Normally this blog is for fun and entertaining material. However, 50 years ago tonight, March 1, 1973, I became a key witness in a murder case. Part of trying to mute that demon a bit more is to write the story. Here it is... like it or not.
Copyright 2004 and 2023
Wes Oleszewski
All rights reserved-
this text is not for reproduction or publication in any form. Your viewing of
the text does not waive the above reservation.
NOTE: This is a completely true story. The name for Mr. “Brud” has been changed for
the purpose of this publication. The word “brud” is Polish and basically means
“filth.” Anyone wishing to find the individual’s real name can reference
mid-Michigan news items for the first days of March, 1973.
Go Get the Kid; The “Brud
Murder”
It was the first evening of March of
1973 and I was 15 years old and outdoors doing what most guys my age in
mid-Michigan would be doing… having a snowball fight with my buddies. There
were four of us, Jimmy Brink, Ken Wolff, Bill Hoffman and myself, all of whom
had grown up together in the tiny suburb of Saginaw known as Sheridan Park. We
had been out since the end of the school day gathering snow and flinging it at…
well… everything. For a while we had peppered passing cars, but then, fearing
that we may get into “trouble,” we switched to plastering one another.
For a short time, we had been in the
side yard of the Brud house, which was across the street from my house. Jim’s
dad, who was a detective sergeant on the Saginaw Police Department, had warned
us to stay away from Brud who was a convicted felon and child molester. Thus,
we soon moved up the block and continued horsing around. It was about then that
I saw a man coming out of the Brud house. He had an odd walk, like a gorilla
Bill quipped. So, we threw snowballs at him. He was about 200 feet away when we
first saw him and 260 feet away as he passed directly under the streetlight in
front of my house, so we never came close to hitting the guy. Yet, he never
looked up, he just kept walking until he passed out of sight up the street and
behind the houses.
Eventually we decided it was time to
call it a night and we all headed home. I was supposed to be watching my
younger brother Craig, who was nine and my sister Jeanine, who was 13, but they
were easily old enough to survive without me in the house. My mom and dad were
working at the Saginaw Civic Center where a Saginaw Gears hockey game was
taking place in the arena. Mom worked in the concession stands and dad was the
Zamboni driver for the hockey games. This was dad’s part-time gig; career-wise he
was a railroad engineer for the C&O. I came in through the front door and
my sister and brother were relaxing and watching TV; everything was quiet and
normal- for the moment.
About 45 minutes after I came home
there was a sharp knock at the front door. I went to answer the door and there
stood a uniformed Saginaw Police officer!
“OH CRAP!” I thought, “Someone
reported us for throwin’ snowballs at cars!”
“Are your parents’ home?” the officer
asked stoically.
“No,” I replied meekly, “they’re
workin’ down at the Civic Center.”
“How old are you?” He asked as he
looked past me toward my brother and sister.
“15.” I replied with a bit of a dry
swallow.
“Have you seen anything unusual
tonight?” the officer furthered his questioning.
“No.” I replied with a bit of
curiosity. If the cop was here to take me away for throwin’ snowballs at cars,
he was sure being indirect about it.
“Okay,” he ordered, “lock your doors
and don’t let anyone in until your parents get back.”
“Okay.” I agreed.
With that the police officer turned
and simply left. Over his shoulder I saw red and blue lights flashing
EVERYWHERE!
Dutifully closing and locking the
doors, I ran to my bedroom, which was at the front of the house, and peeked out
through the window. Police cars and fire department vehicles were everywhere
with their lights going and officers and detectives were going in and out of
the Brud house. What really got my attention was all of the detectives! I had
never seen so many, and more were arriving every second.
For a moment I pondered the
lightshow… then my creative AD/HD brain began to take over. What if someone
died in there? Or… what if someone was murdered! Suddenly, it went through me
like ice water… that guy we saw leaving that house! I ran to the phone and dialed
Jimmy’s number. He answered the phone, and I asked if he saw all of those cops?
“Yeah,” he said with a gasp, “two of
‘em are sittin’ here now talkin’ with my dad.”
“Jim!” I urged, “do you remember that
guy we saw leaving the Brud house?”
“Oh yeah,” he exclaimed in a whisper.
Jim put the phone down to his side
and I could hear him in the background calling out to his dad.
“Dad! Wes is on the phone, and he
just reminded me, there was this guy we saw leaving the Brud house tonight…”
In about three seconds Mr. Brink
snapped up the phone.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he ordered.
“don’t talk to anyone, I’m sending two officers over,” and he hung up!
I stood there in silence holding the
phone in my hand.
Holy Shit!
Mr. Brink, who I’d grown up with and
was like an uncle to me, only talked like that when things were really- really
bad! It seemed like only seconds passed, yet it must have been four or five
minutes and there was another sharp knock at the door. I dashed to the front
door and opening it I saw two detectives.
“Are you Wes?” the one in front
asked.
“Yeah.” I replied, still a little
stunned.
“Do you mind if we come in?”
“Heck no,” I replied in my best
Midwestern breeding, “come on in!”
We took seats at our family dinner
table and the detectives began to interview me. I described the man that I had
witnessed leaving the Brud home that night. To this day I can still describe
him from head to toe. He was a white man about six foot tall, no facial hair
and a fairly short haircut (by 1973 standards) a little longer than my
regulation Civil Air Patrol haircut. He had on a navy-blue bomber jacket with a
blue fur collar. It was un-zipped and under the jacket he had on a red
“lumberjack” shirt. Under that he had on a white T-shirt with a blue collar. He
was wearing dark brown corduroy pants with a wide brown leather belt that had a
round gold ring buckle. His shoes were light brown half-boots with a strap
across the front. And his walk was very distinctive- like a gorilla.
The murderer had been unlucky enough
to leave the scene of the crime in front of four boys ages 12, 13, 14 and 15. And
the 15-year-old, me, was an AD/HD who was also equipped with 20/15 vision. I
scoped him out and stored every detail. This was not for any other reason than
the fact that it’s the way my brain is hard-wired. People who are AD/HD may be
a pain it the ass to schoolteachers, but we make really good police witnesses.
Following my description, the
detectives began asking me a series of questions that many years later I would
learn were “test questions” to see just how good my memory of events happened to
be and what sort of personality I happened to have. That night, however, they
just seemed to be odd to me.
“What’d you have for breakfast
yesterday?” the lead dective asked.
“Peanut butter and strawberry jam on
toast.” I replied reflexively.
“How do you know that?”
“That’s what I have every day.”
“Do you eat lunch at school?”
“Yes.”
“What’d you have for lunch on
Monday?”
“A sloppy Joe, a bag of Doritos and a
chocolate milk.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because that’s what I have every day
except for Friday when they’re serving fish sandwiches, then I have one of
those. When I’m done with it, I wad-up the paper and stuff it into the pipe at
the end of the table.”
“Why do you do that?”
“Just for fun.”
“If I open your locker at school
tonight, what exactly will I find on the top shelf?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I never keep anything on
that shelf.”
Then the detectives switched
questioning a bit.
“What time did you come back indoors
tonight?”
“7:30.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because “I Dream of Jeannie” was just ending on
the TV and “Dragnet” hadn’t started yet.”
Up until that point I actually had no
idea what had happened across the street, but I knew instinctively that it was
something bad. When I asked the detectives just what happened over there, I was
told flatly that “Two people were murdered there.”
Following that part of the interview
the detectives asked if I would be willing to go outside with them and show
them where I was at different times during the evening. I agreed and we headed
outdoors as soon as I put my jacket and boots on. Kensington Street, where the Brud
house was located, ran west to east and “T’ed” at my front yard and Lexington
Drive. We crossed Lexington and walked up to the Brud’s side yard.
“Were you guys playing here?” one of
the detectives asked as he pointed toward the footprints in the snow.
“Yep.” I replied.
“Are these your footprints?” He
asked.
“Yeah,” I responded pointing to my
own marks in the snow, “right there and here.”
“Are these the same boots you were
wearing?” the detective asked while pointing at my boots.
“Yeah.”
“Make a footprint right there,” the
detective directed me by shining the beam of his flashlight right next to one
of my boot-prints.
Doing exactly as I was directed, I
made a boot-print. The detectives closely examined the two prints and then
asked me to take them to where I was standing when I saw the man leaving the
house. We walked up Kensington to the front yard of the Smith’s home and again
I was directed to do the boot-print next to my own track. I showed the
detectives exactly where I was standing and told them that I actually saw the
man come out of the Brud house and explained where he walked. Next, we went to
the street in front of my house, and I showed the two detectives the route over
which the man had walked. Additionally, I showed them that he had passed
directly under the streetlight and that was how I was able to see so clearly
what he was wearing. Next the detectives and I went back inside my house and back
to my family’s kitchen table for a full repeat of my previous questioning.
While I was busy with the detectives,
another aspect to the story was taking place a few miles away at the Saginaw
Civic Center. The Saginaw Police Department’s officers did security at the
Civic Center and one of the officers sought out my dad.
“Walt,” the officer asked quietly,
“don’t you live in Sheridan Park?”
“Yeaht,” my dad replied in his
mid-Michigan accent.
“Do you know the Brud family?”
“They live right across the street,”
Dad responded.
“Well, you’d better get home,” the
officer directed sternly, “Bob Brud just came home and found his wife and
daughter murdered.”
My dad hustled to the arena’s
commissary where my mom was working.
“Get yer’ jacket,” he ordered, “we’re
goin’ home.”
Mom protested that she had a lot of
work to finish.
“Come on,” Dad insisted, “we’re goin’
right now!”
About then Civic Center manager and
our family friend Bill Fifer came in and told Mom not to worry about the work and
“Just go.” Of course, now Mom insisted on knowing what’s wrong. When Dad told
her, mom dropped her work and my parents headed home.
I cannot imagine the atmosphere in
that 1972 Ford LTD station wagon as my Mom and Dad raced home, because I was
not in the car with them. Yet anyone who is a parent can imagine what it was
like as my dad tooled that car through the streets only to reach Sheridan Park
and get stopped at the entrance to the subdivision by a police officer. After
explaining briefly who they were and where they lived and that their kids were
home alone the officer waved them through. My folks sped to our driveway. Then
they dashed to front door and burst into the living room only to find their
oldest son at the kitchen table being questioned by two detectives!
To say they were surprised would be
an understatement. Crapping a solid gold terd would be much close to the truth.
As my folks arrived the detectives
were just leaving- so mom and dad didn’t hear any of the questions and answers.
That was good because my mom was a perpetual gossip, and she would have been on
the phone the following day telling everyone every word of what had been said. Before
they left, the detectives warned me not to discuss what had happened with
anyone; friends, teachers, or parents and especially not the news media. I
would have my chance to tell everything to the prosecutor and in court, but
until then I was to not discuss the events that I had witnessed. Of course, as
soon as they departed, everyone wanted to hear everything… I told them nothing.
After the detectives departed, we
spent the night peeking out through our bedroom windows toward the drama across
the street. Most of my aunts, uncles and most of my cousins lived either in
Sheridan Park or within five miles, so we had people coming in and out all
night long. At about 11:00 that night, my kooky cousin Bobby came bursting in
through our back door carrying a loaded hunting rifle! He said he was there to
protect us while my dad was at work on the railroad. Later my cousin Stevie
dropped by and told us not to worry, because he had already ordered a pizza for
delivery to our house. The delivery guy got quite a surprise when he drove into
our normally peaceful Sheridan Park neighborhood only to find it packed with
police investigating a murder scene. Nothing like that had EVER happened in
Sheridan Park prior to this.
We stayed up through the night
watching the events through our bedroom windows. We saw the state police crime
lab arrive and later watched as camera flashes illuminated the windows of the Brud
house. None of us knew what was going on inside that house and none of us wanted
to know. In fact, it was a scene that would keep even the most hardened police
officer awake at night. There was one thing that everyone knew for sure and
that was the fact that there was a murderer on the loose; I knew for sure that
I had seen him leave the scene of the crime and I had just described him,
head-to-toe to the police. I felt somewhat comforted that the killer could not
describe me in the same manner.
Dawn broke and with it an early
spring fog settled over Sheridan Park. We watched as the coroner wheeled out
two stretchers with bodies wrapped in white sheets; one the size of an adult
and one the size of a child. The police cars eventually left one by one and
with them went everyone’s desire to watch through the windows. Mom said we did not
have to go to school that day and I crashed for a few hours of sleep.
When I woke up it was clear that the
story was huge in the news media. Local TV stations took turns standing in
front of the Brud house and reporting on the murders. I had the thought that I
could give them a scoop that would blow their doors off, but that thought was
tempered with the fact that the person I saw may not be the killer at all- he
could just be another witness; only the police would know for sure. The one
detail of my story that did get out was the part that my sister remembered me telling
the detectives were finishing my interview- it was the way that the guy walked;
“like a gorilla.” I was somewhat astonished at just how fast that little tidbit
got around. Apparently, Mom got that out of her and then was quite busy on the
gossip lines while I was sleeping. Of course, everyone wanted me to talk about
what caused the detectives to take such an interest in my story. Cousins
prodded as did aunts, uncles, and neighbors… I told them nothing.
My mom likes to tell the story of my
parents taking me to a small, local Pine Ridge amusement park when I was five years old.
One of the park’s main attractions was a miniature train ride. Supposedly the
engineer of the train was carrying the payroll in a large canvas bag that he
proudly displayed before the trip began. The ride took passengers into the
local woods where eye-catching items had been set up. One of those was actually
a fake alligator; yeah, an alligator in mid-Michigan. Climax of the ride was a
staged train robbery with masked, old-west bad guys on horse-back who came out
of the woods firing six-shooters into the air, shouting, and circling the
train. The punchline was that the robbers made so much commotion, when the rode
off, they forgot the money. We boarded the train, which was no big thrill
considering that I had been climbing aboard real railroad engines since I
learned to walk. As we went through the woods out came the robbers! They
circled and shot their guns and hooted and hollered- then they left. As the bad
guys started to leave, I turned to my mom and said, “They forgot the money.” A
few seconds later the engineer laughingly held up the money bag and shouted,
Hey! You forgot somethin’…” and the rest of the train laughed. The point of
this little back-story being that I have always been a person who happens to notice
things that other people miss. Now, they call that AD/HD. This time, that little trait would pay off in a
very big way.
A few days after the murders we were
all at the Civic Center for public skating when one of the police officers came
up to my dad and said simply, “We got him,” then he added, “and he walks just
like Wes said.” That night on the local news we saw the police perp-walking
Robert Walton into the jail and people started calling our house saying that he
walked just way I said.
Once an arrest in the case had been made,
life in quiet Sheridan Park went back to normal. Yet about a month or so after
the murder, all four of us snowball throwers were ordered to come to the
courthouse to speak to the assistant district attorney. Once there we had some
fun playing the stairwell of the new courthouse building and one-by-one we were
asked to come into the office- I was the last one in. The other three guys were
in there for about 15 minutes each, not so with me.
Assistant prosecutor Ray Kasmeric, a
sharply dressed man with red hair and beard did the questioning and was aided
by a lady clerk. He asked me almost the exact questions that the detectives had
asked me on the night of the murder, and he got exactly the same answers. Then
he asked me to describe the man’s clothing again, and again, which I dutifully
did. Next, he briefed me on what court would be like. He made it very clear
that real court is nothing like what you see on TV. The defense attorney cannot
get up and strut in front of you and cannot get “in your face” and badger you.
He said that if the defense attorney tried something like that, “There are
things we can do to stop him.” He also made it clear that Walton would be in the
courtroom and will likely be looking right at me, but he is not allowed to say
anything. Then he told me something that would puzzle me for the next three
decades.
“When you are asked to describe the
clothing,” he instructed me, “you are to describe everything just as you did
today- except for the shoes. If you are asked about the shoes, you are to say
“I don’t recall.”
“But,” I mildly protested, “I do
recall the shoes, they were light brown half-boots with a strap across the
front.”
“And we’re telling you now,” he
replied firmly, “that you do not recall the shoes.”
It dawned on me that perhaps I had
not gotten the shoes right, even though to this day (more than a half century
later) I can close my eyes and see those shoes. Thus, I agreed that if asked
about the shoes I would say that I did not recall them.
In mid-summer of 1973 all four of us
were called over to Jimmy Brink’s house. His dad was home for lunch and had
brought with him four subpoenas- one for each of us. Being a natural born smart
ass I asked if we could “dodge” the subpoenas like we see on TV.
“You can’t dodge a subpoena,” Mr.
Brink smirked a bit and then said, “I’ll show ya’ how you get served.” He
tossed my subpoena at my feet and said, “There… yer’ served.”
My subpoena was for the 17th
day of September, 1973 to appear in front of Judge Fred J. Borchard and the
defendant was Robert Walton on trial for “two counts of open murder.”
By September, my family was in the
process of moving from our beloved Sheridan Park to the tiny farm town of
Freeland. This was necessary to get me into a high school where I would not get
knifed considering that the school to which I had been headed was not a pillar
of education and a smart ass like me would have been sliced up within a week.
On the morning of my enrollment at Freeland High School I was sitting in the
principal’s office as my Mom made out my paperwork. Mr. Vittito, the principal,
knew that I had come from the east side of Saginaw, and was probably wondering
what sort of kid he was adding to his school’s population.
As we finished the paperwork, Mom
added, “Oh! By the way, he will be absent one day a week until further notice.”
“Why is that?” the principal raised
his eyebrows.
“He’s a witness in a murder trial,”
Mom stated matter-of-fact.
Vittito’s eyes got big! Then mom
quickly added that I was a witness for the prosecution, and I was not involved
in the actual murder. For the next two years while Mr. Vittito was principal,
he seemed to really keep an eye on me… just in case.
Mom drove me to court on the
appointed day and we were all told to wait in the hall. Meanwhile, our parents
were allowed to sit in the courtroom and watch the trial, but they were not
allowed to tell us what they saw and heard until after we had testified.
One-by-one the other three guys were called into the courtroom, testified and
left; I simply sat there- all day. Except for the fact that my day at the
courthouse was changed to Tuesdays, it was the same for the next week and the
next and the next and the next. Mom, however, was able to sit and watch the
trial- what she saw was shocking.
Walton, as it turned out, was the
homosexual lover of Bob Brud who had conspired to have his wife raped and
murdered. Brud’ four-year-old little daughter was also raped and murdered by
Walton, but his two-year-old son was untouched. This was an effort to draw
attention away from the fact that the murder was done by a homosexual.
Additionally, it came out that Brud was making pornographic home movies of his
wife and other men and selling them. Also, it came to light that Brud had
systematically lured little boys in Sheridan Park into his home, molested them
and then gave each one a model ship or airplane kit to keep them quiet. When
that information got out, suddenly mothers all through the subdivision realized
that their sons had brought home model kits that someone had given them. Confessions
led to a flurry of complaints filed with the police department. To make matters
worse, it was revealed that Brud and some fellow child molesters had
infiltrated the local chapter of Big Brothers and molested boys there. After
the trial, when I learned all of that I thought back to that day when Mr. Brink
called us all in and warned us about Brud. His blunt, firm warning probably saved
us from that monster.
As the trial went on and the weeks passed,
I thought that the prosecutors had forgotten about me. My Mom even asked if
they knew I was waiting and they said that they were fully aware that I was
there, waiting, and I would be called. Finally, as the prosecution was about to
close their case, Mom heard Brady Denton, the prosecutor, turn to Kasmeric and
say, “Go get the kid.”
As the courtroom door swung open, Mr.
Kasmeric stuck his head out and motioned to me to come in. Walking up the aisle
I could feel that every eye was on me. The bailiff walked me up to the witness
seat- it was black leather and over-stuffed. I gushed into it and was thankful
that it was too comfortable. There was no swearing in, Judge Borchard simply
asked me if I knew the difference between right and wrong and the truth and a
lie- I said that I did. There was a long pause as the prosecutor shuffled some
papers. Looking over at the defense’s table, there sat Walton. He had a yellow
legal pad in front of him with nothing written on it and three sharpened yellow
pencils neatly placed to the right of it. His eyes were locked on me, and he
appeared not to move or blink- he simply stared at me.
Denton started by asking for my full
name and my age- I answered. Then he asked what I was doing on the evening in
question. Soon he led into asking what I saw at the Brud house. Then he pointed
to a chalkboard that was standing at the front of the courtroom just to the
left of where I was seated. It had tape lines on it that drew a map of the area
where we had been playing that night. I was asked to go to the board and show
exactly where I was standing. Next, he asked for me to draw the path of travel
of the man that I had witnessed leaving the Brud house- I drew a dashed chalk
line. I was asked to show the location of the streetlight and draw a circle
showing the area that it illuminated. Then I was told to take my seat. As I sat
down, Walton was still staring at me. Immediately it struck me that he was the
bad guy, a murderer, and I was the good guy, on the side of the law and
justice. I thought, “Alright you bastard, you want a stare-down, you got it.”
And for the rest of the time, I looked directly into his eyes as I answered
questions from Denton.
Finally, Denton asked me to describe
Walton’s clothing. He asked about the jacket, the shirt, the belt, the pants-
but he didn’t ask about the shoes. Then he ended the prosecution’s questioning.
Judge Borchard asked if the defense had any questions for this witness?
Walton’s defense attorney was busy writing and never even looked up- “No your
honor,” he quipped. I was excused by the judge and told to step down. Walking
from the witness chair Walton kept his eyes locked on me and I stared right
back at that monster all the way past the defense table. Then I looked for my mom.
She was smiling proudly, but mom’s will do that.
Mom went back and watched the rest of
the trial after my testimony while I went back to a normal school schedule-
with Mr. Vittito watching me. On sentencing day mom and I went to the courtroom
together to see the murderer get his just deserts. Walton was convicted on both
counts of murder and sentenced to 30 years in the State Prison. Brud was never
indicted on any charge much to the dismay of the jury foreman, who I heard tell
the prosecutor point-blank, that they would have convicted Brud too.
Spin the clock ahead 31 years. I was
hanging out at Tri-City (now MBS International) Airport’s firehouse with a
friend of mine who was an airport fire fighter. In these days just after 9-11
security was really tight at MBS, but I got in through the gate that evening by
ringing the buzzer and when someone answered through the speaker asking who it
was I said Osama Bin Polack… and they let me in. I had brought in a radio-controlled
model boat that I had built for my buddy in order to swap it for some cool lake
freighter photos that he had. As we sat at the firehouse’s dinner table
haggling and I demonstrated how the boat’s controls functioned, one of the
airport police officers strolled in. The gray-haired officer stood there for a
while watching the model boat work and then he said,
“You don’t know a guy named Bob Brud,
do ya’?”
That question pushed my button in a
big way, I stood up, pointed my finger at the officer and half shouted,
“Bob Brud is a felon and a child molester,
he belongs in jail, and if I had the chance I’d put him there myself!”
“WHOA! WHOA!” the startled officer
exclaimed as he waved his hands out as if telling me to stay back. Then he
squinted and asked, “Did you used to live in Sheridan Park?”
“Yeah,” I snarled.
“Were you the…?” he began to ask as
he squinted more.
“No,” I growled, “I was one of the
ones he didn’t get.”
“Where’d you live?” he asked.
“3324 Lexington, cattycorner across
the street.”
His eyes got huge and he reached out
toward me.
“Yer’ the clothes kid!” he exclaimed
with a wide smile, “I did your interview that night!”
Meanwhile the airport firefighters
were a bit startled by my little outburst, but now the officer and I began to
laugh a bit. He told me that Walton was out of prison having served his full 30
years. I asked if I was at risk, and he told me that I was not. He had done
Walton’s release interview- it was his final assignment before he retired from
the Saginaw Police Department. Walton, he said, had totally lost his mind. The
killer has no memory at all of the murders or the trial and the only thing that
he asked was if the officers could have a traffic ticket taken off of his
record. A Canadian citizen, Walton was deported and driven into Canada by the
RCMP- he can never return to the United States.
Then, I asked the officer a question
that had been bugging me for more than three decades- why would they not allow
me to talk about the shoes?
“Oh! Oh!” the officer nearly jumped
from his seat, “Yer’ gonna love this! You are responsible for probably the most
overtime paid to Saginaw police officers in history!” he half joked.
As it turned out the circumstances of
the murders quickly led the detectives to Walton. When they arrested him, they
executed a search warrant on his home. In his bedroom closet they found every
stitch of the clothing that I had described- except the shoes.
“My partner and I laid those clothes
out on the guy’s bed and it was all there,” the retired detective said, “but
the shoes. We looked at one another and both said “We gotta find those f$%kin’
shoes!”
There was something incriminating about the shoes, so there began a city-wide search for the shoes. Trash cans,
sewers, dumpsters, mailboxes, pools- even the banks of the Saginaw River were
searched; nothing! Then they drove to Canada and with the RCMP questioned
Walton’s mother and searched her residence; nothing! The best that they could
figure was that he gave them to his mother immediately after the murders and
while driving back to Canada she tossed them out through the car window while
crossing the Blue Water Bridge and into the swift current of the St. Clair
River.
He also explained that I was the “bow
witness.” In other words, they had Walton all gift wrapped, and I was the bow
on top.
As the years went past since 1973
I’ve done a lot of jobs- some of which involved catching bad guys- in some
cases really bad guys. I’ve been asked by people, including police officers
that I have worked with, why it is that little five foot ten 176 pounds of me
seems to have little or no fear of the bad guys. The answer is simple, I have
stared into the eyes of the worst of them, and I helped put the bastard away. I
only wish we would have gotten Brud too. According to the Internet, he died in
2011. My hope is that he is currently rotating on a spit in hell.
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