(Continued from https://johndenugent.com/unshackled-6/)
“You Killed Your Dad”
Over the years, I recovered more bits and pieces of memories of Dad’s
murder. I recalled that one of the killers had led me across the dark park-
ing lot into my father’s apartment. Because I’d seen Dad’s coded files
before, and knew what was in them, I was now told to look through the
metal file cabinet in which Dad had kept them. I was to pick out any that
could connect Dad to the Aryan cult or to the CIA. 3 A slim woman stood
to my left, watching me closely. She was maybe 57″ with short curly
brown hair. She was very agile and emotionally cold. Her light complex-
ion was pitted; she had brown doe eyes. I would have guessed her to be
about 35.
In another fragmented memory, Fred had driven me away from Dad’s
apartment in a black, compact car. I don’t know where we went or how
long he drove, but I do remember that we arrived at a one- story ware-
house. Fred ordered me into the warehouse and handed me a black hand-
gun. He told me to shoot a black paper silhouette of a man, hanging on
a wire about halfway between us and the far wall. My training kicked in;
I shot through where the heart would have been.
Fred leaned over my shoulder and spoke in a lowered voice, “You just
killed your dad.” Immediately, all of the guilt I’d felt for not saving Dad,
for not even trying, slammed and immobilized me, sealing the memories
of that night behind a desperately self-protective amnesia. 4
Was He Moved?
In January 1995, Emily saw her first autopsy during training at the
Georgia Bureau of Investigation. The case she saw had resulted from
carbon monoxide poisoning. When she questioned the medical techni-
cian about how the circumstances of my father’s demise compared with
this case, he explained that bodies with carbon monoxide poisoning do
not get red like Dad’s did. He said that the red on the front of Dad’s body
would have resulted from his having lain, face-down, on a surface for
more than four hours. He explained that the reddish discoloration came
from blood that had pooled and settled in that part of his body after his
circulation had stopped.
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Unshackled
This was odd because Dad was six feet tall and his body was too
long for him to have comfortably lain face-down on his car’s back seat.
I wondered-was Dad’s body moved after he died? Was it possible
that when the man put his arm around Dad’s neck, he hadn’t actually
killed him?
Later, I discussed this with my husband, who had special forces
training, and also with a trained wrestler. Both men explained that
the arm lock around the front of my father’s neck would have temporarily
cut off the blood to his brain-rendering him unconscious but not
necessarily dead.
This confirmed what the forensic investigator had told me, and meant
that more had been done to Dad than I could remember. It couldn’t have
been that they’d left him in the car, because he wouldn’t have stayed
unconscious long enough to die from the carbon monoxide poisoning-at
least, not from the arm lock alone.
As hard as I tried, I couldn’t remember what had happened after I’d
shot at the silhouette in the warehouse. That worried me.
Multiple Emotions
In March of 1996, as I sat on our carpeted bedroom floor, I went back
into the memory of losing Dad, and recovered more of my shattered
emotions. Like a very little girl, I wailed and wept and rocked myself.
My journal captured the turmoil.
Daddy! It wasn’t supposed to happen this way! It’s wrong! It’s wrong!
It just so wrong!
A teenaged part wrote: What does it matter? What does anything
matter, anymore? Dad is dead. I was supposed to die with him. His
secret-keeper was supposed to die with him. It is understood.
So now I’m reeling. Oh no. Oh no. This is real.
Why, Daddy? Why?
I’m not Dad. It’s not my place to protect him. He made his choices.
I’m not Dad. Whatever his decisions, it was his choice, not mine.
Then an “angel” alter-state wrote: Poor little boy Dad. They killed you.
But did they really? Can your hidden goodness ever be killed?
I never felt so murderous in my entire life as I did at Dad’s attacker
when that man put his arm around your neck.
And yet survival took over. Crawl. Obey. Stifle the screams with
whimpers. 5 Pray-oh how I prayed-to God, to them-that they wouldn’t
Witness
305
finish me off too ! Who wants to die when there is so much creativity and
love yet to be expressed? Oh please don’t kill me! Please don’t end who
I am! It’s not time yet!
So then, just then, I began to betray you, little boy. By putting myself,
my life, first. As I watched them, I felt so guilty. I still feel guilty, putting
myself first.
Self-Defense
In the summer of 1997 at a local college, I took a self-defense course
taught by a police trainer who was also a judo expert. Tall and strong, he
patiently taught us basic moves to thwart attackers.
To my chagrin, I realized I didn’t know how to defend myself against
attackers without automatically planning to kill them! I was excited as I
realized that now I could learn how to disable attackers without causing
serious damage.
A difficulty arose when he told one of the women to sit in a chair in
the recreation room, then stood behind her and put his arm around her
neck. As he put the choke-hold on her, I had difficulty hearing and came
very close to a full faint.
Pulling myself back into consciousness, I realized I was still deeply
traumatized from having seen Fred do it to Dad, and was terrified that
someone might do it to me! To get past the fear, I asked the instructor to
teach me how to break that hold. He did.
I would have earned an A’ in the self-defense class, but our final test
was to encounter our fully padded, helmeted instructor in an unexpected
location, and then defend ourselves when he attacked us. Fearing that an
op-trained alter- state might be triggered out and get me into serious
trouble, I skipped that test and settled for a high ‘B.’
Suicide by Lifestyle
In March of 2002, 1 finally remembered that after Fred had taken me
to the warehouse to shoot Dad’s silhouette, Dad’s unconscious body had
been carried in, accompanied by several of his associates whom I knew
very well. After that, they’d forced me to watch as one, a professional
assassin, had killed Dad, leaving a tiny mark in a place no one would
have thought to look.
306
Unshackled
Shaken, I pondered the significance of this new memory. What should
I do now? Should I report what I saw? Wouldn’t that put me in direct
danger? And how could I prove what I saw, now that his body was gone?
What good would it do to risk my life to tell what happened to a man who
was already dead? It was time to let the guilt and pain of my lack of inter-
vention go. I’m still certain that was the right decision to make-what’s
done is done; I need to go on living.
After that, I felt new grief over the loss of the Dad-I-could-have-had.
I realized when the real Dad had been murdered, my fantasy Dad had
also died. This grief was even worse!
Several days later, Bill and I went to a movie. After it ended, we
watched a father and his teenaged daughter stroll up the carpeted aisle in
front of us. I felt a sharp pain in the middle of my chest and fought back
stinging tears. Later that night as I sat in bed next to Bill, I journaled:
They had their arms around each other, then let go and walked
and talked. They looked completely relaxed and seemed to
truly enjoy being together. I was almost physically paralyzed.
For a few seconds, I was barely able to take another step.
That was what I had wanted from Dad all along. Not sex. Real
love! But to Dad, love meant nothing more than sex. So he
never loved me as a father should love his child.
From infancy, the man had me addicted to orgasms and his
touch and smell, like an animal. He conditioned me to be
addicted to what I didn ‘t want, and meanwhile, what I needed
the most, he never gave me.
He robbed me of my dignity and my innocence. He made me
feel filthy, no good, dirty, shameful, undeserving of human
kindness. He made me feel “different” from the rest of the
world. When I was with him, I was not myself.
Every time Dad dragged me into the sea of shame, I found my
way back to the safe dock of hope, based on the human hunger
for a father’s love, that love-that-could-still-be.
Witness
307
And I waited there. For so many years, I waited, with my back
turned to Dad’s stinking sea, watching loving fathers with their
emotionally fulfilled daughters. I kept waiting for my prince,
the “Good Dad, ” to finally come and truly love me and cherish
me, protect me and take me away from this horrid, stinking,
shameful place. But he never came.
And when his body was murdered and his soul left our
world, still I stood on that dock, looking at the land of love
and hope, ever scanning the horizon for the Good Dad, the
Loving Dad. And he never came. And he will never come.
In all truth, no one could ever be the “Good Dad” to me. My
father cheated me. And then he robbed my soul. But I have my
soul back now. And he ‘s the loser. He ‘s the sick one, not me . . .
He was the only one who had the power to take my hope away.
Now Dad is dead.
So now I’m no longer waiting forlornly at the dock for the
Good Dad who won ‘t be coming. I’m headed back into the city
of life and love, where I can re-light my little flame of hope and
make sure it doesn ‘t flicker out.
Not long after I’d finally accepted Dad’s manner of death, a psychol-
ogist familiar with the criminal underworld told me that, regardless of
the physical cause of death, Dad had ultimately died of “suicide by
lifestyle.” This wise man’s observation gave me a new perspective that
helped me let go of the guilt I’d felt because I’d been unable to save Dad
in the end.
Notes
1. After much soul-searching, I have decided that-as a witness to Dad’s murder, my
first moral responsibility is to protect myself and the lives of my loved ones. For this
reason, I must limit what I write about it. Some secrets will probably die with me
because for people like me, the witness protection program is not a viable option.
2. I had many alleged CIA-programmed, CIA-loyal alter-states. For years, some
had secretly viewed my world through my eyes and learned what I knew while
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Unshackled
continuing to hide their existence from me. Out of all my alter-states, these were
least comfortable about sharing information with me. They feared that once I knew
they existed, I would merge with them and then they wouldn’t be able to go back
anymore to the spook handlers who had claimed to work for the CIA’s Directorate
of Operations. These parts were emotionally addicted to being with those men.
And yet, as they learned what I did about how cleverly I (and they) had been
manipulated, they began to get angry at the handlers. That was their first step
towards freedom.
3. Although I’ve retrieved memories of the contents of those sensitive files, I will not
describe them because documentation is no longer available to validate them.
(After Dad’s death, his surviving widow-unaware of the value of certain items in
the apartment-took them to the city dump.)
4. Mark L. Howe of the Memorial University of Newfoundland wrote a journal
article, “Individual Differences in Factors That Modulate Storage and Retrieval of
Traumatic Memories.” It explains the neurological chemistry behind the mystery
of why some traumatic memories are not forgotten, while others are completely
disconnected from conscious memory. One of his conclusions is that “low and
high levels of stress typically lead to little or no memory for an event (for different
reasons) and moderate levels can lead to enhanced remembering.” (pg. 686) My
being forced to witness Dad’s murder definitely created a high level of stress.
5. I remembered, and told the medical examiner, that Bill had also been in the garage
that night. When I’d crawled to the closed garage door to where he’d stood, he’d
stood there rigidly. When I first remembered his being there and doing nothing to
comfort or rescue me, I hated him and wanted nothing more to do with him. One
of his ASA associates had a long talk with me after that. The man helped me to
understand that it had been a very dangerous time for both Bill and me. Bill had
been in as much danger as I had, because he was still acting as an ASA mole.
If he’d fought what they were doing to Dad, or had tried to interfere with what they
were doing to my mind, they might have killed us both. For my sake, he had to act
as if he was fully cooperating. Once I understood this, I was able to forgive him.
After all, he had the right to be scared, too. There were three of them and two of
us; and they were all professionally trained assassins. (Bill still has no memory
of these events.)
RESUME
BILL SHIRK, PCMM/PCMH (PROFESSIONAL CERTIFIED IN MATERIAL HANDLING
AND MANAGEMENT)
© Senior Engineer of Material Management, AT4T
o 1945 Shipping Clerk – Hans C. Bick Dye Works
o CIO Steel Worker, Orr t Seabower Boiler Factory
o Four years, u.S.A.r. – Jet ACE Specialist, Flight Engineer
o BS Chemistry, Mathematics, Albright College
o Joined Western Electric in Transistor and Diode Manufacture –
1956. Responsibilities included site plans, plant layouts,
raw materials, stores, shipping, chemical and cryogenic
handling and distribution, cranes, trucks, conveyors, etc.
o 1969 – moved to Atlanta to plan Norcross Cable Plant
O Graduate studies included Mechanical Engineering – Ohio State,
MS in Operations Research – Purdue University
o Past President, International Material Management Society
o Technical Advisor to Chinese Mechanical Engineering Society
o Associate Editor, Co-author of Production Handbook (Wiley – 1987)
o Frequent Lecturer, Author for Material Handling Engineering,
Modern Material Handling, Fortune, Distribution, Manufacturing
Week, etc.
o Member MHI, MHRC, HE, APICS, NHEF
o Hobby
– Archeology, Kingdom of Jordan
DAD’S PERSONAL RESUME, LATE 1980s
KALB COUNTY POLICE DEPART. IT f P)
Statement Form
Case No.
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MY HANDWRITTEN STATEMENT GIVEN TO A DEKALB COUNTY, GA
DETECTIVE, 08/25/89
CERTIFICATE Of OEATMIiniE Of GEOHGia * ” ,
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“CZKTIFICA1E OF RECCED”
‘THIS IS AN EXACT COPY OF THE DEAIH QDD3FBJHB RECEIVED FOR FILING SI DEKALB CCtOTY”.
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CUSTODIAN l*Ja^rJ^=- â– Sfcyg^
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DATE
DAD’S DEATH CERTIFICATE, JANUARY 1990
Fahrenheit 0
GOING UNDERGROUND
FEARING THE WORST, REAL ESTATE TAKES A DIVE
In times of crisis, we have a tendency to Ionian
our belts and hunker down. Or. tn the case of
20th Century Castles, a property consultancy in
liny Dover. Kansas, bunker down might be the
more appropriate phrase. Ed Peden. who
founded the company, specializes In selling do
commissioned missile silos from the Cold War
He bought one In 1983. cleaned out the junk and
eventually rehabbed It Into a 5,000-square-
foot. very high celllnged homo, with 13,000
square feet of secure closet space to boot
Peden has since sold twenty-olght Atlas E. Atlas
r and Titan I missile sites over the years, at least
five of which have been turned into private resi-
dences. He currently represents nine sites
(www.mlssllebasesjcom).
HERE’S WHAT VOUTX GET FOR.-
$133,000
The perfect starter silo to. the nana/ tarn.!/ located
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$575,000″
Acenual-Kamas nlo home feitut.nii 2 400 * aiMf*
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Your molher-in-'aw wtl' love the property's surface
level domed coociete it jdio «
$1 MILLION
An Atlas E command center, corn,,, .sing 1S.000
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$1.7 MILLION
A lu«uiy S'lo getaway, shown eftoye. bordering scenic
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set stop what Is perhap> the country’s most their
oughly overhauled Atlas F site Above* ground s’ts
?.0O0 square feet of tugged luxury Below, the com-
mand center haf been transformed into a two-story
tmi’v-bedroom home with limestone oathroomsllt
Oy fiber optics. The government spent mom than
$14 minion to build It in 1956 you can have it fot
66 0