meant that either party could deposit checks made out to the other party. However, the signature cards only had her name on them. She was the only person, who could withdraw money from the bank.
I told the Vice President that had just divorced and this money was never mentioned in her financial affidavit. Being a guy, he was quite sympathetic to my situation. Obviously, my wife had been skimming money from our household finances for many years. He agreed to prepare a sworn affidavit, containing all the critical information needed for a perjury conviction. Later on, the District Attorney refused to take the case since my wife lived out of state and he would have to go through the nuisance of an extradition court hearing. However, I would later submit it to the bankruptcy court.
April 19-22, 1996: Julie and I drove a rental truck up to the Toms Brook Farm to get my personal belongings and clothing. The realtor let us in the house and gave me a set of keys to the new locks, since I now had possession of the property. That’s right, either Julie and I, Susan and I or Vivi and I could have moved into the house at that moment. I didn’t know that the bankruptcy court had just sold it, even though they didn’t own it.
Julie found my wife’s diary between two mattresses in my old bedroom. It blew my mind. My whole marriage had been a lie. There were the names of her lovers in Asheville and Shenandoah County. She had pretended to lose to huge diamond rings, which had been in my family since the early 1800s, but had actually sold them and put the money in the secret accounts. However, beginning in April 1993 were repeatedly written in with large letters, words that stabbed me in the heart and have been a cross to bear since then.
“Richard’s parents promised me a lot of money for screwing him and getting him to Georgia. They still have not paid me!”
My own parents had betrayed me. Were they behind the killing of the goats and all the other hell I had been through in Virginia? I would find out five years later.
Eventually, my ex arrived with a Shenandoah County deputy and ordered him to arrest me for breaking into her house. I showed the deputy the divorce judgment. He turned to her, “Ma’m, according to this judgment, you were supposed to have YOUR belongings out of the house by April 17, 1996. He has legal possession of the property and could order us to throw your belongings out on the edge of the Back Road. Mr. Thornton do you want us to do that?” I told him no, I didn’t want anymore drama. By now, it was obvious to me that there were certain really evil men in the Shenandoah County Sheriff’s Department and then a lot of men, who were outstanding, honest law enforcement officers.
July 16-22, 1996: In 1996, Cobb County, GA was awarded the largest battlefield restoration grantin the nation by the National Park Service. In mid-July, I was called into the office of the Director of Community Development and told that I would be fired unless I found a way for the National Park Service to take the money back. In their sick minds I was a Democratic “spy” who were trying to make the Republican leadership of the county look bad by getting such an honor. Actually, neither I nor the NPS director, Roger Kennedy, were members of any party. The grant was a reflection of the quality of my proposal, which the Cobb County commissioners had endorsed. At any rate, I had to use my own money and previous overtime work, to drive up to Washington to make them happy.
Julie went with me. She sat in the lobby of the National Park Service, while I met with Roger Kennedy. First thing Roger said was, “Well I see that you finally married that French goddess. They say that there is a pretty black-haired girl down in the lobby, waiting on you.”
“No Roger, I have not seen Vivi since February of 1993. There was a period of time when we were not able to communicate with each other. After then I couldn’t find her. The lady down there is Julie. She is from Sumatra.”
Roger went on to tell me that I had been offered several positions with the National Park Service in April 1993, including Architect of the National Capitol, but they couldn’t find me. My ex-wife claimed to no know where I was . . . and my records with the Virginia DMV showed me still living on the Toms Brook Farm. The clerk, who originally graded my application and exams had made some serious mistakes. Because I answered that I had never participated in an Affirmative Action Program, she didn’t give me any credit for being a Native American. Also, she did not give me any credits for working in supervisory positions in the private sector or serving as chairman for planning and historic preservation commissions. When those points were added, I scored No. 1 in almost every job opening.
December – 1996: Julie graduated with a Masters of Education. She looked so happy and beautiful at the graduation. My parents came to her graduation. My mother knew that I was about to propose to her, because she had an engagement ring that had belonged to an aunt, who died single and without children. I was going to offer it to Julie over the holidays. What I initially told Julie is that we should live together for at least two weeks, to see if we get along when it is not just a date.
HOWEVER, my new architecture practice was doing really well and I had paid off my debts from day with Anti-wife. I purchased the Smoky Mountain Christmas Package at the Cherokee Casino Hotel from Christmas Day till New Years Day. I was going to propose on New Years Eve.
Before I could tell Julie about my surprise trip, she announced that she was going to Las Vegas for the holidays with her brothers and cousins. I was not invited.
That rang bells from a lesson Vivi had taught me in 1990. She told me that when a woman is truly in love, she would never want to go anywhere for any length time without her man being with her. I cancelled the package, but held on to the ring for a while.
Susan showed up on New Years Eve, so I wouldn’t be lonely, but we both agreed that we shouldn’t get physical, since theoretically Julie and I were still in a serious relationship. I don’t know how Susan knew about the situation, but she did seem to know a lot.
To both humor me and chide me about my choices of women since her, Susan reminded me that she and Vivi had warned me about never trusting a woman who doesn’t smoke a pipe (Susan) or model for Benson-Hedges cigarettes (Vivi). “You see Richard, if you had taught Julie how to smoke a pipe with you, she never would have gone to Las Vegas without you.”
Susan was a little PO’ed about one thing. She thought I should have invited her to stay with me at the Cherokee Casino Hotel, when Julie declined, and she definitely would have said yes to the offer of an engagement ring with a large diamond. The way I was staying poor after leaving Virginia, she was expecting me to give her a candy wrapper as an engagement ring. I think that she was only half kidding.
Then Julie’s brother offered her $35,000 as down payment on a house, if she would break up with me. We broke up for awhile and then began sneaking around with each other then openly dating. Then she broke up with me again, because she said that I didn’t make enough money to pay for her dreams. Then during the Christmas holidays, 1997, we went cross country skiing up in the Georgia Mountains . . . got caught in a heavy snow storm coming home. That is the last time we went out.
In between those brief renewals with Julie, Susan began showing up without warning. She never told me what she was doing or where she was when not in contact with me. She definitely did not hold me to the “no physical contact” clause. After all we had been married since that October day at Harpers Ferry.
All I have today to remember Vivi and Susan by today are vivid memories and a few photos. Vivi kept 95% of the photos in France to avoid prying eyes. At least, with Julie I have literally bricks and mortar proof that we were once an item. Julie bought a brick in 1996 for the planned Centennial Olympics Plaza. For all time, people will look at the paving of the plaza and wonder who these people were.
June 1997: I arrived from a meeting of the Cartersville Zoning Appeals Board to find a plastic bag at my front door. In it was a VHS video cassette and several audio tapes. There was no note. I was curious of their contents so immediately popped the VHS into my VHS Player. It was a series of raw, unprofessional videos of Julie knowing men in a Biblical way. In many of them, she seemed younger than when I knew her. Some looked more recent. It didn’t matter, long ago Vivi and and Susan had taught me well. I only felt concern for Julie’s welfare, not any anger toward her . . . honestly. The audio tapes seemed much newer and were the sound tracks of her being in a Biblical Way. In some, she did mention my name, but said nothing derogatory. Still I only felt concern for her. My sixth sense told me that she was in danger.
I noticed that my Creek war club was missing from a shelf as was my dog’s leash. I called Susan and told her what I had been given. She also was highly concerned, more so than me. She appeared after dark at my house. I let her watch the VHS and listen to the tapes. She said that I needed to get rid of these tapes immediately. She would take them and mark them as criminal evidence.
It was about six weeks later that Susan was willing to tell me the whole story. Her assets in satanic cults and neo-Nazi groups had sent word that something was about to be done that would get either executed or spending the rest of my life in prison. The tapes were proof that Julie would be the victim.
As the plot transpired, a satanic cult infiltrated the Sunday school class in Roswell and began flattering her. At a Sunday School party on a weekend, a cult member put the date rape drug in a soft drink and then brought it to Julie. She was taken drugged to an apartment? . . . stripped and defiled. Unfortunately, the FBI had to leave there in that condition to use her for bait. Susan and her team were nearby all the time.
The next step was for a Neo-Nazi group from Cartersville to retrieve her body and then to take her by boat across Lake Allatoona to Stamp Creek Park, where Julie and I often canoed or picnicked. There she was to be killed with the war club and leash. The bloody murder weapons would then be thrown in the bushes behind my house. It had been arranged for the coroner, who was actually a member of the Neo-Nazi group to match the bodily fluids on Julie to me. The Cartersville Police would then go immediately to search my house and yard, where they would find the tapes and murder weapons. It was an ironclad case in which I would be pressured to plead guilt in return for not getting the death penalty.
Susan’s team arrested the Neo-Nazi’s in a way that completely left Julie out of the court case. So she would not be put through the embarrassment of being at the witness stand, when the things done to her were described in graphic detail. As it turned out, nobody went to trial. The Neo-Nazi’s became informants for law enforcement in order to further infiltrated the secretive cults and Neo-Nazi groups.
Christmas 2000: It was about the last time that my mother was able to converse any length of time. She was slowly dying of a Parkinsonian disease of unknown cause. The disease was causing her body to slowly become rigid and in the shape of a mummy. Just as in the case of me being poisoned, my father refused to run toxicology tests on her. I paid for my tests without him knowing it. However, she was totally under his control and so in her mind, had no options.
She called me into her bedroom. She first said, ”For the past 20 years, your Daddy has pretended to be a good husband around other people, but in private he treated me terribly. He would do crazy things to me . . . you know . . . the types of things he does to you. They were so crazy that no one would have believed me.” I told her that I would have believed her.
“Back in 1990, we joined a patriotic organization that gave us a lot of money and promised to grant us three wishes.” I interrupted, “Mama that’s a Satanic cult!”
She continued, “One of my wishes was that you would come back to Atlanta and live near us. Another wish was that you would find a new wife, who would give us grandchildren. Instead, we destroyed your dreams. I didn’t realize that so many people, would be hurt just to grant us our wishes.”
“Mama, they were not hurt. They were murdered! So far 32 people have been murdered because y’all gave that top secret book to evil people.” She said nothing else, but merely looked upward with a blank look on her face.
April 2002: Three nurses at the Medical College of Georgia Hospital in Augusta, GA contacted me by email. They were total strangers, but claimed to be Creek Indians . . . well, Creek Medicine women. All three told me that I needed to get my mother out the house she was in. She was going to be killed on June 9, if I didn’t move her to safer environs. There was nothing I could do.
On the evening of June 9, my step-father told the nurse that she could go home early. The next day, he called me around 10:30 AM and told me that she had died the previous evening. I later learned that no autopsy was carried out per request of her husband.
Christmas 2004: Susan was again spending some Christmas holidays with me. This time she was spending 20 days with me. On Christmas Eve, Susan asked if we could smoke pipes together just like in the old days. I said yes.
As we blew smoke into the air, Susan reminisced about all the many wonderful times we had enjoyed together since those crazy days in the summer of 1991, when we pretended to not be having an affair, while pretending to be having an affair. She laughed about the time that Vivi and her had gone a date together so I would not feel guilty about having two lovers . . . how we all three got married on the bluff overlooking the Shenandoah River and the Potomac River.
She continued, “I plan to retire when I turn 40 in July. With what I do, you can take full retirement at age 40, just like in the military. I have more money than you can imagine. I have been saving and investing most of what I earned because the government paid most of my living costs above that. You know, just like you and Vivi, we never even had an argument . . . just lots of loving. Richard, what do you think about us getting hitched legally . . . since we have been spiritually married for 14 years?”
I responded, “Why Miss Susan, are you proposing to me?” She said, “YES . . . with lots of love on top of it.”
Then my answer is also, “Yes.”
June 10, 2005: My father (actually step father) called me and used a strange tone to his voice, like he was a king or something. He announced, “As punishment for not loving me and being a disobedient son, who refused to come over to our side, you will live the rest of your life alone. When your dog dies, you will not be allowed to have another dog.” He then hung up the phone.
He paid to have my dog poisoned about six months later. That’s why I have always had dogs, not a dog . . . so I wouldn’t be a disobedient son. I have been alone since then and never even had a girlfriend. Each time a woman showed interest me enough to talk on the telephone, they would be called by a cop, who told them I was a serial killer, pedophile, convicted stalker or (most recently) a male prostitute with AIDS, living on welfare.
The last time I received a message from Susan was late May 2005. After hearing nothing for several weeks, I began calling around to find out what happened to her. One retired federal officer said that he heard that she had been killed in the line of duty in Charlottesville, VA. However, only a few people in Charlottesville had heard vague rumors of a female federal agent being killed, but there was nothing in the newspaper or on archives of nearby TV stations about such a murder. In the years since then I have periodically searched for her name on the internet – perhaps an obituary or grave marker . . . nothing. The FBI claims that she ceased to work for them in the spring of 1993. Was she all along . . . an angel or an extraterrestrial, who like to smoke a pipe?
As for me and my household, we will serve the Lord, YHWH!