Email correspondence from Byron Case
to Patrick Rock on 2 May 1998.

Emphasis is added to highlight particular information, and it may have been edited for brevity and privacy.

In this letter, Case attacks two of Anastasia's best friends,
mocking the grief that many felt at the time, even after having demanded sympathy for his own grief in an earlier email.

He also admits in this letter that he is aware that he is a suspect, and while stating the exact scenario about which Kelly Moffett later testified (that he shot Anastasia while she watched), he adopts a tone of high moral indignation, that Anastasia's family could think him to be such a "sick fuck".

He then makes reference to his earlier felony, though painting himself as more mature and balanced when he returned.

Lastly, he takes a second swipe at his own friend (and later defense witness) Tara McDowell. He paints her as a compulsive liar (a familiar pattern) when he believes that we have information from her that might put him in a bad light. He had made similar statements about her in an earlier letter.

Some of his statements have been redacted, as they make personal references to others not directly engaged in this discussion.


Subject: Suspicions
Date: Sat, 2 May 1998 14:44:55 -0500
From: From: Byron Case
To: Patrick Rock
"The mob requires regular doses of scandal, paranoia and dilemma to alleviate the boredom of a meaningless existence. What begins as a seedling of reality germinates into a full-blown myth, which in turn picks up constituents along the way who confer substance to it."
-Anton LaVey
I've always found amusing the way certain people, after hearing about a tragedy, will grab hold of it as it passes and proceed to ride it for all it's worth. The irony of this situation is that while these "rodeos of sorrow" are going on, it seems that more often than not, the people closest to the situation back away -- trying to close the chapter -- while the others hold the book open by crying and whimpering about how close they are to the issue. Often times, the last frantic grasp at attention in these times is the creation of rumors which, as you made clear, are certainly not strangers to the aftermath of Anastasia and Justin's respective deaths.

The things Peige and Daniele have done are of little concern to me. I will not ruin their little game by talking about Anastasia's general animosity toward Peige or the events leading up to the ending of her friendship with Daniele. I don't care who has volunteered their time to calling in apparently fruitless tips. Nor do I dare compare myself to the multitudes of other people who suddenly became Anastasia's Siamese twin. Even Justin had his mourners -- people who met him once who came forth to proclaim their undying love for the deceased. It sickens me that there are so many people desperate for recognition as a "harrowed soul", that would take something as heartbreaking as death and transform it into a sick mockery ... polluting names and legacies in a twisted race to get the most reassuring hugs and pitying glances. I am proud to have no part of that.

I realized long ago that I was not being ruled out as a suspect ... that bothers me, but because there is no way to prove to the police that I am innocent, I have to just deal with that. Sgt. Kilgore is merely doing his job and following procedure, and I am in no position to dispute logic. I don't like the idea, but am helpless to argue it. I can't help but feel that if this were the dark ages, Anastasia's family would have had me burned at the stake out of sheer suspicion. In fact, I doubt any of them would dispute that theory if asked. THAT is what bothers me ... not that the police haven't ruled me out, but that the family is convinced that I had a hand in Stasia's murder. Even if I was perverted enough to murder someone, I doubt I'd be such a sick fuck as to bring my girlfriend along for the ride. That does't exactly make a good impression on one's beloved. What the hell do you take me for?

On the issue of my reputation ... I take that as my surest sign of undying popularity. Let's review ... a cocaine-addicted coffeehouse regular who was rather well-known as a promiscuous asshole gets arrested for burglary and serves his subsequent jail time. He returns to the coffeehouse a different, more grounded and sane person without the drugs and realizes that the only reason the social scene was interesting was because of his addiction. He decides to become a bit more reclusive, focusing on work and more intimate social settings. After a few months, he becomes bored and again returns to the coffeehouse only to hear that during his absence, rumors of him being a Devil-worshipper looking to impregnate a woman with his "demon seed" (no, really) are running rampant. Rest assured, I'm no stranger to this conversation:

"Oh, so YOU'RE Byron. Wow, I've heard about you!"
"Why am I not surprised."
"You don't seem nearly as bad as they say."
B.B. Franklin once said, "If a lie is repeated often enough all the dumb jackasses in the world not only get to believe it, they even swear by it." Again, people need controversy, and for some reason I am an easy target.

You said in your previous letter [redacted] about [redacted] Tara . . . She and I were friends for quite a while. . . If you've ever met her, you would understand how she spills out over the sides to anyone who will listen. She will talk a person to sleep telling about [redacted], the numerous times [redacted], her [redacted], the [redacted] ... etc. A lot of the things she says are blatant lies. One of the reasons I don't speak to her anymore is that I realized just how pitiful of an individual she truly is. She has lied to me, to Brahm, to Kelly, neighbors, her mother, other friends, and the list goes on.

You said to me "You must also understand, there are a number of reasons why there is a strong residue of disbelief of your claims, not the least of which is that your reputation precedes you, and is not without stain" I can't help but wonder what aspects of my reputation make it feasible that I could be capable of murder?

Isn't *that* the real stretch?


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