The entrance gate to Silver Terrace Cemetery

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A Hanging in Storey County
June 21, 2005
Virginia City
Storey County, Nevada

I knocked on Walden's hotel room door promptly at noon, which was our agreed upon time for our ‘soul communication' investigation to begin. Much to my surprise, he was wearing a pair of ridiculously large eyeglasses with spiral painted lenses that spun around in pin wheel circles, somehow propelled by batteries no doubt. Upon his head, he was wearing a hat which boasted large, green alien like antennas that protruded at least two feet above his head. I immediately broke into laughter. He looked absolutely ridiculous and I was delighted with his unexpected humor.

“What's so funny?” he asked with a serious expression upon his face.

“I am simply tuning up my psychic antennae for today's soul communication hunt.”

Fortunately he removed his disguise before we walked through the hotel lobby to my car. “I found those items in a collectibles shop last night. I just couldn't resist buying them to amuse you,” he said with a smile as we drove off.

“How did you sleep last night?” I asked.

“Hardly at all,” he replied. “Once I start doing these psychic investigations my mind just runs on and on and on! I kept having all kinds of nightmarish dreams.”

“What were your dreams about?” I asked curiously as I turned on my tape cassette recorder and handed it to him to speak into.

“Crazy things! I kept dreaming about that house on D and Union Streets that you drove me past yesterday. Something bad happened in that house. I could feel a cold, clammy energy coming from the second building from the corner. It made me feel nauseated and sick to my stomach, and whenever vibrations make me feel that way I know that someone has been murdered. The terror they felt at the time they died still lingers there, and I feel that energy and it scares me and makes me feel ill. I'm pretty certain that a woman was murdered in that building a long, long time ago. I'm not certain but I think the years of 1863 or 1867 might be of significance."

“I am going to drive you back to that location now. We will continue our ghost hunt…I mean soul communications contact… from where we left off at D and Unions Streets,” I stated after having corrected myself for impolitely referring to our excursion as a ghost hunt.

“Oh hell, just call it a ghost hunt. I really don't care. You don't have to be so polite,” Walden said.

“What else did you dream?” I asked.

“Well…I saw two women in my dream. It was pretty awful. I woke up in a sweat. One lady was in bed…dead. She was covered with a blanket over her head. A fire was burning in a fireplace close to the bed. I saw another woman standing beside the bed. I see her shake the body in bed trying to wake it. She says, 'Wake up Honey. It's me, Gertie. I have your wake up coffee for you.' When the lady in bed doesn't respond, she pulls the cover away from her face. There is blood everywhere. The woman's face and hair are saturated with blood and there are dark purple bruises on her throat. I hear screaming. The lady who called herself Gertie stands beside the bed and screams and screams and screams. The sound of it is horrid. That's the dream I had last night.”

I held my breath and bit my lip, hoping not to allow Walden to see how much his story had affected me. I was well aware that he was accurately describing a murder that had occurred on D Street on January 19th of 1867.

“Was there anything else you remember that you dreamed?” I asked nonchalantly.

“Nothing really significant, I don't think. It was crazy. Do you remember the ending of the movie 'Frankenstein,' where all the people in the village chased the monster through the country side and to his death?” he asked.

“Of course,” I replied.

He continued, “Well, I dreamed that hundreds of people were walking a great distance through the country side to watch a man be executed. I believe he was going to be a hanged. Anyway…it reminded me of the ending of the movie 'Frankenstein.'

I was pleased to find a parking spot only a half a block from the house on D Street which had so impressed Welch. I taped our conversation as we walked to the building in question.

“This isn't the same building, but the energy still lingers here,” he commented. “A prostitute lived here, didn't she?” he asked.

Without thinking I nodded my head "Yes.”

He sat on the curb in front of the building. A strange looked crossed his face. When he spoke it seemed almost as if he were in a trance.

“She was strangled. It was late at night and very, very cold. There was snow all about the city. It was either December or January. She was alone in the house with three men. They took things…they stole things from her.”

Suddenly, he fell into a long silence. He broke the silence, startling me by asking, “Please ask me some questions. If you ask me questions, maybe I can see more.”

“What were they stealing?” I asked.

“They took jewelry and watches and even some dresses,” he answered.

“What is the woman's name?” I asked.

He wrinkled his brow and when he spoke it was with great effort.

“I'm not sure. It sounds like Jewell something. One of the men strangles her. His fingernails tore at her so violently that he ripped the skin of her throat. She bled so profusely that it looked as if she had been attacked by a wildcat. It was not the youngest of the three men that killed her. He was around eighteen years old, sandy brown hair, lean, around five feet, eight inches, very handsome. I think his name might be Dixon Collier or Carter but I am not sure, but he was not involved in the murder; it was the other two men that were. One of the other men beats Jewell brutally with a wrought iron fire poker about the head. She immediately becomes unconscious.”

Again Welch fell into a deep silence.

“What is the younger man doing?” I asked.

“Nothing. He just stands at the door at the entrance of the room. He is a lookout in case a neighbor might hear what is happening and try to enter.”

“Can you give names to either of the other two men?” I asked.

Once again, that look of great uncomfortableness crossed his face and he seemed to struggle for proper answers.

“I really don't know. It's so hard to see their names. I just get the word ‘Bullet,' but it sounds different than the weapon, and then I get the name Jean Villain…or Jean The Villain or something like that and then I think the man that beat her with the fire poker is named Duke or Doug. The one who strangles her is Jean Villain. She was unconscious after being beaten with the fire poker but it was the strangulation which caused her death. I just can't quiet see or hear the names clearly.”

“What about Gertie? Is Gertie there with the four of them in that room?” I asked.

“Oh, no…she comes into the room later after the three men have left. Gertie is the one who finds the body. I think she is a friend of Jewell's. I'm sorry, I am just not sure.”

Suddenly Walden stands. He appears to be agitated and tired. He looks extremely disappointed and depressed.

“What is the matter”” I ask. “You seem terribly depressed. Are you upset?”

“Yes, I am. I am very depressed,” he answered. “I feel like I am not doing a good job at all. I feel like I am in error and that I am disappointing you and that I will make a fool out of myself in your story. I am very nervous about that.”

I grabbed him by the arm and led him back to the car. “You have not disappointed me for one moment. You are doing far, far better than you realize. I am absolutely astounded by some of the observations you have made today for I know the story of this murder very well. I am not permitted to react or respond or to furnish you with any information whatsoever,” I replied.

Welch smiled and then asked excitedly, “Then I am right? There was a woman murdered in that building and she was a prostitute?”

“Yes. I can tell you that much. There was indeed a woman who was a prostitute murdered at that very location.”

“Listen, Tony, it really helps me if you give me a little feedback once in a while. I mean, how would you like to be put in my place? Do you realize how hard it is to do what I am trying to do? At least if you tell me that I am ‘on target' it encourages me to go further and to tell you more of what I am getting psychically. When you just sit there beside me and say nothing, I just want to give up, figuring I must be way off target,” he said.

I couldn't help but feel sorry for him and for the situation my editor and I were putting him in.

“Oh course. I understand and I will be more responsive if it helps you. Walden, you have been amazingly on target. May I drive you to the place where the woman who was murdered was buried?”

“That would be super! I can more than likely pick up a lot being near her remains,” he replied.

I turned on C Street to find my way to Silver Terrace Cemetery. Shortly after I drove past #5 C Street, Walden exclaimed, “Stop the car! Stop the car! That's her! That's the lady that was murdered!”

I pulled to the side of the road and looked to the building where he was pointing. A sign above the entrance to the door read The Julia Bulette Red Light Museum. A shiver ran up my spine and it took me a moment to catch my breath for that was indeed the name of the prostitute who had been murdered at her home on D Street on January 19th, 1867.

“How stupid of me!” Welch exclaimed. “Her name wasn't Jewell…it was Julia, which is the same name my mother had. I should have been able to get that…and her last name was spelled like bullet but was pronounce Bulette with a French accent. That is definitely the woman I dreamed about and the woman who lived in that house on D Street.”

“Yes, you are correct. You are definitely correct,” I admitted.

He turned and looked at me and asked, “Well, who in the world was the lady named Gertie, then? I know there was a lady named Gertie in that house who found Julia's body.”

“Oh hell! I am not supposed to tell you anything but you are so accurate that you are totally scaring me! Julia Bulette's closest friend was her next door neighbor. Her name was Gertrude. It was she who discovered the body. How the hell do you do what you do?” I exclaimed.

As we drove down Carson Street toward Cemetery Road I questioned him further. “Walden, do you absolutely swear to me that you know nothing whatsoever about the legendary prostitute named Julia Bulette? There have been several books and a few films made about her life. You may have read or seen something regarding her.”

“Never! I swear to you…never. If I ever saw a film about Julia Bulette, I certainly don't remember it. I don't like westerns anyway. That type of subject doesn't even interest me. That is the absolute truth, Tony.”

I believed Walden but had my doubts that my editor would.

I decided to approach the subject of Julia Bulette in a different manor than I had during the investigations of the spirits of Sister Mercedes and the murdered Chinese man at Odeon Hall. Because I knew a great deal about Bulette's life, I was curious as to what Welch's psychic perceptions about her might be. As I walked him to her gravesite, he said that he "would like to meditate quietly for a few minutes and see if he could pick up her vibration." I watched as Walden sat himself beside her tombstone. He placed the palms of both hands over the site of her buried body. He was deadly quiet for about three minute,s and then he looked up at me and nodded his approval that I start my tape recorder.

“What I get is that there are many, many misconceptions and half truths regarding this lady named Julia Bulette. People say that she was very rich, but that was not true. She died very poor and in debt. Is this true?” he asked.

“Yes. She was said to be extremely wealthy, but it was in fact reported that she was in bad financial debt at the time of her death” I answered.

“It was because of the rumors that she was wealthy that she died. Three men robbed her believing that she was wealthy when in fact she was not. Originally, they had no intention to hurt or endanger her. Their plan was a quick burglary. It was late at night, around 10:30 or 11:00 p.m., when they broke into her home. Julia was not in the building at that time. It was around 11:00 or 11:20 p.m. that she returned home, and when she entered her bedroom she caught the men in the act of burglary. They had stolen some jewelry items from her, a few dresses, a couple of watches… and they even took the gold earrings off of her ears after her death?” he stated as if asking me a question.

Julia Bulette's Gravesite

“Yes, the items you are naming are the exact items stolen as reported on the police record regarding the crime, and it is also documented that Julia had just returned home at 11:00 p.m. from visiting a neighbor lady friend by the name of Gertrude. It was shortly after 11:00 p.m. that she was murdered, according to the report,” I replied.

“The poor soul…she begged for their mercy…she offered them money, all that she had…but she did not have much and what little she did have was not enough to satisfy them. She swore she had no other fine jewels or hidden cash but they did not believe her. Two of the men killed her out of anger, frustration and disappointment. Julia Bulette was not the rich lady they had thought her to be. It was the man named Jean Villian or Jean The Villain that was captured and given the death penalty for the crime. He was hanged. Am I correct?” he asked.

“It was rumored that there were three men involved in the robbery and murder. However, only one…the one you call Jean, was arrested and he was hanged for the crime. He swore until the moment of his death that he was innocent. He stated that the two other men who had accompanied him had committed the murder and that he was only a look out and not involved in the murder at all,” I answered.

A look of deep confusion passed Welch's face. He looked up at me and said, “He lied! He was the man that strangled her to death. I see that clearly. His name was Jean Villian.” He paused again and then said, “But wait a moment. Maybe I am wrong. Was his name Johnny Millian?” he asked.

Walden's question so startled me that I could barely answer. After several seconds hesitation, I replied, “Walden, the two men you call Jean Villian and Johnny Millian are one and the same. A Frenchman who called himself John Millian was hanged for the crime. However, what is incredible to me is that you are picking up his accurate birth name, which was Jean Marie Villain.”

“He was the man that I dreamed of, wasn't he? He was the man hundreds of people were chasing like the monster was being chased in Frankenstein, wasn't he? He was hanged to death and hundreds of people watched him die. That is what my dream was about wasn't it?” he asked.

“Yes. He was hanged here Storey County. Several hundred people witnessed his execution, including Mark Twain himself,” I answered.

“The other two men were never caught were they?” Walden asked.

“No, there was never any proof they the other two men even existed, although there was rumor that they did. However, not long after Millian's death, a prisoner in Sacramento with the name of Dillon or Dixon was interrogated as to whether or not he might have had anything to do with the Bulette crime. Although he denied any involvement in the murder, it was nonetheless proven that he was in Virginia City on the night of Julia's death. However, they could not prove he had any involvement in the crime. There indeed remains to be a mystery here as to whether or not two other men were involved. Millian was convicted of the murder because he was caught trying to sell some of Julia's clothes and jewelry. When he was arrested, police found a trunk full of Julia's stolen items in his home. That is what convicted him,” I replied.

“I understand,” Walden replied.

The most popular photograph of the woman named Julia Bulette, who Welch claims is not her....

“You said that there were many misrepresentations about what was written about Julia Bulette versus the impressions that you psychically sense. What are these discrepancies?” I asked.

“Well, she was not at all the great beauty that so many people seem to believe. I have already told you that she was also not wealthy as rumored. What was attractive about Julia was her personality. She was very warm-natured, friendly and charitable. Julia was flirtatious and had a bawdy sense of humor, which the men loved. Almost everybody, including the police and firemen in the community, liked Julia.”

“Yes, she was even made an honorary fireman in Virginia City. She was noted for her charitable and generous nature. Much of what you say is exactly as was reported, except that it is usually written that she was a beautiful, extremely well dressed and very highly paid prostitute who was born in France,” I stated.

"Yes...this is her! This is the real Julia Bulette!" Welch exclaimed

Walden shook his head in disagreement, then went on to say, “No, no, that is not what I get at all. I believe that she was born in the State of Louisiana and was a Mulatto Creole which is to say her father was white and her mother black. I do feel that her father was French and I also sense that Julia was married once and divorced and believe that after her divorce she returned to using her maiden name which was Bulette. I also sense that she had previously lived and worked in California prior to living in Virginia City. I feel she had lived in or near Sacramento. I do not believe that she ever lived in or visited Europe. She died young…thirty four or thirty five years of age. She was a user of opiates and suffered from sexual diseases as well.”

Despite my disappointment in Welch's unglamorous portrait of Miss Bulette, I nonetheless could not help but be impressed with his perceptions. He was describing Julia as she had been depicted by true west researchers, who had claimed that she had been overly romanticized and overly glamorized by ambitiously dramatic authors hoping to create a monumental heroine for a Hollywood screenplay. “In truth,” the expert historians exclaimed, “Julia was rather plain in appearance, a Mulatto Creole woman who was born in the bayous of Louisiana. She had been married and divorced once, and had (as Welch once again accurately perceived) lived and worked in Sacramento and nearby French Camp, California.”

I reached into my jacket pocket and handed Walden the most popular known photograph of Julia. He looked at it for a few moments and then exclaimed, “No, that's not her. That's not her at all. The lady in this picture…she was another prostitute. I think her name was Carrie…Carrie… and her last name was German…like Schmidt or something like that. I defiantly don't think this woman is Julia Bulette.”

I reached back into my coat pocket and then handed him a second photo which was also said to be one of Julia Bulette. The moment he saw it he smiled. “Yes! That's her! That is the real Julia Bulette!”

Amazingly, when I looked the two photos over carefully the two women did not at all appear to be the same person. The one which was most often depicted as being that of Julia did in fact look to be a very Germanesque appearing woman, while the second photo (also said to be of Julia) was without question a photo of a woman with Negroid features. I had failed to notice these facts up until the time Welch disputed the photos. Evidently, a multitude of writers and reporters had also failed to notice the differences in appearances of the two women's photos as well. It was much the same as the fact that for hundreds of years, no one noticed that the person sitting to the right of Jesus in Leonardo Da Vinci's painting “The Last Supper” was probably a woman until the book “The DA Vinci Code” was written, which brought out that fact.

After I dropped Welch back at his hotel, I drove to my editor's office to discuss the day's events. He was greatly impressed with the previous day's findings and I felt certain that the day's investigation would interest him as well. He listened intently as I described Walden's incredibly accurate psychic revelations regarding Julia Bulette and the hanging in Storey County. After I had finished my enthusiastic report, he replied, “I am afraid you are not being objective enough in this interview. I may not be able to use your material at all. You seem to be agreeing with the observations of this psychic rather than taking the more suspicious view of the reader.”

“What else can I do? He has truly amazed me with his score of accuracies,” I pleaded.

“The Julia Bulette murder case is a famous homicide case. Welch could have acquired his information from numerous available sources. I think you had better ask him if he would agree to take a polygraph test,” was my editor's reply.

“Oh, come on… how can I embarrass him by doing that? That would be like accusing him of being a liar,” I exclaimed.

“We have to be certain that he is not,” he replied. Knowing how upset I was, my editor added, “O.K. If he agrees to take the polygraph test, that alone will be enough for me. If Welch agrees to it, you can cancel the test and I will be satisfied that he is telling the truth.”

I phoned Walden that evening and delicately related the conversation I had had with my editor and what he had requested that I ask him to do. It was moments like this that made me despise my job.

He listened quietly. When I had finished he replied, “He actually wants me to be subjected to a lie detector test? That is implying that he believes I am a liar?”

Not only was I embarrassed for myself, I was humiliated for Walden. His voice sounded quite shaken and it was obvious that he was very hurt. “Very well… If he thinks that I am a liar then I guess I have no other choice than to take his polygraph test. Tell him to set it up but also tell him to cancel tomorrow's final day of doing his ghost hunt story. I will take his lie detector test and then I am finished with the interview. I really want to get this over with and go home.”

I apologized profusely and told Walden he didn't have to do anything he was uncomfortable with and didn't want to do. “You do not have to take the test. My editor said that if you agreed to take the test he would be satisfied that you are indeed telling the truth.”

He finalized our conversation by stating, “Tony, I agreed to do this investigation believing that you and your editor selected me for your interview by having researched my credentials and found me to be honest and well qualified for your investigations. I was never once told that I was to be personally investigated as being a possible fakir or charlatan. I cannot help but feel deeply hurt by your lack of trust regarding the honesty and integrity of my nature. I understand that what you and your editor want is a good readable story and so I will take the damn lie detector test and then I am done with all of this. I am too old and too tired to care if you or anybody else believes me at all. I have spent a lifetime of hard work earning my excellent reputation as an astrologer and psychic. I have been tested and analyzed by several parapsychology departments in various universities in years past. The accuracy of my clairvoyant abilities has been validated numerous times and I am not spending another moment trying to convince you or anyone else that I am not a charlatan. Believe what you wish and print whatever you choose to print about me. I have nothing to gain from this interview except the personal satisfaction of being accurate in my psychic observations. I am certainly not becoming rich by doing this interview, nor do I need the ego gratification of people being in awe of my psychic abilities. I have had all the fame and publicity one could possibly want in one lifetime and that is all long behind me now. Let's just get this over with!”

At 8:30 a.m. the following morning, Walden took the polygraph test. Arrangements had been made so that he could do so in his hotel room. The results of his test were presented to me at 11:00 a.m.. I immediately drove to his hotel to relay the results of that test. I knocked nervously upon the door to Walden's room. I had no idea what his reaction would be when he saw me standing there. It took me a great deal of courage to face him, knowing how hurt he had been at my editor's request that he take the lie detector test.

When he opened the door I faked a cheerful smile and said, “Congratulations! You passed the polygraph test!”

By the look in Walden's face I realized I had said the wrong thing. He looked me intently in the eyes and said, “Of course I passed the lie detector test! Whatever made you think that I wouldn't?”

“I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it that way. I was just happy and proud of you…that's what I meant to say,” I responded.

He walked over to me and gave me a warm hug and replied, “I know what you meant. I'm just too sensitive at times. You are a wonderful guy and I have really enjoyed working with you for the most part, but I am tired and I want to go home. I am an astrologer and I am done with these ghost hunt investigations. I just want to go home and get back to my regular job.”

He walked over to the coffee table and picked up the alien antennae head gear and the crazy spiral sunglasses he had sported the day before. He walked over and placed the alien antenna hat upon my head and handed me the glasses saying, “I pass my psychic abilities on to you, Tony.”

I laughed at his warm and fun humor, and replied “Walden, sharing these past two days with you has been one of the most enlightening and rewarding experiences of my life. I will always be grateful that I met you and I will certainly never forget you. You have made a true believer out of me.”

He smiled at me and shook my hand. He then picked up his suitcase and departed down the hotel hallway.

“Good-bye, Walden. I really meant what I said. You have made a true believer out of me,” I called after him.

As he waited for the elevator door to open, he turned to me and stated, “To those who believe, no proof is necessary. To those who do not believe, no proof is possible.” He entered the elevator and waved ‘good-bye' as the door quickly and quietly closed.

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The End