Doc: The Rape of the Town of Lovell (42 page)

At 7
p.m
., Story was bound over on seventeen counts of sexual assault: three involving Minda Brinkerhoff and one each involving Meg Anderson, Juana Garcia, Aletha Durtsche, Julia Bradbury, Susan Moldowney, Hayla Farwell, Emma Lu Meeks, Dorothy Brinkerhoff, Wanda Hammond, Annella St. Thomas, Terri Tim-mons, Caroline Shotwell and her daughter Mae Fischer, and Emma Briseno McNeil. The offenses dated from 1967 to 1983 and the victims' ages ranged from fifteen to sixty-eight. If convicted on all counts, the defendant could be sentenced to life.

After Story pleaded innocent eight days later, his supporters turned up the heat. Dave Wilcock swore he was being followed, sometimes by a man, sometimes by a woman. Kenneth Buttermore suggested from the Bible Church pulpit that the victims were doing the devil's work. Two of Story's former nurses recanted information against him that they'd given police in earlier interviews; then one turned up on the defense witness list. Story backers like Jan Hillman, Beverly Moody, and Rex and Cheryl Nebel made a point of refusing to go through Wanda Hammond's checkout line at the Rose City Food Farm. Others sat outside in their cars and glared at her through the glass.

On November 21, three weeks after the arrest, the latest pro-Story endorsement created still more problems for the besieged prosecution forces. Lovell's former Methodist minister, Mark E. Christian, penned a Thanksgiving Eve epistle calling Story "a man of conviction about medicine and morality ... a man of deep commitment to his family, his profession and his faith."

Christian wrote, "Although these types of things do not seem to impress many people these days let it be said that anyone who commits and invests a lifetime to build his family and medical practice in a small Wyoming community will never throw it all away by practicing cheap and disgusting behavior behind closed doors."

The young pastor's letter stressed common sense and fairness:

I know that most of those ladies that have stepped forward believe that something wrong took place in Dr. Story's clinic. However, the only "wrong" thing which happened was that there was no third party present who might now substantiate Dr. Story's innocence. . . . Any man who could do the things of which Dr. Story is accused would be broken and long gone from the community by now were he guilty. ...

I am no fool for I would not come forth on such a delicate issue if I were not absolutely convinced of Dr. Story's innocence. I am not calling any of the ladies involved liars. What I am saying is that they are confused between fact and fiction and also are being used by some who know how to manipulate and mold fiction into supposed fact. ...

He is innocent no matter what the final verdict is.

One sentence caused Tharp more trouble than all the other pro-Story diatribes put together. "Already certain ladies are backing down with their testimonies," the pastor had written from his observation point in Billings, Montana, "upon realizing that they will have to tell those stories to objective, impartial audiences."

When the Lovell
Chronicle
gave the letter special play under the headline
devastation of lives must stop
, the prosecutor began receiving anguished calls from witnesses who were convinced they were being abandoned. At best, Tharp thought, the minister's statement demonstrated ignorance of the facts. At worst, it was an attempt to intimidate rape victims who'd already been intimidated enough. Once again he dashed off an advisory to the complainants:

. . . Some letters to the editor appeared in the Lovell
Chronicle
which contained a great deal of misinformation. One letter states some victims are beginning to recant their stories. This is
not
true and I don't know where the writer of the letter obtained such information.

He reminded the women to make use of the psychological assistance available from Patricia Wiseman at the Big Horn Behavioral Health office in Lovell. "She is trained in counseling in family violence and sexual assault and may be able to help you put a perspective on these events." He added, "Once again, we are all in this together. The case against the defendant is a good one and will continue to be as long as everyone is resolved to see it through."

A few weeks later, another letter to the
Chronicle
lifted the county attorney's spirits, at least for the moment. Mrs. Bryce Wrigley of Delta Junction, Arkansas, wrote, "Mr. Christian says, I quote, "I am no fool," but from where I sit I would differ. Mr. Christian goes on to say he wants justice, yet says he really doesn't want justice because no matter what the verdict he won't accept it unless it goes his way. Now is that justice?"

Of course it's not justice, Tharp said to himself. But he'd long since realized that justice wasn't the issue for most Story supporters. The issue was denial—denial that a respected member of their community could commit such offenses, denial that the city fathers would allow his outrages to go on for twenty years, denial that so few victims had had the courage to come forward. Tharp saw that the issue wasn't only Story's guilt, but Lovell's.

It was clear enough that the doctor had a thorough knowledge of psychology and was bending the phenomenon of denial to his advantage. He'd focused his supporters' outrage with his own denial to the Bible Church congregation. From the beginning he'd refused to admit that he had a problem, nor would he volunteer to change his practices or seek treatment. Tharp knew from unhappy experience that such offenders were the hardest to
convict.
A guilty

"DOC

defendant who trumpeted his innocence could sway jurors by the eloquence of his denial—it happened all the time. A guilty defendant who lacked conscience or a sense of shame could pass lie-detector tests. Psychologists called such types sociopaths, psychopaths, antisocial personalities; the terms were synonymous. Tharp was fascinated to learn that Story was so impressed by Dr. Hervey Cleckley's
The Mask of Sanity,
the classical study of soci-opathy, that he'd insisted that Marilyn and his two daughters read it.

Judi Cashel said she felt sorry for Story's supporters. She told the county attorney, "He's manipulating them the same way he manipulated the victims."

Tharp had to confess that his Lutheran compassion didn't extend quite that far.

64

DAVID WILCOCK

The chief was glad to see that Terry Tharp was throwing himself into the case, even to the point of conducting lengthy reinterviews. Most lawmen felt that prosecutors should stick to prosecuting, but this was no ordinary case. Together the chief and the county attorney reinterviewed Julia Bradbury, Wanda Hammond, Hayla Far-well and five or six others. Tharp said he didn't intend to put anyone on the stand who didn't know her story backward. "I hate surprises," he explained.

Additional complainants kept surfacing. "Write 'em up," Tharp told Wilcock. "If we lose on the first seventeen counts, we'll hit him with seventeen more." The number of bona fide victims soon passed fifty.

Some of the complainants spoke of strange phone calls and being followed. Confidential information was still being leaked. Wilcock wished he had the time and resources to mount a counterintelligence effort and throw some misguided supersleuth in jail, but he Was already working twenty-hour days.

The lame private investigator named Dan Flores
returned
to Lovell, and the chief set about mining him for
information.
Flores said he was still nosing around on behalf of Meg and Minda. "I've done everything but go door to door," he claimed. He seemed tired, dispirited; Wilcock had heard that he was drinking heavily.

All during their talk in the P.I.'s room at the Super 8, Flores played loud guitar music by Villa Lobos and Albeniz on his cassette machine. Go ahead and distrust me, Wilcock said to himself. My pocket tape recorder's off, and I love music.

The two men fenced and parried but exchanged little solid information. Flores hinted that he'd accumulated the names of a hundred victims. The chief thought it seemed unlikely but not impossible.

When he reported the conversation, the county attorney showi his redheaded temper. He called the civil suit "stupid" and said endangered the case. By suing for $1.5 million each, the McArthi daughters were opening themselves to charges of moneygrubbing. They'd sworn that any award would go to charity, but thi wouldn't keep Wayne Aarestad from painting them as oppoi ists. As a defense lawyer, he would be remiss if he didn't.

Wilcock noticed that in all the reinterviewing, Tharp didn't question Meg or Minda. It was odd. It seemed as though they should be his key witnesses.

December blew in with icicle air that numbed the chief's nose and turned his forehead purple. He asked a gas station attendant to install the police cruiser's snow tires for a business trip to Utah. The trip, to poke into Story's past and interview a few potential witnesses, had been Terry Tharp's idea. "We can't afford to miss a bet," he'd told Wilcock.

Lately the county attorney had seemed pessimistic about the case. Wilcock remembered his warning that both their jobs were on the line. It no longer mattered much to the chief. He wasn't sure he wanted to stay in a part of the world where a man like John Story could abuse women for twenty-five years and you couldn't get Tchaikovsky on the radio.

He made the long cross-countiy drive to Ogden, where Story had spent his surgical residency, and encountered a medical cone of
silence.
Not
one
hospital staffer would discuss the Lovell doctor or make any records available. He was told to return with a subpoena.

He looked up the retired Dr. Thomas Croft and asked if he'd noticed anything special about Story before leaving Lovell in 1962. "Yes," the old Mormon said, "I noticed that he was very slow and thorough." Further questioning adduced a memory that Thelma Walker, one of Story's earliest nurses, had once complained about smelling semen in Story's office and found a used condom in the trash. "After that," Dr. Croft said with a nervous titter, "I was suspicious of Story. I expected somebody to shoot him."

Wilcock traced the Walker woman to Salt Lake City and phoned for an appointment. She became upset when he told her his mission, and he attached his pocket tape recorder to the phone:

Q Did you ever smell semen in an examining room?

A Yes. Well, I thought I did.

Q Did you find a prophylactic containing semen in a garbage can in the examining room?

A Yes, but he could have used it by himself, for his own gratification. Some men do those things, you know.

Q Did you save the prophylactic?

A I'm not going to talk to you any more.

Q Thelma, you obviously know quite a bit. Why won't you help us?

A I don't see why you want to drag all this up. Dr. Story never hurt anyone I know.

Q What about the one-time patients, people who were just passing through?

A I could tell you a lot about that, but I'm not going to.

Q Thelma, I know you saved that prophylactic. What did you do with it?

A I threw it away.

Q How long did you keep it?

A Not very long.

Q Why did you talk to Dr. Croft? Weren't your suspicions bothering you?

A I've said too much already. I'm not going to say any more. I've got to go.

When Wilcock returned to Lovell on December 5, he learned that the service station attendant who'd put on the snow tires had tipped off Mayor Fink about the trip. The chief wasn't surprised when he was summoned to the mayor's home and informed that Story wanted him fired. "Why are we involved?" Fink asked. "This isn't our case."

"Well, Herman, yes it is," Wilcock said. "If it isn't ours, whose is it?"

"The county attorney's."

"Yes, but it happened in Lovell and it's a Lovell case."

"Why'd you bring that Casper policewoman up here?"

"Because it happened here, Herman."

"Look at the money you're wasting on this!"

"Herman, so far the county's picked up almost all the tab. You paid for some travel expenses. Before this is over, the town of Lovell is gonna want to say that it paid some of the expenses."

The mayor glared. Wilcock thought, Here comes the ax. He's just been reelected and he's got to reappoint me or name a new chief.

Fink asked, "Do you know what this is doing to the town?"

Wilcock parried, "Do you know what it'll do to the town if we don't take action?"

The mayor looked tired. It hadn't been long since he'd undergone bypass surgery. He mumbled, "Dr. Story didn't do these things, Dave. It's plumb impossible. You don't know him like I do."

"Herman, I'm sorry," Wilcock said softly, "but I think I know him better."

He stood up to leave. "Wait a minute, Dave," the old man said. "Will you—will you be my police chief again?"

Wilcock felt ashamed that he'd talked so sharply. "Thanks," he said. "Let me think about it."

By mid-January the leaks had become serious. Before Wilcock reached for his handkerchief, the Story forces knew he would blow his nose. His suspicions focused on the town treasurer's office. For