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YOKNAPATAWPHA COUNTY SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT
- Investigating Officer(s): Det. S. Murphy. Det. T. Armstrong
- Incident No.: 000133-14A-2002
- Case Description: Andrea Stover Homicide
As recorded in the Inventory
of Items Taken into Evidence from the Victim's Residence, the Yoknapatawpha
County Sheriff's Department collected as evidence five hundred forty-eight
(548) letters addressed to Andrea Stover at the Yoknapatawpha County Adult
Local Detention Facility. Included in that number were eleven (11) letters
from Owen Norris (Evidence #s 000133-21-330 through 000133-21-340). Yoknapatawpha
County Sheriff's Department representatives have examined those letters
and selected the following Norris letters as potentially relevant to the
Andrea Stover Homicide investigation and typical of the content of all
letters from Owen Norris.
Letter Dates
June 2, 2000 | June 11, 2000
| December 21, 2000 | January 20, 2001 | July 14, 2001
| November 8, 2001
Letter Date: June 2, 2000
Postmark: Oxford, MS
My dear Stover,
It's a damn shame, damn them all, all the corrupt lot of them. The
judge may as well have been wearing one of those damn COP pins for all
the consideration he gave you and your cause.
But make no mistake: Your cause is just and true. Remember Thoreau,
remember Gandhi, remember MLK, you must let them roll their tanks over
you and strike you down so you can rise again. You must not give them
reason to keep you locked up any longer than necessary no trouble,
no acting out, my dear. Speak softly, carry a big stick or whatever
they have in jail, was that Thoreau or Roosevelt? Anyway, my dear, you
must watch your step, keep your head down, it's not your nature but
you must do it.
Why must you do it? Because until then I must put up with Mr. Dale
King's so-called vision for the company. So we are all imprisoned, not
as brutally as you of course, but in a prison of dullness and safety,
no risks, no debauchery, no joie de vivre. So you must escape as soon
as you can and rescue us all. Rescue us, dark angel! Black savior!
Yours, etc., etc.,
Owen Norris
End letter
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Letter Date: June 11, 2000
Postmark: New Orleans, LA
Dear Stover,
Are you wearing an orange jumpsuit? How fetching you must look!
I was wandering the Quarter, as I am wont to do, and was dismayed,
as I always am, by the faux Mardi Gras scene hordes of frat boys
and their big-haired girlfriend/accessories, whooping it up and lifting
their shirts for beads with one hand while clutching their bottles of
Bud with another. The bars along Bourbon Street realize this is their
ticket to success, the swine jockey to entice patrons with gimmicks
such as shinier beads and "authentic Cajun music." It is Mardi
Gras as commodity, mischief packaged like a shirt neatly folded on a
shelf at the Gap. Where is the tradition, where is the meaning behind
it all?
And for a brief moment of disgust I could understand why someone might
form a group, say, New Orleans Against Drunken Sluts (or NADS for short)
and try to scour these people away: Claim that Bourbon Street was a
crime haven, was violating the noise ordinance, was a dangerous influence
on today's youth. I truly felt affronted by these people, their
simian cries of delight and their primitive snuffling and rutting around
their mistaking vulgarity for daring, crudeness for erotica.
For a moment, I wanted to banish them off the face of the earth
for a moment, I was Claire whatever her name is from COP!
But then I came to my senses. How could I blame these poor people?
Is it their fault that they know no better than to mistake this gaudiness
for real life? Let them take their crude pleasures where they may, their
pathetic joy as long as they don't interfere with my own ways.
(This is COP's problem why meddle? Why interfere? Are we really
hurting you in any way, really?)
As an antidote I decided to go to Gomorrah. It's a new place, but one
I'm sure you'd like. The décor is lavish Persian, as though you
were inside a Bedouin tent the ceilings are low, like the walls
draped with lush silks, and the square low tables have pillows strewn
come-hither about. There are all kinds of nooks and crannies and private
corners, the whole place is lit with candles only except for the stage,
so your fellow guests are shadows around you, strangers in the desert
night. The serving boys and girls not waiters and waitresses,
for they're so much more are swathed in gilt-edged blue silks,
but not too much of it, just a loose suggestion of a covering around
the waist and hips. Their nipples are painted gold and around their
wrists they wear gold cuffs, latched on, with little padlocks to keep
them in place. They serve drinks with downcast eyes, kneeling, and when
they ask what else you want, you can think of two or three things, but
you can't do it, oh no, they are for decoration only, they touch each
other for your pleasure but must not be touched. This is a place to
bring a special friend, to enjoy the private shadows of the tent with,
to enjoy the show with, not some vulgar whorehouse.
The show, ah yes the show. Most intriguing you would take away
so many ideas, I know! First, imagine the music, a low humming using
some of those desert instruments, there is an oud and I don't know what
else, with an occasional trill of guitar or zither or what have you.
There is a low scarlet couch, upon which two people are seated as the
lights come up. She is young in every way perhaps 14 or 15, although
I can't imagine they would allow such a thing, and women's ages are
so hard to discern, but you are left wondering, that is the point, to
wonder, and she is wearing a diaphanous sarong of some sort,
completely translucent, and a veil of the same material. Next to her,
he is massive, his skin is dark, again you are wondering, and
he is wearing a tunic of the same material as the serving boys only
red. They are sitting side by side. And this is the beauty of it, they
hardly do anything at all, no grunting, no thrusting. Instead, it is
a series of tableaux, intended to be viewed like a still life. First
they turn to face one another; five minutes later, they kiss, and freeze
in that kiss for another five minutes. Like those garish street performers
pretending to be motionless dolls or what have you, only different.
When they do move, it is so slow and imperceptible, you hardly notice
especially if you're here with a friend, enjoying a conversation,
first you glance at the stage and they are kissing holding hands, the
next time you look at the stage he is <text
omitted for adult content>, always motionless. It is like
a tableau and it gives you time to wonder. He is so massive, she is
so tiny they aren't going to... ??? Isn't she too young to...??
Will he be able to...?? It is not so much about what they are doing,
because really they are doing nothing but being still, it is all about
what you imagine them to do next, what you wonder they'll do
next. Throughout, their faces are placid and enigmatic, the only evidence
of their passion <text omitted for adult content>,
which stays that way throughout by the way. They must practice Kama
Sutra or what have you to build up that kind of endurance. One minute
you look up at the stage and see them side by side, then you are distracted
by a serving boy and the next time you look up he has impaled her from
behind, completely motionless, and her back is arched, but completely
motionless, and she is looking out at you. You are not to see the insertion,
the thrust, only to wonder and imagine what it looked
like, what they are really feeling.
Was it real? Do you care? Have I entertained you? Have you escaped,
even for a moment, your dismal world? I will leave you to wonder
and imagine.
Yours, etc., etc.,
Owen Norris
End letter
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Letter Date: December 21, 2000
Postmark: New Orleans, LA
My dear Stover,
I am just writing a quick note, not too depressingly festive I hope
although I realize now the ink is red, to say that even though it may
seem like it, you are never really alone. There is a whole network of
freaks and artists in Oxford, in the state, in the South, in
this vast country of ours, in Paris, Rome, Hong Kong who understand
you and love you. They may not know you personally of course, but they
breathe the same passion you breathe, live for the same ideals, would
recognize you as a sister-in-arms at first sight.
Stand tall!
Owen Norris
End letter
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Letter Date: January 20, 2001
Postmark: New Orleans, LA
Dear Stover,
Truly awful things are afoot, if you haven't heard. (Do you have a
TV, there in a wretched rec room?) The entire country is being taken
over by COP and their ilk. I just turned off the television after watching
a cold, well-executed ceremony installing our next President
plenty of military brass and bunting, if you squinted you could see
a military junta appointing a new dictator. Unelected, this member of
an American dynasty, this man Shrub and his Stepford wife are
now in power.
These people frighten me, my dear. They have big plans for us, "family
values"-type plans. The NEA will be dissolved, converted into a
breeding institute that funds fertility research. Uppity women such
as you will be flogged in the streets as these men preach Christian
charity. Pregnant rape victims will be drawn and quartered while the
fetuses are saved. Embryos will have health insurance. Walt Disney will
take over The New York Times and the news will be as squeaky clean as
Main Street U.S.A. at opening time. Labor laws will be gutted, the government
will let "market forces" set the standard and poor wretches
will work 80 hour-weeks at Wal-Mart to make ends meet, barely, no insurance,
no rights, no unions, subsisting on Cheez Whiz and Wheat Thins. Tycoons
will sodomize street urchins and slit their throats in broad daylight,
walk away and leave it to their servants to clean up the mess, protected
by the armor of social Darwinism. Accents and eccentricities will be
punishable by law. There will be no green cards, no student visas, no
open borders, we will all have tattoos and report to the thought police.
The illiterate masses will be taught Bible parables by preachers with
harems of teenage sex slaves, manipulated, primed. Ignorant short tempers
will be forgiven, intellectual argument will be oppressed.
These people are dangerous, they want to get rid of people like us,
my dear and I'm afraid I must oblige them, for now, for now.
I am packing my bags and leaving the country. The pretense is business
a botanical gathering in Paris, a tour of new facilities in Kenya
but make no mistake, I intend to stay well beyond the final meeting.
A month? Two months? I can't say. I must recover from this awful rape
the nation has endured.
Do not fret, my dear staid Dale will keep the troupe afloat,
he is safe, if nothing else he will protect the group until your return.
No storm troopers will break down the doors under his tenure.
For now, adieu.
Owen Norris
End letter
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Letter Date: July 14, 2001
Postmark: Amsterdam, The Netherlands
I am writing this at a bar on the grand canal, drinking a Witbier and
smoking a cigarette. The breeze is chill and damp, I am free and happy,
thinking of you on this glorious day of your birth. Andreastovermas,
2001!
Is it any coincidence that you were born the day they stormed the Bastille?
Perhaps the French will make you the next Marianne, they can appreciate
a woman of your temperament. Wouldn't that steam Claire Windham to no
end?
Do you remember, my dear, your birthday celebration three years ago?
You know how many parties I've been to in my life, you know how much
it means when I say it was one of the finest ever. Do you remember that
merlot, the brie and crusty French bread? Discussing Borges, Francois
Mitterand's illegitimate daughter, the Boston Red Sox and Marcel Marceau?
How long has it been since you've had a nice, pungent brie? Or a nice,
pungent discussion?
I apologize, I'm lording it over you, aren't I? I will distract you
with chit chat of other things.
Did you know, for example, that Van Gogh as a young man painted a series
of Japanese-style landscapes? They are as serene as any Japanese print
you've ever seen, that God's-eye view of the world that says, "This
mountain, this river will be here for all eternity after humans are
extinct" but the colors are vivid, almost vibrating, and
you can see the beginnings of his style, the brush thickly dipped in
pigment. There is a subversion there, a contrast I love. Vivid, temporal
life and the enormity of geographic time, remember that, these 18 months
are nothing compared with the Grand Canyon or, more importantly, are
nothing compared with your whole long, strong life which has just begun.
You will emerge even stronger, more fiery, more full of life and when
you are a grey-haired harridan still full of fight, these 18 months
will seem like the crucible that made you more pure and you will tell
your daughters about this adventure with a smile.
How I envy your youth, the life you have still to enjoy! Me, I am feeling
old these days. There are so many beautiful youth here, going to clubs
in their razzmatazz fashions, whereas I am staid, I go to the theatre
and opera and enjoy fine, expensive dining. Perhaps I am ready to become
my Puritanical father's son, to become a dull businessman with a good
work ethic. Oh, horrors!
Cherish even these brutal, difficult days, my dear.
Yours, etc., etc.,
Owen Norris
End letter
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Letter Date: November 8, 2001
Postmark: Oxford, MS
Dear Stover,
This letter will be All Business, I'm afraid no meditations,
no mischief, just beige khaki and sensible shoes. For you must know
what you face when you emerge, what has been transpiring in your absence,
so you can gird your loins as it were and prepare for the battle.
I had a meeting with Mr. King just yesterday. As you no doubt know,
his production of play won a prize and he has been on something of a
high horse about it, he has a vision no doubt, and he is engorged with
the recognition and ready to crusade. I reminded him in no uncertain
terms that I had no interest in following under his banner as it were,
and that I expected him to return to his former duties when you returned.
Needless to say, he was less than pleased, perhaps disgruntled, and
I would not be surprised if you returned to find his resignation letter
on your desk. I cannot understand his ire, his unwillingness to cooperate,
and you who have worked so well with him in the past will doubtless
be disappointed and perhaps be thrown off balance with his absence.
But you must console yourself with this thought, that the group seems
eager for your return, eager for your zest. I do hope you've been scheming,
my dear, I expect something new and fresh right away, I want the cobwebs
cleared and the bracing air let in.
After the meeting I decided that I will preside over your first week
back at work, so there will be time, so much time, to catch up. I will
stay in Oxford for the week and will fly in the day after your release.
How soon will I see you? You must let me know through the usual channels.
Yours, etc., etc.,
Owen Norris
End letter
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Letter Dates
June 2, 2000 | June 11, 2000
| December 21, 2000 | January 20, 2001 | July 14, 2001
| November 8, 2001
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