My death remains a mystery more than thirty years later. Unless someone who was on board the Apollo tells my story some day, the whole truth will never be known.

I became a Scientologist in November 1970, and worked at the San Francisco org. I really wanted to contribute to Clearing the Planet, so in February 1971 I joined the Sea Org. By the end of the month I was aboard the Flagship Apollo, and close to L. Ron Hubbard.  My last letter to my parents was dated June 1971. I thanked them for some birthday gifts, especially a new dress.

Ten days after writing the letter, I was dead. I was 23.

My Dad had to fly to Morocco because the Church refused to send me home. First, the police showed him a photograph of me. I was lying on a bunk, wearing my new dress, my arms crossed with a long barreled revolver on my breast. A bullet hole was in the center of my forehead and I had blood running out of my mouth. My Dad wondered how I could have shot myself.

You see, I would have had to hold it with both hands at arms length–and there were no powder burns on my forehead.

They showed him the police report, but it was in French. They wouldn't give him a copy of the picture or the report. He was told he could see me in a morgue, but nobody knew where my body was. It wasn't until days later they found me buried in a Casablanca cemetery, wrapped in a burlap sack–they had put me there before my father ever got to Morocco.

Before my Dad left Morocco, the Church tried to 'settle with him in cash.' He got very angry and told them to talk with his attorney. When he discovered where they had put me, he tried to have me exhumed and sent home–then the health authorities in the US got an anonymous letter claiming I died in a cholera epidemic. For six years after my death my Dad continued to receive anonymous letters, claiming I had been a drug addict, or had acted in pornographic movies.