Empaths

Authored by Mr Ronald B. Pickett

List Price: $9.00

6" x 9" (15.24 x 22.86 cm)
Black & White on White paper
190 pages

ISBN-13: 978-1544866413 (CreateSpace-Assigned)
ISBN-10: 1544866410
BISAC: Fiction / Technological

This story is based on three recent scientific findings - that Empathy is a result of two genes, that genes can be changed by a technology called CRISPR and that the majority of people in prison lack the empathy gene. If we now have the capability to change a person's genetic makeup and return people to the human race, how can we not do that?
The ramifications of trying to bring this change to all eligible prisoners are enormous!

My latest book, EMPATHS, is now available on Amazon.com, CreateSpace.com and Kindle.



Empaths

Authored by Mr Ronald B. Pickett

List Price: $9.00

6" x 9" (15.24 x 22.86 cm)
Black & White on White paper
190 pages

ISBN-13: 978-1544866413 (CreateSpace-Assigned)
ISBN-10: 1544866410
BISAC: Fiction / Technological

This story is based on three recent scientific findings - that Empathy is a result of two genes, that genes can be changed by a technology called CRISPR and that the majority of people in prison lack the empathy gene. If we now have the capability to change a person's genetic makeup and return people to the human race, how can we not do that?
The ramifications of trying to bring this change to all eligible prisoners are enormous!

PBS.org released a video on Stacry today. Below is the link.

http://www.pbs.org/video/2365783464/

Stacey Thompson is a member of our Veteran's Writing Group (I have a cameo appearance.)

Requiem for the King

He didn’t play a guitar, and he didn’t sing or gyrate his hips; but he was Elvis and he was the King. Next Tuesday, if he survives the weekend, Elvis will be put down, that’s the kind of being put down that you don’t get up from. He stopped eating on Friday and his kidneys are failing so it’s the right thing to do. He’s 14 years old, that’s over eighty in dog years, so he has had a long and wonderful life. Far beyond what he might have expected when he arrived at the Bryant Castle as a small, shivering, black, miniature dachshund. He must have been Prince then, isn’t that what you are before you are a king? But he really didn’t look like he had much in the way of a royal pedigree. Short, soft, black with a tan underbelly, he quickly became the master of the manor, He was a replacement for the greatly loved, and obsessive compulsive Willy (short for Wilson Pickett, a dachshund of impressive personality and charm. The kind of dog that must be replaced quickly, to help ease the sting.)

Elvis, like his namesake had a weight problem, but how could you blame him? His favorite kibble was always right there in the stainless steel bowl on the kitchen floor. Crunch, Crunch, Crunch. While he hated to eat alone, he sometimes forced himself. For some reason, only knowable in the brain of a dog, he would drop each kibble on the kitchen floor tile prior to crunching it – a few crumbs would always find escape from his snout and drift to the floor.

A little extra weight usually isn’t a problem, look at me, but if you are a miniature dachshund, and you live in a place that has occasional snow in the winters like northern Virginia, a two-inch snowfall puts your belly right in the top layers of the cold wet snow – “Don’t know why these humans don’t just give us a litter box like the cats have. But they make you go out to ‘do your business,’ in the most terrible weather.”

There was never a question of who was “In Control.” Oh, the humans acted like he would do everything they wanted him to do. However, the reality was that the dog, the King, would do exactly what the humans wanted, as long as it was exactly what the King wanted to do. This dog could never be let out without a leash! Fourteen years and he still did whatever it wanted to do. A real King!

Elvis saw his career, his calling, his job security as protecting the estate from the potential ravages that could be visited on the premises by  - - -CATS! He could identify a potential intruder from several hundred yards away and would immediately launch into his warning barking and howling and an impressive assortment of other sounds. Sounds carefully designed to strike terror into any cat within miles. If he happened to be outside, all cats were in imminent danger of a deadly (laughably) attack from which they would be unlikely to recover. At least that’s the image he sought to project. The local cats knew better and laughed at him over their shoulder while sprinting to the nearest tree – never seen a cat laugh over it’s shoulder, oh yes, they do.

He had the same protective attitude about squirrels, which abounded in the nearby trees. They could prance along the tops of fences and dash up the sides of trees. They were never in any real danger from the sudden all-out attacks that Elvis initiated when he thought he might have had a slight tactical advantage. Elvis had a slightly bowed right rear leg, so his high speed dash had a little hitch and loping movement, but it didn’t slow him down much. He never had the slightest idea what he would do with a cat, or a squirrel if he caught one, that wasn’t the point, and it certainly didn’t curb his enthusiasm for the chase. He actually caught a cat once, but that’s another story.

Recently deer have stated working their way out of the woods and up the small creek in back of the house. When he saw them first he rushed at them. Another intruder to be taken care of. However, as he raced closer, these invaders were much, much bigger than the cats and squirrels. He skidded to a stop and reviewed his contract, nothing said about big game, so he decided that a peremptory bark of recognition would meet the expectations of his employer. And if they didn’t like it they could chase them away themselves.

Elvis is at the Lake house this final weekend. He loved to go to the lake. Lots of freedom, no leashes required and some unusual and interesting things to sniff and piss on. There is also a great deck with a lot of sun. I suppose he is lying on the floor fully immersed in the hot sun right now. He likely made a few tentative barks on arrival, just to let the locals know that he was back and in charge and he wouldn’t be putting up with any nonsense. But it would have been a meager and halfhearted bark; not likely to put fear into any locals.

He could always tell when they were packing for a trip to the lake. He would hide near the front door and as soon as it was slightly ajar dash out and stand by the door of the van, leaping in as soon as the door was opened. He certainly wasn’t going to be left behind. But there was another side to the lake, the dark side. While he was a great swimmer with his webbed paws, he could tell that there were wild things in the forest and the underbrush. He had explored everything when he first arrived at the Lake house several years ago, and he very quickly found that there were some strange and terrifying odors on the shrubs and brush. Reptiles, but not like the lizards he would occasionally eat at home. No these were different and scary. He also sometimes heard the sounds of bigger, wilder animals so he decided that his area of concern really didn’t have to be too far from the house.

I once calculated that he was asleep for eleven or twelve of his 14 years, but that was okay. He had an active dream life, although it was mostly limited to running after dream cats and digging for dream badgers. His upkeep has become pretty expensive as he has aged, most of his teeth are gone, and he spends an occasional day at the vets.

He was definitely a one-woman dog (not nearly as protective as Willy) but he tolerated other people - as long as they accepted the fact that he was the King! Farewell Elvis you have been a wonderful friend, companion and watchdog. You will be dearly missed.

Neighborhood Watch

Neighborhood Watch (This was read at the So Say We All VAMP May 26, 2016)

It’s 6:30 AM, I can set my watch when I see her walk past my home. She has been doing this every morning since we moved here 12 years ago. One morning I was outside early and spoke to her. I said something about 12 years – she said no it’s over 25 years now. That was our only conversation – I watch her through my window.

You know how sometimes you only notice something when you are distracted? You suddenly discover that the picture has been there for months, or that a thing that had become a stable and certain part of your life is missing, gone. Now you wonder “where is it?” And when and why, mostly why you didn’t notice that it was gone.

It happened that way with her. Suddenly I noticed that I didn’t see her. It was 6:30 and she didn’t walk past my window at her usual fast pace. I waited, watching for several minutes until well outside her usual time slot and nothing, So, I noted that fact, in my brain, thought about entering it on my calendar but I really didn’t care that much – I really didn’t know her, not who she was,  not her name, not where she lived – oh, it must be up the road from me because 25 minutes after she passed going downhill she would reemerge going up, but that was all I knew.

She is not particularly attractive, somewhat athletic and on the one day I did talk to her, she seemed even more plain than I had imagined through my window – the male brain at work, even an old male brain. She seemed to be in her mid to late fifties, but that could be a wide miss.

When I first noticed that she wasn’t there, I had no idea how long it had been, was this the first day? Had it been a week? a month who knew? Was she on holiday? Was she ill? Would she be back in a few days? Had she moved – this is not a transient community. I began to actively wonder what could have become of her.

For the next few days I paid attention. I carefully watched at 6:30 and I made sure to start my watching at 6:25. Nothing, she definitely was not walking past my house any more.

Why did I care? What difference did it make? Her status was completely immaterial to my happiness, my wellbeing, my satisfaction, my future, my life. So why did I make certain that I was at my window every morning at 6:30 or really at 6:25 just to be sure?

Then it came to me – with all of the resources available to me, the internet, social media, search engines, my friends, people who have lived here for a long time, my knowledge of the neighborhood; I was at a loss about how to find out who she was, or is, or anything else about her. It was a sudden implosion of helplessness. And I don’t like that.

Across the lake, the one that is down the hill from my house, the lake that she passes every morning, or used to, a jogger was raped and murdered a couple of years ago. The perp was arrested and convicted and is awaiting execution.  But that kind of event changes the way you look at things; it reinforces the reality that there are really bad people in the world and denying that fact doesn’t make it go away. And it changes the way you perceive the world; it causes me to think about possibilities for my friend, no not friend, this woman who has interjected herself, unknowingly and unintentionally into my life.

It nags at me; what has happened, and how long has it really been since she stopped walking past my window. Two weeks, who knows? If it is a trip, a holiday, a vacation, she should be returning any day, but it could have been much more than two weeks.

I have a routine in the morning, two mugs of coffee, checking email and stocks, other things that take about an hour then I usually go to the gym to work out, I’m not a walker. The rest of my day is pretty normal, writing, painting, cooking, planning a trip, taking a nap. However, this change, this gap in my morning routine, not being able to watch the woman walk past is troubling, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t dismiss the feeling. Even the fragrant, steaming black coffee does little to dispel my sense of unease.

I decide to take a short walk to see if perhaps she has simply changed her route – although I think that is unlikely, we are such creatures of habit. Perhaps she has sustained an injury of some sort and is avoiding the hills.

I walk up the hill and around the block, the street nearest the lake, and I see nothing. I notice several other walkers; pairs, singles and small groups -  some with dogs, some for exercise, some for air, - one man who reads the newspaper, and drinks coffee and walks his dog. I nod, but I don’t say anything. I wonder if they notice too, but I don’t ask – what would I say?

Two more days pass, and she still hasn’t reappeared. I walk again, and this time I go further and stay out longer, hoping to see her ahead of me, or going in the opposite direction. But nothing, and I wonder what I would say if, make that when, I see her again?

One afternoon I decide to go out, not with the hope of seeing her, she never walks then, but the thermals in the afternoon make it possible for the turkey buzzards - the vultures, to fly and search the hills and the brush for food. They are out in force, making their fluttering orbits, never needing to flap their wings – marvelous flyers – shitty diet. If there was a large feast for them somewhere it would be easy to track them, to see the activity and frenzy. But nothing larger than a ground squirrel or a vole or a gopher is getting their attention, so I dismiss that possibility.

I check the homeowner’s association web site – nothing. I’m not surprised, only the occasional break-in, or spat between neighbors about the view being blocked finds its way there.

There is the continuing background niggling sense of loss. I must think; what can I do? Where can I look to try to find something out? I have great resources at my disposal, but I can’t figure out how to apply them. I check to see if names are available for the homeowners in our neighborhood and I find that they are. But I don’t have enough information to use the list. I don’t have an address, or a name or anything else – only an approximate location, not enough to be useful in a search.

The mailman might know! I see him one afternoon and catch up with him. I ask him if he knows the woman who walks early in the morning. He has a blank stare, shakes his head slightly, and says no. I know what he is thinking – “Why do you ask me? How should I know – I’m here in the afternoons not the mornings? And, why do you want to know, why do you care?” But he doesn’t say anything, he asks how my 300ZX is running – I think he would like to have it.

The feeling of loss intensifies, the feeling of lack of control increases, I have a constant sense of impending doom; of subtle dread. I begin to personalize my feelings, what if it was me that suddenly went missing. Would anyone notice, care, how long would it take, could they put together enough information to trace me? The mailman would remember, and he could give them my name – and close neighbors know me. But I only know her from the middle of her routine, not where she begins or ends her walk - that makes it a confusing mystery.

I’m at my desk, it’s where I belong, I’m comfortable here, it is an environment that I have created. I gaze out of the window and I’m suddenly brought back from my daze – there she is! I lurch back in my chair and almost fall over. I stand and my pulse races, I want to dash outside and talk to her, find out where she has been, tell her about my fears, my inability to trace her. Then reality emerges – she has no idea who I am, she would be surprised and probably worried about my attention, my “stalking” almost, but of course it isn’t really.

I decide I’ll walk for a few days, perhaps pass her going the other direction, nod, say hello - then perhaps engage her in a conversation. But, how will she feel? I retreat from my plan; I retreat from even considering approaching her. I walk for a few days and then return to my routine, email, coffee, the gym. And she will never know that for a few brief days, someone she doesn’t know exists was concerned about her, cared about her, wanted strongly to interact with her, she will never know – but I guess I will never forget.

The Tricksters

There was a special section of the cemetery. I finally found it and parked. The grass was thick and lush and sloped down to the creek bed that marked the edge of the property. The creek was dry, had lots of brush and chaparral and small trees, very typical for this part of southern California.

There were about 50 people in the parking area when I arrived. They were dressed more formally than most of the attendees at the recent funerals and memorial services I had attended; I have usually been the one that is a little overdressed in my black suit, the suit that has gotten too much use lately.

The rabbi was almost late and I think my friend was getting a little concerned; I don’t think he has a strong religious affiliation, sort of a rabbi for hire connection. Now, things could begin.

The funeral director, who had passed out yarmulkes and pieces of black cloth with pins, I passed on both, now invited the attendees to the seats. The chairs were placed under the temporary awning that was near the newly dug grave. This was about a hundred feet from the parking lot and navigating the thick grass looked to me like a serious issue for some of the women who were wearing high and in some cases stiletto heels – but to my surprise they did well!

The sun was shining brightly as if the morning fog had burned off a little early seemingly just for us. About 5 minutes after the service began, a strange thing happened; at first, it was a sharp singular sound, the bark from an unknown source. Then, almost at once, the chorus began, the sound of at least six individuals singing, barking and howling. The tempo and excitement rose into a crescendo that filled the air, and it went on and on. There was a quiet under current of whispers among the audience, “Coyotes, coyotes, coyotes.”

And then as suddenly as they had started, they stopped. I, and I’m certain many of the others though it must have been the soul of one of the recent internees, perhaps the woman we were burying, moving among the wild animals. But then, my serious self took over, as he so often does and I could see a mother returning to her family with a rabbit, or a vole or a gopher, and after the greeting ceremony and the re-establishment of relationships and hierarchy the prey was ripped apart and devoured.

These animals were permanent residents here, and they simply could not be bothered to this extent by the passing of a thousand souls every year. No, it must have been a rabbit. But then, the Indians do call them the trickster or the spirit animal. Who knows?

The Invisible Man or Regrets, I’ve had a few . . . .

Ron Pickett

“Escondido, CA. A ‘John Doe’s’ body was recovered from a culvert on Tuesday. His body was thrown off the bridge. Identification is pending.”

Walking was not easy any more, the pain in his left foot caused him to cringe with every step, and the throbbing ache in his right knee made him walk in a strange rolling motion. They would go away, they always had, but now, nearing eighty it took longer to heal, the body was not as resilient as in the past. But the brain was still there, still flashing from thought to thought, it was where he found refuge when his body failed him, or slowed him down.

He thought about a lot of things, the ferocity in the modern world, and then he remembered that this was perhaps the least violent time since humans emerged from the savannah. But now we see it as it happens – on a large screen - in vibrant color – with high fidelity stereo sound. What would the life of a medieval serf look like on a 55” screen? Maybe, he thought, seeing such violence can soften us a little, unless it makes us numb to what we are watching.

He thought about how his temper was shorter than it once was, perhaps he knew he didn’t have enough time left to wait, to watch, while people learned what he knew already. And he could only observe and try to keep his frustration in check when he saw things happen that he knew would be the result of actions he had cautioned against. He wondered about other old men; was he now, the person he had been frustrated by in the past? Perhaps.

But in the quiet times he was haunted by waves of darkness that came in from the corners of his mind. Times when he had used his stable, “average” white man appearance as a cover to hide his actions. He could easily be lost in a crowd, never seen, never remembered – he could expand like a cat being attacked by a dog, or, when he wanted to he could seem to be much shorter than his 6’1” frame, and he wanted to - often. He could put a completely bland look on his face, he practiced in front of a mirror, and he had to hide his eyes, his green overly bright and penetrating eyes. So, he wore sunglasses when he could and he let his specs get dirty and fogged and he wore a prescription that was much stronger than he really needed. Sometimes he even rubbed his eyes intentionally to make them red and rummy and to cloud this view into his inner self. The eyes are so telling and express things that are hard to disguise. Most people try to enhance their eyes, not dull them down, but he had learned that people would remember his eyes at times when they would not remember anything else about him.

Strange he thought, he had never been in prison; he had spent a few hours in police stations, being questioned about events that took place where he had been seen. But none of them led to anything more, he simply didn’t fit the image of a criminal and he was careful to seem bigger, or stronger, or more imposing than the faint and blurry video out-takes. He knew that with the new equipment, it was becoming much more difficult to take advantage of his ability to modify his appearance from inside. He could only do so much! Perhaps it was time to call it quits, but probably not for a while, he enjoyed his “hobby” far too much, and there was one big score that he wanted to pull off.

He thought, it’s hard to categorize who he was and what he did, perhaps that was one of the reasons for his success. “Robin Hood,” as the idea entered his mind, he laughed out loud. He thought about all of the criminals, “bandits,” that wanted to be thought of as “Robin Hoods,” the only poor people that they gave the proceeds of their crimes to was themselves! But he supposed the idea made them feel better about what they had done. Then he thought, “Steal from the rich! Laughable, the poor don’t have anything I want!”

At times he tried to put himself in a category. Con artist? Okay, he liked the artist part of the term, but it really only covered a part of his significant repertoire. Thief, sure, that was one of the things that he did really well, but it hardly honored his unique skill, sense of style and his passion for professionalism. Grifter was probably closest, although he didn’t like the sleazy, carny feel that it carried with it. He actually thought of himself as an entrepreneur; studying the market place and developing “solutions.”

 He wondered about the dark side, why did he have these feelings of dread; anxiety in the late night hours. When he was focused, he had no negative feelings about what he had done at all. Still he wondered, why the unsettling undercurrent that nibbled at him when he allowed it to. He thought about a couple of his capers, that’s an old word he thought, now it usually means a small kind of onion savory thing with the current emphasis on stylish cookery, but it used to mean an action or event or an escapade. He smiled, recalling being so transparent, normal and trustworthy that jewelry clerks would leave him with several trays of expensive baubles while they went to the back room to get something special he asked for. He could net a couple thousand dollars for a few minutes work and it would be weeks before the loss was discovered. All he needed to do was recall which stores he visited and not to go back for a year or so. But it was so easy that he quit doing this scam after a while.

He seldom worked with anyone else; could never trust them to keep their mouths shut. Occasionally he would use a friend as a distraction, but usually they didn’t even know that they were involved. A ride to the doctor’s office was a pretty good cover, and he had a built in alibi. What could be better. He had learned early on that the second thing people did when they got some money was to talk and brag about it – the first thing was to spend too much money!

He’s learned quickly, each of his capers (he was beginning to like the term) taught him something new and he looked hugely for those tidbits. He went back over each time as a sort of debrief. What had gone well, where had he made mistakes? How serious were the mistakes? What should he do differently the next time? One of the things he learned early was that he had to keep inventing new things to do, new ways of using his anonymity to disguise what he was doing. But he knew that if he repeated the same thing over and over he would get caught.

He looked for marks, people who he could scam. He was surprised by his discovery that the smartest people were the easiest to take; they assumed that they were smarter than he was and he found some easy ways to make himself seem a lot denser than he was. Asking questions that had obvious answers did two things, it made him seem both dumb and vulnerable and it made himself seem like the mark and an easy one at that. As soon as he had someone trying to help him, he was almost home free. He learned to look and sound defenses and nonthreatening through his demeanor and voice.

One of the first scams he used was the “found wallet.” Make sure someone else is watching and “find a wallet” on a sidewalk. Open it and show the money inside then offer to split the cash with the other observer after getting their agreement to post a bond. There are many variations using fake money in the wallet, giving offering to keep only the credit cards, calling the person who’s identification is in the wallet and offering to return the wallet for a reward, etc. It’s been done so often and has so many variations that it has gained a history all it’s own. He learned soon about the incipient larceny of the average person on the street. Calling the owner was one of the hardest variations to pull off; the observer would almost always object and would say something like “Wait, wait, why should we give it back? Finders- Keepers! And they are probably insured anyway.” He worked this for years occasionally, never too often and never in the same area, although his blandness made it really almost impossible for his marks to remember him. “Average height, average hair, no distinguishing characteristic.” And that was only for the ones who reported their loss, most were too embarrassed and never did figure out what had happened to them. He also found that there was a range of pot value – too big a wad of cash and the mark was overly cautious and dubious, too little and it wasn’t worth their time.

He found that this worked even better as he got older, people trusted him more and challenged him less.  One of the few things he had found about aging.

Sometimes he simply picked things up. Usually the items were not very valuable, but they added up. Sometimes it was just an apple from a fruit stand. He found that as long as he had a bag with something else in it, he could easily slip things into the bag.

He noticed that there were some groups that took all of the attention of store owners and employees. Young men, minorities, especially if they were a little raucous and having a good time could create a vast empty space for him to work. Lately, loud and angry groups of girls were beginning to have the same effect. He could become a ghost easily when there were teenagers about. Sometimes he even would tell a clerk that they better keep a close eye on a group of teenagers, then he would ease away picking up anything he saw of value. This technique gave him a “double blind;” the distraction of the unruly group and the comradery of sharing the same concern with the staff.  

For a while cell phones were really easy and valuable. He learned quickly which ones were equipped with antitheft devices or apps and he left them alone. Actually the way that he found out about this software was when a large angry man knocked on his door with a demand that he give him back his cell phone. He apologized and claimed he thought it was his own. He then became indignant with the man, asked him if he had picked up his phone by mistake and when he said that he didn’t he handed it back and the man left! He thought about becoming indignant and telling the man to leave his property, but a quick thought made him realize the man would be back in 20 minutes with a cop! But the lesson was clear – new technology could track itself.

His life was as normal as his persona. He had a wife and two kids, grown now, who helped him seem completely ordinary. He took the name John Smith, it wasn’t the name he was born with that was Ivan Petrov. He got the chance to change his name when he registered for Social Security. Even at the age of 16, he recognized the value of being invisible. His job was simple and provided a reasonable income, and it gave him both opportunities to be in the right place at the right time, and to think about new ventures that he could refine while doing his daily tasks. He only use part of his brain to do his job.

All of the money he “earned” went into a special place, and he tracked his treasure with some care. He was well into six figures now, and his final plan was just beginning to emerge. He needed to do a couple of things to finish his “second career.”

The decades of being hidden in plain sight had been a burden on his mental health. He had increasingly wanted to be the center of attention, the focus of interest. His final act would be something that would make him famous; everyone would know who he was.  He had considered several things: running for office was one, but his background would certainly come out, and he couldn’t stand a detailed scrutiny of his past. He thought about a very large donation to a charity, but that was fleeting and only a few people actually heard about such a donation. Certainly he thought about a magnificent score, a really big take that would make the front page of all of the newspapers and the 24 hour cable news networks. The problem there was that unless he was identified with the crime, he would still be in the shadows, the “invisible man.” He looked at other events in his neighborhood; chili cook-offs, children focused activities, sports and similar activities. But what could he do to really stand out and become known and famous?

He noticed that there was a convention that was coming to town. It was a national convention which was unusual for the small community where he lived. But it was for a small group, Professional Clowns. As he found out more about the convention, the possibilities intrigued him. Clowns were enigmatic; funny, light, jovial, fanciful and at the same time terrifying and dreadful. He liked clowns and had dressed as a clown in the past. It was one of his personas that he found strangely relaxing and always put him at ease. He played at birthday parties for a while, but the children got on his nerves so he quit. He began to like the idea of using the convention as a way to make his mark, to overcome his decades long insignificance.

The Clowns Convention would be like most conventions; opening ceremonies, workshops, demonstrations, a dealers product display area, awards banquet and specialty groups. The demonstrations were different from most conventions since they exclusively used members. Clowning had moved far from the days of “how many clowns can fit into the small car?” And the happy circus clowns. There were video displays, computer games, and very athletic events including dives from high platforms, somersaulting through burning hoops, rodeo clowns and special effects using indoor pyrotechnics.

Clowning had made substantial strides from the 1940s when clowns were innocuous and tame.  Now there was an entire group of clowns that used the dark side very effectively and intentionally. Glow in the dark clothing and face paint had taken the field into entirely new areas.

He was there for the opening ceremonies dressed as the quintessential Emit Kelly “Tramp clown.” He counted twenty others that were virtually indistinguishable. He wasn’t surprised. His time was spent checking out all of the areas. He was impressed by the technology and he purchased a few items, and he picked up a few items to add to the convention goody bag – he simply couldn’t help himself!

Then he saw it; he was at the opening ceremonies and at the side of the stage he saw the tower that led to a platform that would be used for high dives. He studied it carefully and decided that it was perfect. He had to do some preparation, a silk suit that he could fit inside the voluminous sleeves of his “Tramp” suit ready for a quick change. He could ditch his Charlie Chaplin shoes easily and he calculated he could make the switch in under two minutes. His special suit was really “special,” it glowed in the dark, had numerous lights and a special section that could hold a wide variety of pyrotechnic devices. It also had fake wings that would make it seem that he was flying when the lights came on. He loved it and had spent a lot of time in development and testing over the last few years.

He also noticed that there was a platform about 18 feet off the ground, a little less than half way to the top. That would be fine for his purpose. His plan developed over the next two days of the conference. He walked past the main stage at every opportunity he had and felt like he really knew the set up the “set” as he began to think of it. He would slip back stage and take off his “Tramp” outfit, take off his over large shoes, put on his new suit and swiftly climb the stairs. He would stop at the half-way platform and get the attention of the spotlight operator. Then he would set off a series of flash bangs, and cascade the bag of $100 bills over the audience. He would then take off his mask, tell them who he was and then make the announcement that the cash was to go to the Hospitalized Children’s fund, the clown’s favorite charity. He would say, “Turn in the cash and add a $100 of your own.”

Each time he thought through his plan, he would smile broadly. No more would he be invisible, unknown, the bland and boring person he had been all of his life. It was a brilliant plan!

The final day of the conference came and he was elated. He smiled and chuckled to himself all day; some people actually noticed him and nodded or waved or introduced themselves. He had hidden his bag of costumes behind the curtains of the main stage. He was wearing his normal flat, boring clothing and as had been his practice for years, he carried no identification. There were no marks on this clothing, he did not have a wallet or a watch or any other item that might identify who he was; it was a practice that he had learned the hard way – once when he was taken into the police station for questioning.

The final ceremony was scheduled for late afternoon, and he had taken a bus to get to the Conference Center. Most of the riders were in costume- happy clowns, sad clowns, and the viscious clowns that had become popular lately.   His mind was busy going over the plan in strict detail, the feeling of elation that overcame him was unlike anything he had experienced before. It was like the feelings he got when he pulled off a great scam, but it was better. The “scam high” always had a little edge of darkness attached to it; someone had to pay for his gain – it was a classical zero sum game.

The bus arrived at the front of the Conference Center and he settled into the crowd that was getting off. As they got to the sidewalk, he felt like the crowd was slowing him down, inhibiting his freedom and he had always rebelled at that. So he moved out of the small knot of clowns. He ducked under a rope and started across the street. The traffic pattern was changed, they had decided to change the directions of traffic flow because of the large crowds. He looked the wrong way and was struck by a bus that was accelerating much too fast. His body arched through the air and into the drainage ditch. He smiled as his body fell just far enough to be fatal.

THE EARLY RAIN

The air outside the window pane is brisk and damp. It hasn’t been like this for months, years actually. But suddenly everything is clean and washed, the rain was just in time. I think, “Floods always follow droughts.” But it may just seem that way, and it only seems that way when the rains finally come.

I taste the air, and it is loamy with the heavy fragrance of soil and sod and the washings from the trees, the dust that has accumulated for the past three years. The dust and the rain form a thin gruel – more discolored water than real mud, and it coats everything until it too is washed away – to the drain and then to the ocean. It gives me a sense of excitement; the world is not going to turn into a crisp, fragile pile of debris after all.

Seeds sprout suddenly from the soil; the seeds that have waited for months or even years. The seeds know that the rain will come again. They surge from the ground with such vigor that they move the soil up and out of the way, as if they don’t want to waste a minute or a second of this rare chance to be something, and they must beat their brothers and sisters who are competing for the limited light. They look exactly alike; the same size and shape and bright green. It seems that I could watch them grow it all happens so fast.  But they are too close, the way naturally falling seeds collect in the same spot. So many will die – too little sun, strangled by a brother, cheated of enough water. But it’s a numbers game – so much of life is. You roll the dice, you are the result of rolled dice, the numbers always win.

The sky takes on a special blue, different than the blazing summer sun that wilts and dries and chokes. This is a growing sun, with a special light that energizes everything it touches. But it is a false sun, one that brings things out too early, that jump starts life and in a week or two, the frost will come and most of these eager shoots will wither and die. But, perhaps there will be enough left over seeds to germinate following the next rain and the true warmth that will surely follow.  

THE LAST CARD

I set aside the last card and a feeling of increasing depression floods my mind. It used to be an uplifting event, kids then grandkids doing interesting things and achieving temporary greatness (at least to their parents and grandparents.) Taekwondo belts, swimming teams and school awards. Acceptance at prestigious or not so prestigious schools, graduations and jobs, marriages, divorces, children and more children and joined families.  I quickly forgot which children went with which parents or grandparents.

And I clean up the mailing list – changes of addresses, deleting Mr. & or a male first name. But that’s my task every year. Sometimes separating a Mr. & Mrs. Into two entries. And brutally deleting anyone who did not send a card or letter . . .

But this year the depression was greater than in past years. Cancer cured, but still recovering from the aftereffects, Cancer in remission, breast and prostate and colon and skin. Atrial fibrillation, but no mention of a pacemaker. A broken leg or hip. Recovering from the loss of a long term spouse. Trips, more sedate than in the past and moves some into “retirement communities.”

And perhaps the most depressing, a scheduled move for him, into a dementia facility in April, but he hasn’t been told about it yet.

How many stories are incomplete, untold, not appropriate for sharing I wonder. I know I didn’t talk about my new stent, a nice addition to my life acquired late in the year. There is no need to describe that, just list the many trips we took this year and my grandfather’s book of poems I’ve been involved in getting published, and all the other good stuff.

As I think about that, my depression slackens. A small smile eases onto my face and I begin to work on the plans for a trip next summer.

IT’S ONLY A VEGETABLE

My eyes felt tired, tight, the way they feel after doing a lot of work, or now, more likely a lot of play on the computer. So, I rubbed them, more than a little. It felt really good the loosening of the eyelids, the skin around the edges – the renewed flow of tears that was less than it should be; the cleansing and lubrication so I rubbed harder and moved my fingers in to stretch the loose skin.

Then it began, a slight tingle at first, a gentle itch, a teasing excitement. And then it began in earnest and the pleasant tingle changes to a burn, the itch to a roar of pain, the tease into a pulsing throbbing anguish and the change was almost instantaneous. I shut my eyes, no, that’s not right, my eyes slammed shut and I couldn’t open them. The pain reverberated around my skull. The pulsing searing pain took over my attempts at control. It rolled and bit at my eyes and eyelids and even the eye brows and the upper areas of my cheeks. I had no idea what had happened, Could it be the sting of a scorpion? Not a chance – the analysis, hah, analysis under the control of the intense rushing pain? Hah, both eyes were involved at the same time and to the same degree – further I haven’t seen any scorpions around here and how - - - this is stupid, I was way off base following this stupid train of thought.

I knew at once what it was. The two inch long, mid to dark green, waxy polished surface with the deep brown stem sticking out vegetables – yes that’s what they are vegetables, were the clear cause of this agony, vegetables! Can you believe it? I thought I might be losing my vision, my sight and it was a damned vegetable!

Well of course vegetable is a mundane, lackluster term for a jalapeno, but that’s what they are. I rubbed my eyes, this time being extremely careful to keep my hands away, I used the cuffs of my sweat shirt.

I kept trying to get my eyes open, I had to get to the bathroom to find some eye drops. I found a tissue and used it to sponge up the tears that were flowing freely down my cheeks. Time expanded – it seemed like hours, I could finally, barely open my eyelids a slight crack to see my way to the bathroom. I stumbled down the hall, and opened the medicine cabinet. Every time I opened my eyes, the waves of pain returned – stronger than before.

I enjoy chopping vegetables – I love to do a stir fry since it is based on chopping. So when I offered to help with the Chie Verde prep, it was more to fill my love of chopping than to actually help with the preparation of the dish that would be the entre, served to our guests the next day. If you take all of the seeds out, the chilies aren’t too hot, right? So you split them with a sharp knife and using your finger slip the seeds out and into the drain. Slice, slip and the chilies have been rendered harmless. I washed my hands, with soap, twice, okay? I understand these things. But I could feel the tingling on my index finger, slight, a light sense of thrill, just on the surface so I really knew that the soap had not been enough and I went about my business, until, until the dryness, the fatigue in my eyes caught me off guard and I succumbed to the desire to rub my eyes – and I did!

I don’t know how long the intense pain lasted; I can still feel it now, 24 hours later. I thought my eyes would be red and swollen, and they were – a little, a disappointingly small amount of swelling for the pain involved. I do enjoy the touch of the skin on my hands, the timid tingle that continues to land on my index finger. But now the pleasant sensation is followed by a memory of the blast of pain that took so long to recover from.

The Falls at Wailua

We walked along the sidewalk toward the overlook. Two women had set up a camera on a tripod and were preparing to take some pictures of the Wailua falls across the gorge. They seemed very comfortable directing the other tourists through their “set”.

We passed by and crossed the highway to look into the river valley beyond. I had briefly overheard them talking as we walked past, and the words and their implication started to come clear.

The younger woman who was in her late forties was operating the video, and describing for the older woman what to do and say. It became clear that the older woman was her mother; they looked alike and there is a familiar way that a mother and daughter work together when they are close. “That’s over 400 inches of rain a year.” The younger said to her mother who then carefully repeated the words. She moved to the railing, looked into the camera, and said them again while the daughter aimed the camera. The older woman was attractive, not worn down by the passage of years, but in my brief glance as we passed, I noticed something that at first I could not identify.

We returned from the lookout across the road and again passed through their camera angle. The daughter was giving her mother more lines, checking that she had them correctly and then focusing the video camera on her and “directing” her to recite what she had been told. This seems like it might have been abrupt or controlling, but it wasn’t. The daughter was at all times, in both her manner and her touch, caring and gentle and clearly loving towards her mother. It’s not easy to identify or describe, but there was a patience and a courtesy that encircled each move that she made, every tone in her voice – there could be no doubt about the relationship between the two women. And, the process was slow and had to be repeated often, but there was no shortness of temper, no expression of exasperation, the daughter was accepting, nurturing and loving in everything that she did or said.

The mother had the look on her face of someone who is slightly dazed; a little bemused, befuddled or confused at the things that were going. She wore a slight smile, a look that carries the slightest tinge of embarrassment, and a wonderment about why she should be embarrassed – she could remember a time when she would have been embarrassed by her limited ability to do what she was told, but she could only recall that feeling, she was not experiencing it now.

We walked to our car and drove away. As we looked back, the daughter was still working gently with her mother; she was taking as much care as a professional photographer and director would. It was as if the video was incredibly important, that it might well be one of the last, and it would be the memory of the older lady for all time.

At dinner in the hotel restaurant, we saw them again. This time, the daughter led her mother toward the exit. The mother carried a bag that was filled with gifts, and she was being hurried along. They disappeared from our view. I wanted to run after them and to tell the daughter what a wonderful person she was, how important what she was doing was both to her mother, and to herself. But more importantly to all of the people who saw the two of them together, caring for each other and caring about each other. But before I could move, they were gone from my sight.

Two of my posts have become books that are available at Amazon.com. "I Got Away With It - Perfect Crimes" and "Discovering Roots"

BOMBING IN THE TIME OF OZZIE AND HARRIET

BOMBING IN THE TIME OF OZZIE AND HARRIETT

The tone came on clearly through the helmet earphones. Even with the sound of the engine at near full throttle, and the wind rushing past the canopy the tone was strong and clean. The horizontal needle on the LABS dropped to the bottom of the instrument and I pulled steadily back on the control stick counting “One potato, Two potato” to get the exact profile. The needle centered at 4 1/2 G’s and I held it steady. The vertical needle indicated the position of the wings so a perfect + meant I was flying the plane to the right position in space. I continued to hold the pickle down, the button on the control stick that was used to release bombs, and after about 3 seconds and with a pitch angle of about 49^O the bomb was ejected from the centerline station on the bottom of the airplane. The thump was reassuring, and the slight increase in G load didn’t matter since the bomb, I suppose it should be called a weapon, which weighed about 1700#, was on its way to the target. The sharp smell of cordite, that’s what other people have called it at least, filled the cockpit and then quickly disappeared. Now, I was working for myself. I had done all that I could to put the weapon on the target and now it was time to get out of there. The nose continued to come up to vertical, and I looked over my shoulder to find the ground for a reference. A few seconds more and the nose passed through the horizontal. Inverted at about 1800’ the airspeed had bled off from 275kts to a little over 90 kts, slightly above stall speed. The nose continued to fall through the horizon and the airspeed began to increase slowly. I had to be easy on the controls so that the plane wouldn’t fall out of the sky. A gentle touch on the control stick to let the nose descend a little more and I slowly began to gain a little more airspeed. Now the controls would be more effective, so that I could roll the wings level and begin a gentle pull out. I had done this hundreds of times in practice on the bombing range at Fallon, NV. The official name for the maneuver was the Medium Angle Loft, the aerobatic maneuver was the Half Cuban Eight, but to all of us, it was the Idiot Loop. Practice for this delivery was not particularly safe and several pilots were lost during training, but the accuracy was surprisingly good, well within 100’. (There is a phrase or homily that goes “Close only counts in Horseshoes and Atom bombs.” My guess is that the original version had hand grenades in place of atom bombs.)

No need to be at the 50’ that I had held from the Initial Point (IP) to the pull up where the tone had come on; retracing my previous course was not of much concern since the people on the ground that I had awakened were going to be really busy in a couple of minutes, they had a lot more to worry about than a single navy airplane flying fast through their backyards. I figured I needed a couple of hundred feet of cushion to maintain control when the light flash would blind me and a few seconds later when the pressure wave would overtake me. Was I outside the lethal range of the effects, the thermal and overpressure that would be destroying everything I had just flown over? Who knew! We were told that we could escape, but the flash would certainly penetrate the hand I held over one eye, and we didn’t have the gold impregnated visors on our old helmets that became opaque under illumination from a very bright light source yet. Those came later and went to the big guys. The radiation didn’t matter since it would be hours before I started to feel any of the consequences and I would be back home by then– I hoped. Still. If I could see, I figured I had a pretty good chance of getting back to the carrier – perhaps a better chance than it had of surviving the certain attach that would ensue. But there were options, and I had looked at some airfields on the way in and knew where there were some straight sections of beach that I could land on gear up.

The primitive weapons of the ‘50s took a lot of care and attention on route to the target. After launch from the carrier there was a check list to complete that got the bomb ready to detonate. The central fin had to be lowered, the U235 (I recalled it as plutonium) ball had to be inserted into the high explosive sphere using a small electric motor, and other systems had to be armed and monitored through a control panel that had been installed in the cockpit. We were given a small case that contained fuses, spare lamp bulbs and a piece of metal that looked like a bottle opener to pull circuit breakers with. I had signed for the bomb when it was loaded. If I had to divert, I knew how to take it apart to retrieve the U235 sphere, and was expected to keep it with me until I could find a responsible party to take possession and sign for it. Strange set of circumstances to be considering while a nuclear exchange (or should that be called the end of civilization? That term “nuclear exchange” may be the biggest euphemism of all time!) was going on. Strange too that considering these contingency plans tended to create a false sense of normalcy in what was certainly a world gone crazy. (Another bizarre thought: Would I get radiation burns on my leg as it swung back and forth as I carried it to the BOQ room at a divert base?) For more information about the MK7, check the quite extensive discussion at: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mark_7_nuclear_bomb

The catapult launch was always a couple of hours before sunrise, and there was the predictable intense relaxation that came with the warmth of the sun, the brightening of the world outside, and the easing of the tension of the launch. I was alone and on my own, and it was the first time I had not been in a two plane formation. Cruising a hundred or so feet off the water gave a surprisingly safe and secure feeling. The big radial reciprocating engine didn’t need high altitude to be efficient. I knew how to read the wind from watching the waves and could cover long distances and arrive at a land fall with surprising accuracy. Figuring the wind at altitude was always a guess, but down here it was like reading a book or a gauge. However, the coast that I was going to cross was not the California that I had become so familiar with. I thought I would recognize the point I had selected while I was still several miles at sea, but I wasn’t sure. I wanted to be between the search radars that were constantly looking for intruders, and they would be especially on guard today. Still, I thought I could cross the beach and get into the hills to hide before they could vector the MIGs to intercept me. The 12 wing bomb racks, the four 20mm canons and the armor plate had been removed to make the airplane as light as possible to maximize our range,  so the only defense we had was to evade the radar and the fighters. The long practice flights were known as “Sandblowers.” These were not without hazard, we lost a CO on one of them. He ran into a steep canyon near Yosemite Park trying to get his two wingmen out of a box canyon they had flown into. Both of junior pilots survived. .) I remember going through the aviation gasoline soaked personal effects of one of our pilots who was killed. The items in his wallet stuck together and had to be carefully separated and checked before they were sent to his family. (A fantasy: I look out of the cockpit just after the bomb is kicked off the center station and see an Air Force B47 with the bomb bay doors open. . . .)

What was my target? I’ll never tell, but if you swing an arc 500 miles inland parallel to the coast of a potential enemy at the time, recall the war in Korea was recently over, in the Western pacific, you have covered the five or six targets I planned, and was on alert to attack during my years in the business. (Bizarre recollection – Lead tape. Lead tape is like scotch tape, but it is made with lead. It is unlikely that most people have ever heard about or thought about lead tape. There is only one use that I know of that it has and that is to cover the seams on nuclear weapons. The lead tape was the last thing that was added, and it was to me the most profound item that clearly identified this as something out of the ordinary, this silver colored smooth metal shape was not filled with fuel, or HE, or napalm, it was filled with something that we needed to be protected from

Is this story true, you may be wondering. Yes, everything about the story is true – except for the actual flight. The 1950s was a time of great competition between the nascent Air Force, and the U. S. Navy. Nuclear weapons had caused a total transformation in the priorities. The Air Force was in the early stages of building the Strategic Air Command, and the Navy wanted to build a fleet of large aircraft carriers – and the budget was really tight. Therefore, anything that could move – surface ships, tanks, submarines, helicopters, aircraft of all types and infantrymen were outfitted with nuclear weapons. So, we were added to the list and actually became a somewhat significant part of the deterrent force. Our airplane the Douglas AD (later A1) Skyraider was designed at the end of the 2^nd World war and over  3100 were produced. It served in Korea and Vietnam and was retired from service after extensive use in Vietnam in the early 1970’s. With two 300 gallon drop tanks we could stay airborne for over 12 hours and hit a target over 1000 nautical miles away from the ship. We were a part of the nuclear deterrent just like the B47s, B36s and the newly developed B52s. Twelve hours is a long time in a small cockpit, and it was difficult extricating ourselves from the airplane at the end of the flight. We were given Dexedrine to take just before landing to sharpen our reaction time, I took it once and didn’t like the feeling I got. At least one of the pilots saved up his pills and took them when we were in port to increase his stamina on liberty – he would have been classified as a drug abuser now. I was 21 in 1957 when this story could have taken place. Would I have gone on the flight if the “balloon had gone up?” I can’t imagine not going, it was simply expected that we would do what we were told, that is what we had signed up for. The menace was real, and I was from the “Duck and Cover” generation. One of my squadron mates later admitted that his plan was to go over the horizon, out of sight, drop the bomb in the ocean on safe and orbit for 12 hours before returning to the ship – was he telling the truth? I knew him pretty well and I think he was.

(A final bizarre thought: I remember thinking that it would have been wonderfully interesting to watch a half dozen or so atom bombs going off over actual targets – no, I’m not sad that I didn’t get to see it happening, but I always thought . . .)

When I returned to an operational squadron following three years of shore duty, the business had changed substantially. The weapons were smaller, lighter and more modern; the air burst option was largely dismissed so the weapons were “laid down” on the target, no more Idiot Loop, and set to detonate after a specified period giving plenty of time to escape the lethal effects. (I suppose because concerns about fallout had been reduced in favor of increased standoff distance for the pilots – that seems odd.) I don’t recall as much about this time since we were involved in actual combat and standby combat readiness didn’t seem to be as interesting.

Perfect Crimes a work in progress

Attached is a story that I think you will enjoy. It brings together new technology and old passions. My readers, although biased have been uniformly positive. The story is a little long, but the way the story is told maintains the sense of intrigue and excitement. The font changes are necessary to clearly differentiate the website from the events happening in the house. I hope you will find this worthy of publishing. (I have published well over 50 articles in trade and association magazines on leadership and management topics.)
Perfect Crimes
Ronald B. Pickett
Preface My pulse was strong and fast. I could feel it in my neck, the buzzing in my ears, and the top of my chest, pounding and so loud I was certain he could hear me. The sharp crack sound had brought me out of a sound sleep and my instinct was to run into the closet. The clothes in the closet felt soothing and helped me calm down - slightly, the smells of my body and my girlfriend’s gave an instantaneous and incongruous surge of safety and warmth.
I pushed that out of the way immediately, damned if I was going to be lulled out of my alertness. I had to breathe carefully and quietly.
How he got into the house was beyond me. I had new locks and dead bolts installed as soon as this nightmare started, but he easily broke in, and was searching the lower floor. It wouldn’t be long until he started up the stairs, he was after me and wouldn’t stop until he found me and “executed” me.
I had a gun in my right hand, my 9mm semiautomatic; there was a round in the chamber. So when he opened the door, I could fire quickly and keep firing until the clip was empty. No, I wouldn’t reload – end up like Danny Palm, never reload, but make sure you have a full clip when you start.
Could he be on “speed?” I had heard what that does to people, gives them superhuman strength and endurance, maybe the 9mm wouldn’t be enough, but it was too late to get the .357, besides it was a revolver and only held 6 shots I wanted to put more into his body.
Can’t be concerned about that now. The recent visits to the range would have to count. I think I heard the stairs creak. How the hell did this happen?
Chapter One
Three years ago I started a project that was mostly for my own amusement. Of course if it worked out I knew I would want to get the stories published, but that would have to wait. Most crimes go unsolved. (40% for murder), and that doesn’t include the ones that are never reported or don’t get into the system.
How did the “perps” (I’m not a cop, but some of the terminology does creep into common usage) get away with it? Sure, there’s a TV show “I (Almost) Got Away With It!” But that’s cop publicity – they don’t want success stories getting out in public.
So, I wondered,” What about the ones who do get away with their crimes?” It was a combination of curiosity and fascination with the criminal mind; what makes people do things that hurt others, fit with my education.
Most criminals get caught because they’re sloppy, dumb, or, can’t keep their mouths shut; they tell a casual acquaintance, brag to a friend, or share a confidence to prove how smart and tough they are. But how about the ones that are smart, careful, and can keep their mouths shut? They are the ones who do get away with it! They were the ones I wanted to hear about.
Overview

When I saw this graph, I was surprised, amazed seems closer to my reaction. If you watch CSI, NCIS, or Law and Order, you come to believe that conviction is an almost certain result of committing a crime. I now believe that I leave a constant trail of DNA, like Hansel and Gretel spreading bread crumbs, and if I so much as keep incorrect change I’ll end up incarcerated by the end of the day. Now, after seeing the data I’m not nearly so worried.
Here’s my plan: I’ll open up a web site, add some serious security so that no one will be able to trace the source of the emails received or posted, and limit my inquires to crimes that have outlived the Statute of Limitations which exist for nearly all crimes except capital murder. The contributors will be free – never having been in prison, and can’t be prosecuted – they have committed perfect crimes!
My theory is that as soon as the Statute of Limitations runs out, these successful criminals will be ready and anxious to tell their story – especially if they are guaranteed anonymity. Since not even I, the web site administrator will be able to see the source, and there are at least three layers of security, the attraction may be just enough to entice people to respond! I wanted the slightly arrogant criminals to respond, their tales should be the most interesting and they should be good at telling them.
I don’t want to get technical, but trust me, this was a secure process. I also wanted to ensure my privacy – I kept any identifying information out of everything I did.
Sure there’s Jack the Ripper, the Black Dahlia, and other unsolved crimes, but I wasn’t after anything like that, the clock was still running for those crimes! I was able to get a note posted on several “true crime web sites” and in a couple of magazines – but I declined all requests to appear on TV. The notices were carefully written and I even included some of the Statutes of Limitations for various crimes to encourage people to respond.
Confession is good for the soul it is said, and I wanted to give people the opportunity to do so. There is a web site that lets people anonymously admit to things that they have done, things they are sorry for, regret, or simply want to get off their chest. My site is that, but much, much more!
The site went up on a Monday, and of course I checked it every 15 minutes. The first few days were slow. A couple of people who ducked parking tickets, and then bragged about avoiding the summons, a couple of married guys who admitted to having “one night stands” when they were out of town.
An old gent who described taking some penny candies from a store when he was 9 years old, and the regret he had carried with him ever since, amazing! He had become a minister; in part, as compensation of his childhood “crime.” I hadn’t intended to provide a service, but it looked like I was doing just that! I wanted the juicy stuff, the crimes that were unique, well planned and carried out. Gems of the genre.
After the first week I thought it was going to be a bust: traffic tickets, shoplifting, petty theft, the occasional mugging and cheating on taxes and spouses. I had hoped for much more, some really juicy stuff, big crimes that we had all heard about, great plans carefully executed by master criminals. I began to wonder if they didn’t really need to tell their story, perhaps they were self satisfied by their own success. But I knew it would take some time for this consept to get out and for people to trust me.
I got a lot of positive comments from the people who visited the web site and read the confessions. They loved to read about people doing something bad, and not getting caught. It’s a special interest that many of us have, a fantasy that we would do if we only had the courage to pull it off. So, I was performing a service of sorts.
Why did I start this project you may wonder? Right now I’m wondering the same thing, I was curious, I wanted material for a best-selling book, I thought it was a topic that people might find interesting -gossipy and crime excellent combination, it seemed unique, I had never heard of anyone doing anything like this, I had the necessary skills, and when I started, I had time on my hands, a lot of time.
The intruder had turned off the power, I thought I had secured the circuit breaker box with a good lock, but somehow he had gotten around it and now all of the power was gone. I must have forgotten that these people are bright after all, they are successful criminals by definition! I just didn’t think like them. It thought I could see some glimmers of light beneath the closet door. The flashlight seemed to be moving about, as he was making slow progress up the stairs.
About a month into the project, I received a posting that got my attention. The writer described robbing a bank, which netted over three quarters of a million dollars! It had taken place over 10 years previously and I checked to guarantee that the time had run out and posted it on the web site. This was good!
The “poster” described the preparation, “casing the joint,” checking the timing to get in and out, and picking a time when a lot of cash would be in the till. Most banks keep the cash count low and let robbers walk away with the money. Good, he didn’t tell us where the bank was located, or the exact date, so it was impossible to really check it out.
But the story sounded good, and the comments section started to fill up from the readers. They asked questions – some a little too curious, as if they wanted to replicate the successful caper – those I cut off. I had set up the comments section so that I could monitor what people were saying and delete those I considered inappropriate.
There were some good questions about the motivation to commit a robbery, overcoming the urge to tell someone, keeping the number of people involved small, and avoiding spending the money too soon, it was almost an inventory control problem more than a serious crime. Flat, intellectual, factual, and unemotional best describes the answers that the poster gave – he seemed to be delighted to respond to most of the questions asked.
But never the details, no response to the – who, what, when, and where questions when they popped up. He wouldn’t identify himself in any way – age, occupation, etc. Some of the commenters asked specific questions about dates, places and even tried to use what they thought was his name, but he didn’t rise to the bait. I found that I had a growing grudging respect for him. He wasn’t trying to get anyone else to imitate him; he didn’t use any of the clichés – like “nobody gets hurt, it’s covered by insurance,” etc.
He was articulate, clear in his written responses and I began to think of him as “The Gentleman Robber.” Someone asked if he had tried again. I noticed that he didn’t answer, so I got the impression that he had, and was successful. His personality continued to emerge, and he seemed like the cat burglar played by Cary Grant in “To Catch a Thief” in my fantasy.
He had been on the second floor twice now, but both times the lights from cars and noises from the road had caused him to scurry down the stairs in case someone was coming to my driveway. He was getting closer to finding me.
As a part of an assignment for my job, I attended a seminar put on by the local police. It was really interesting and focused on computer security and scams. Amazing what people were doing online, and how vulnerable and gullible people were. I reconnected with an old friend, Lieutenant Joe Standish, at this event and he introduced me to several people who were on the task force including an Assistant DA named Sam Jefferson. He was one of the leads on the task force on computer security and fraud and seemed to be a really bright and competent guy.

The best thing about the “Gentleman Robber” was that he opened the gates. His style, and his tale made it okay for others to post their stories, and I think he made people want to be like him, to emulate his style and be appreciated by the people who visited the web site.
So began a virtual flood of confessions, a wide range of crimes that people got away with. Mostly it was dumb luck rather than good planning and execution – bad choice of words. Still, many did meet the criteria – do a crime and don’t do the time! Someone told me the site went “viral” I didn’t know what that meant!
The security system didn’t work! How the hell did he disable the new, very modern alarm? I had a system installed that was tamperproof and had an independent power supply. He couldn’t have been the installer of the new system? That was impossible, wasn’t it? But that’s the only way the system could be defeated. Unless. . . I knew by now that he was a computer whiz. Maybe he had hacked the system at the monitoring station. Didn’t matter now, he had done it and I was in deep doo-doo.
The Bulldog - Finding weaknesses in systems is perhaps one of the best ways to get away with a crime. Success comes from seeing things in a different way than the people who set up the systems. Security systems need to look for unusual situations rather than the norm. Imagine a university on the day of the homecoming football game. There are more people there than at any other time; the general climate is one of happiness and relaxation, a return to hallowed ground, reliving a wonderful time of their life. What better time to take advantage of the rare opportunity when the guard is down.
Most schools have a mascot, a tiger, a lion, a “hoya,” or a “hoke”, whatever that is, something to unsettle the opponents and unify the student body. The bulldog is the mascot for several schools. Most schools have a student dressed up in a costume that resembles the mascot who runs around the stadium leading cheers, and spurring on the crowd to support the team. It was somewhat unusual, but this was an historic day, the 113 anniversary of the founding of the school.
So, the cheerleaders decided to have 13 guys dressed up in the Bulldog uniforms running around the stadium; this presented an interesting opportunity. “With all of this going on, I figured one more bull dog wouldn’t be noticed and it would give me great freedom to move around. Getting the costume was easier than I expected. I knew they didn’t all look the same since I had watched the rehearsal. So mine didn’t have to be an exact replica either.
I went on line and found one that was similar; I didn’t want any connection to me, so I had the suit sent to a thrift shop in a neighboring city as a donation. I knew it would be set out for sale the following day. Shortly after the doors opened I walked in and after shopping a little while spotted the Bulldog suit, and took it to the cash register. I didn’t want to be remembered so I altered my appearance a little, stones in my shoes, a runny nose helped by a little pepper, a hat, and hair sticking out of the hat that was off red. I tried not to say anything, and when I did, lowered my face into the tissue I was using. I paid cash, and left. Didn’t respond to questions from the lady when she asked what I was going to use the suit for.
That was easy and I didn’t think anyone would see anything out of line and remember me, even though they probably would remember the suit.”
He got into the stadium and ran around acting as much like the other mascots as possible. No one could see his face, and the other bulldogs didn’t notice anything out of order. He had a large gunny sack over his shoulder with the opposing teams mascot, a bear, hanging out. Just before half time he eased down to the office where he knew the receipts were collected prior to being deposited in the lock box at the bank. There was a guard in the counting room, but he was busy watching the game on TV obviously a biased supporter of the local team.
“There didn’t seem to be any reaction to my entering the room, the bulldog suit was immediately accepted as one of the group, another employee, someone looking for a little calm and warmth. As soon as I saw the guard fully consumed by the game, I slipped up behind him, stuck my gun in his ribs, told him not to move and pulled the cotton sack that had been inside the bigger sack over his head, tied the chord and sat him down on the floor. There is nothing like a large caliber hand gun to get someone’s attention! The cash counting crew was extremely helpful and almost overfilled the sack with bills. I had to keep enough room for the opposition mascot. I stepped out of the room and headed for the exit. I was leading cheers, waving the bear, the other team’s mascot, dancing and having a great time – fortunately the home team had a substantial lead.
I slipped into a men’s room just outside the exit, stripped off the bulldog suit, and headed for my car. I tossed the burlap sack into the trunk and drove away. The total time from leaving the counting room was less than two minutes so the “alarm” was just beginning as I drove away. This was the dangerous time, but I knew with all of the hundred + thousand people, it would be impossible to set up a barrier in less than 10 minutes.
No connection with the car, with me (outside my bulldog suit) and I was home free. The haul was $275,000, not bad for a $32.50 investment in a bulldog suit! The cops never came close to solving this crime. They did talk to the ladies at the thrift shop who sold me “my” bulldog suit, but they didn’t remember anything about the guy who bought it.”
Chapter Two
As the number of respondents increased, I decided I needed a classification system. I knew my system would probably have to be revived, but to start, I decided on the following:
1. Thefts, Robberies, etc.
2. Fraud
3. Arson
4. Assault, battery (non sexual)
5. Sexual assault
6. Revenge
7. Frivolous (you’ll see what this means later!)
Let me begin with some of the Arson cases to give a feel for what I was dealing with. I’ve never understood Arson myself. Why burn down something, except for the insurance, and if you do it for that reason, you will be the prime suspect! That was borne out by my cases. Here’s one that I found interesting. The Scorcher, it’s better than a case number, sent a description of a fire he had started.
He had nothing to do with the building, didn’t work there, didn’t own it, but he did drive past it on his way to and from work – so did thousands of other people. Why did he pick this building? He said it was because he had never liked the architecture! That I understand, but it is hardly a reason to burn it down! The replacement may be even worse. So, I really doubt his stated reason.
It was also an easy target; slightly set back from the street, a wood facing that was quite old, no modern fire extinguishers, no security guards, and a lot of places to observe from without being seen. This was a simple job, don’t use anything personal, don’t leave fingerprints or other identifying material, get the materials from open sources busy stores, keep it simple – store bought rags, gasoline from a can, a match and set the starter fire in the back.
Don’t get fancy with BBQ starters or anything of the sort. (His comments not mine!) Choose a time when the weather was good, low wind, low humidity, no rain and high temperature. Don’t even try to make it look like an accident – the more complicated, the more likely you’ll get caught; simply rely on not having any connection with the fire, not being seen, and not standing out in any way. And, count on a very busy police department.
He did some simple experiments and found that a red rag, like that found in all mechanics garages, when soaked lightly with motor oil would smolder for about 30 minutes and still have enough heat to ignite gasoline in an open aluminum plate. It didn’t work every time, but often enough for its simplicity.
He set up a video camera in a tree less than a block away. It looked like one of the simple speeding or red-light running cameras, but it was aimed at the building instead of the street. He bought the camera on eBay, and used a false identity which was surprisingly easy to set up. He put up the camera the day before he intended to start the fire, and used the guise of retrieving a lost boomerang as his reason for climbing into the tree – in case anyone asked.
It was a little more exposure than he wanted, but having the video would be worth it. He’d wait at least a month to retrieve the camera, it would be a hard wait, but he was very disciplined. He had read two books on arson investigation; one he found at a used book store, and another at a sale put on by the fire department, of all places. So he knew enough about the basics to know what they would look for. He didn’t mind if they identified that it was arson, just not who the arsonist was!
The night for the fire came and it was perfect. He was jogging near the building. Not too late so as to be the only one and stand out, and not so early that he would be easy to recognize. 9:15 was perfect in this area. He ran hard, with a back pack, and he had to stop frequently to catch his breath, leaning over and coughing, and getting a good look around. When he arrived in front of the building his timing was perfect and he ducked out of the light into the shadows.
It was easy to slip around back, set up his fuse and pan of gas, and get back on the sidewalk. At most anyone seeing him would have thought he was relieving himself. Then off he went again, at a slower pace this time. He never looked back, he kept on running and was home well before the fire broke out.
The late news had video of the fire, and the firefighters. One on-scene investigator said that they didn’t know if it was accidental or arson. Some of the electrical equipment was pretty old in the back where the fire started. The building was a total loss and the damage was estimated at 5.5 million dollars. Small potatoes.
He waited a full month to get the camera, and it was worth it. The pictures were clear and the color was great. He could see the slight glow coming from the rear of the building and then watched as the light brightened and grew and started to illuminate the smoke.
The fire engine arrived in just 17 minutes, but the old wood was burning out of control by then. There were two people inside at the time of the fire, but they escaped easily, and no firemen were injured. The blaze was a joy to behold. It was his work, and he replayed the video at least a dozen times. The crackling of the fire, the hissing of the water being sprayed onto the flames, the flying sparks were all his! What a wonderful monument this was.
He stayed away, didn’t even take his usual route to work for ten days, and when he did return, he was careful to only glance at the damage, he smiled – slightly, and looked straight ahead. He wanted to shout “I did it, it’s mine!” But his discipline won out and he swallowed his smile.
To his surprise, he did have a connection to the building. His fire insurance company had offices there. One of the co-owners of the building was brought in for questioning, but he was released for insufficient evidence. People in town always thought he had a hand in the job. I know, at this point you are waiting for the mistake, the flat tire, the coincidence, the chatty neighbor to get him arrested and tried, but remember the title “Perfect Crimes!”
No, nothing of the sort happened. He didn’t benefit from the crime in any way, except the excitement of watching the video and following the investigation.
He has gone into the bathroom now, the one on this floor. I hear him lift the lid of the toilet and then the splashing sound – the son of a bitch is relieving himself. God, I wish I could. He doesn’t bother to flush the toilet, ass hole.
A second arson story – the Owner. The business had been successful for 75 years. His grandfather had started it and his father had grown the business adding new locations and new services. It seemed to be going extremely well, with five locations now and a staff of over 150. He was thinking of expanding further, into the county to the north, he thought they could compete with the established stores on customer service, the way they always had.
Then the “Perfect Storm” hit. You know, a national company came in and built stores practically across the street from three of his branches, and started offering special deals to attract his customers. They even hired away two of his best sales guys. Next, the recession hit, business dropped by 30%, and for the third strike, new technology was introduced that reduced the work involved and cut the costs in half, computers again, now even their technical expertise was a lot less valuable.
They struggled along for nearly three years, and their suppliers became more insistent, the lines of credit dried up, the interest rates went to 18%. They had laid off 50 guys, it was really sad. The least profitable location, profit hah, the biggest drag really was in a depressed area, it looked like a street in Detroit, Mumbai or Bagdad.
He knew the systems, had been with the company since grade school, and he knew the systems like no one else! He was the “Safety Officer” de facto, He had been to all of the schools put on by their suppliers, and had paid special attention to the “soft spots” in the systems. They had experienced a very unusual event a couple of years before, a fire broke out right between two of the machines, but it was quickly put out by the staffer who was standing right there. He had brought in the tech reps from both of the companies that made the equipment and they finally gave up, called it a fluke, paid for the repairs, and went about their business.
He didn’t give up so easily, and after a couple of weeks found that he could duplicate the conditions by getting the two machines to vent a little gas at the same time. They were hypergolic, the two ignited on contact with one another! He had intended to contact the companies, but since their reps had left pointing their fingers at each other, shouting, and not budging on possible explanations, he had decided not to. A little experimentation and he discovered he could duplicate the conditions, and he even started a little fire late one night when he had come back to check on an all night process job.
It was way out of character for him; he was absolutely fair and honest. The steadiest guy anyone knew, but he felt out of control, like everything was coming down on him and it wasn’t his fault. He did a little figuring, not on one of the computers, real napkin calculation and found that the insurance for this one shop, the one in the depresses neighborhood, was enough to set up the other four stores to sell, service and train users in the new technology.
He really wanted to get rid of this ghetto plant anyway. After a lot of agonizing, he set it up.
He figured the timing, and adjusted the position of the two machines so that they would outgas their vents at the same time, and went home. The call came at 2:30 from his foreman. The fire had been discovered, and the fire department had arrived, but the chemicals they used were so toxic, they kept the firefighters from being able to save anything,
His dealings with the insurance company were quick and easy. No one could find the cause of the fires; they pointed out the location, right between the two machines, but couldn’t find any shorts, accelerants, or any causes. Case closed, insurance paid, but he always had a cold feeling in his heart when he thought about what he had done, and what would have happened if he had been caught. His life would have been much different. When he felt this way, he remembered the hundred guys whose jobs he had saved, and the chill went away.
Chapter Three
This was really strange, someone in my home, trying to kill me! I wouldn’t have set up this web site if I would have had any idea it could lead to this. Too late to worry and “what if”; I’ve got to do my best to survive – and make sure he doesn’t! I crouched down further into the back of the closet and listen carefully for the sounds he was making as he moved around the floor.
My personal favorites are the revenge stories. We humans are at our best, our most imaginative when we set our sights on redressing wrongs, getting even or putting someone in his or her place. It almost seems like that‘s what our big brains were invented for. Why do people seek revenge? From the people who sent me their stories the reasons are as wide ranging and different as it is possible to be, from minor slights to near deadly experiences. I love the detailed planning, the eye for an eye attitude, the relative values of the perceived grievance to the retribution. What is it worth to take away a best friend’s girl friend? To belittle someone in front of a significant person, to steal an idea or take credit for someone else’s work?
What is the rate of exchange for embarrassment, for a joke gone bad, for intentionally sabotaging a major project? The way a mind evaluates these exchange rates is wonderful to participate in and to observe. How much is it worth, what’s fair? How can I be suspected, but not clearly identified with the payback, not be caught? How much time do I have? How long can I wait? Revenge, at its best is a very complicated business.
Is a stolen girlfriend worth a pin hole in a condom? It seems to be since I got four reports that were almost identical in the events and the punishment. How serious was the relationship that was broken up? A marriage is pretty serious, so a stolen wife ranks pretty high on the revenge scale. However, the pin hole in the condom is not very serious if the new relationship leads to marriage. No, the stolen wife needs something special, unless the grieved man or woman was anxious to get rid of the spouse. Then, a thank you note posted in the local newspaper may be the perfect revenge.
I had managed my web site for a little over eighteen months and was delighted with the results. I was getting lots of “hits” from a dedicated group of visitors, they had formed a Perfect Crime Club complete with tee shirts, and the number of crime stories I received continued unabated. I loved the feeling of excitement I got every evening when I sat down at my computer and logged on. What great stories would I read tonight? There was a little sameness that was creeping in, how many ways can you do a crime? But every once in a while I’d get a great story, imaginative, thoughtful, no braggadocio, sincere, and clever. There was even a ranking system that had been developed for the stories – one to five handcuffs. I scanned the emails, and saved several to work on later. Then one caught my eye. There were no words, but the symbol for an attached file named one.jpg. I was hesitant to open it, I had been infected by viruses in the past, as you might expect, and had put up a strong firewall. I decided it was worth it to check out the attachment, it would be easy to delete and clean my files. I clicked on the attachment and an out of focus, washed out photo opened. I could tell at once that it was a woman’s body, uncovered, and from the angle of the neck, no longer among the living. I deleted the photo at once and posted a refreshed notice about the unacceptability of any crimes without a statute of limitations – clearly this one didn’t meet my criteria. It was difficult to get to sleep after seeing that picture.
Chapter Four
Sexual Assault There are some things on my web site that I find distasteful to read and post. So, in this category, I only post a couple of representative samples. The sad thing is that these are the most frequently read postings on the site. The descriptions are in intimate detail, clearly the perpetrators are reliving the experience, and some have retained items from the attack. It is impossible to be non-evaluative about these stories. All of the other crimes I can understand to a degree, but these, and the other forms of personal abuse are beyond me. So, I edit, lightly, and post a few representative samples.
The cunning, the preparation, the enjoyment both before and after are incredible. The selection of the target, the stalking, the anticipation of their act are described in such detail and with such relish that it is obvious why these are so popular. Strangely, to me, some of the readers are women! I would have thought they would have avoided this section. The reasons start to emerge when you read their comments. The desire for domination, the danger of the unknown, the good-bad. Like the attraction of movie stars to mobsters, rock stars to porn stars, blonds and billionaires.
My least favorite crimes were these stories of sexual assault. The sickness of the perpetrators, the pain inflicted and enjoyed, the subjugation of the victim, the power need of the sick criminal mind made the stories almost impossible to read and post. Sadly, the ones I did post had the highest number of hits. Doubly sad, since I kept most of the prurient stuff out of my rewrites.
So here’s one of the gentler or softer stories: GBH Note: This is the longest entry in my web site. There are two reasons: This is how the author wrote it, and I believe it is important for readers to get inside the mind of this person.
“I knew she wanted me; you could see it in her eyes. The furtive glances, the look that seemed like, I don’t know, almost fear, I guess was really covering her hunger. I could see her in the mirror, so she didn’t know I was watching her. She always came here in the evenings, maybe twice a week. She got out her computer and went online. I had glanced at her screen once and it looked like she was sending email and looking at some photos. I walked quickly past her and out of the Starbucks. I glanced back through the front window and she was totally involved in what she was doing.”
“She was gorgeous, long blond hair, great body and pale skin. I can see her now, 15 years later. The prettiest girl I had seen, and she wanted me, I could tell. But you know how girls can be. They have to act like they aren’t interested, at least the good ones do. Their moms have taught them how they are supposed to behave, but just underneath the surface, it’s wildness just waiting to be let loose.”
“I saw her for the first time in August, it was hot, muggy and she had a light dress on that showed off her body really well. Every time she moved, I could see her breasts jiggle a little, not much, she was wearing a bra, but just enough to tell she was lithe and firm. I could hardly take my eyes off of her, but I had to , I couldn’t scare her off, or she would be gone like the others. So, I restrained myself, I actually timed my glances, no more than once every three minutes. That was really hard. But I was learning, slowly about women. I had never had a ‘girlfriend,’ I had ‘paid’ I guess you would call it, but never a real dating kind of girlfriend. And the ‘paid’ kind weren’t very good.”
“My mustache seemed to be growing, filling in some now, finally, it was a long and difficult process, but I seemed to be using less mascara now and I felt better. I’m small, not one of those big smelly hunks, hulks I thought of them, that are so arrogant, so self-assured, so quick to pick on anyone who wasn’t an athlete. High school had been a terrible experience for me, the hormones surging through my changing body and no way to satisfy the strong need that they brought with them.
It was miserable, asking for dates and being rejected; well I never really asked, but I let some of the girls know that I was interested in getting to know them better. Alone, I was alone so much of the time. That was okay, I liked being alone a lot. It let me do the things I wanted to do without having to put up with other people. Now, I had a job, and a small apartment, nothing much, but I felt really good about finally being on my own. Now, I needed to start dating; that was the part of my life that was missing, and it was beginning to really hurt.”
“We had met, well actually I said ‘Excuse me.’ As I walked past her one evening, and she nodded. I think that counts. And I had watched her order her Latte and pick it up. I saw from the napkin that her name was Linda – Beautiful in Spanish, what a perfect name! She didn’t seem to have any friends, she too was all alone. We really had a lot in common I was finding. I also drank Lattes, worked on my computer and sat by myself. Yes, we really did have a lot in common. She must be as shy as I was, maybe not quite, she did talk to some of the baristas as she waited for her coffee. I never said more than ‘humid isn’t it?” or some such thing as that.”
As I edited this piece, I had to stop several times. I kept being pulled into dark corners of my mind, places I didn’t want to return to. I began to feel weak, incompetent, I felt lonely and called my girlfriend just to talk. I had to get up and move about, to feel back in control of my life.
“It was becoming clear to me that I was going to have to take action, things couldn’t go on like this, I knew she wouldn’t make the first move, and so it was up to me. It had really gotten bad, I couldn’t think about anything else. All day long, and especially in the evenings, I saw her sitting demurely, working at her computer and I knew that inside she was burning with desire for me, just like I was wanting her. My fantasies were getting more detailed, more intimate, more exciting. I could actually feel her skin, in my mind. I could hear her telling me not to stop, telling me how long she had waited for this moment. How we would be together forever –thanking me for taking the initiative even if it was a little unusual.
There was much more, but I don’t want to go through that again, and it isn’t something I want you to know about, too private, too much just the two of us a place no one else can enter, feelings and emotions that were so intense I know no one else has ever felt the same way.”
“I started to build a plan. It was easy to do the research on the internet; in fact, I was sometimes doing the searches in the Starbucks, with her in sight! That made it much better, like I was doing it for her; as a gift. In Wikipedia I found the following: “The three most commonly used drugs for date rape “(I don’t like this term) “are alcohol and two prescription-strength sleep aids. The two prescription drugs are GHB, also known as gamma-hydroxybutyric acid, and benzodiazepines (such as flunitrazepam, also known as Rohypnol or "roofies"); however, an American 1997 study showed that alcohol still remains the drug most frequently implicated in substance-assisted sexual assault.
“Well, alcohol was out, at least for our first time. I didn’t know any ‘pushers’ and I didn’t want to be associated with lowlifes. I had heard that GBH was available in TJ, at some of the ‘pharmacias’ a block off of Via Oriente. The first time I went, I took the Tijuana Trolley, and got off at the San Ysidro Transit Center and walked across the border. It was easy, even fun, I had never been there before.
This was my trial run, my scoping out the territory so I could be completely at ease. I strolled to the city center then into the side streets. I read the listings of available drugs on the front of some of the pharmacias, but didn’t see GBH listed. I finally got up the nerve and opened the door to a small and rundown shop. I tried to avoid eye contact, and sort of whispered ‘GBH’ the clerk shook her head and frowned at me. I left quickly. No more female clerks!
The second shop I entered had a male behind the counter, I was feeling a little braver now, and I said with a little authority, my voice still had a tremor when I said’GBH?’ He smiled and said “no, not here” I said ’where,?’ he motioned toward the back of the small shop. Then had me go out the front door. I walked to the corner of the building and turned into the alley. The man was standing there, I said ‘How Much?’ He said ‘ $50, I said too much turned and walked away.” I was so visibly shaken that I was surprised that I made it through customs, I was really upset, the entire event had scared me, I felt alone and vulnerable. It’s a good thing this was a trial run. The U.S. Border patrol agent looked at me several times, but let me go on through after checking my driver’s license.”
“Two weeks later I was back, I went to the same shop, direct from the border crossing and motioned for the guy to meet me out back. I went outside around the corner and held out $50. He put a small envelope into my hand and I turned and walked quickly away. I got a couple of shots of tequila at a dingy bar on the way back to the border hoping it would ease my fear.
This time, I had no trouble crossing the border although the agent wanted me to show two forms of identification. The small envelope felt like a huge package in my shorts, but I made it through okay. I can only vaguely remember the ride on the trolley back to the lot I’d left my car in. The tequila was starting to wear off, and I had a headache and felt dead tired, like you feel after a near accident or a test. At the same time, I felt great, I had what I had been dreaming about for months in my pocket, and Linda would soon be mine – I really was thinking like that at the time. ”
At this point in his narrative, GBH shifted to the present tense, as if he was reliving this event. While he doesn’t make the point clear, I assume he had something from her, an item of clothing or something from her body that he held while he typed. “She comes in, more beautiful than I remember, and goes to the order counter. I watch as she chats briefly with the barista and then sits down at her usual table. Everything is just as I hoped it would be.
The barista is filling her order. I’m getting more excited as I watch, timing is everything and I know exactly how long it takes to prepare the order. I move the two pills to my left hand, palm them so that they can’t be seen. No one is paying any attention to me any way. I walk up to the counter, ask for some sugar, and wait. The barista finishes making her latte and brings it to the counter and calls “Linda” quietly. He looks around the café as I know he will and that is my opportunity. It looks like I’m reaching for something, but as my hand passes over her latte; I drop the two pills into it. I know that the bitterness of the coffee and the flavor of the steamed milk will cover the taste of the GBH, and the heat will dissolve them more quickly.
I walk back to my table as she comes to get her latte. She quickly sips the froth, and then sits down. I watch through my usual mirror. I think of her as reversed, the way I see her in the mirror. She sips the latte, enjoying the flavor, doesn’t seem to notice anything different. I am seemingly occupied on my computer, but that is hard to fake with my rising excitement. I type gibberish; I hope no one is reading over my shoulder. She is sending an email, I watch as she hits the send command. She seems to be feeling the effects of the GBH; rubbing her eyes, shaking her head slightly. Now, she is leaning against the wall next to her table. I think it is almost time.
I must wait for two more minutes, the time drags; I have to watch the clock. Finally the two minutes have passed and I get up, put my computer together, and walk up to her table. ‘Are you alright?” She says ‘No, I’m feeling dizzy, and weak.’ ‘I can take you home, my car is right outside.’ She says ’That’s alright I’m sure I’ll be better in a minute.’ My anxiety rises, but I stay calm on the outside. ‘It’s really no bother, and you look a little woozy.’ She sits quietly rubbing her eyes, and shaking her head. I wonder if she will keep on refusing, I have to be cautions and act like I don’t care, so she doesn’t get suspicious. She looks up at me and says ‘You look okay, I’ve seen you in here before, I guess I could use some help. Wait for me to get my computer stuff together.’
I keep from smiling, keep a serious and sincere look on my face, try to make sure my pounding heart doesn’t give me away. ‘Let me help you with your things.’ I say. She stands up carefully, unsteady on her feet and I lightly touch her elbow to steady her. This is the first time I have touched her, and my heart skips a beat, then resumes racing. We walk to the front door, I try to keep from being seen by the staff, but they are busy in the back and there are very few customers and all of them are busy. This is perfect, better than I expected.
My car is right in front, everything is going exactly as I have planned. I steady her and open the door to my car. ‘Where do you live?’ I ask although I know precisely what her address is. She gives me an address that is two blocks away from her apartment. Still lucid enough to think to give an incorrect address that is a little scary for me I’ll have to watch myself and hope the drug continues to act quickly. I have a motel room; picked with great care, on the way to her apartment, with a room on the ground floor, with parking in front, and an external flood light that I have broken.
I assume they won’t have repaired the light yet, it’s not that kind of motel. I think back on my planning and how everything is going so well. I ask ‘How are you feeling?’ she says ‘Worse, I’m afraid I might get sick. This is so sudden; I’ve never felt like this before.’ I think “Yeah, baby.’ I stifle a grin and say ‘Gee, that’s too bad. We’ll have you home in a jiffy.’ She mumbles something and I can’t make out her words. The GBH is doing its thing. I turn off of the road into the motel, she is bent forward, and doesn’t say anything. This is perfect. I’m glowing inside. I park right in front of the room; I figured this space would be open since it is so dark back here. I open the door to the room, then return for her. She says something like ‘than yo.’ And I help her into the room. I take off her coat, and sit her on the bed.”
At this point, GBH gets increasingly graphic. This is a warning for anyone who is easily offended or does not want to read explicit sexual material. I have excluded it from here, however I will provide the description for serious researchers to have access to this material and for others to get a full understanding of his character and personality.
The music was wonderful. The Symphony Hall had been redone recently and the woods were glistening with wax. The fragrance was delightful, Gladiolas and wax seem to expand and nourish each other.
The selections went from Mozart to Copeland, just the mixture I like classical and modern, structured and wild, melodious and atonal. I was more relaxed than I had been for several weeks, since this whole business had started. Finally I could flush the constant unease from my mind and simple enjoy the sound and the sight of the full orchestra performing at its best.
At first I thought it was a problem with my vision, like the “stars” or streaks you sometimes see if you stand up to fast. Then there was a dazzle, short, the kind you see when you look into a scanner in a grocery store checkout line. Sparkling, flashing from the corner of my eye. At first I thought it must be caused by stress, God knows I’ve had enough, but then it reappeared. I looked to the left, to the box seats, but there was nothing there. Then I scanned the right side, At first I saw nothing, the just above the edge of the box, I saw a bright blue green light, clearly a laser, and it went out.
The color was not the usual ruby red that is in pointers, and it seemed to closely match the ready lights on the emergency lighting boxes just above it. It didn’t seem like anyone else could see it; as if it was at the back end of a tube. I looked back at the orchestra. I noticed a brief low light level slow flashing on the violinist at the front of the second row. Then it was gone. Two more dazzles to my eyes, and nothing.
It was time for the interval, intermission, and I was certainly happy to stand up and move to the entrance to the theatre. I usually don’t have anything except some water from a drinking fountain, but this night I had a double scotch, and would have had a second if the chimes and flashing lights hadn’t started signaling the audience to return to their seats.
There were no distractions in the second half of the program and by the end I had calmed down considerably. Must have been seeing things, or imagining ghosts. I got to my car and unlocked the door and opened it. As soon as the interior lights came on, I dropped both the program and my keys. In the middle of the driver’s seat was a tube, and at one end of it was an object that looked like a penlight, as I looked more closely, I could see that it was a laser gun sight – blue-green. Beside it nestled in the soft leather I saw a rifle bullet carefully polished; delicately and elegantly engraved in the bright brass was my name.
I called the DA’s office and talked to Sam Jefferson. “Hey Sam, we met a few months ago at the seminar on internet security.” “Right, I remember you, how can I help you.” He seemed rushed, I suppose he was, but then he seemed to ease up, and became interested in hearing what I had to say – it may have taken him a couple of minutes to remember exactly who I was. I told him about receiving a photo online, and asked him if there was any interest in seeing it at the DAs office. He said “Without anything other than a label, there was nothing we can do.” I was surprised to be put off so easily, especially since I described the subject of the photo. He rang off and I chalked it up to an uncivil civil servant! He made me feel uncomfortable, as if I was nothing to him – some people are like that.
Chapter Five
So many of my contributors confused dumb blind luck with brilliance! One described robbing a man on a street, not wearing any cover or disguise, having the man stare at him intently, and then walk into a passing car as he was rushing from the scene! His, the robbers explanation was that he had committed a perfect crime because he had picked a time and location that maximized the likelihood of a successful robbery. My assessment was dumb luck – if the man had survived, which he unfortunately did not, he certainly could have identified the “brilliant robber.”
Headline in the Tribune three days after the concert “2nd Violinist Mysteriously Dies From Arsenic in the Rosin.” Edgar Schmitd suffered a convulsion and died during the rehearsal at Symphony Hall yesterday afternoon. The original diagnosis was an epileptic convulsion; however toxicological tests showed a high level of arsenic.
Investigators discovered that the rosin used to increase the friction of the horsehair bow strings was laced with the poison. Schmidt was a popular musician who also played with the Opera Company and several chamber music groups. Friends and colleagues described a strange habit that he had of licking the chunk of rosin before applying it to the bow.
He said that he found the acrid piney flavor refreshing. No one knew how arsenic could have been added to a commercially available block of rosin. The manufacturer said that all of their products were pure and carefully wrapped when they left the warehouse. A sampling of products in music stores did not turn up any other product that had been tampered with.
Chapter Six
Stories kept coming in to my web site. Every day I spent an hour or two reviewing the new material and deciding which would be interesting to my growing readership. I was getting advertising offers a couple of time a week, and I refused all of them. I also found that I was getting queries from law enforcement. This seemed strange, since all of “my” crimes were beyond prosecution, however, it became clear that “successful” criminals were likely to repeat their crimes.
With much contemplation, consideration and consternation, I made up my mind to reject these requests. Passing information from my web site, other than the access that was always available, would have killed my project, and it was obviously meeting a need or at least an area of interest in the public.
One email said “$194,700 – DB” I assumed it was a hoax, but it could have been the first “outing of “D B Cooper the notorious skyjacker from 1971 who bailed out of a 727 with $200,000 ($5,300 from the was subsequently found buried near a creek.) So I posted it
My “criminals,” the ones that wanted to tell their story seemed to have a need to “run close to the wind,” to relish almost getting caught. Many of them were actually brought in for questioning, and they loved to describe how they put together lies to hide their involvement. One said, “The cops were much better than I expected. I have bought into the dumb cop image and thought it would be easy to fool them. Then, when I was actually in front of a real, experienced detective, sitting in an interview – interrogation – room, I really started to sweat – I told him I had a serious hang over. There was something in his eyes. He questioned everything I said, he doubled back to recheck on points from my story. He would agree with some of the things I said, seemed to be a nice guy, understanding and caring, and as soon as I started to get comfortable, you know that old feeling of being smarter than he was, he would say something in such a way that I was completely unprepared for it. I would not want him as a friend. He must look at everyone as a possible suspect, or as a suspect, and see every situation as a crime possibility.
He was really something. Fortunately, my alibi owed me big time, so big that there was no way he would change his story. I could relax, somewhat, but I really had to stay on my toes. It isn’t like watching TV that’s for damn sure. Ya gotta be ready, to have your story practiced down to the last detail and you really need to practice telling it to someone several times – but then that opens you up to another set of loose lips. Have someone who is deeply in your debt.
Two.jpg arrived 10 days after One.jpg. I argued with myself for three days and then decided I had to open it. Different subject similar content. Completely nude female, a little better focus, on her back with her legs spread. Clearly not among the living any longer. Similar hair color and length to the first. I posted another cautionary note with a warning that I would go to the police if anyone violated my rules.
Chapter Seven
Most of these crimes were committed before DNA testing became available so the perpetrators didn’t need to be quite as careful as today.
An email I received said “Hoffa ain’t buried in Giants Stadium!”
Another said “Ivans didn’t do it – you idiots!” He, or she must have been referring to the post 911 anthrax attacks.
I was getting some interesting stuff. There was a lot of personal stuff too that I didn’t post. Fun to read, but not of much general interest.
Fraud cases fit into two categories, getting even with a big company, or cheating old folks and others who are vulnerable. Fraud against a big company. Fraud – I have found that con artists, people involved in fraud are interesting. The things they do to justify their acts are amazing. Here are a few “Old people don’t need the money, how long are they going to live anyway?” “Most of the people with money have gotten it illegally anyway, so they should share it with me.” “Anyone who is so dumb that they would fall for a scam deserves to be exploited. The lesson they will learn is well worth the cost!”
The Grifter “I invented them all, not only the ‘Irish Sweepstakes Scam,’ but I followed it up with the’ If Your Name is ---You have money in a Liberian Bank’ and they topped it all off with the Work at Home Scam. I should be the Star in the Grifters Hall of Fame!” That is a direct quote from the first email I received from The Grifter. He went on to describe how he came up with the Irish Sweepstakes Scam. “I was reading the newspaper one day and noticed they listed the winning numbers in the Irish Sweepstakes.
It’s a complicated mix of a lottery and a horse race, and most people don’t really understand how it works. People were winning huge sums of money by buying a cheap ticket, and it was illegal in the US at the time, so the tickets had to be smuggled in and sold quietly. People tended to buy them for friends. Every once in a while, someone’s picture would appear with the amount of money they had won listed underneath. Most of the time they seemed happy, but a little confused, perhaps a little afraid since it was illegal.
This got me to thinking, suppose someone bought a ticket, or was a part of a group that bought a number of tickets, and forgot about it. If someone sent them a letter, remember this was in the mid-seventies, telling them that they had won, and offering to handle the arrangements for a fee, a few of them would have greed overcome caution and send a money order. I bought a few mailing lists, lower income areas, and sent a couple of thousand letters. They were really well done, official looking, gold seal, ribbon, signature, I was impressed.
I started getting responses, it was amazing, I only asked for $25.00, But the first few paid my expenses, and after that it was pure profit. Of course I hid behind a fake address and Post Office box that was easy.
So, I sent out a bigger mailing, and split up the return addresses between five mail drops – mail fraud is a pretty serious business, but I knew how to spread the threat, and was careful to shift the boxes often.” He went on to describe subtle differences in the scam and talked about keeping it going for nearly ten years, and only once did he come close to getting caught, kept one Post Office box operating a little too long, and the people he had taken we restarting to complain. “Most of the people I scammed didn’t complain because they didn’t want anyone to know how stupid they had been, and it was only $25.00.”
Then along came the internet! ” The possibilities were limitless, it was made for me. I took my basic idea, send me some money, came up with a bigger potential payoff, you’ve seen them, the imposters, and probably get two or three a week in your email. Big payoffs $6,753,219.07, a strange foreign country, like Lagos, Nigeria and others where corruption is known to be prevalent, a seemingly real person, Dr. or Lawyer with a position in a bank or a government title.
The email, charging a credit card, was simple to set up in the early days, have a built in rerouting process, didn’t take a lot of work to figure it out. And the money kept rolling in.” He described how he stayed in this scam for a little over three years, by then there were so many copycats, he decided to get out of it while he was ahead.
He was smart, he checked in with Fraud Watch.com, snopes.com, TooGoodToBeTrue.com, and Scams.com daily and as soon as he saw some postings tied to his scam he would change it slightly. He even posted positive remarks on some of the web sites occasionally. “I tried this and got $753,000.” “I’m 48 years old, and used to work in a mine in West Virginia. This is for real. I quit my job last week and I’m moving to Las Vegas.” He said “I set up the emails that said that Bill Gates would send you a check for $125,718 if you forwarded the email to 25 friends. It was a great way to get new email addresses.“ I question this, to many good ideas from one guy, but someone had to come up with it.
I wondered, did he really set up the Work at Home scams, or my favorite the “Be a Secret Shopper.” Now, every time I get one of those emails, offering me a fortune, or even an easy job for big pay, I wonder if he is back at it. Certainly he made enough money, and I doubt if he paid much in taxes. So, if it is him, he is doing it because he can’t stop, the challenge, the delight. The feeling of power is just too much for him to pass up.
Chapter Eight
12.jpg had a similar photograph, and this was too much. I decided to call Lt Standish, a guy I knew casually and had played golf with a couple of times at charity events. I told him I had a couple of questions related to a work project and wanted to take him to lunch, and no, I wasn’t looking for a donation for a charity.
We met at a local Mexican Restaurant, exchanged greetings got a table and ordered two Dos Equis. “Hi Joe, How’s the golf?” I said, ”Don’t get out enough to bring down my handicap, I’m surprised it hasn’t gone even higher than it is. How about you?”
“Well Joe, enough of that we’re both busy, have you heard about the “Perfect Crime” Website?” He thought for a minute and said “Yeah, a couple of the guys in my group check it out every so often, mostly for fun. I have heard from a friend that a couple of crimes have been solved using the information. Guess these guys don’t want to quit while they are ahead.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, these guys seem to think that they can keep on doing the same thing and not get caught. The big gaps between the cases make it hard to get a connection, and my buddies were able to see a pattern and actually make a couple of arrests. Why do you ask?”
“It’s my web site.”
“That’s interesting; they said that there didn’t seem to be a ‘cooperative’ person on the other end.” “That’s how I set it up,” I said, a little defensively, “I didn’t think I’d get any action if people thought they would be open to investigation. ‘Perfect Crimes’ has become quite a success, I’m getting over 7000 hits a day, and about 20 ‘crimes’ every week.”
Joe looked a little puzzled, “So, what now? What do you want from me?”
“Things change, I knew that I would be opening myself up to an odd group, but I thought the rules and the security I set up would keep everyone sort of inline – it was to their benefit after all.”
He said “Yea, I spend all of my time working with these guys, changes your outlook on life – sad, a lot of the guys really can’t develop ‘normal relationships’ they see evil hidden in everyone they know and are always suspicious. I’m not surprised about what you are telling me. So what has happened now that changed your mind?”
I told him about what I had begun to think about as the “.jpg killer” and handed him a printout of the file I had generated.
He glanced at the contents, said he’d get back to me, got up, shook my hand and left, just like that.
As I was leaving I saw Sam Jefferson out of the corner of my eye. Cops don’t believe in coincidence, but I do, or I did.
Chapter Nine
There are stories in the newspapers every couple of years about a little-old-lady accountant who has been caught embezzling from her company. Based on the statistics I’ve seen, most are not caught. I assume, and the following story supports that assumption. “It began with me trying to test the system. I know that’s what a lot of people say, but I’m serious.”
“My job included checking for improper payments, and a failure to verify accounts before paying them. After several years of finding nothing out of order, I decided to set up a test case. Surely this was covered in my job description.”
“So, I fabricated a bill supposedly from one of our suppliers. I put a different bank account for the payment to go to, and account that I set up, and I paid the invoice.”
“Then I waited for the accounting cycle to be completed and expected the CPA firm to call me in and ask for an explanation for what had happened. I was all set with a description of the process and could tell them that they had done a great job spotting this deviation from our formal procedures. “
“I waited one month, two months and the report was filed and acccepted. I was worried. How could this have slipped through the system. About a month later, a position opened up that would have been a promotion for me.”
“I didn’t get it, and the person they picked was useless. She had no idea about how things worked in our office and was newer than me. I was pretty sure she was sleeping with our boss, but I certainly didn’t see what he could see in her – bleached hussy! I was furious I can tell you. I didn’t get over it either, not since I could see her everyday sitting in the office that should have been mine.”
“Then an idea came to me. I have an account that seems to be legitimate, and hasn’t been discovered by our auditors. Interesting possibility. But I did nothing for three more months, then it happened, she, now my boss, the incompetent one, took credit for a report that I did all by myself. This was too much, and I remembered my secret account. It was easy to start printing out invoices and paying them into the account. Too easy. I was careful, keep the amounts small, receive them on busy days, pay them with a batch of others, and, keep your mouth shut and don’t spend the money!”
“I had a big advantage; I knew when the auditors would be coming. I had to set up the records for them to review.”
“When I started, I decided to set a goal so that I could stop before I was caught. $10,000 seemed fair; that’s about what the denied promotion would cost me. Then after I had $10,000 in my account, I remembered that there was the value of benefits – retirement, vacation etc. so I set my goal up to $15,000. Small potatoes I know. But remember, I was only trying to correct an injustice!”
“When I reached $15,000 I reevaluated my position and I thought about the impact the missed promotion would have on my retirement, $25,000. Then I remembered that I should be awarded punitive damages, and decided $250,000 would be fair. It took a while to get to this level, and I was ready to retire when I reached it. So, I took my retirement, and with my nice nest egg I began a comfortable retirement. No taxes, no reporting, no hassle, and most important NO REGRETS! They really should have given me that promotion!”
Observations: No system is safe from a knowledgeable, trusted insider. No system is safe from a suicide bomber. No system is safe from human intellect. Don’t piss off your people!
13.jpg Another girl, but this time the body was wearing a sweater. The quality of this photo was much better than others he had sent, and something looked familiar, it was my sweater! Remember the wild styles that were popular ten or so years ago? The wilder the better, swirls, brilliant colors, each one unique, mostly Italian made?
I quickly compared it with a photo of me on the wall wearing that exact sweater! This was definitely mine! I ran up stairs and looked in my sweater drawer it was missing. I couldn’t remember if I had given it to a thrift store or not, I supposed that was possible.
Chapter Ten
You may think that all of the postings would be serious, what’s funny about crime? However, every couple of days I got something that was really humorous. Here’s a sampling – One guy described sneaking into his neighbor’s garage and hooking up a splitter on the Cable TV. He carefully hid the coaxial cable, ran it through the wall in the garage and underground up the short hill that separated his house from his neighbor. He had to monitor the neighbors TV and when he needed service, he would quickly disconnect his line. He had been doing this for over twenty years, even survived two changes in providers!
Half the people in the world seem to tap into their neighbors WiFi. Every so often I check to see what is available on my block. I could click onto two unprotected networks right now. Maybe I have! It would keep me secure, more secure than my honest neighbor!
I like the guys that admit to cutting or diluting things. All of you who are using illicit drugs should read the stories that come to me and you would be amazed, or perhaps appalled! If you start with an illegal activity, one with a great profit margin and one in which there is no consumer protection agency what do you expect? They seem to delight in telling the stories too; laughing at their customers, customers who can’t resist, whose addiction is in control.
Then there are the people who are in the “export/import business;” otherwise known as counterfeit products. Their tales about getting goods and putting the labels from high quality products on them are really funny. It seems like they are always one step ahead of the law, at least the ones that survive and post on my web site. They come across as a happy bunch, making it possible for everyone to afford and enjoy haute couture. I was surprised to find out; shouldn’t have been, I suppose, that there are small shops that specialize in making labels and tags for famous brands. I was even more surprised to hear that it is a side operation for some of the legit label makers. But only for the counterfeiters with really high standards! They supply the flea markets and outlet malls primarily, but quite a few provide some items through the back door of the company stores in high end malls! That takes guts!
14.jpg My photo. Nothing else.
Chapter Eleven
He had been in the house for nearly an hour, darting up and down the stairs whenever car lights showed through the windows. He was incredibly cautious and wanted to make sure he had access to a quick and easy get-away. I could tell from the gap under the door that the lights, which had been off for the entire time flickered briefly and then came on fully.
I couldn’t tell what was happening and was at a loss about why the lights were on. I thought perhaps he was leaving, but I didn’t hear any of the doors open, and couldn’t feel the movement of air that would have been faintly noticeable. I waited, chilled by my fear, afraid to make a sound and hoped something would happen.
Standish called me two days after our meeting and wanted me to come into the office. I declined but said I’d meet him at a restaurant. After all I wasn’t being charged with anything and didn’t want to be seen associating with the cops.
We met at a Chinese restaurant that was busy, steamy and crowded. I ordered Sweet and Sour Pork with white rice and he ordered Beef with Orange and brown rice. We added two Tsingtaos. The waitress was overworked and couldn’t care less what we were taking about.
Joe said, “I’ve been checking on the photos you showed me, and those are real photos. None of the crimes have been solved, and we really don’t have any leads. But they are related and we have launched a serial killer investigation. You told me you had some new stuff, what have you got?”
“Here they are Joe,” I handed him an envelope. “Don’t open it here, it’s more of the same, except for this.” I handed him a print of the photo of me with the tag 13.jpg.
“I see why you are a little upset; this would sure scare the hell out of me.”
“What do you think you can do for me?”
“So, you don’t have any idea how he found out who you are, or where you live?”
“Nothing, my site is really well protected with triple jump outs and up and down encryption. Whoever broke in must be really skillful.”
“You don’t think he could have gotten into your house, had access to the computer, do you? One of our computer forensics guys thought that would be the only way to break into a system like yours.”
“I don’t know, but anything’s possible, I guess.”
Joe said, “We can’t do anything for you like 24 hour protection, but I’ll have a car drive past every hour or so and watch for anything out of the ordinary. Stay safe, and call me when you get anything new. We really want to get this guy.”
“You want to get him, how do you think I feel!”
Just as we were getting ready to leave a tall man in a grey suit with an expensive tie came up to the table. He greeted Joe who then said “This is Sam Jefferson, he’s in the DAs office and I’ve talked to him about your case.”
He said “Hi, we’ve met? What’s new on Perfect Crimes?”
I said, “I’ll let Joe fill you in.”
I was extremely uncomfortable and it showed. The last thing I wanted was to have more people involved, more people who knew who I was. He was watching me in what seemed to be a strange way, but it could have been his way of looking at a new person. I said Good Bye and left quickly.
When I got home, I went to the computer in the basement. In my chair was one of the head mannequins that women keep wigs on. It’s to preserve the shape I guess. But it was different – the neck was bent to a strange angle and a photo of my face had been pinned to the front. There was a note attached. “I thought you promised no cops – BAD BOY” I had the answer to the question about .jpg having access to my house.
Chapter Twelve
After about five minutes in the closet, I had just began to be calm enough to tell the passage of time, I could hear what sounded like electrical sparks, and the lights again flickered and then went out. It was deathly quiet; quieter than I ever remembered.
I suppose my senses were so highly tuned that they intensified the total absence of sound. A waft of air moved under the door and into the closet, it carried a faint acrid smell, and the easily identifiable odor of burning hair. My mind raced, what was going on here?
I was still afraid to move, but I started to count the passage of time. The seconds ticked past, the funny clicking and popping sounds that a house makes at night as things cool and shrink became more noticeable, and at every sound, I would shrink back into the clothes.
Nothing! Absolutely nothing happened, there were no “real” sounds, no movements nothing! I was getting to the point that I was doubting my manliness, even my rationality, the fear was so intense that I had to “happy talk” myself, whistle past the graveyard, hum a couple of lines of It’s a small small world..
Finally I built up the courage to ease the door open, a sliver, and waited. Nothing, I listened carefully and heard nothing, felt nothing moving, I was so closely attuned to the house now that I knew I could tell if anything was going on.
I opened the door just enough to ease out, and moved slowly noiselessly to the door to the bedroom. I waited, and eased it open. No sound, no air movement nothing, except for the strange smell of burning hair. The lights were still out and I was not ready to turn my flashlight on.
I moved carefully to the stairs, I had a really good feel for the layout of the house and could move easily even in the total darkness. I knew that the fifth step had a squeak when it was stepped on, I had used that to tell where .JPG was when he was coming upstairs. I braced myself on the rail and stepped down over it.
Still nothing, I stood still for a minute and listened, sampled my surroundings and there was nothing, nothing except the smell that was becoming stronger. At the bottom of the stairs, I decided to ease through the living room, it was at the front of the house and was lightly illuminated by the outside street lights. My eyes were fully dark adapted and I could see as well as a half blind cat.
Nothing in the living room, I moved on to the hallway and began to feel more at ease, beginning to feel that the danger might be past. I got to the top of the stairs to the basement, and noticed the smell seemed to be stronger here. Should I go down to the basement?
I would be at a disadvantage there, no way out, but it seemed like the best thing to do. I eased down the stairs, stopping on each one to listen and sense. I felt like a cat, a large and poorly coordinated cat, a sort of a disabled or very old cat.
There was a short landing and then a door at the bottom. I stood outside the closed door for a long time, nothing.
I eased the door open waiting for a squeak. After the door was open, I still heard nothing, but the smell was at its most penetrating and the dark was more intense than anywhere else in the house.
I stood there, sensing that something was different. I finally decided that I had to turn on the flashlight. I had a brand new, very bright LED that I had come to depend on during the past six weeks. The LED gives off a bluish color that distorts things slightly but really lights things up.
I pointed it ahead of me and carefully moved the switch on. The basement office was washed in the bright bluish light, and I almost dropped the light again. It took several seconds for my vision to return after being bathed in total darkness for so long.
Then the objects started to emerge. At my desk, my computer terminal, the place I ran my Perfect Crimes web site, a man’s body was draped over the keyboard not moving and at a strange angle. I looked carefully for any signs of life; nothing. I eased closer, careful not to touch the now cooling body, the meat that had been alive so recently, alive and dead set on killing me.
I thought he looked familiar, but I couldn’t be sure and I didn’t want to move the body. As I saw him more clearly, I could see that it was Sam Jefferson, the assistant from the DAs office that Joe had introduced me to. Carefully I looked at his feet. He wasn’t wearing shoes; I suppose he took them off to be able to move about as quietly as possible. Near his ankle, on the inside was a huge brownish black burnt area. The hair was singed over a wide area that must have been the source of the odor I had smelled.
The computer cord must have touched him; and wrapped itself around his ankle. The computer cable I had intended to replace several months ago, but I had simply put it off. The frayed power cord, the one that fed the fuse protected power strip that powered all of my equipment.
So why didn’t the circuit breaker on the power strip trip? I looked at his feet, just to the left, lying on the floor, with the end up on the power strip was a medium size crow or pry bar, it looked brand new, and I suppose he used it to get into the house. Then he kept it with him as a weapon, the claws were shining and looked menacing, it was jammed into the end of the power strip, holding down the circuit breaker, keeping it from opening the circuit and saving his life.
AFTERMATH
Who was .JPG and how did he do it? Those were the first questions I asked the cops when they arrived. It took a couple of weeks for the truth to come out. Seems he was an Assistant District Attorney, Sam Jefferson, which explained a lot about his access to information. He was known to be extremely bright and he thought he should be running the department. What drove him to kill 12 young women we will never know.
His background included a BS in Computer Engineering with a focus on Computer Security, which made it easy for him to get access to my web site. There were still a lot of questions I had, about how he was able to get into my car and my home. But the best that the cops could do was guess, and at this stage their interest in the case was close to zero.
The power outage was explained by a device he had built, it went around the fuse box, and he could take control of the security and electrical system remotely. So, he could turn it back on after he entered my home to get access to my web site. He could easily get to my Google Calendar so knowing when I would be out was easy – I hadn’t updated my schedule for tonight!
What did I learn? Not enough, and certainly not soon enough. but I am very security conscious now, I never expect to get anything that is stolen returned, I assume that everything I put on the Internet will be read by someone other than the intended recipient, I go to the pistol range at least once a month, I bought a Taser and got a permit, and I never put my calendar on line.
I’m thinking about developing a website specifically for revenge stories; they are so entertaining - then I recalled what happened the last time I had a great idea!