EMAIL: Kneeling Mourners at the grave site 2026

 

My health is failing and today I failed my attempt at an MRI. Also, I could not afford prescriptions.  I am currently on disability and food stamps, and my feet swell so large that I had to purchase size 18 boots to accommodate them.  As I age, I am losing the battle with my condition.  I suffer from CPTSD with dissociative amnesia and my memories started to come back in 1997.  Since my earliest recollection I knew that my parents were dangerous people at least toward me, my brothers were treated differently.   Eventually I figured out that they committed crimes, but my dissociations had taken away my memories.  So much so that I existed in special education classes all through my public school days.  Then as I separated from the 'house of hate' and those that lived there I grew stronger and graduated with a master’s from UTA.  

I started with this style of introduction simply to create a plausible format for you to receive what I will be sharing next.  Over the decades as my memories came back, I uncovered tremendous abuses at the hands of my parents.  Then I began to relive the scenes where they did horrid things to others.  I know where some of these bodies are buried. Most of them were trafficking victims and some had been purchased but were disposed of as their sales fell apart and they simply became too much of a liability to keep alive.   Some of these victims were Catholic women of Mexican descent lured from the catholic church at Holy Family of Nazareth 2323 Cheyenne St. Irving Texas.  They came to our house believing that they were interviewing for a domestic position.  Several of those women are buried in the backyard of my childhood home.

For many I witnessed the entire sequence of events from abduction to disposal.  A few just the disposal or the exhumation by my father as in his mind he was having romantic relationships with one of them.  This all occurred in the 1970’s and yes, the whole neighborhood knew as did the Irving Police.  My father’s number one Crimie was Sgt. Jim Alford the detective in charge of missing persons at the City of Irvings Police Headquarters.  This man was paid well for information and to dispose of case files.  Back in the 1970’s the undocumented immigrants knew that they could not go to the police just like the black community knew to avoid law enforcement at all costs.

I am about to share something with you, and it will seem odd at first, but what part of my life wasn’t.  After these women began to disappear the family members of these women arrived on our street.  One Saturday morning while I was riding my bicycle looking for someone to play with, they called me over and asked me many questions.  I don’t remember what I said but whatever fell out of my mouth caused them to follow me home.  When their expressions changed, I was suddenly afraid of them and raced home as fast as I could.  They had walked upon me at the corner of Esters and Twin Falls by the time I made it to my house which was almost to the corner of Portland my dissociative mind erased them from my reality.  Then buffered my mind with the belief that I was trying to get home to watch a TV show. 

My error in my attempt to elude them was as simple as a child’s mind.  I left my bicycle outside of my house.  They arrived and knocked on my door.  My father was never home, and my mother was always sleeping off her heavy doses of medication that she indulged in the night before.  There I was at the door asking these people what they needed.  My mind had been erased, and I did not recall who they were.  Then somehow my mother appeared and shut the door on them and went back to her bed.  That was the first time I met these quasi detectives.  The group was led by a bilingual Mexican man who conducted himself like he had been an investigator of some sort at a more recent time in his life.  This man always wore a white long-sleeved shirt and black dress pants with black dress shoes.  He dressed the part of someone official. 

That man and this cluster of older women would drive to my street and park and wait for me to ride by.  Then they would corral me and ask me questions, to me this was very frightening.  I talked so fast and was trying to avoid getting hit.  These people never hit me or threatened me with abuse, but my mental blueprint came from the ‘house of hate’.  Meaning their approach had me petrified and dancing as fast as I could to appease them and live to ride my bike another day.  Whatever baffling blunder of rhetoric spewed from my mouth was meant with the purpose of ransoming my hide out of their clutches and being free to race home.  They tried on numerous other occasions to capture me, but my new tactic was to abandon my bicycle and run between the houses then jump into someone’s backyard and hide in their doghouse. 

They did eventually catch me again when I rode my bike out of the neighborhood and stopped at a convenience store called Mr. M’s.  All the older kids in the neighborhood talked about this Frito pie thing that this store had.  It was 99 cents and I had worked so hard to search through the couch and the floors in a debris filled addicts house to acquire such coinage.  This store was miles down Esters Road and at the corner of Rochell Road.  For an elementary kid with a huffy style bicycle trying to avoid traffic all the way.  I had achieved the Mount Olympus of my youth to that point in my life.  In my hand was this golden fleece reminiscent of Jason and the Argonauts.  A warm sack of Fritos with a scoop of chili that tasted horrible.  In my moment of what I thought would be a triumph of coming of age.  I had failed and then that Mexican man was standing right in front of me. 

I was triggered at a monumental moment of my own failure to achieve something grand.  To facing a man who had been chasing me all week.  My dissociative mind clicked in and I forgot my name.  That man stood inches from my face and said many words.  It reminded me of how the Teacher in Charlie brown spoke in his cartoon films.  Nothing was registering and I dropped my golden fleece.  I froze in place and when I came back to reality that man was gone and I bolted for the door since the people inside were yelling and touching my shoulders.  I raced home believing that the people at Mr. M’s had become angry with me for what reason I could not decipher.  Then when I arrived home my father was there and he was never home.  His presence had me dancing on those proverbial eggshells that abused children speak of.

Then as my father’s voice grew louder, I whisked myself away with the most logical escape plan that I could.  I hated doing it, but I took out the trash.  Then as I deposited that bag over the fence, I was about to leap over myself and make that great escape with one of my concocted childhood endeavors.  That was when I saw them.  Coming down the alley headed toward Portland Street.  There came many rows of Mexican men and women holding candles and dressed like they were attending a funeral.  In the lead was the Mexican man who I thought had been a cop at some time in his life.  Then across the front of these lines of followers were the older women who had been part of that wrangling team who subdued me for details.  This entourage of Mexican peoples numbered at least 30.  No children were amongst their number, all of them looked to be the age of parents not siblings.

            I was just on the other side of the chain-link fence and frozen as usual as I stood mystified by this procession.  It was decades before this memory came back and I am very glad that it did.  Few times in my life spent with my homicidal creators did I ever recall a moment of recognition and closure.  These women in front of the line stopped and stared at me with the kindest expressions.  For a moment I was a child in someone’s eyes, not a liability that had to be thwarted at every turn when he reminded the haters that he was alive.  If at that moment they could have taken me and fostered me as I have done with so many children.  My suffering would have ended and perhaps while in a safe place my memories would have stopped their repression and come forth and saved countless lives, believe me it would have been countless. 

            The child they sought was buried feet from where I stood.  My father had a great deal of practice in concealing bodies.  He had removed the sod and then buried the girl and placed the sod back.  All the additional soil was strewn about the backyard so that little to no earthly disturbance was visible.  These people, your people gave me mercy and extended to me the kindness that I received so few times in my life of trauma.  I wanted you to know this story so that you will fully represent their child and all the others who reside in that backyard.  Then we can move onto the catholic orphans who reside in two mass graves.  Those two stories are far longer than this one and have a great deal of gruesomeness that you may not be able to stomach.

            I will be attaching victim sheets and body maps for you, and you can also find them by following the links below in this email.  Your first rational thought would be to involve law enforcement.  Feel free and believe me I have tried.  However, a family member of mine now holds the same position as Sgt. Jim Alford did five decades ago.  He knows about the family’s criminal past and has sent word through other family members that any case I send in will not be investigated and that he and his fellow detectives laugh at my cases.  Yes, my words are accurate and true, and I have made many complaints through several offices concerning this miscarriage of justice and witness intimidation.  Included in the list of those that I have complained to are the FBI, Texas Rangers, Irving internal affairs division, Ken Paxton’s cold case squad, and the United States attorney general.  Feel free to ask any questions that you have.  I will respond by email.  On Thursday I will be in Greenville for lunch.  If you wish to visit with me just let me know and we can meet up at 1 p.m. 

            Please take this seriously and help me ‘Send the dead home’.  Just like in the 1970’s and with the political climate we are in.  I do not believe that any agency will advocate for the undocumented immigrants from another era.  They deserve to be reunited with their loved ones and buried with catholic rights in their family plots.  As a testament to their belief system as Catholics many met their death repeatedly reciting what I believe may have been the Rosary.  They did not speak English during the time that I witnessed these events.  Not one of them begged for mercy nor attempted to appease their attacker.  They simply put their hands together and recited words in rote formulation and no matter the pain they endured or how many times they were throttled with fists, clubs, and blades.  Every time they could gain the slightest composure, they resumed the praying position looking to the sky and took the next onslaught. 

            These women deserve to be reunited with their biological and religious families.  Their graves, both the impromptu and the new ones, will eventually reside in need to have the full rights of their faiths bestowed upon them.  Your organization may have to provide tombstones and pay for the exhumations.  These costs have been a huge hurdle since I was told it would be $50,000 per exhumation and family reunification.  Law Enforcments lynch pen was that since I didn’t have the names of the victims nor did they have missing persons that matched my victim sheets on the roster that they keep.  That these people did not exist and consequently did not constitute any further attempts at recognition.  My father physically erased these women from the face of the earth and Sgt. Jim Alford erased their past, present, and future existence as far as law enforcement is concerned.  He was paid well and accomplished his task in a far more comprehensive way that a man of his limited IQ could have ever imagined.  I knew this man and he was often home sitting out a suspension for excessive force in the performance of his duties.  He was a poor example of a Police Officer but an amazingly skilled criminal when he carried out what my father instructed him to do.

            Everyone who committed these acts is dead now and I am one of a few living witnesses to these events.  If you choose to ‘send these dead home’ then that will start a domino effect.  Dozens of other cases will be resurrected from their abolishment into the void due to corruption.  I will include other cases with these victim sheets and if you're allowed to let the ball start rolling on their release and  salvation from purgatory and their reunification with their spiritual family.  Then perhaps you could succeed where I failed and accomplish the act of ‘sending the dead home’.  Just know that you will have accomplished what law enforcement and all the others who knew failed to do in that era and this one.  This could be your church’s avalanche of retribution against evil.  I do hope that you will decide to come visit with me on Thursday.  Bring whatever questions you have and feel free to use that time to ‘size me up’ and determine if I am a rational man of intent or a rube lol.

 

 

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