Welcome To Twin Peaks held a contest at the end of 2017 where Twin Peaks fans could write an entry on any character of our choosing in the style of The Final Dossier by Mark Frost. And Mark Frost himself judged the contest and selected three finalists.
Those of us at 25YL are not finalists, but you can bet your Green Butt Skunks some of us had no choice but to enter. (I for one could not pass up the opportunity to have a highly influential public figure in my life officially read something I wrote; Thank you, Mr. Frost!)
Below are the entries submitted by myself, Ali Sciarabba, Rob King, Laura Stewart, Paul Casey, Caemeron Crain, and Cheryl Lee Latter. We hope you have as much fun reading these as we had writing them.
Tom Paige, by John Bernardy
FROM: John Bernardy, Special Agent
TO: Tamara Preston, Special Agent
Dear Agent Preston:
While investigating the Dwight Murphy murder, found Twin Peaks connections that may be relevant to your ongoing Cooper investigation, not even counting your happenstancial time in Buckhorn. Information herein contains references to yet another missing person. The MO may match up with your missing persons investigation, but I don’t have clearance to verify. Hope it helps.
CASE #008-119-1991 BUREAU FILE# JB-01/01
CONFIDENTIAL [FIELD OFFICE CRIMINAL INVESTIGATIVE AND ADMINISTRATIVE FILES]
See also Nos. 008-072-0119
Frank Strawberry was a resident of Twin Peaks until he went missing in 2005. We have reason to believe what he knew about Dwight Murphy [then warden of Ghostwood prison] has placed Strawberry either into hiding, top secret witness protection program above my clearance level, or so deep in the ground no-one’s been able to find him. Not much is known about him, but we do know his known associates are all dead but one: Tom Paige, a friend since their grade school days in Twin Peaks, Washington. But from the sound of things, Tom may not be much longer for this world, so if this information is relevant to you I encourage you move quickly.
As a young man Tom Paige worked at the Packard Saw Mill until the day it shut down. He purportedly greatly admired the hard-nosed owner, Catherine Martell, so much so that he refused any jobs from new owner Horne Industries and instead left the town where he was born and raised for the Chicago suburbs of northern Illinois. Beverley Paige, his wife, tells me he spoke well of his home town. “When we first met, we used to get out of the city and walk through any state park we could find, and he’d always say ‘you call these trees?’ He used to have a sparkle in his eye about everything, but especially about Twin Peaks. I had to see it.”
It took five years for Tom to get fed up with the flatness of the Midwest, but when it happened it coincided with Tom’s father going through serious medical issues. Tom and Beverley got married and moved back quickly to Washington. Construction jobs weren’t nearly as available in Twin Peaks as they were in Des Plaines so Tom got back in touch with Strawberry, who was working at the time as a prison guard at Ghostwood prison. He got Tom a job in the same division.
Beverley tells me those two were thick as thieves. Tom would always rib Frank about having the name for baseball but zero of the talent. Not to mention he was much more interested in beer than cardio. They stuck to watching the games regularly on television. Beverley told me the two men would have the game on at least three times a week. She assumed they were serious about the sport until she came across their internet history. They would be looking up local legends and ghost stories, inquiring through social media to people who purport having experiences with the afterlife, as if they were trying to prove its validity. Beverley would inquire about their hobby in roundabout ways, but they never invited her into their research. “Which is odd because we used to go on ghost hunting tours all the time up in Deerfield.” After noticeable contemplation, she said “best I can figure it, seemed like they were looking to contact specific people.”
The two men got more and more involved in conspiracy-related issues. To show depths of their interests, I’m attaching this whopper of an idea roping classical composer Mozart to the Masonic Lodges in a page that appears to be written in Tom’s own handwriting. These guys were definitely off the rails.
Were they in it so deep it affected their jobs? I suspect both yes and no. They remained employed, had good records, right up until Strawberry went missing. But it is at that point things changed seriously for Tom and his wife. When I asked Beverley about Strawberry’s last known whereabouts, she told me “Tom used to look for magic in the world…we used to look for it together, but after Frank died that sense of wonder turned into suspicion. And he shut me out of all of it.”
Tom was with Frank on November 4th, 2005, the night Strawberry disappeared, but he told Beverley nothing, even to this day. She says Tom acted like he couldn’t remember that night even if he wanted to. Beverley said, “I know he didn’t kill Frank, but something sure happened that night.” I asked her specifically about her claim that Frank died, as he’s 100% on record as a missing person, but all she said to me was “See, now I’m doing it. Tom believes it so much that I don’t even know what’s true anymore.”
Tom began acting out at work, lashing out on the job. Notes from his supervisor show he was as secretive at work as he was at home about November 4th, and Tom began taking long weaving drives home “because he didn’t want to be followed.” It didn’t take long for this sort of personal implosion to get him fired.
I submit this employee complaint form as an example of the paranoia Tom Paige displayed, in his own words:
After he was relieved of his role in the prison, Beverley explained how Ramona DiPesto, one of the clerks who worked well with Tom before his paranoid behaviors surfaced, felt bad for him and connected him with the man who became Tom’s supervisor in his new role serving warrants around town. But instead of keeping Tom and Beverley afloat, his job searching out lawbreakers added to Tom’s new belief that everyone was trying to get away with something. He began accusing Beverly of being sick, which she wasn’t. He declared she had breast cancer, that “they” were making her sick. Beverley Paige did not, nor ever, have any form of cancer. Turns out, the Paige with the cancer was Tom, which is a possible explanation for his decline over the past decade.
Does Tom Paige have the key to a missing persons case? I doubt it. Is he worth talking to? No idea. He’s under at-home medical care right now, battling cancer on multiple fronts. If you visit him, I wouldn’t wear a dark suit. I was able to interview his wife but he wouldn’t answer a single question. He was convinced I was some kind of Man In Black and I couldn’t get six words out of him. Your call as the ranking agent, but time sure looks to be of the essence if you want him on record. All I know is I’ve got a hunch Page is the nut to crack if we want to solve the Murphy case and give the Strawberry family some peace. Please tell me this has something to do with your Cooper case and you can help me.
Chad Broxford, by Ali Sciarabba
CASE #: 008-072-0119 BUREAU FILE #: TP – 18/19
On the surface, disgraced former Deputy Chad Broxford is an unremarkable man—just another corrupt law enforcement officer looking to make a quick buck dealing drugs on the side. However, a deeper dive into Broxford’s ancestors—specifically his patrilineal line—has revealed a dark family history stretching back to the early settlement of the Pacific Northwest. It is a quintessentially American story, though not the type of story we, as a nation, like to tell.
Several years after the Donation Land Claim Act promoted homesteading in Oregon Territory, Broxford’s great-great-great-grandfather, Samuel Broxford, moved his family west from Missouri and settled in the Wallowa Valley, several miles outside La Grande. While I was unable to fully substantiate this claim, there is evidence suggesting that Samuel Broxford was one of a group of white settlers who participated in the 1876 mob murders of members of the Nez Perce tribe, including several women. U.S. Army records indicate that Samuel was a volunteer soldier and participated in the tragic removal of the Nez Perce from their ancestral lands the following year. I can’t help but wonder, given what we’ve learned from The Archivist, if Samuel Broxford bore witness to Chief Joseph’s miraculous pass through Hart Mountain.
It is an unfortunate yet undeniable truth that the state of Oregon has a long history of white supremacy, and the Broxfords appear to have that ideology in their marrow. A search of Broxford’s home turned up several boxes of family records, photographs, and memorabilia that point to a long history of white-nationalist sentiment. Broxford’s great-great-grandfather and great-grandfather—both members of local law enforcement—appear to have belonged to (or at the very least supported) Oregon’s thriving Ku Klux Klan community in the early 1900s. Continuing this hideous trend, I found among the family documents a letter from Broxford’s grandfather, William, to his future wife, which strongly suggested he was a Nazi sympathizer. William, it should be noted, avoided the draft via medical exemption, though the diagnosis of “habitual stammering” is dubious at best considering there is no other evidence to suggest that he suffered from this condition. Broxford’s parents were survivalists who lived very much off the grid but recovered documents and photographs indicate that they were supporters (at least in theory) of the Northwest Territorial Imperative’s goal of establishing an Aryan nation carved out of the Northwestern United States.
As far as I can tell, Chad appears to be the first member of the Broxford clan to move out of Oregon, but he didn’t go far. In 1998, at age 19, he moved to Washington State. It would appear that this break from family tradition was prompted by his love—or more accurately, his obsession—with a woman named Lisa Miller. Ms. Miller attended the same church as the Broxford family and left home at 18 to attend Gonzaga University. Not long after, Chad moved to Spokane to be close to her. In a conversation with Ms. Miller, I learned that Broxford’s amorous feelings were not mutual. It would appear that Broxford had been obsessed with Ms. Miller since adolescence, despite her many attempts to let him down gently. Broxford’s activities during the late 90s are that of a textbook stalker, but because he worked in local law enforcement in the campus P.D. division, he was able to get away with it. Ms. Miller considered a restraining order but chose not to report him because she did not believe him to be dangerous—just very, very annoying. Ultimately, Broxford gave up and left Spokane. In 2003, he moved north to Twin Peaks, where he somehow managed to get a job with the otherwise upstanding members of the local sheriff’s department.
From Broxford’s perspective, gleaned from his emails and social media communications in recent years, Ms. Miller led him on and even encouraged him. You may or may not be familiar with the online community of Men’s Rights Activists (MRAs) and The Red Pill subreddit (and, if not, consider yourself lucky). Broxford was an active member of this community, which contains some of the most regressively misogynistic and vile commentary I have ever had the misfortune to read with my own two eyes. Broxford is just one of a startlingly large group of men who believe that female oppression is a myth. They view feminism as a cancer and believe that biology dictates societal gender roles—think the tired cliché of the barefoot and pregnant woman in the kitchen, making her man a sandwich.
Broxford posted extensively about his “relationship” with Ms. Miller, variously seeking advice, commiserating with other men, and ranting about how “oppressed” he is. Broxford’s views on women make my skin crawl and I am loath to even reprint any of his online communications here. However, one post stands out to me in that it may illuminate the reason why he got involved in the Twin Peaks drug trade. It is dated approximately a week and a half before the first documented instance of his involvement in the drug operation—a meeting with low-level dealer Richard Horne. In this post, he describes Ms. Miller’s fiancé and how he believes that she is only interested in this man because he is wealthy. Years later, still hung up on the same woman and believing financial security to be the foundation of her new relationship, it is not outside the realm of possibility that Broxord’s drug-running was simply a means to an end—namely, a sizeable nest egg with which to woo Ms. Miller. Of course, this is the height of self-delusion, but as far removed as it is from reality, it is likely that Broxford believed that, if he was rich, Ms. Miller would consider him a suitable partner.
While I have not conducted a full psychological evaluation of Broxford, my initial impression is that he is one of that unfortunate subset of law enforcement officers whose goal is not to protect and serve but to control and subjugate. A man like this—who sees himself as oppressed—would be drawn to police work as a way to combat a sense of powerlessness in his personal life. This type of officer almost always turns to criminal activity (violent or otherwise) because they feel entitled to break the law when it suits their psychological needs. Far too often they are allowed to get away with it, and it is a testament to the Twin Peaks Sheriff’s Department that Broxford was apprehended. A lesser department may have looked the other way or worse.
There is also evidence to suggest that Broxford was, if not an active member, at least a supporter of the white nationalist movement still so pervasive in the Pacific Northwest. His Internet browsing history includes a number of sites maintained by white supremacist groups and bloggers. Given his family’s history, it is not a stretch to imagine that Broxford’s views on race and American identity are aligned with some of the nation’s most notorious hate groups. Members of the Twin Peaks sheriff’s department, when questioned about Broxford’s possible affiliations, all stated that they had no knowledge of his participation in any such organization, but the general feeling was that it would not be shocking to discover that he was.
Dispatcher Maggie Brown had a lot to say about her former colleague. She relayed to me several instances in which Broxford made insensitive comments with respect to race, religion, sexuality, and gender identity, and said that she “would not be the least bit surprised” to find out that he had white nationalist leanings. I feel as if I have spent far too much time inside the former deputy’s mind and I would very much like to move on now. At the end of the day, he is insignificant and there are much more pressing matters here in Twin Peaks than a corrupt, third-rate cop. Suffice it to say that, in the opinion of this investigator, the world will be that much safer and kinder with Chad Broxford behind bars. I think Deputy Andy Brennan said it best when he stated, “Chad Broxford is a very, very bad man.”
Agent “Lil”, by Rob King
Gordon, I am detaching my personal emotions on this file being an agent in the field. It has come to my attention that an undisclosed agent worked with you on the Teresa Banks murder case. I am sure you have important reasoning for this deep cover-up. In the few instances of the agent’s mention, it is apparent that said agent is female. The agent’s code name was ‘Lil’. She was a known associate of Diane Evans. In a memo found in Diane’s files and dated for July 1987, it appears the two were to meet then DEA Agent Dennis Bryson over cocktails at McGillin’s Old Ale House. Evidence suggests it was not uncommon for the three to meet as I found an entire folder with such memos. One included a lipstick-kissed napkin with two mustache hairs left behind. The handwriting appeared to be Bryson’s. This date informs us that ‘Lil’, Bryson, and Diane were friends before Cooper’s first job with Bryson. That would be the drug seizure on the border of Tijuana. Cooper would not meet Bryson again until her investigation into Cooper’s breach of jurisdiction in Twin Peaks. The scant evidence I found regarding Agent ‘Lil’s’ early years with the Bureau is coded with comic strip names—Audrey, Lulu, and Abby. The latter of those names almost threw me off her tracks, being a take on Abner. This is not surprising as it appears she worked in intelligence for departments on encryption and ciphering. The communique between ‘Lil’ and Diane should not be engaged lightly by those inflicted with epilepsy. The text changes randomly between colors, Morse symbol, binary and Esperanto. I almost got a migraine deciphering their messages. It is my belief that ‘Lil’ has continued to play an important role in the Bureau in the deepest of covers under The Blue Rose Taskforce. It seems you even kept her identity from Agent Phillip Jeffries and one-time Agent Windom Earle.
Further investigation reveals that Agent ‘Lil’ followed you to Deer Meadow upon Agent Chester Desmond and Agent Sam Stanley’s investigation into Teresa Banks’ murder. Where has she been since then? I am going to suggest her continued involvement with our Task Force in the following paragraphs. I will await your confirmation of such activities. It is known that you were called to an emergency case concerning a standoff at Branch Davidian Compound Mount Carmel in Waco, Texas on Sunday, February 28, 1993. You were able to arrive at noon with members of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team. Here, it states that one Lulu was in tow for communications efforts. The report states that cult leader David Koresh entered phone communications with F.B.I. agents Steve Schneider and Wayne Martin on one side and the ATF’s Jim Cavanaugh and Waco Police Lt. Larry Lynch handling local efforts. Your note states that Koresh believed he cracked the code of Seven Seals in the Book of Revelation. In secret communication, I read where one Lulu—I believe this to be Agent ‘Lil’—held a two hour phone communication with Koresh. On March 15th, the F.B.I. file insists on modified negotiations, but states clearly that they would no longer entertain Koresh’s “Bible babble.” I am trying to understand your notes here, sir. I would like to state for the purposes of this dossier that either you or Agent ‘Lil’ has drawn a thick Rorschach-like ink blot with what in my estimation appear to be insect antenna. This was the last marking in your field notes before you and Lulu are stated to have departed Waco before the compound’s unfortunate demise on April 19th. I have heard stories personally of the paperwork that kept you in office for months after that tragic day.
Suspected Agent ‘Lil appears again with her various play on names in report for a WikiLeaks investigation that was initiated in 2010. It’s status is on-going. ‘Lil’ appears to have been a master linguist. The last mention I can find of her whereabouts is in a directive signed by you and now Chief of Staff Denise Bryson. I will be spare with exact details in this portion of my dossier. With mention of Burmese jade mining operations, I am reminded of two things from my recent research. I am reminded of the Archivist’s details of a green ring that captured the interest of Major Garland Briggs. Was its composure stated as jade? I am also reminded of Fred Lee Crisman’s strange claims in the survival of an attack by what he believed to have been Lemurians upon reading The Shaver Mysteries. I can only assume you have fuller knowledge of the investigation in Burma in relation to our on-going efforts.
This is Agent Preston. I await your confirmation.
 Evidence continues to suggest that Evans and Bryson were unaware of your secret assignments for ‘Lil’.
 Gordon, I would like to meet with you in the near future for a look into Chester Desmond’s files. A search for his whereabouts remains uninitiated. Why?
 Note to self. Request access to the Archivist’s dossier for fact-checking.
Beth Ferguson, by Laura Stewart
Bethan Jocelyn Ferguson (nee Novack)
Whilst researching Laura Palmers mother Sarah, I came across some very interesting information about her sister Beth Ferguson.
Beth was born on 5th August 1940, she lived as an only child until her sister Sarah came along in March of 1943. It was a few months after her baby’s sisters birth that the family moved to a village outside Los Alamos, New Mexico, as their father found a steady, well paid job with the Defence Department on The Manhattan Project. Beth was just short of 6 years old when the Trinity bomb was launched at White Sands. What effect that sort of event could have had on such an impressionable young mind is anyone’s guess.
Beth began dating a local boy named Gabriel Romero when she was 15 years old and they went steady for a few years. I was able to track Gabriel down, he still lives in Los Alamos, now aged 79, but with a mind as sharp as a whistle. He reminisced with me about his first love Beth. On her 16th birthday, on 5th August 1956, after dating Gabriel for a year, and them being very much in love, they decided to give their virginity to each other. Gabriel drove the pair to Ashley Pond where they set up a picnic blanket in the warm air. He had brought some Moonshine, stolen from his older brother, as they were both a little nervous and needed some Dutch courage. The sky was black, no stars to illuminate them, so they kept the headlights of the car blazing upon them. Gabriel said her milky white skin and raven locks made her look like Venus in his eyes.
After their magical moment, they went back to the car as it was too cold to lay outside even for August. They cuddled and listened to KJPK radio for a while and giggled that ‘their song’ My Prayer by The Platters played as if it were meant for them. His expression changed from one of warm nostalgia to confusion as he recollected that they had both fallen asleep suddenly. They put it down to the excitement of the evening and the alcohol, but both felt very strange when they awoke. Beth said that her throat hurt, and she had joked that she was going to be stricken with the lurgy for giving herself up before marriage.
Beth and Gabriel continued their romance until 1958 when Beth was accepted into the University of Montana, Missoula. They were both heartbroken upon her leaving, he swore he would follow her there, but as the sole carer of his sick mother he could not leave Los Alamos. He never saw Beth again. They wrote for a while, but the letters became fewer and fewer and he noticed that she was talking about a boy in her class a lot, Donald. He decided that he couldn’t keep holding her back and wrote to her ending their relationship.
It’s hard to say whether Beth was heartbroken or relieved of this message, but she did indeed run into the arms of Donald Ferguson. They married on Valentine’s Day 1964 when Beth was 23 years old. On June 22nd, 1968 their first and only child, Madeline, was born. Donald found a well paid Engineering job and they set up home in Missoula.
It appears that Beth and her younger sister Sarah were close, and their daughters even closer. Laura and Maddy looked remarkably alike, just their hair that would differentiate them. People would say they were like the fairy tale girls Rose White and Rose Red when they saw them together. Maddy with her raven curls, just like her mother, and in stark contrast Laura with her glowing halo of blonde waves.
Like Maddy and Laura, Beth and Sarah were both said to have an intuitive side, and seemed to know when something wasn’t quite right.
As a special treat for their Silver Wedding Anniversary on February 14th, 1989, Donald took Beth to Buenos Aires, Argentina, for a romantic getaway and as the place is so famed for its silver mines, to buy her a precious gift of her choice. They stayed at the Palm Deluxe Hotel, and strangely enough another named guest during the period they were there was a Sarah Palmer. Possibly a coincidence and just another person with the same name but strange nevertheless, especially when you consider that it was this very hotel that the long-lost Phillip Jeffries attended during that same week apparently looking for a Ms Judy. Then disappearing and reappearing in the hotel lobby, with a short trip to Philadelphia in between.
It would be a just over a year later that Beth’s niece Laura was murdered. Her daughter Maddy who was so close to Laura, decided to travel to Twin Peaks to attend her funeral. By all accounts from Donald, who was reluctant to speak to me but gave me a few vital pieces of information, Beth was not happy about Maddy leaving to visit alone. She had a ‘bad’ feeling about it. Donald and Beth’s marriage was starting to become a bit shaky and she was paranoid that he was having an affair. She decided not to attend the funeral herself for that reason.
It seems that Beth had her mother’s intuition right down to a tee as her worst fears were realised. Maddy was murdered on March 10th, 1989, aged just 20 years old. Sadly, we know only too well how this story ends, with the arrest and subsequent suicide of Leland Palmer.
Beth never could forgive herself for allowing Maddy to leave, nor could she forgive her sister for not seeing what was going on in that house. It appears that Beth was also right about her husbands extra marital activities and Donald left her for his pregnant secretary in 1993. Beth, much like Sarah, turned to alcohol and prescription drugs to numb the pain and suffering.
However, unlike Sarah, Beth couldn’t bear to live with the grief and on March 10th, 1999, on the 10th anniversary of her daughter’s death, Beth plunged to hers from the top of the Space Needle in Seattle. What she was doing there so far away from home is anyone’s guess. Inside her purse which was left at the top was a note saying, ‘Jai une am Solitaire’. Another lonely soul and yet another terribly tragic ending to report upon for this dossier. I cannot begin to imagine the pain that both sisters experienced in their lives. The dark forces that stem from Twin Peaks have a far and devastating reach.
Chet Desmond, by Paul Casey
Chet Desmond juked on benzedrine. 50 hours and no sleep. Pure acceleration. Forward. He downed another shot and wondered whether another was a good idea. He tried to catch the eye of the barmaid. “Give me a shot and a beer.” She eyed him up, wondering whether he was going to collapse from nervous energy and booze. Deciding that he probably wasn’t going to die just yet, she poured a shot and grabbed a beer for her newest sweetheart. He’d been coming in for two weeks, and leaving ten dollar tips every time, even when he’d just stay for a shot and a beer. “So when are you going to ask me out?” she asked. “I don’t think I’m your type. I’ve got a bum hip and a bad ticker.” “Bullshit. Ask me out and take me to the Blue Room.” He laid a ten spot on the bar and smiled at the thought. “I’d love to.” Chet Desmond steadied himself, holding onto the stool and put his coat on. “Next time. Promise.” “Story of my life.”Desmond hit the usual spots. The butcher on Richmond St to pick up a few steaks. Redmond’s Liquor Store. Three quarts of good solid rye. His father might call over and after the last time when he seriously underestimated the amount he needed to get ripped, he knew to buy in bulk. He couldn’t erase her from his mind. Supine, slit from ear to ear. The brass stuck to the suicide rap. She had been depressed for as long as he could remember and it’s not like she hadn’t tried before. September ’86, she swallowed a boatload of Ambiens. Off the mark quick, Desmond had her stomach pumped before she could take the dirtnap. Still, it didn’t gel. Something tweaked his bullshit detector. No hesitation marks. One straight cut across her jugular. The suicide note was in her hand, and she had a history. No-one doubted that Johanna wanted to die. No-one looked a second time. He did. He knew she didn’t do herself in. Desmond found her there in the bath, soaking in her own blood, her hands behind her head.
Johanna had been with a no good shitheel going on seven years. Jimmy Kilroy, a squarejaw motherfucker with money to burn. Ex-GI sonofabitch who got his kicks killing foxes on the weekend with an overpowered rifle. He had hit Johanna once, and it took three grown ass men to hold Desmond back. Desmond would have beat Jimmy to death if they hadn’t stopped him. Now he wished he had. He had him cold on a domestic violence beef, and he knew in his heart that Jimmy had done Johanna in. The motive was clear: Johanna was a free spirit. She fucked around. Jimmy was the possessive type. He’d seen him skin a deer, so an ear to ear slit wasn’t out of the question.
Desmond got home and put on a record. Chet Baker laying down I Get Along Without You Very Well. Of course I do. Chet blew the trumpet and laid down a down low vibe. Let’s get together and be lonely. A glass of whiskey and a smoke. Let it go. He went into his bedroom and hauled out his own personal files on Johanna’s death. The FBI brass had told him to give it up. Stop mourning your dead sister and get back to work. He knew in his heart that he had to do something. To stop Jimmy from doing to another what had been done to Johanna. The crim fuck thought he was clear and away. Free and easy, out there laughing at the ease with which he had taken an innocent life.
Desmond went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Some days he could see himself, some he couldn’t. The phone rang. He walked over, half cut and picked up the receiver. “Hello?” “Desmond, Gordon Cole here.” “Hello Boss.” “Desmond, we need you on a case. We’re investigating the death of a young woman, who has died in suspicious circumstances and we need your expertise.” “What are the details?” “Cut ear to ear. Found in the bath, her hands behind her head.” Desmond tried to catch his breath. “We thought that given the details of your sister’s death, that you would be uniquely qualified to investigate.” “Do you have any suspects?” “I know you always believed that your sister’s death was foul play, Desmond. Jimmy Kilroy knew this girl, Samantha Ritter. We know that you always suspected him, and it seems like you might be right.” “Time and place, Boss.” “149 Sackville Avenue, Apartment 3B.”
Desmond entered Apartment 3B. The girl had been burning incense. The whole apartment stunk of it. Sandalwood. His mind went back to Johanna. She bought in bulk. Coils, burning slowly, emulating so many grasshoppers. A legal high. Soaked in foreign scents. This was not a coincidence. Jimmy had been the one who introduced Johanna to so many repellent habits. Hooked on sympathy for every two bit down and out she encountered. Hooked on free love and swinging. Hooked on ups and downs, and a life that was precarious and fragile. Desmond had tried to talk some sense into her. She had thrown him out and said don’t come back. “Jimmy’s a fuckstain! You don’t need him!” The last thing he ever said to her. She’d tried it before, so why did it shock him so? Why was he sure that Jimmy did it?
Desmond walked into the bathroom. There she was, soaking in her own blood, her hands behind her head just like Johanna. She was younger than Johanna, he could tell. Her driver’s license said she was 21, but she looked 15. Her face was delicate and sad. He stifled a cry, as he remembered his sister, the only person who ever loved him for who he was and not for who he could be. Down on his hunches, he touched Samantha’s face gently. Stone cold. “She’s been dead at least ten hours,” the coroner stated with a detached emotionality. Desmond stood up. “How did she die?” “Her throat was slit with this Stanley knife,” he said, holding up a plastic bag with the evidence of her demise. “The same as Johanna.” “The similarities did not escape me.”
Desmond walked out of the room, trying to clear his head. “I knew this would happen,” he thought. “I knew it.” Part of him felt satisfied that he had called it right, that his judgement wasn’t skewed by personal bias. Part of him wept for the dead girl, and the family that she left behind. Most of him thought revenge. Revenge for that low down inbred fuck who killed innocent girls for fun. He bolted to his car and put it in drive and stormed out onto the open road. There was one place where his mind wanted to go, but he knew he shouldn’t go there. Was this the end of his career? Would he truly give up his entire life for uncertain revenge?
He reached Jimmy Kilroy’s pad in no time. The bedroom light was on. Kick the door in, brace the fuck and get his answers. Make him beg. Make him cry and shout and feel so full of emptiness that he would beg for death. “Make him into you,” he thought. He didn’t need to kick the door in, it was already open. The TV set was on: Late Night with David Letterman. Chris Elliott was doing his Regulator Guy bit. Desmond wished he was at home, putting his legs up and getting a chance to laugh for a while. Jimmy was sitting on his bed, rosary beads wrapped around his hands, saying prayers almost silently. He looked up as the door creaked open.
“You killed my sister. And you killed Samantha Ritter.” It took Jimmy a time to react. He was on something. “I never laid my hands on a woman!” “You did shitheel, and you’re going to pay for it.” Desmond pulled out a .38 Special Smith & Wesson from his shoulder holster. Jimmy swallowed hard. “Admit it! Admit it you fuck! Or I’ll crack your head open!” “I didn’t kill anyone! I swear!” “I know you killed her! You killed her!” “You don’t know that!” “I don’t care.” The trigger pulled, Jimmy Kilroy’s brains smeared on the back wall.
John Justice Wheeler, by Caemeron Crain
John Justice Wheeler was born on November 23rd 1965. His father, James Wheeler, was convinced that something was amiss with the investigation into the death of President Kennedy, and was involved in some of the earliest of conspiracy theories with regard to the same. In particular, James was troubled by the actions of Jack Ruby – killing Lee Harvey Oswald before he could be brought to trial – and believed that the true story of what had happened to JFK was as yet unknown. Thus, the bouncing baby boy, who just happened to be born on the anniversary of JFK’s death, got his name. John, or Jack, referring to both of the aforementioned men, and the Justice part being clear enough.
It was a bit of a hard-scrabble life for young Jack. His mother, Catherine (nee Johnson), was the subject of abuse, both verbal and at times physical, from her husband James. The man was not the most stable of fellows. When he wasn’t working at the Packard sawmill, he could be found most usually drinking at the Roadhouse, and ranting about the CIA. Who knows what all young Jack witnessed at home.
What we do know is that Catherine herself began using valium on a regular basis, in addition to developing a drinking problem of her own. She held a part-time job at the perfume counter of Horne’s department store, but it seems frequently did not show up for work. She seems to have been shown extraordinary leniency in this regard, for reasons unknown.
In many ways, it seems young John Justice Wheeler became the caretaker of his parents, rather than it being the other way around. He made sure things were taken care of, while they sought solace in booze and pills. By all accounts, Jack was an exemplary student, and a responsible young man.
One night, James Wheeler came home with a head full of steam and whiskey, and started laying into his wife; yelling about alleged infidelity. This is according to the police report filed at the time, in 1979. Not that Catherine gave this information itself; it was, rather, their neighbor at the time, Cyril Pons, who reported hearing the yelling and called the police. It would seem that young Jack intervened, or tried to, as reports also indicate bruising on his face. Catherine did not press charges.
A little more than a year later, the Wheelers attended a holiday party at the Great Northern, which included a relatively short stage production in which a ten-year-old Audrey Horne portrayed Heidi. This would perhaps not be worth noting, if it weren’t for what came afterwards.
It wasn’t until the early 80s that things came to a head for the Wheeler family. James was irate about the election of Ronald Reagan, and even more so about his VP, and his behavior just became the worse for it. Catherine finally had enough, and one night shot her husband with his own pistol and killed him dead. Maybe it was self-defense, but given her drug-addled state, and general mental instability at that point, the State had her sent to a mental institution. Jack was 18 by that point, and so on his own.
Shortly thereafter, Jack turned to Benjamin Horne, whom he had known for years to some extent. He knew that Ben was a man of means, and he had an idea: to start a consulting practice to help businesses become more profitable, but with a particular angle. “Think about all of this stuff about rainforests, and the ozone layer,” he said, according to Horne (this was one of the few times he seemed fully willing to disclose details to me), “everyone is worried about this, it’s in the air – I am going to make businesses more profitable and more environmentally friendly at the same time!”
Whether this was a genuine sentiment on his part, or a more cynical calculation, Ben agreed to invest in Jack’s project. And it was successful, at least in business terms. Whether John Justice Wheeler improved the world is up for debate.
In 1989, Horne called Wheeler back to Twin Peaks, to help with his campaign to save the pine weasel/stop the Ghostwood development, which at that point was being headed by Catherine Martell. We know that, ultimately, this did not work out for her, and she became a recluse, but at the time, it was unclear whether Ben was genuinely interested in the environmental stakes, or cynically trying to undermine Martell’s plans. It does not seem that Wheeler knew the answer to that question, at least.
While back in Twin Peaks, it does seem that Wheeler struck up a relationship with Audrey Horne, though the details remain unknown. What we do know is that he left the area after a fairly short stay, due to the murder of his associate, Philip Gordon, in Brazil. The precise nature of these dealings in Brazil remains unknown, but we do know that Gordon was killed in a hotel in Rio.
One could presume that Wheeler and Gordon were working with a business in Brazil, but there are some indications that perhaps they were working with a drug cartel. Maybe Wheeler was serious about his environmentalism, and began working on that end outside of the law. It is hard to say. Gordon’s murder remains an open case. Frankly, Chief, we have no idea what happened to him.
Or to Wheeler, for that matter. He left Twin Peaks with a flight plan to Brazil, and then just disappeared. There are some indications he may have made it to Brazil, but that’s it. I can’t help but think of that picture Albert showed us of the Double in Rio…
Alan Traherne by Cheryl Lee Latter
Alan Traherne was by all accounts a normal, sunny-natured child. He loved sports and animals, and was very popular among his school friends. Alan came from a large, happy family, and neighbours often saw him playing outside with his younger siblings, keeping them occupied to give his parents a break. He wanted to grow up to be an astronaut.
On those occasions when he wanted to get away from his noisy household, Alan and his best friend Carl Rodd spent time fishing, making rope swings, and building dens in the woods.
The only glitch in this happy childhood was an unusual incident that occurred in 1947. Alan, Carl and schoolfriend Maggie Coulson had been on one of their explorations of the woods when they went missing for around 24 hours. Douglas Milford claimed he saw the children by a large dark object that shone a bright light directly onto them. Dougie claimed that both children and object disappeared. The children were found nearby by a scout troop the next day, unharmed and with no recollection of the time that had passed.
On being checked over by a doctor, apart from some minor cuts and scrapes, each child had a weird marking on various parts of their bodies, a raised pattern of three triangles. None of the children could explain this particular injury, which, although it looked like a burn mark, never healed or faded on any of them. Alan’s was on the inside of his elbow.
After his adventure in the woods, Alan returned a much quieter child. He spent more time alone or quietly with his cats, just stroking them and staring into space. His parents were concerned at first, but expected that it was just a phase. He was still a very polite, friendly child who did well at school, but according to others ‘his spark had gone out.’ Carl and Maggie still spent time together, leading to a brief dalliance in their teens, but Alan isolated himself more and more, choosing to spend his time reading and drawing in his room, or learning to make stop-motion animation with a cheap camera and crude homemade clay figures.
Alan did well in school and later went on to study art in college in Spokane. Here he discovered alcohol and recreational drugs, and became a bit of a party animal. Although still pleasant and polite to be around, his friends report drunken ramblings about castles and giant owls, and that he would often wake them by hooting loudly in his sleep. He reported nightmares of watching a film of a blonde girl being killed over and over with a pipe or hammer. These nightmares became such an obsession with him that slowly his friends started to drift away and he turned to harder drugs.
Through all of this, Alan still did exceptionally well in his studies and seemed almost gifted when it came to all things creative. He played several instruments, learned sound engineering, made and edited short films, and fuelled his new drug habit by exhibiting and selling his paintings. By the age of 21, he had won several prizes and competitions, and was by all accounts the shining star of his school. He styled himself on the Beat poets of the 60s and exuded a troubled, brooding persona.
Eventually, lured by money and cocaine, Alan found his way to LA, where he found work in the film industry, eventually falling into a good job as a sound technician.
Through his 20s and 30s, he worked and partied harder than ever. He went through a string of beautiful girlfriends, each drawn by his self-destructive nature, and each eventually driven away by his vivid nightmares and his disturbed ramblings of violent death and vicious murders.
At some point during this time, Alan decided to get rid of what he called his ‘marking’. He paid for expensive cosmetic surgery to have the skin grafted, but it never worked out and the marking was always visible. The position of it made it difficult for the area to be worked on. He opted for a painful tattoo around that part of his arm, a band of knotted branches and owls, but the three triangles always showed through the ink, and he complained that the raised areas of skin would itch and burn at certain times.
One night, in a particular drug and drink-fueled frenzy, Alan took a sharp knife and a razor and dug deep into that part of his arm, cutting the chunk of skin out completely. He also cut deeply into the arm around, which began gushing blood. Rushed to hospital by a concerned friend, he found he had just missed the brachial artery, the cutting of which would have killed him in minutes.
On being released from the hospital, Alan found a new lease of life. He got clean for the first time since his teens, joined a gym, and began to meditate daily. He told friends he finally felt the release of a huge weight he had been carrying since childhood, and was looking to the future for the first time ever.
Unfortunately, around this time, he found that work in the film industry was drying up a little. He eventually found himself out of work for months at a time. He had no savings, having spent everything he had on his previous partying lifestyle. He lost his apartment, moved into a small rented room, and began drinking again. Eventually, the nightmares returned and he was back where he began.
Alan tried AA several times, but found the meetings unsatisfying. A chance encounter in the street led him to a support group for survivors of UFO abductions.
Other members remembered Alan as a fascinating figure. One anonymous member reported, ‘All our stories were pretty much the same, but he were totally out there. He said he watched a film in a castle with a fireman. The film was about a blonde girl being murdered. He talked about ‘deer’ and ‘trout’ and ‘owls’. He said it was up to him to find her and stop it, but he kept messing up. He said his friends were there with him and had watched different films about different girls. We thought he was full of it.’
Alan’s wound never healed, and in time became badly infected. He developed a fever and was again taken to hospital. It was then that he discovered he had a rare blood cancer. He told the doctor it was his own fault for removing the marking and rejecting the protection of the lodges. The doctor referred him for psychiatric care through the remainder of his illness.
Alan Traherne died on February 9th 1988. He left a short note beside his bed. It read, ‘Tell Teresa I’m sorry I couldn’t find her in time.’
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