Questions: The Unsolved Murder of Father Alfred Kunz

Father Alfred Kunz

Investigators are looking for information regarding the murder of Father Alfred Kunz of Dane, Wisconsin. I have raised the following ideas and questions regarding what I have not seen addressed in other articles covering the murder.

Father Malachi Martin said he believed Father Kunz’s killing was a “deliberate attempt by those who hated what he represented and what he was doing, to silence and disable him permanently.” Out of the various motives put forth by investigators, this is actually the best one for wanting Father Kunz killed. Why? Just look what is going on currently in the Catholic Church. Is this same scenario being carried forth from the past into the present? We can emphatically state YES. Then who would want Father Kunz killed and have the power to carry it out it and get away with it?

Some people have been very serious about destroying the true Catholic faith. Now why would that be? To go along to get along, like proponents of Vatican II say? I think it’s a little deeper than that, people. I would recommend a little reading. You might want to start with the book, The Devils Final Battle.

The Dane County Sheriff’s Department said large (unspecified) amounts of parish money had been moved from account to account prior to the murder. Some “very large checks” were also cut. From what account was this money transferred and to what account was it deposited? I doubt if authorities would give out this information, but don’t you think this is a very large clue? What could this large transfer of money mean? And who was in charge of the transfer? Was someone getting paid off?

Investigators put together a profile of the killer which included a penchant for carrying around sharp cutting objects: “The killer could have used a favorite hunting knife, box cutter, or other instrument that he then discarded” How many people do you know that carry around ‘favorite’ box cutters? Gee Charlie, we noticed you ain’t carryin’ those box cutters you always have in your back pocket. Why’s that?  This is rural Dane, Wisconsin. People hunt in rural areas.  The murder object most likely would have been a hunting knife. Or maybe a ritual knife that a person in the occult would use for sacrifice. And perhaps it would have a retractable blade. How else would somebody get in a life and death struggle with someone and not wind up stabbing themselves?

How do we know there wasn’t more than one killer? Explain to me how Father Kunz, a Golden Gloves boxer in his youth, was punching his assailant out and then got clobbered over the head with a blunt object? How does that work? It doesn’t. But maybe with two people it does.

Generally burglars do not want to get caught and will stake out a place before they rob it. Slitting someone’s throat is very rare if caught.  Stabbing someone or slitting someone’s throat is considered very personal, and usually done by someone close to the victim. This would be a very personal murder. And depositing a murdered priest, who supported the Tridentine Mass, at the foot of the statue of Archangel Michael, God’s best warrior and defender, the angel who threw Satan down to Hell, would be a direct affront to God. And who would want to do that? Someone affiliated with Satan?

Archangel Michael Defeats Satan

Father Hardon, a Jesuit priest,  had told his students a week after Father Kunz’s murder: “I don’t know if they will ever reveal…why he was murdered, but I think I can safely say he was not just murdered, he was martyred.”

Father Hardon said Father Kunz was also doing work directly for the Vatican. “We were very close friends,” Father Hardon had told his students. “We worked together for tasks assigned us by the Holy See.”

Were Father Kunz and Father Hardon investigating the extent of pederasty and Satanism involving the Church and her enemies? If so, then the murderer, as Father Hardon alluded to, would most likely be found in the gay mafia cliques within and which surround the Church or/and Satanists/Luciferians, who are involved in the direct infiltration and subjugation of the Catholic Church.

For background information on the case, please read:

The unsolved murder of Fr. Alfred Kunz

New Information on Father Alfred Kunz Murder

Father Alfred Kunz: For the Love of God

Was the most powerful “Cardinal” in America after Vatican II a Secret Satanist?

The Beginning of The End of The Bernardin Legacy

Catholic watchdog group returns with revamped mission

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Detective Rothstein: Stop Sex Trafficking? Simple!

I have the greatest respect for Detective James Rothstein, a detective that was told to ‘stand down’ and not go any further in high profile cases. Well, with his experience he figured a way around all that. He came up with a complete plan working with Noreen Gosch during her son’s abduction. Mothers, take note, we are the ones with all the power!

Human Compromise, Government Overhaul w/ Detective Rothstein related documents and information.

Prostitutes From Midwest Vanish From 8th Avenue During Hunt by Visiting Police

Former NYPD Human-Trafficking Detective Discusses Relevance of PizzaGate & More

Article: Human Compromise and the Protection Racket

Sex Trafficking is not “Minnesota Nice”

Detective Rothstein mentions the Jacob Wetterling case in Minnesota which Sarah Westall talks about with three investigators in these videos:

 

Dismembered male child found floating in Mississippi River in 1990 Jacob Wetterling?

I used to live in Minnesota when I was a kid. I was almost abducted in the Falcon Heights area in 1969-71 during the spring or summer when I was around four or five. I cannot remember the exact apartment complex, and I’m sure much has changed, and it might not exist anymore, but from what I remember you could see the fairground from the back of our apartment. I believe it must have been university housing. My dad was getting his Masters in Fine Art at the University of Minnesota.

I was playing with my friend and we were trying to climb the sign in front of the apartment complex. A man appeared, smiling (white, around 40 to 50 years old, grayish dark hair, was wearing glasses, and he may have been wearing a dark blue windbreaker) and asked if I wanted help getting up on the sign. My friend ran away, while I let this guy help me up to sit on the sign. He then helped me down, and holding me in his arms asked if I wanted to go across the street and we could get some candy. I said no, my mom doesn’t want me to go off with strangers. He then deliberated for a few seconds looking off into the distance, down the street running along the side of the apartment complex. I began to feel afraid.  My mom then appeared and yelled my name.

I have no idea if she ever contacted the authorities about this incident because she never told me.  And I never asked.

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Little Black Box 1969

I remember the moon landing.  I was playing in the living room, or nearby.  I used to like to line my stuffed animals up on my bed and in what I considered to be my best adult voice would teach them things about life in general, like how to behave and the necessity of brushing one’s teeth.

My mother, very excited rushed to the little black and white TV, and with great pomp and circumstance announced that we were witnessing history. She snapped the TV on.

I watched as people, presumably, moving in slow motion, jumped on a white craggy surface against a black background.  They looked like large marshmallow puffs.

“What is that?” I asked

“Men on the moon!” She said triumphantly.

I peered intensely at this supposed phenomenon.  “Where are they?’

“On the moon. In the sky.”

I watched a few minutes to ascertain the truth of what I was seeing against what she had just said.

“It looks fake.” I said. “It’s not real people.”

“It is!” Exasperated, she tried to explain it to me.  And as I continued to stubbornly disbelieve her claims, she left the room.

Wanting real evidence, I examined the area behind the TV, and then stuck my face up to it, thinking that just perhaps, I might be able to be sucked in somehow, and experience this strange moon landing place as these marshmallow puff beings were. Sadly, it was not to be.  I could not prove anything or disprove anything. I decided to give up.

I really didn’t care about the moon landing. It had little to do with my life.  This was not a battle to be won or lost. My last battle consisted of having to eat pieces of pork chop I had defiantly threw on the ground, scattering them to the four corners of our tiny dining room’s dull gray linoleum floor, emphatically stating that I would not eat this because I wanted my treasured Pop-Tart, a treat I rarely consumed in our house. And I wanted it NOW! My mother picked up the pieces of discarded chop and placed them calmly on my plate, stating that yes, I would eat them, and, if I did not, I wouldn’t get a Pop-Tart.  I cajoled her. She admonished me. I quickly ran various battle tactics through my head. I waited, for what seemed to me, hours, hoping she would give in to my quiet suffering after a bout of screaming.  My mother did not give in. I realized I had lost and quietly picked up the pork chop pieces on my plate that I had delivered to the four corners of the dining room floor and ate them.

My parents fought different battles than me. My dad had a battle with a man called President Nixon whom he showered daily with fresh obscenities when he appeared on the little black box. I could not figure out why, since I discovered this President Nixon man could not hear him.  One time I asked him why he yelled at President Nixon since he couldn’t hear him and he just shrugged, explaining that President Nixon was an evil man and the Vietnam War was stupid. I went back to loading my olive green metal pick-up truck with a horse that needed to go for a ride with the plastic cow girl in the pasture.  I knew nothing about this place called Vietnam where soldiers would go to fight and die. They would show this daily on TV and it greatly angered my dad.

There was a thing called My Lai where many people were killed.  A place where  they had sent a mother’s son, and the mother had then said about her son, “I sent them a good boy and they made him a murderer.”

I often went outside to ride my red tricycle around our apartment complex to discover things.  These were the things I knew about.

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