Abuse Allegations

An officer handed me an envelope today — two pages long — from the Maricopa County District Attorney. It outlined elements of my crimes and posed questions for me to answer on my prison tablet.

The first question: Did I ever physically abuse my wife, Cheryl Irene Ciccone (b. 11/12/1976, Boston, Massachusetts)?

I emphatically state no. I never caused her bodily injury. In truth, Cheryl often punched me, threw my valuables around, and destroyed my property.

The officer said there are photographs showing bruises on Cheryl. But the NSA (Colorado Springs) and NRO (Virginia) gave information that cast doubt on their authenticity. A Kodak rep confirmed the negatives’ lot numbers didn’t match the location where they were supposedly bought or developed.

The camera used wasn’t mine (I had a Minolta).

Thousands of photos I’d taken didn’t match the “Cheryl photos.”

There was a photo shop and beauty salon near Spycraft that could have doctored the images.

U.S. Customs cast further doubt, pointing out that Cheryl and I had already split. My credit cards, cell phones, and pagers placed me 700 miles away when she claimed abuse occurred.

This psychological conditioning made Cheryl dependent on me. But it also made her obedient — so obedient she committed multiple murders. Meanwhile, she was having an affair with Doug Stafford, franchise owner of Sub Factory.

Mr. Markman

The letter also asked about Mr. Markman of Longboat Key, Florida, who once hired me as a deckhand on his yacht. He may have been smuggling cocaine, picking up packages at channel buoys marked with 2-meter beacons.

There are recordings of me allegedly joking about sharks swallowing cocaine packages, and about Markman’s idea of turning buoys into radiological dirty bombs.

Women of the Past

They even dug into my old girlfriends:

Elisabeth Manning McCarthy of Tennessee and Longboat Key (our first kiss was on the yacht Charisma).

Angelita Maria Monton of Sarasota (her house had Doric columns).

Mary Scott Stoddard, my first fiancée, of Longboat Key and Rex, Georgia.

I’m sure my mother Judy and Steve Kepetz of Michael Saunders Realty mentioned them all.

Prison Reality

Meanwhile, I’m stuck here with Nurse Practitioner Maria Conejos — the biggest asshole in Browning Unit. She’s friends with Ashley Pelton, Ph.D., a regional health provider. They force me onto drugs that might kill me.

April 2024: 170 lbs.

Four months later: 264 lbs. (metabolic syndrome from psychotropics).

February: lost part of my eyesight.

I’ve read about Havana Syndrome — high-frequency transducers causing auditory hallucinations, pain, confusion. The Nazis and Brits experimented with this during WWII. Now it’s back, disguised as “medicine.”

Serial Killer Group

I was once in a group run by a psychiatrist who studied serial killers. His questions were monotone, emotionless, twisted. He asked me if I got erections or masturbated during my first killings. He wanted details about sexual features.

The inmates in that group were worse:

One killed runaways in Orlando, ate their organs, and stored their feces in jars with names on them.

Another cut off a penis, microwaved it, and used the fat as cooking grease.

I was also celled with young homosexual boys (18) who admitted to murders authorities never knew about.

One was Danny Kay Taylor, who bragged about killing in Las Vegas, Broken Bow, and even truckers. I testified against him in Oklahoma (Idabel, McCurtain County), handled by DA Virginia Sanders with the Oklahoma Bureau of Investigation.

Strange Gaps

Later that year, I believe I was drugged. I have vivid memories of playacting in the prison parking lot. My fingernails were clipped extremely short, I had burns, bruises, and I lost two weeks of time.

Bizarre.

Parole

Out of the seven inmates in that group, I may be the only one still alive. I was told that if I participated, I’d be guaranteed parole.

Sure enough, I was given a contentious parole and went up three times in 18 months.