The Note
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Audio Clip of J. John Portera Reading the Prolog to The Note
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On June 25, 1965, Carol McCamish Casey was brutally murdered in the rural Bullitt County, Kentucky, home of her lover, Paul Vincent Bugali. Twenty-four hours later, Bugali, and Carol’s husband, Patrick Sean Casey, were the primary suspects. Nine months later, the homicide was still unsolved and the Casey murder list of suspects had expanded to include two homosexual, four bisexual, and several heterosexual males, including a defrocked Catholic priest. It also included a Mr. X; his sexual orientation was unknown.
On July 1, 1977, Jewel Anne Lott, a fifty-four-year-old Hickman, Kentucky widow, became the seventh female victim of the SPN Killer of Kentucky—the title that investigators labeled the psychopathic serial killer in 1969, after he murdered the third woman, Pat Manakis. Remarkably, all the victims were anatomically similar; only their eyes and hair colors demonstrated notable differences. All tested positive to recent semen residue although there was no evidence indicating rape or rough sexual intercourse had taken place. All but one, the widow, were still married and murdered within fifty miles of Louisville.
All the women had been killed in a most macabre manner, and the horrid nature of their bodies suggested they had undergone a tortuous last few minutes of life. All were left with a written, tell-tale reason for their murder—The Note. The location where the killer left this fingerprint-like evidence on each body was grotesque enough to evoke vomiting episodes in several of the most hardened criminal investigators. Ironically, all seven women had been romantically involved with Paul Vincent Bugali during the twelve-year killing spree.
Twenty minutes after the last homicide, the elusive serial killer was apprehended by the most unlikely lawman in the small river port town of Hickman, Kentucky. Order now.
Preview:
Carol had long since concluded that Vincent Bugali was a gentle lover, first and foremost, but whenever he began to sense that she was on the very verge of reaching her crest of pleasure he would begin to increase the rapidity and strength of his thrusts. Even though these pounding penetrations of Vincent were not in perfect synchronization with Bolero’s tempo at the moment, they would cause Carol to have a cataclysmic-like climax. One had been so profoundly pleasurable that she chipped off part of a back tooth, as her teeth involuntarily chattered during the spasms of sensory delight.
Whenever Carol’s pinnacle of pleasure subsided, Vince would slow his motion; once again bringing his own searching movements back into harmony with the music’s tempo, while continuing with just enough motion to maintain her stimulation and interest in continuing their ritual-like rite of lovemaking. This would eventually bring her back to even another more intense peak of passion. Their lovemaking would go on like this until her lover felt it was time for him to reach his own explosive eruption, one that matched Bolero’s own fetching and feverish final crescendo.
She always knew when his ability to mentally control the point of no return within himself had gone past the physiological point of being able to delay it any longer. The signal never varied. He would begin to moan, rather soft at first, and then, as the distending discharge intensified in volume, the sound he made became more like groans—guttural, and from deep in the throat, as he gave up his essence to her. The first time it happened Carol thought that her lover was in agonizing pain; only the spontaneous smile on his face and an outburst of what was no doubt an uncontrollable laughter, assured her that all was well.
Vincent Bugali had once again reached this point on Friday night, the twenty-fifth of June, at approximately eight-two p.m., when Carol heard what sounded like a creaking sound and tried to convey this to her smiling and groaning lover with, “Vincent, ssssh, did you hear that?”
Bugali, momentarily weakened, heard only the thumping of his own heartbeat, as he lay exhausted and motionless on top of her hot and wet body. Carol heard it again, but before she could begin to push against Vincent’s shoulders in an attempt to lift him enough so that she could hear more acutely, it was too late. The blow, with its horrible thud-like sound against the head of her lover, came at the precise moment that the pupils of her eyes involuntarily constricted to the glaring light now blinding her. She felt her lover’s body fall full-weight against her own, instantly and instinctively knowing that something dreadful and diabolic was now with them in Vincent Bugali’s bedroom.
“Get your sorry ass out of that bed, you no-good trollop!” The vocal tone was strident and shrill, as the intruder kept the blinding light shining into her eyes, while, with his booted foot, he kicked the hundred and ninety pound body of Vincent Bugali off Carol and onto the floor. This time the thud was much louder, as the limp and unconscious body of her lover hit the oak planked floor.
Carol Casey now knew that Vincent had never heard the noise of the flooring giving beneath the feet of whoever had just entered the house, nor had he heard her attempt to try and bring him to the awareness that someone was possibly entering their sanctuary. He had heard nothing, nor seen the glow from the flashlight as the leather-covered lead came crashing against the side of his skull.
Bugali would come in and out of consciousness for close to an hour, sixty minutes of time when he knew nothing about the almost indescribable verbal and physical persecution that was being horrifically hurled onto the mind and body of the beautiful woman he had come to deeply love in less than two years.