Thursday, April 30, 2020
7:49 PM
12
7:49 PM
"Oh, Horace, you horse's ass. You've been out drinking again, haven't you?" Myra said as soon as Horace closed the door behind him. Somehow she could tell from the way he had had trouble with the keys.
Sheriff Donnelly smiled and careened slightly. "I may have had a couple."
"Well, Horace, you have your blood pressure to think about."
"I know. I do."
He took his hat off and sat down in the easy chair.
"Don't bother thinking I'm going to serve you dinner in the living room. You'll have to come to the table if you want to get fed."
"Yes, dear," he said, and got back up and walked to the kitchen.
He sat down at the head of the table.
"David is coming with his new girlfriend on Sunday. Make sure that you're there. I want to make a good impression."
"Yes, dear. Problem is, this murder case."
"Oh, yes. That murder case."
Myra sat down next to him, waiting patiently for him to begin.
"There's nothing to say, Myra," he said. "Except that it might not be figured out in time for Sunday dinner with David and his new girlfriend."
"Nothing? Not anything?"
"We got a lead, but no suspects."
"The pastor of that Baptist church south of town?"
"No, we don't make him for it."
"We?"
"The FBI agent and I, Myra."
"FBI! Well, just call you J. Edgar Hoover."
"Ginger asked after you."
"Ginger did, did she."
"Yeah."
"She want something?"
"Cherry pie."
"Cherry pie! Ha. Well, that I don't mind giving."
"So it's not that pastor, huh? Somebody else in town that's got it in for the doctor."
Sheriff Donnelly looked over. "I'm not taking media inquiries at this moment, Myra."
"Yeah, you wish. Put your picture on the five o'clock news."
"Once I solve this case, how can they keep me out of it?"
"You about ready to?"
He smiled and winked.
"Oh, Horace, you're a dumb one, but I guess it don't take smarts."
"I guess not."
Sheriff Donnelly slowly chewed at his food in the solace of their house, the night gently falling on their corner of Texas. Some dog barked off in the distance, and a big rig hummed down the highway some miles off. The hum of cicadas started up, ready for the nightfall.
Soon, a blanket of stars and, etched against the sky, an old windmill in the neighbor's yard.
7:49 PM
"Oh, Horace, you horse's ass. You've been out drinking again, haven't you?" Myra said as soon as Horace closed the door behind him. Somehow she could tell from the way he had had trouble with the keys.
Sheriff Donnelly smiled and careened slightly. "I may have had a couple."
"Well, Horace, you have your blood pressure to think about."
"I know. I do."
He took his hat off and sat down in the easy chair.
"Don't bother thinking I'm going to serve you dinner in the living room. You'll have to come to the table if you want to get fed."
"Yes, dear," he said, and got back up and walked to the kitchen.
He sat down at the head of the table.
"David is coming with his new girlfriend on Sunday. Make sure that you're there. I want to make a good impression."
"Yes, dear. Problem is, this murder case."
"Oh, yes. That murder case."
Myra sat down next to him, waiting patiently for him to begin.
"There's nothing to say, Myra," he said. "Except that it might not be figured out in time for Sunday dinner with David and his new girlfriend."
"Nothing? Not anything?"
"We got a lead, but no suspects."
"The pastor of that Baptist church south of town?"
"No, we don't make him for it."
"We?"
"The FBI agent and I, Myra."
"FBI! Well, just call you J. Edgar Hoover."
"Ginger asked after you."
"Ginger did, did she."
"Yeah."
"She want something?"
"Cherry pie."
"Cherry pie! Ha. Well, that I don't mind giving."
"So it's not that pastor, huh? Somebody else in town that's got it in for the doctor."
Sheriff Donnelly looked over. "I'm not taking media inquiries at this moment, Myra."
"Yeah, you wish. Put your picture on the five o'clock news."
"Once I solve this case, how can they keep me out of it?"
"You about ready to?"
He smiled and winked.
"Oh, Horace, you're a dumb one, but I guess it don't take smarts."
"I guess not."
Sheriff Donnelly slowly chewed at his food in the solace of their house, the night gently falling on their corner of Texas. Some dog barked off in the distance, and a big rig hummed down the highway some miles off. The hum of cicadas started up, ready for the nightfall.
Soon, a blanket of stars and, etched against the sky, an old windmill in the neighbor's yard.
5:42 PM
11
5:42 PM
Agent Danley had checked himself into a motel back a ways on Route 6, though he had in no ways stopped working. He had take a few plum files with him and he was sketching a timeline of events. But when he sat down on the motel bed, and really thought about it, it was that woman's face that kept appearing to him. She knew something. She wanted to tell him something. He ought to get back in the car and drive over to that diner and--
He heard the whir of a vending machine click on, and he came back to the situation. That might fly in a drug bust situation, but this was the broad, wide middle of Texas. He couldn't go to people's homes, bust some doors open, and scare them into telling him everything he wanted to know. That kind of action would invite a very negative reaction. The kind of reaction that would get his budget cut, or worse, find himself asked to leave the Bureau.
He found that the most difficult part of his mandate was that he was being asked to operate in environments where the normal tools at the disposal of law enforcement were not appropriate. Witness interrogation was one where the norms in a small town in Texas and the norms in an urban environment in say Chicago were so drastically different that it left Agent Danley with a bit of ennui. Since he couldn't really operate as was necessary to solve these crimes effectively, he couldn't really do what he was asked to do.
Since it was painfully obvious that the threat from places like the middle of Texas was growing to the Federal Government, owing to a generation that experienced the painful losses of Watergate and Vietnam, not to mention cultural changes which, on the one hand encouraged people like Agent Danley who believed in an open world in which goods and people moved effortlessly across borders, discouraged people who relied on manufacturing that probably wasn't coming back. Just like Palestinians and other Arabs, jobless and angry, had pined for some supposed traditional way of life, one that probably never existed in the pure form these radicals were imagining, so too would these young men, disillusioned by American society, start to actively resist it.
When push came to shove, how would agents like Agent Danley get to and prevent the next terrorist act? He hadn't managed to prevent this one. The things that law enforcement agencies were able to do in response to drugs it probably would never be able to do in this place. And if it did, there would be a counter-reaction that would be hazardous to the department, or the Federal Government generally. The cycle of violence would commence, and probably never become disarmed.
What he felt buzzing up in his was a glorious memorandum! Yes, it really was. "Terrorist Threats Within the United States: Operating Framework for Understanding and Dismantling the Enemy Within." This was going to be good one. One for the ages.
He wondered who would read it, though? Someone from the gaze of history, he supposed. Someone who would look back on his work and say, "a-ha!" here is someone that got it way before everyone else. But would it make any change in the department? Would it cause people to prepare for the coming future?
No, probably not.
Well, he thought, I have only this going for me, and that's that criminal acts are done in long strings, where each next criminal act has a chance to upset enough of the right people to cause every criminal act they commit to become forbidden.
Sure, they may start by harassing an abortion clinic, but they would not be able to let it end there. No, eventually they would do something that would let people know their acquiescence to violence to solve political questions led down a terrible road. You could, as Agent Danley did, believe in the same end goal. But there was no use to violence in a working democracy. If you had a need to commit violence either the democracy was not working, or else the person was not willing to commit to democracy.
Agent Danley thought, fundamentally, we live in a working democracy. Yes, there were some things that could use improvement, but fundamentally, we live in a free country. A country where you could convince the broad majority of Americans to make illegal again abortion, or else to make it infrequent. You could run for local office. You could run for state office. You could campaign for candidates that shared your point of view. And, ultimately, if you didn't get you way, you had to abide the law, no matter your feelings towards it.
Well, he still had hope. Tomorrow they were going to crack this case open, and find squirming behind this guy every other person in a long intricate set of links to every other person who intended to do harm to anybody ever. It could happen, right?
5:42 PM
Agent Danley had checked himself into a motel back a ways on Route 6, though he had in no ways stopped working. He had take a few plum files with him and he was sketching a timeline of events. But when he sat down on the motel bed, and really thought about it, it was that woman's face that kept appearing to him. She knew something. She wanted to tell him something. He ought to get back in the car and drive over to that diner and--
He heard the whir of a vending machine click on, and he came back to the situation. That might fly in a drug bust situation, but this was the broad, wide middle of Texas. He couldn't go to people's homes, bust some doors open, and scare them into telling him everything he wanted to know. That kind of action would invite a very negative reaction. The kind of reaction that would get his budget cut, or worse, find himself asked to leave the Bureau.
He found that the most difficult part of his mandate was that he was being asked to operate in environments where the normal tools at the disposal of law enforcement were not appropriate. Witness interrogation was one where the norms in a small town in Texas and the norms in an urban environment in say Chicago were so drastically different that it left Agent Danley with a bit of ennui. Since he couldn't really operate as was necessary to solve these crimes effectively, he couldn't really do what he was asked to do.
Since it was painfully obvious that the threat from places like the middle of Texas was growing to the Federal Government, owing to a generation that experienced the painful losses of Watergate and Vietnam, not to mention cultural changes which, on the one hand encouraged people like Agent Danley who believed in an open world in which goods and people moved effortlessly across borders, discouraged people who relied on manufacturing that probably wasn't coming back. Just like Palestinians and other Arabs, jobless and angry, had pined for some supposed traditional way of life, one that probably never existed in the pure form these radicals were imagining, so too would these young men, disillusioned by American society, start to actively resist it.
When push came to shove, how would agents like Agent Danley get to and prevent the next terrorist act? He hadn't managed to prevent this one. The things that law enforcement agencies were able to do in response to drugs it probably would never be able to do in this place. And if it did, there would be a counter-reaction that would be hazardous to the department, or the Federal Government generally. The cycle of violence would commence, and probably never become disarmed.
What he felt buzzing up in his was a glorious memorandum! Yes, it really was. "Terrorist Threats Within the United States: Operating Framework for Understanding and Dismantling the Enemy Within." This was going to be good one. One for the ages.
He wondered who would read it, though? Someone from the gaze of history, he supposed. Someone who would look back on his work and say, "a-ha!" here is someone that got it way before everyone else. But would it make any change in the department? Would it cause people to prepare for the coming future?
No, probably not.
Well, he thought, I have only this going for me, and that's that criminal acts are done in long strings, where each next criminal act has a chance to upset enough of the right people to cause every criminal act they commit to become forbidden.
Sure, they may start by harassing an abortion clinic, but they would not be able to let it end there. No, eventually they would do something that would let people know their acquiescence to violence to solve political questions led down a terrible road. You could, as Agent Danley did, believe in the same end goal. But there was no use to violence in a working democracy. If you had a need to commit violence either the democracy was not working, or else the person was not willing to commit to democracy.
Agent Danley thought, fundamentally, we live in a working democracy. Yes, there were some things that could use improvement, but fundamentally, we live in a free country. A country where you could convince the broad majority of Americans to make illegal again abortion, or else to make it infrequent. You could run for local office. You could run for state office. You could campaign for candidates that shared your point of view. And, ultimately, if you didn't get you way, you had to abide the law, no matter your feelings towards it.
Well, he still had hope. Tomorrow they were going to crack this case open, and find squirming behind this guy every other person in a long intricate set of links to every other person who intended to do harm to anybody ever. It could happen, right?
5:01 PM
10
5:01 PM
Angela tried to flip on the television, but nothing. She tried to turn on the lights. Nothing. Oh, hell, she thought. The power's out again. Instead of the news, she saw herself in the mirror.
"A man's dead," she told herself. "And all you can worry about is the 5 o'clock news."
The problem was not knowing. Not knowing if the doctor was the guy that had done Lorlene's abortion. Not knowing if Bill knew. Not knowing if Bill was capable of killing someone in cold blood. It could have been a lot of people, for a lot of reasons. It didn't necessarily have to be the reason that she was thinking.
"But you suspected all along that he'd do it. You knew he would and then it happened and now you don't want to give him up."
That was it, wasn't it. She felt some insane need to protect Bill from the law. Wouldn't it be better for him, she was thinking, if he wasn't caught. He knew what he did was wrong, but prison, well that would spoil his whole life.
Whether it would or wouldn't was of no concern of hers! She had to pick up the phone and call the Sheriff. Tell him to go get Bill and lock him up!
But how do you know they haven't gotten somebody for the crime already? she thought. If you'd flipped on the television, maybe you would have seen the guy had been picked up.
She accepted that as the answer and decided to call the power company instead.
You should make the call just in case, she told herself. But she didn't want to call and have been embarrassed to accuse him. No, that was foolish. She ought to get the power turned back on and then decide what to do.
She thought of her son. Why she should, she wasn't sure. Nick had never done anything worse than light some things on fire he probably shouldn't have. Okay, he had blown up some household objects, but that was normal boy stuff. He hadn't meant to kill anything larger than a rodent.
Angela sat down. Rationalization. Why was she rationalizing everything.
"Because I feel at fault."
She did. She felt like she had pulled the trigger. Where was Phil Donahue when you needed him. This would make a great episode. "I could have stopped him," she could imagine herself saying. And Phil would be in the audience nodding in his serene way. Then he'd pick the microphone back up. "I think we have time for a question."
"Don't disappear into a make-believe world," she told herself. "This is serious. Somebody was killed."
But it was too late. She had already escaped. Wow. And it was well after the time to start cooking dinner! Oh, damn, she remembered. Electric range. Should have gotten something from the diner before she left. Well, she still could go back.
Rather get pizza than see anybody after she'd already left. She decided to call for the pizza right then.
And you know what? She never even considered calling the Sheriff's Department once after that, though she did many times fantasize about being on Phil Donahue, or Oprah.
"Oh, Phil," she would say. "Or, Oprah, I didn't want him to be disappointed with me. And Oprah would say, 'we're going to take a quick commercial break.' She always said that after the guest said something really terrible and damning."
5:01 PM
Angela tried to flip on the television, but nothing. She tried to turn on the lights. Nothing. Oh, hell, she thought. The power's out again. Instead of the news, she saw herself in the mirror.
"A man's dead," she told herself. "And all you can worry about is the 5 o'clock news."
The problem was not knowing. Not knowing if the doctor was the guy that had done Lorlene's abortion. Not knowing if Bill knew. Not knowing if Bill was capable of killing someone in cold blood. It could have been a lot of people, for a lot of reasons. It didn't necessarily have to be the reason that she was thinking.
"But you suspected all along that he'd do it. You knew he would and then it happened and now you don't want to give him up."
That was it, wasn't it. She felt some insane need to protect Bill from the law. Wouldn't it be better for him, she was thinking, if he wasn't caught. He knew what he did was wrong, but prison, well that would spoil his whole life.
Whether it would or wouldn't was of no concern of hers! She had to pick up the phone and call the Sheriff. Tell him to go get Bill and lock him up!
But how do you know they haven't gotten somebody for the crime already? she thought. If you'd flipped on the television, maybe you would have seen the guy had been picked up.
She accepted that as the answer and decided to call the power company instead.
You should make the call just in case, she told herself. But she didn't want to call and have been embarrassed to accuse him. No, that was foolish. She ought to get the power turned back on and then decide what to do.
She thought of her son. Why she should, she wasn't sure. Nick had never done anything worse than light some things on fire he probably shouldn't have. Okay, he had blown up some household objects, but that was normal boy stuff. He hadn't meant to kill anything larger than a rodent.
Angela sat down. Rationalization. Why was she rationalizing everything.
"Because I feel at fault."
She did. She felt like she had pulled the trigger. Where was Phil Donahue when you needed him. This would make a great episode. "I could have stopped him," she could imagine herself saying. And Phil would be in the audience nodding in his serene way. Then he'd pick the microphone back up. "I think we have time for a question."
"Don't disappear into a make-believe world," she told herself. "This is serious. Somebody was killed."
But it was too late. She had already escaped. Wow. And it was well after the time to start cooking dinner! Oh, damn, she remembered. Electric range. Should have gotten something from the diner before she left. Well, she still could go back.
Rather get pizza than see anybody after she'd already left. She decided to call for the pizza right then.
And you know what? She never even considered calling the Sheriff's Department once after that, though she did many times fantasize about being on Phil Donahue, or Oprah.
"Oh, Phil," she would say. "Or, Oprah, I didn't want him to be disappointed with me. And Oprah would say, 'we're going to take a quick commercial break.' She always said that after the guest said something really terrible and damning."
Those Forgotten Dreams
What are you wiping off
When you wipe on that wall?
Why, so many dreams,
Which died, forgotten,
In the breasts of them
That dreamed it.
And did they struggle
To create them?
They gave everything,
And their reward,
For all their work
Was to be a forgotten dream.
And to be slowly scratched away,
By someone
Wiping at a wall.
Some justice!
Their resistance
To be forgotten
Redoubles the efforts
Of those that work to forget.
To wipe away,
Is the dream of one,
And to leave something
Which can never be wiped away the other.
And so, which impulse should win?
For yesterday's dreams
Did not imagine today,
But are stuck in their present.
New needs have arisen
Instantaneously from each moment,
And this moment forbids
The past dream's presence.
And so should the dreamer pause,
Mindful,
Of some many unknown tomorrows?
I cannot tell you how to dream.
But, be careful how permanent you make
Your castles of isolation,
For, they may become isolated
From reason, sense, and belonging.
And once they stick out,
Become out of place,
They will be removed,
No matter how difficult.
And those that lament it,
Well, stop and imagine a world
In which people dreamed,
But never wiped clean.
It would be filled
With every dream ever,
And no dream no need
Would ever become reality.
So dream softly,
When you dream,
Or when you dream,
Dream impermanently.
When you wipe on that wall?
Why, so many dreams,
Which died, forgotten,
In the breasts of them
That dreamed it.
And did they struggle
To create them?
They gave everything,
And their reward,
For all their work
Was to be a forgotten dream.
And to be slowly scratched away,
By someone
Wiping at a wall.
Some justice!
Their resistance
To be forgotten
Redoubles the efforts
Of those that work to forget.
To wipe away,
Is the dream of one,
And to leave something
Which can never be wiped away the other.
And so, which impulse should win?
For yesterday's dreams
Did not imagine today,
But are stuck in their present.
New needs have arisen
Instantaneously from each moment,
And this moment forbids
The past dream's presence.
And so should the dreamer pause,
Mindful,
Of some many unknown tomorrows?
I cannot tell you how to dream.
But, be careful how permanent you make
Your castles of isolation,
For, they may become isolated
From reason, sense, and belonging.
And once they stick out,
Become out of place,
They will be removed,
No matter how difficult.
And those that lament it,
Well, stop and imagine a world
In which people dreamed,
But never wiped clean.
It would be filled
With every dream ever,
And no dream no need
Would ever become reality.
So dream softly,
When you dream,
Or when you dream,
Dream impermanently.
Wednesday, April 29, 2020
4:22 PM
9
4:22 PM
Sheriff Donnelly came back to the Department and could see that Agent Danley had gone a bit mad. There were files everywhere in some vain attempt to organize them.
"Now don't be mad," Agent Danley said. "I wanted to arrange a few things in my mind, and I felt it was necessary to organize things a certain way."
"No problem, agent. It's your investigation. I'm sure you have your process."
The Sheriff paused for just a second.
"Oh yeah, that address. I'm still waiting to hear back but any minute now."
"You think we'll get this guy's phone records?"
"Phone records, address, any other associated phone numbers and addresses, everything. Of course this guy could be unrelated, but then, he could be in handcuffs by the end of the night telling us why he did it."
"Guy from the Texas Rangers have anything to say?"
"He thought this guy was a person of interest. The head of the White Sands Baptist Church. He was going to go a bit more raidy than you did, but you got what he was looking for anyway. He said, 'good job.' I think he went to that seminary instead, see who there is to talk to."
"They're out of session, I think."
"Still got papers to grade, I'll bet."
"Say, Sheriff, why don't you let me treat you to late lunch or early dinner. It's on the Department."
"Yeah, alright."
"So where to, then?"
"Joe's Diner, I guess. Only other place unless you want to drive is the pizza place, and, well, I'm sick of that place."
"Joe's Diner, it is."
Agent Danley rode shotgun in Sheriff Donnelly's cruiser over.
Inside, they made an order to go, and sat at the counter, chewing it over. They couldn't help but notice through their entire conversation, that an off-duty waitress kept looking over at them, but she said nothing. She looked to be counting money and looking through her tickets.
"Well, I'm off," she said to the woman at the cash register.
"See you tomorrow, Angela."
"Bye."
And she left.
"You know her?"
"A waitress here. I've seen her before."
"I'm going to follow her."
"What for?"
"I don't know. Call it a hunch."
"Agent Danley, did you ever just think, of letting it go?"
"Yeah. Yeah, you're right. I should just let her go. I mean, I can ask after her if she becomes important later."
"Right, but after all, some people going going to look at you no matter what. Doesn't always mean something. Some women got a thing for a man in uniform. Of course, I don't know that that's it." He grinned. "But, whatever it is, I think it can wait and we can let that woman maybe worked a hard day, let her go on her way, as, so far as we can tell, she hasn't done anything wrong."
"Yeah, Sheriff, yeah, you're right."
But the farther the woman got beyond his grasp, the less able her was to cope with it. Something called to him, to follow her, to chase her down, to find out what she was hiding. But the Sheriff was right. Other than a sideways glance, what did he have to base that on?
He just felt something immediate about chasing after her, something immediate enough to be worth whatever fallout would come afterwards. Instead, they just grabbed their food and went back to the Sheriff's Department, where Lieutenant Cantroux greeted them urgently.
"They got an address."
They all went inside and had a look at the map. It wasn't very far away.
"Do we roll on it now, or do we wait for morning?"
"Guy might be heavily armed. Sheriff, you sure you can't get a deputy or two here?"
"Yeah, I could call Chip, see if he's feeling any better."
"Three of us could take him."
"Assuming he's alone, right? I think you should make a couple calls see if we can get some state troopers on the case."
"Texas Rangers, sir."
"You're right. Not State Troopers. Texas Rangers."
The Sheriff cleared his throat. "This sounds like a job for my favorite two deputies: bright and early."
"Let's hope you can scramble two other ones as well," Lieutenant Cantroux deadpanned.
3:32 PM
8
May 5, 1986 3:32 PM
The White Sands Baptist Church had no neighbors. It was set off on a piece of land which was not connected to the rest of the town except the highway which passed to the South into some barren wasteland with salt and gravel mines.
But the church itself looked very nice and inviting, owing to it being flush with born again folk from the surrounding areas.
The pastor, Ben Damand, was well known through most of the state for his rather flamboyant services, in which he could be counted on to sweat, and cry, and shout at invisible demons. Sometimes he could be found on the floor, in convulsions, overcome with the spirit of the Lord.
Ginger Spitz, his most avid follower, and sometime business manager was never very far away from the action, and sometimes had to intervene to narrate what was happening if he got lost in the middle of the act. The whole thing was broadcast on local television on Sunday mornings, and Wednesday afternoons.
The Sheriff found himself, with great misgivings, ringing the buzzer on the gate outside the property, when who should ring back but Ginger herself.
"What can we do you for?" she said.
"Hey, is this Ginger?"
"Yes, who's this?"
"Sheriff Donnelly. I came down to ask if we could sit down and chat, the reverend, too, if he's around."
"What's this about, Sheriff?"
"Don't worry. You're not suspected of anything, I just want to chat with the both of you, follow up on some things."
"Can we arrange a time to come down, Sheriff? We're a bit busy here."
"Oh, sure, but, as you know, Sam Jones was shot in his driveway a few days ago. I'm no longer in charge of the investigation, and I want to go back the agent in charge and tell him that I talked to you, otherwise he's going to get awful sore and probably order the whole church searched and possibly have some of your records carted away."
There was a pause.
"Now, I don't want any of that to happen, that's why I'm asking you, politely, if we can sit down and chat right now, and then I can say we talked."
"That sounds alright, then, Sheriff. Why don't you come on inside."
The gate buzzed and swung open. The Sheriff rolled inside.
Inside the huge church with its perfect climate control, the Sheriff saw the reverend practicing his Sunday sermon.
"Sheriff!" said Reverend Damand. "So good of you to drop by. We all heard the terrible news about Sam and we've been praying on it a lot."
"A lot," Ginger echoed.
"I was talking to Trudy, who you know was Sam's assistant at his practice. She said you and Ginger had been down to their practice once or twice giving him some trouble."
"Did she say that?" Ginger said.
"We did indeed, Sheriff. We believe in the right to life, and we had a slight disagreement with the doctor about his practice of medicine. But you know, I mean I hope you know, that we would never do more than try to convince him, to change his heart...am I being suspected for this murder?"
"No! Not in the least, reverend. But I'm trying to sort out how it happened, and I've been asked by the FBI agent who has taken over this investigation to follow up on some people that might have given the doctor some grief, and see if they have any insight into why this might have happened. I mean, can you think of anyone in your congregation that, you know, said anything to you, maybe even kidding, about killing the doctor or anything like that?"
The Reverend paused.
"Yes, there was one guy who I never really liked. He had an instigator vibe to him, and he was always talking about going in and wrecking the place."
"What was his name?"
"Caleb, I think. Or maybe it was Joseph. He's not a member of our congregation. He was a seminary student. To be honest, he organized the whole protest to begin with. He said it was a class project to work on community building and he asked if we wanted to participate in a protest against Sam's practice, who he said was an abortionist. I admit, I was eager to join, because I happen to think abortion is wrong. But I told him, in no uncertain terms, that I would not do anything more than show up and sing songs. Other than that, I was not interested. He seemed to lose interest in it, and we moved on."
"Anybody you can think of might know where this Caleb or Joseph is?"
"I think I might have his number in my Rolodex."
"You do! Why if you could grab it for me that would be of tremendous help."
"I will, Sheriff."
The Reverend disappeared.
"How's Myra?" Ginger offered.
"Fine. Just fine."
"I've been missing her cherry pies."
"I'll have to tell her. She'll be happy to bring you one, when she baked a couple."
"Wouldn't that be nice!" Ginger said. "Just thinking about it makes my mouth water."
The Reverend re-emerged, with a little card with a number on it.
"Does that do it, Sheriff?"
"Yeah, but Reverend, why if this boy was telling you these things you didn't think to get us on the phone tell us about it?"
"Well--"
"Now, this is serious, Reverend. I know you don't truck in this kind of stuff, you ought to put a stop to it, and you ought to call us so we can have a chat. I don't mean to blame you for it. It's not your fault. But if it is this boy, well, I got to think you could have intervened by picking up the phone and letting us know that the doctor was in danger."
"You're right, Sheriff."
"So if anybody else in your congregation or anybody else you come across starts talking about wrecking anybody's anything or harming anybody what are you going to do?"
"I've got to call you."
"That's right. And you know what? I bet you're going to sleep better at night not having the worry about what they might be up to."
"You're right."
"Okay. And I sure well tell Myra about that pie."
"Thank you. See you!"
The Sheriff walked out the double door into the bright sunshine and put on his hat. He went to his car and started writing down his notes, before he looked at the radio. He ought to radio this one in.
"This is Sheriff, anyone there to pick up, over."
There was a loud scratch and then Agent Danley's voice came over. "I'm here Sheriff, what do you got?"
"I need you to look up a phone record. Might be the perpetrator."
"Sheriff, I could kiss you. Alright, give it to me slowly."
The Sheriff read the numbers over the phone.
"I'm coming back that way in just a moment, Agent Danley."
"I hope to have an address by then."
The Sheriff sat in the car, hearing the birds chirp, before he switched on the ignition and threw on his sunglasses.
May 5, 1986 3:32 PM
The White Sands Baptist Church had no neighbors. It was set off on a piece of land which was not connected to the rest of the town except the highway which passed to the South into some barren wasteland with salt and gravel mines.
But the church itself looked very nice and inviting, owing to it being flush with born again folk from the surrounding areas.
The pastor, Ben Damand, was well known through most of the state for his rather flamboyant services, in which he could be counted on to sweat, and cry, and shout at invisible demons. Sometimes he could be found on the floor, in convulsions, overcome with the spirit of the Lord.
Ginger Spitz, his most avid follower, and sometime business manager was never very far away from the action, and sometimes had to intervene to narrate what was happening if he got lost in the middle of the act. The whole thing was broadcast on local television on Sunday mornings, and Wednesday afternoons.
The Sheriff found himself, with great misgivings, ringing the buzzer on the gate outside the property, when who should ring back but Ginger herself.
"What can we do you for?" she said.
"Hey, is this Ginger?"
"Yes, who's this?"
"Sheriff Donnelly. I came down to ask if we could sit down and chat, the reverend, too, if he's around."
"What's this about, Sheriff?"
"Don't worry. You're not suspected of anything, I just want to chat with the both of you, follow up on some things."
"Can we arrange a time to come down, Sheriff? We're a bit busy here."
"Oh, sure, but, as you know, Sam Jones was shot in his driveway a few days ago. I'm no longer in charge of the investigation, and I want to go back the agent in charge and tell him that I talked to you, otherwise he's going to get awful sore and probably order the whole church searched and possibly have some of your records carted away."
There was a pause.
"Now, I don't want any of that to happen, that's why I'm asking you, politely, if we can sit down and chat right now, and then I can say we talked."
"That sounds alright, then, Sheriff. Why don't you come on inside."
The gate buzzed and swung open. The Sheriff rolled inside.
Inside the huge church with its perfect climate control, the Sheriff saw the reverend practicing his Sunday sermon.
"Sheriff!" said Reverend Damand. "So good of you to drop by. We all heard the terrible news about Sam and we've been praying on it a lot."
"A lot," Ginger echoed.
"I was talking to Trudy, who you know was Sam's assistant at his practice. She said you and Ginger had been down to their practice once or twice giving him some trouble."
"Did she say that?" Ginger said.
"We did indeed, Sheriff. We believe in the right to life, and we had a slight disagreement with the doctor about his practice of medicine. But you know, I mean I hope you know, that we would never do more than try to convince him, to change his heart...am I being suspected for this murder?"
"No! Not in the least, reverend. But I'm trying to sort out how it happened, and I've been asked by the FBI agent who has taken over this investigation to follow up on some people that might have given the doctor some grief, and see if they have any insight into why this might have happened. I mean, can you think of anyone in your congregation that, you know, said anything to you, maybe even kidding, about killing the doctor or anything like that?"
The Reverend paused.
"Yes, there was one guy who I never really liked. He had an instigator vibe to him, and he was always talking about going in and wrecking the place."
"What was his name?"
"Caleb, I think. Or maybe it was Joseph. He's not a member of our congregation. He was a seminary student. To be honest, he organized the whole protest to begin with. He said it was a class project to work on community building and he asked if we wanted to participate in a protest against Sam's practice, who he said was an abortionist. I admit, I was eager to join, because I happen to think abortion is wrong. But I told him, in no uncertain terms, that I would not do anything more than show up and sing songs. Other than that, I was not interested. He seemed to lose interest in it, and we moved on."
"Anybody you can think of might know where this Caleb or Joseph is?"
"I think I might have his number in my Rolodex."
"You do! Why if you could grab it for me that would be of tremendous help."
"I will, Sheriff."
The Reverend disappeared.
"How's Myra?" Ginger offered.
"Fine. Just fine."
"I've been missing her cherry pies."
"I'll have to tell her. She'll be happy to bring you one, when she baked a couple."
"Wouldn't that be nice!" Ginger said. "Just thinking about it makes my mouth water."
The Reverend re-emerged, with a little card with a number on it.
"Does that do it, Sheriff?"
"Yeah, but Reverend, why if this boy was telling you these things you didn't think to get us on the phone tell us about it?"
"Well--"
"Now, this is serious, Reverend. I know you don't truck in this kind of stuff, you ought to put a stop to it, and you ought to call us so we can have a chat. I don't mean to blame you for it. It's not your fault. But if it is this boy, well, I got to think you could have intervened by picking up the phone and letting us know that the doctor was in danger."
"You're right, Sheriff."
"So if anybody else in your congregation or anybody else you come across starts talking about wrecking anybody's anything or harming anybody what are you going to do?"
"I've got to call you."
"That's right. And you know what? I bet you're going to sleep better at night not having the worry about what they might be up to."
"You're right."
"Okay. And I sure well tell Myra about that pie."
"Thank you. See you!"
The Sheriff walked out the double door into the bright sunshine and put on his hat. He went to his car and started writing down his notes, before he looked at the radio. He ought to radio this one in.
"This is Sheriff, anyone there to pick up, over."
There was a loud scratch and then Agent Danley's voice came over. "I'm here Sheriff, what do you got?"
"I need you to look up a phone record. Might be the perpetrator."
"Sheriff, I could kiss you. Alright, give it to me slowly."
The Sheriff read the numbers over the phone.
"I'm coming back that way in just a moment, Agent Danley."
"I hope to have an address by then."
The Sheriff sat in the car, hearing the birds chirp, before he switched on the ignition and threw on his sunglasses.
Choke
The reason that you cough
Is:
You won't tell someone
Something that bugs you,
Something that pains you.
That thing you must say,
To be relieved
Of it.
Instead of say it,
You choke on it,
And you cannot be made better
Until you say it.
Oh, I know this sounds strange!
Are not coughs
Functions of phlegm,
And cannot phlegm be removed?
And don't medications,
Voluminous medications,
Take care of a cough
And end that suffering?
That is true.
You can suppress it.
You can forbid your tongue
To say what's in your heart.
Or you can speak it!
And if it is so simple
As failing to say it,
Why would you instead
Choke on it?
And then cram medication down,
To prevent that most simple
Of remedies available to you?
Say what it is!
Don't choke on it!
You know what you have to say,
And if it is causing you pain
You must say out loud
What it is
That is bothering you.
Be free!
And if it disappoints
Those around you,
Well, it is better to disappoint them
Than to die.
Or does it seem better
To be killed by what you have to say,
Than simply to open your mouth
And speak it?
Well, you would not be alone.
For, so many people
Would rather hold in
What they intend to speak,
Than do the simple thing
Of speaking it.
And you can hear them,
With their awful cough.
They will never learn.
Do not be one of them.
When you feel yourself
Choking on your thoughts,
Practice writing them down.
And then when you've written them,
Practice saying them.
Then, finally, say them out loud!
And if it doesn't make you better,
Well, then I think you have further thoughts,
And you should meditate
On the causes of your discomfort.
But I bet it is only,
What you dare not admit.
Say to the one you love
How they are making you feel.
And, well, if they don't want to hear it,
That is theirs.
But it is not good
Not to say it.
They can hear it.
They can process it.
They can ignore it.
But, at least they know.
And if they don't care,
Well, then perhaps they should
If they really care about you.
Because, if you say what you need,
And they don't respond
By saying, too, what they want,
And if some amends cannot be made
Your relationship may be at an end.
For it won't do,
To spend a whole life
Choking on your innermost thoughts.
Is:
You won't tell someone
Something that bugs you,
Something that pains you.
That thing you must say,
To be relieved
Of it.
Instead of say it,
You choke on it,
And you cannot be made better
Until you say it.
Oh, I know this sounds strange!
Are not coughs
Functions of phlegm,
And cannot phlegm be removed?
And don't medications,
Voluminous medications,
Take care of a cough
And end that suffering?
That is true.
You can suppress it.
You can forbid your tongue
To say what's in your heart.
Or you can speak it!
And if it is so simple
As failing to say it,
Why would you instead
Choke on it?
And then cram medication down,
To prevent that most simple
Of remedies available to you?
Say what it is!
Don't choke on it!
You know what you have to say,
And if it is causing you pain
You must say out loud
What it is
That is bothering you.
Be free!
And if it disappoints
Those around you,
Well, it is better to disappoint them
Than to die.
Or does it seem better
To be killed by what you have to say,
Than simply to open your mouth
And speak it?
Well, you would not be alone.
For, so many people
Would rather hold in
What they intend to speak,
Than do the simple thing
Of speaking it.
And you can hear them,
With their awful cough.
They will never learn.
Do not be one of them.
When you feel yourself
Choking on your thoughts,
Practice writing them down.
And then when you've written them,
Practice saying them.
Then, finally, say them out loud!
And if it doesn't make you better,
Well, then I think you have further thoughts,
And you should meditate
On the causes of your discomfort.
But I bet it is only,
What you dare not admit.
Say to the one you love
How they are making you feel.
And, well, if they don't want to hear it,
That is theirs.
But it is not good
Not to say it.
They can hear it.
They can process it.
They can ignore it.
But, at least they know.
And if they don't care,
Well, then perhaps they should
If they really care about you.
Because, if you say what you need,
And they don't respond
By saying, too, what they want,
And if some amends cannot be made
Your relationship may be at an end.
For it won't do,
To spend a whole life
Choking on your innermost thoughts.
Tuesday, April 28, 2020
Traveling Through Time
You don't know
How it is for life to pass you by
Until you stop living it.
And then do the days roll by,
Like steamrollers they do,
And there is a solace
In knowing how worthless
Each passing moment is.
The anxiety of now.
Why did we accept it?
There is no poetry
To impatience.
So, on marches
The vagaries of days,
And minutes and hours,
The self-same apparatus.
But it goes
Without me getting stuck in it.
The machinery doesn't need me,
Nor do I need it.
But the self-same days pass
Without meaning.
They need a change.
Nothing to look forward to!
That is the dilemma.
Every day the same.
No struggle, no difference.
Oh, to find the struggle
In solving the problems of others!
But no, I must invent it
In my own life and struggle with it.
To sit above the fray;
This is the dream of all.
But to sit above the fray
Is a difficult position.
The admission of struggle
As an everyday part of life
Is the infection
Which keeps us pinned to it.
Traveling through time.
That is a hard thing to do
Without inventing struggle
To make time slow down
And, so we think,
Give some meaning to our lives,
Or take our last breath,
Either way, something new.
How it is for life to pass you by
Until you stop living it.
And then do the days roll by,
Like steamrollers they do,
And there is a solace
In knowing how worthless
Each passing moment is.
The anxiety of now.
Why did we accept it?
There is no poetry
To impatience.
So, on marches
The vagaries of days,
And minutes and hours,
The self-same apparatus.
But it goes
Without me getting stuck in it.
The machinery doesn't need me,
Nor do I need it.
But the self-same days pass
Without meaning.
They need a change.
Nothing to look forward to!
That is the dilemma.
Every day the same.
No struggle, no difference.
Oh, to find the struggle
In solving the problems of others!
But no, I must invent it
In my own life and struggle with it.
To sit above the fray;
This is the dream of all.
But to sit above the fray
Is a difficult position.
The admission of struggle
As an everyday part of life
Is the infection
Which keeps us pinned to it.
Traveling through time.
That is a hard thing to do
Without inventing struggle
To make time slow down
And, so we think,
Give some meaning to our lives,
Or take our last breath,
Either way, something new.
1:38 PM
7
May 5, 1986
1:38 PM
There was a knock on the door and Panzer and Squeak went crazy.
"Now who in the hell could that be? Jehovah's witnesses, probably."
Trudy pushed back her glasses onto the top of her nose. The knocking continued.
"Hold your horses. I'm'a coming!"
Trudy decided to put the dogs in the backyard just in case, but the knocking was too constant. She opened the door just a crack.
"Hey, Trudy."
"Sheriff. What can I do for you?"
"I got to talk to you."
"Oh yeah?"
"We've got to find Sam's killer."
"Oh yeah. What you need to talk to me for? You think I had something to do with you."
"Well of course I don't. But I still got to talk to you."
"I see. What about?"
"Well, think about it Trudy, wouldn't the person who did this be someone that he knew. Someone that he saw, maybe, or someone else that hassled him."
"There were plenty of those, Sheriff."
"Well, I need to know all those people, and I got to sit down with them and have a chat. I need records, too, Trudy."
"You mean, health records?"
"Yeah."
"Well, Sheriff, I understand the man's died, but you and I know there's a whole lot of information in those records that this town ought not to know."
"Yeah."
"And you've got no right to ask after them either."
"Well, Trudy, I don't disagree with you, but you've got to understand this is an ongoing murder investigation. Other people may be in danger. We've got to do what we can to catch this killer and bring him to justice."
"Well, I'm not giving them up, Sheriff. I won't. When I think about all the struggles these young women went through, and possibly making them go through it all over again, no, not for anything in the world. Dr. Jones wouldn't want me to, no; he'd be dead set it against it no matter what."
"Well, that's fine then, Trudy, don't you worry about that, then. Why don't you tell me about some people that maybe gave the doctor a hard time."
"Ben Damand."
"Reverend Damand, sure."
"Ginger, too."
"Okay, some of his parishioners. Can you think of anyone else?"
"We had a guy, used to hang around the outside of the place. Maybe about six months ago. For two weeks, he's parked outside. I told the doctor to call the police on him a bunch of times but he said he'd talk to him but it never happened."
"You think this was the guy that did it?"
"Could be. I never got a good look at him, though. I didn't go out for lunch. The girl we had to help us some days, Helen, she saw him. She said she recognized him from some place. She said he had a cold, dead look in his eyes like he had some axe to grind."
"That's a good place to start. Where is Helen, Trudy?"
"She goes to Nursing School now. University of Texas."
"You know which branch?"
"I wouldn't be able to tell you."
"What about her parents? You know where they live?"
"You know I don't. Neighboring town, I think. She was kinda embarrassed of her upbringing, if you know what I mean. She was a good girl. We tried not to ask too many questions. Her teachers, though. They may know what school she went to. At the community college, I mean."
"That the last school she attended before transferring?"
"Yes. She was maybe about twenty-five."
Sheriff Donnelly's eyes twinkled. "Well, thank you Trudy, you've been a big help."
"Sure. And Sheriff?"
"Yes, Trudy. You think that I'm in some danger right now."
"I think you are, Trudy."
"I still can't give you those records, Sheriff."
"I'm not asking for them, then, Trudy. You tell me what you want to do. But I think everyone connected with your practice is in some danger, until we can say for certain why the doctor was killed."
Trudy nodded silently, tears forming in her eyes. "Sam would know what to do."
"Yeah, that's the terrible thing about it, Trudy. They took him from us."
"Still can't do it, Sheriff."
"I'll see you later, Trudy. You call us if you see this guy or anyone suspicious, and you let us know if anything else comes to your mind."
"Thank you, Sheriff. I will."
The Sheriff got into his car and wrote down meticulously some of the things she had said. So he was looking for a nursing transfer student at Central Texas Community College. Simple look into records and he'd find her. Problem was, last known address and phone number. Following up on that could be difficult, if the girl had a rocky upbringing.
And Reverend Damand, and Ginger Spitz. The Sheriff didn't make either one for the killer, but Trudy had mentioned them, and he would have to have a chat with one or the both of them.
Figured the FBI agent would be happy though. A lot of things for him to work on.
May 5, 1986
1:38 PM
There was a knock on the door and Panzer and Squeak went crazy.
"Now who in the hell could that be? Jehovah's witnesses, probably."
Trudy pushed back her glasses onto the top of her nose. The knocking continued.
"Hold your horses. I'm'a coming!"
Trudy decided to put the dogs in the backyard just in case, but the knocking was too constant. She opened the door just a crack.
"Hey, Trudy."
"Sheriff. What can I do for you?"
"I got to talk to you."
"Oh yeah?"
"We've got to find Sam's killer."
"Oh yeah. What you need to talk to me for? You think I had something to do with you."
"Well of course I don't. But I still got to talk to you."
"I see. What about?"
"Well, think about it Trudy, wouldn't the person who did this be someone that he knew. Someone that he saw, maybe, or someone else that hassled him."
"There were plenty of those, Sheriff."
"Well, I need to know all those people, and I got to sit down with them and have a chat. I need records, too, Trudy."
"You mean, health records?"
"Yeah."
"Well, Sheriff, I understand the man's died, but you and I know there's a whole lot of information in those records that this town ought not to know."
"Yeah."
"And you've got no right to ask after them either."
"Well, Trudy, I don't disagree with you, but you've got to understand this is an ongoing murder investigation. Other people may be in danger. We've got to do what we can to catch this killer and bring him to justice."
"Well, I'm not giving them up, Sheriff. I won't. When I think about all the struggles these young women went through, and possibly making them go through it all over again, no, not for anything in the world. Dr. Jones wouldn't want me to, no; he'd be dead set it against it no matter what."
"Well, that's fine then, Trudy, don't you worry about that, then. Why don't you tell me about some people that maybe gave the doctor a hard time."
"Ben Damand."
"Reverend Damand, sure."
"Ginger, too."
"Okay, some of his parishioners. Can you think of anyone else?"
"We had a guy, used to hang around the outside of the place. Maybe about six months ago. For two weeks, he's parked outside. I told the doctor to call the police on him a bunch of times but he said he'd talk to him but it never happened."
"You think this was the guy that did it?"
"Could be. I never got a good look at him, though. I didn't go out for lunch. The girl we had to help us some days, Helen, she saw him. She said she recognized him from some place. She said he had a cold, dead look in his eyes like he had some axe to grind."
"That's a good place to start. Where is Helen, Trudy?"
"She goes to Nursing School now. University of Texas."
"You know which branch?"
"I wouldn't be able to tell you."
"What about her parents? You know where they live?"
"You know I don't. Neighboring town, I think. She was kinda embarrassed of her upbringing, if you know what I mean. She was a good girl. We tried not to ask too many questions. Her teachers, though. They may know what school she went to. At the community college, I mean."
"That the last school she attended before transferring?"
"Yes. She was maybe about twenty-five."
Sheriff Donnelly's eyes twinkled. "Well, thank you Trudy, you've been a big help."
"Sure. And Sheriff?"
"Yes, Trudy. You think that I'm in some danger right now."
"I think you are, Trudy."
"I still can't give you those records, Sheriff."
"I'm not asking for them, then, Trudy. You tell me what you want to do. But I think everyone connected with your practice is in some danger, until we can say for certain why the doctor was killed."
Trudy nodded silently, tears forming in her eyes. "Sam would know what to do."
"Yeah, that's the terrible thing about it, Trudy. They took him from us."
"Still can't do it, Sheriff."
"I'll see you later, Trudy. You call us if you see this guy or anyone suspicious, and you let us know if anything else comes to your mind."
"Thank you, Sheriff. I will."
The Sheriff got into his car and wrote down meticulously some of the things she had said. So he was looking for a nursing transfer student at Central Texas Community College. Simple look into records and he'd find her. Problem was, last known address and phone number. Following up on that could be difficult, if the girl had a rocky upbringing.
And Reverend Damand, and Ginger Spitz. The Sheriff didn't make either one for the killer, but Trudy had mentioned them, and he would have to have a chat with one or the both of them.
Figured the FBI agent would be happy though. A lot of things for him to work on.
12:48 PM
6
May 5, 1986
12:48 PM
Agent Danley met the kind smile of Sheriff Donnelly from across the parking lot.
"Howdy, gentlemen. Thank you for being here. I trust you had a nice drive?"
Agent Danley shook his hand. "Howard Danley, Sheriff."
"Please, call me Horace." He smiled again. "Why don't you gentlemen come inside?"
Inside the small structure, that appeared to be nothing more than two conjoined mobile homes dropped on top of an unassuming pile of concrete and weeds, the hum of air conditioning broke the silence of the mid-90s afternoon that was otherwise punctuated only by the dull hum of cicadas some distance off and the rumbling of big rigs kicking into gear. No one was inside. Sheriff Donnelly check his messages.
He pulled up two chairs, and they all sat down in the middle of the room.
"So, gentlemen," the Sheriff said. "What's our plan of attack?"
Agent Danley looked at Lieutenant Cantroux, who made a motion that he was deferring to the Agent.
"Well," Agent Danley starting, unsure of his initial line of attack, "basically we've got to look through all your files, try to get a feel for who had the motive, means and opportunity. Do you have your files at least partially computerized?"
"Well, see," the Sheriff started. "We bought a computer. Maggie--that's our dispatcher but she's on leave at the moment--she uses it sometimes when we have to fill out certain forms."
"But you don't have any files on it."
"No. We got files, though. Pretty well sorted, I think. I don't know. You'd have to ask Maggie."
"It's okay, Sheriff. This is not an interrogation. But you know there are quite a few programs to get you started, lot of resources out there won't cost your department a penny. I can ask my secretary to fax you over some of the easiest programs to access."
"That would be nice, Agent Danley."
But he gave that smile that said he wouldn't be doing any such thing.
"Well, anyway, what we're looking for, I think, is we're looking for aberrant behavior. People that have been arrested for drinking, drugs, domestic abuse, assault, everything, the past couple of months, maybe even back a year if we wanted to be really thorough about it. Then we've got to get everybody connected with that doctor's practice under the microscope, see if there is anybody with an axe to grind. Same thing with the man's family, though it doesn't seem like that could be much at fault."
"Dr. Jones was loved by just about everybody. Heck, most people didn't even know that he was an abortionist. Well, I mean, some could have suspected it, given his line of work."
"And, as if that wasn't enough, we've got to talk to all the churches and other faith-based institutions in the surrounding area, see if they can think of anyone that's come to them with radicalized thoughts or feelings, anyone that has mentioned Holy War or Christian soldiers."
The Sheriff laughed. "That won't narrow things down much, Agent Danley. Hell, the title of the Sunday sermon at my church was 'Christian Soldiers' and I got to tell you, the most offensive thing the pastor there has ever done is have a luau theme for our church picnic."
"Well, we've got to look at the noise and see what we can find."
The Sheriff didn't understand what Agent Danley was talking about, but both men decided to leave it alone.
"How forthcoming do you think his practice will be with patient records?"
"Well, we haven't asked."
"Let's get on the phone and see if anyone's there. Do we have any contact information for any of his staff?"
"No, I don't think so, but Trudy's his nurse or assistant whatever. We can go knock on her door."
The phone rang. Sheriff Donnelly spoke. "That must be the county coroner. I told him to give us a call and fill you guys in."
The Sheriff put the coroner on speakerphone.
"Rudy, is that you?"
"Yes, Horace. Who am I speaking to?"
Sheriff Donnelly looked at his compatriots.
"Agent Danley, FBI."
"Lieutenant Cantroux, Texas Rangers."
"Dr. Rudolph Samuel. Most people call me Dr. Rudy."
"Afternoon," Agent Danley and Lieutenant Cantroux retorted.
"So adult male, 54. You want the bullet wound information first guys or you want toxicology?"
"Whatever order you want it, doctor. We got all day."
"Toxicology then, just to get it out of the way. Doctor had a mild sedative in him, some amphetamine of some kind (common pharmacological traces of psychological medication). Otherwise no drugs or alcohol. Heightened levels of blood sugar. Otherwise fine."
"That consistent with anti-anxiety medication?" Agent Danley said.
"Very."
"Subject 6'4", 250 pounds, musculature and bone structure normal."
"Big target!" Agent Danley said.
"I'll say so," Cantroux joined in with. "Guy's a linebacker."
"Then, the bullet wounds. Subject died of hemorrhaging of the brain from two close headshots from a distance of at least 100 feet. Entry point A above right temple. Exit point back of the head 1 inch right from the base of the brain. Entry point B almost spot on left eye. Bullet ricocheted got lodged in subject's skull. A third bullet struck the collarbone but did not contribute to subject's death. Bullets retrieved are consistent with a high-powered though not military grade rifle. K-mart bullets. No modification was made to the rifle."
"This guy's a professional damn assassin," Sheriff Donnelly called out.
"Right you are, Horace. A damn dog, too. Didn't even fire a second volley to make sure he was dead. He knew the man was going to die the instant he got him in the cross-hairs."
"So we're upgrading our search a little then, huh," Agent Danley said gravely. "Got to have some professional training, though it sounds like not military, or if military, perhaps someone discharged not long after training. This is a symphony played by a man on a two-dollar violin."
"Thank you, Rudy. I'll see you later."
"Goodbye Horace."
"So I think we've got three lines of attack. I'm going to stay here and look through records, get some things organized in my mind. I'd like one of you to follow up on Dr. Jones' practice, see if we can get into some of those records. If we have to, we should subpoena those records, because I think the answer is somewhere in those files. I guess that will be you, Sheriff, if you don't have any other things to do today."
"I'm all yours," Sheriff Donnelly said. "I mean to find this man's killer, and we will."
"Then Lieutenant Cantroux, I guess that means you've got to start knocking on the doors of churches and see if there are any militant churchgoers out there talked about starting holy wars.
Agent Danley turned to the Sheriff. "What you have for churches in this town?"
"Well, there's the Methodist church in the center of town. There's a Lutheran church off of Pike Street There's a Baptist church South of town, and then there's the Seventh-Day Adventists. Real small congregation, shoe box really.
"There's a Seminary in town, too."
"Worth a try."
Agent Danley looked at the Sheriff. "Anybody else working for this department today?"
"I'm sorry to say, no," the Sheriff said. "But first thing tomorrow morning everybody's reporting. Except Maggie of course, whether they can stand or not."
"That's good to hear," Agent Danley said. "We need some proper discipline."
Sheriff Donnelly smiled weakly. Discipline did seem to be this man's weakness.
May 5, 1986
12:48 PM
Agent Danley met the kind smile of Sheriff Donnelly from across the parking lot.
"Howdy, gentlemen. Thank you for being here. I trust you had a nice drive?"
Agent Danley shook his hand. "Howard Danley, Sheriff."
"Please, call me Horace." He smiled again. "Why don't you gentlemen come inside?"
Inside the small structure, that appeared to be nothing more than two conjoined mobile homes dropped on top of an unassuming pile of concrete and weeds, the hum of air conditioning broke the silence of the mid-90s afternoon that was otherwise punctuated only by the dull hum of cicadas some distance off and the rumbling of big rigs kicking into gear. No one was inside. Sheriff Donnelly check his messages.
He pulled up two chairs, and they all sat down in the middle of the room.
"So, gentlemen," the Sheriff said. "What's our plan of attack?"
Agent Danley looked at Lieutenant Cantroux, who made a motion that he was deferring to the Agent.
"Well," Agent Danley starting, unsure of his initial line of attack, "basically we've got to look through all your files, try to get a feel for who had the motive, means and opportunity. Do you have your files at least partially computerized?"
"Well, see," the Sheriff started. "We bought a computer. Maggie--that's our dispatcher but she's on leave at the moment--she uses it sometimes when we have to fill out certain forms."
"But you don't have any files on it."
"No. We got files, though. Pretty well sorted, I think. I don't know. You'd have to ask Maggie."
"It's okay, Sheriff. This is not an interrogation. But you know there are quite a few programs to get you started, lot of resources out there won't cost your department a penny. I can ask my secretary to fax you over some of the easiest programs to access."
"That would be nice, Agent Danley."
But he gave that smile that said he wouldn't be doing any such thing.
"Well, anyway, what we're looking for, I think, is we're looking for aberrant behavior. People that have been arrested for drinking, drugs, domestic abuse, assault, everything, the past couple of months, maybe even back a year if we wanted to be really thorough about it. Then we've got to get everybody connected with that doctor's practice under the microscope, see if there is anybody with an axe to grind. Same thing with the man's family, though it doesn't seem like that could be much at fault."
"Dr. Jones was loved by just about everybody. Heck, most people didn't even know that he was an abortionist. Well, I mean, some could have suspected it, given his line of work."
"And, as if that wasn't enough, we've got to talk to all the churches and other faith-based institutions in the surrounding area, see if they can think of anyone that's come to them with radicalized thoughts or feelings, anyone that has mentioned Holy War or Christian soldiers."
The Sheriff laughed. "That won't narrow things down much, Agent Danley. Hell, the title of the Sunday sermon at my church was 'Christian Soldiers' and I got to tell you, the most offensive thing the pastor there has ever done is have a luau theme for our church picnic."
"Well, we've got to look at the noise and see what we can find."
The Sheriff didn't understand what Agent Danley was talking about, but both men decided to leave it alone.
"How forthcoming do you think his practice will be with patient records?"
"Well, we haven't asked."
"Let's get on the phone and see if anyone's there. Do we have any contact information for any of his staff?"
"No, I don't think so, but Trudy's his nurse or assistant whatever. We can go knock on her door."
The phone rang. Sheriff Donnelly spoke. "That must be the county coroner. I told him to give us a call and fill you guys in."
The Sheriff put the coroner on speakerphone.
"Rudy, is that you?"
"Yes, Horace. Who am I speaking to?"
Sheriff Donnelly looked at his compatriots.
"Agent Danley, FBI."
"Lieutenant Cantroux, Texas Rangers."
"Dr. Rudolph Samuel. Most people call me Dr. Rudy."
"Afternoon," Agent Danley and Lieutenant Cantroux retorted.
"So adult male, 54. You want the bullet wound information first guys or you want toxicology?"
"Whatever order you want it, doctor. We got all day."
"Toxicology then, just to get it out of the way. Doctor had a mild sedative in him, some amphetamine of some kind (common pharmacological traces of psychological medication). Otherwise no drugs or alcohol. Heightened levels of blood sugar. Otherwise fine."
"That consistent with anti-anxiety medication?" Agent Danley said.
"Very."
"Subject 6'4", 250 pounds, musculature and bone structure normal."
"Big target!" Agent Danley said.
"I'll say so," Cantroux joined in with. "Guy's a linebacker."
"Then, the bullet wounds. Subject died of hemorrhaging of the brain from two close headshots from a distance of at least 100 feet. Entry point A above right temple. Exit point back of the head 1 inch right from the base of the brain. Entry point B almost spot on left eye. Bullet ricocheted got lodged in subject's skull. A third bullet struck the collarbone but did not contribute to subject's death. Bullets retrieved are consistent with a high-powered though not military grade rifle. K-mart bullets. No modification was made to the rifle."
"This guy's a professional damn assassin," Sheriff Donnelly called out.
"Right you are, Horace. A damn dog, too. Didn't even fire a second volley to make sure he was dead. He knew the man was going to die the instant he got him in the cross-hairs."
"So we're upgrading our search a little then, huh," Agent Danley said gravely. "Got to have some professional training, though it sounds like not military, or if military, perhaps someone discharged not long after training. This is a symphony played by a man on a two-dollar violin."
"Thank you, Rudy. I'll see you later."
"Goodbye Horace."
"So I think we've got three lines of attack. I'm going to stay here and look through records, get some things organized in my mind. I'd like one of you to follow up on Dr. Jones' practice, see if we can get into some of those records. If we have to, we should subpoena those records, because I think the answer is somewhere in those files. I guess that will be you, Sheriff, if you don't have any other things to do today."
"I'm all yours," Sheriff Donnelly said. "I mean to find this man's killer, and we will."
"Then Lieutenant Cantroux, I guess that means you've got to start knocking on the doors of churches and see if there are any militant churchgoers out there talked about starting holy wars.
Agent Danley turned to the Sheriff. "What you have for churches in this town?"
"Well, there's the Methodist church in the center of town. There's a Lutheran church off of Pike Street There's a Baptist church South of town, and then there's the Seventh-Day Adventists. Real small congregation, shoe box really.
"There's a Seminary in town, too."
"Worth a try."
Agent Danley looked at the Sheriff. "Anybody else working for this department today?"
"I'm sorry to say, no," the Sheriff said. "But first thing tomorrow morning everybody's reporting. Except Maggie of course, whether they can stand or not."
"That's good to hear," Agent Danley said. "We need some proper discipline."
Sheriff Donnelly smiled weakly. Discipline did seem to be this man's weakness.
Twig
What a tree has shed
You ignore
Because you are
Not a child.
The morning,
And the evening,
Are the beginning
And the end of your day.
You drown the one
In uppers,
And the other
In downers,
But you never see the Earth
Brand new,
Nor the Sun setting,
And those that sleep at night coming out.
Wisdom? You have none;
You have lived on the Earth,
But you have never benefitted
From your experience or years.
You are simply,
"Trying to survive it."
Oh-ho! That is a laugh!
You are a scared creature.
Too scared
Of what the cynic says.
So the cynic says,
"There is nothing to see;
There is nothing to feel;
All things have been done."
When you know yourself
For this to be untrue.
The cynic has been scarred
By some abuser,
They are in need
Of medical attention.
Do not let their
Way of seeing things
Infect your
Perfectly healthy senses.
You do not see a twig;
You see a walking stick,
A sword a shovel,
You see a keepsake.
If you don't,
Then you must unsee it;
See what you see
Without the blinders on.
For we have
Not even gotten into a discussion
About leaves.
You ignore
Because you are
Not a child.
The morning,
And the evening,
Are the beginning
And the end of your day.
You drown the one
In uppers,
And the other
In downers,
But you never see the Earth
Brand new,
Nor the Sun setting,
And those that sleep at night coming out.
Wisdom? You have none;
You have lived on the Earth,
But you have never benefitted
From your experience or years.
You are simply,
"Trying to survive it."
Oh-ho! That is a laugh!
You are a scared creature.
Too scared
Of what the cynic says.
So the cynic says,
"There is nothing to see;
There is nothing to feel;
All things have been done."
When you know yourself
For this to be untrue.
The cynic has been scarred
By some abuser,
They are in need
Of medical attention.
Do not let their
Way of seeing things
Infect your
Perfectly healthy senses.
You do not see a twig;
You see a walking stick,
A sword a shovel,
You see a keepsake.
If you don't,
Then you must unsee it;
See what you see
Without the blinders on.
For we have
Not even gotten into a discussion
About leaves.
Monday, April 27, 2020
10:58 AM
5
May 5, 1986
10:58 AM
Bill woke up in a sweat, but the sensation soon faded. He was back at home. Everything he had done, all the people he had left behind, were safely tucked away from view. He got up and went out to the kitchen.
"Hey, hon," his mother said, getting up to pour him a cup of coffee. "How did you sleep?"
He felt a bit of guilt looking into his momma's eyes, but she didn't know what was in his true heart, and she couldn't get at it either no matter how hard she tried.
Bill's father had been a different man the previous night, treating Bill to a nice cognac and a fine cigar. Bill was a college graduate now, his father told him, it was a cause for celebration. Of course, Bill knew better than to expect that this would ever be repeated, but it was a nice change of welcome. Bill's father respected him, if ever so slightly, in a way he never had previously.
And he had killed a man in cold blood and left him to his death.
Bill wanted to chat with Caleb, but that was closed off for now. For at least a few months if not a couple years. The biggest mistake a killer could make was to return to the scene of the crime, and that included getting back in contact with your fellow criminals.
"What are you going to do today, honey? You want to come into town with me?"
"No," Bill said. "I'm kinda tired."
"I know. Tomorrow then, or the next day. I know there's a bunch of people want to say, 'hi" in town. Want to congratulate you."
"I know, momma. Tomorrow."
She nodded and then walked off with the her long chain of keys to the family station wagon. The door to the garage closed and Bill could hear the rumble of the engine and the garage door being flung open.
Just then, Bill's brother Tommy walked into the kitchen, perhaps timing it for their mother's escape.
"Hey," Bill said.
"Hey," Tommy said. "You going to be home all day?"
"I think so. Why, am I cramping you're style?"
"No, dude, I'm just wondering, that's all."
"You need a haircut."
"Thanks, dad," Tommy said. "What's it to you, anyway?"
"You'll look like a hippy."
"What's the big deal about that? The hippies were cool."
"Hippies were not cool, Tommy. They burned out and ended up in jail or died or else they cleaned up and got square jobs, like everybody else."
"Wow," Tommy said. "That's the daddiest thing I've ever heard come out of your mouth."
Bill supposed Tommy was right. Bill usually was a bit more reserved with his opinions.
"Anyway, you're going to make dad go crazy."
"So what if I do? I'm not afraid of him."
"I guess you're not," Bill said, clamming up.
"Anyway, Bill," Tommy said. "Are you like a pastor now?"
"I'm qualified to be a pastor. I got to find my flock."
"You've got to find a group of suckers. You'll find one."
"You think all pastors have to be the same?"
"I know all pastors are the same."
"What about me?"
"You will definitely be the same."
Their sister, Deirdre, emerged from the TV room. "Can you guys keep it down. I can't hear the television!"
"Sorry," they both said.
"Anyway," Tommy said. "I'm glad you're home. Takes some of the heat off of me and Deirdre."
"Dad ever say anything bad about Deirdre?"
"You're right. Just me, then."
What would you think of me if you knew I killed a man?
Looking at Tommy right now, Bill honestly believed that Tommy would think it was cool or something.
There was a knock on the door.
"Who's that?"
Tommy ran over and opened up the door for a girl.
"Hey Tommy," the girl said.
He closed the door behind him so he could talk to her, then he came back inside for about a minute and a half before leaving with her.
"Who was that?" Bill asked his sister.
"That's Annie. That's Tommy's girlfriend."
"He's got a girlfriend?"
"Yeah, they're always making out. It's really gross."
"Did you tell mom and dad anything?"
She didn't look up from the television. "I'm always telling them, and they tell me they'll talk to him but they never do. I think they're not bothered by it or something."
"Not bothered by it?"
"Yeah, they let Tommy get away with anything ever since his suicide attempt."
"His suicide attempt? When was this?"
"While you were away."
"So much has changed since I've been gone."
"Yeah," Deirdre said, but she wanted to watch the television.
May 5, 1986
10:58 AM
Bill woke up in a sweat, but the sensation soon faded. He was back at home. Everything he had done, all the people he had left behind, were safely tucked away from view. He got up and went out to the kitchen.
"Hey, hon," his mother said, getting up to pour him a cup of coffee. "How did you sleep?"
He felt a bit of guilt looking into his momma's eyes, but she didn't know what was in his true heart, and she couldn't get at it either no matter how hard she tried.
Bill's father had been a different man the previous night, treating Bill to a nice cognac and a fine cigar. Bill was a college graduate now, his father told him, it was a cause for celebration. Of course, Bill knew better than to expect that this would ever be repeated, but it was a nice change of welcome. Bill's father respected him, if ever so slightly, in a way he never had previously.
And he had killed a man in cold blood and left him to his death.
Bill wanted to chat with Caleb, but that was closed off for now. For at least a few months if not a couple years. The biggest mistake a killer could make was to return to the scene of the crime, and that included getting back in contact with your fellow criminals.
"What are you going to do today, honey? You want to come into town with me?"
"No," Bill said. "I'm kinda tired."
"I know. Tomorrow then, or the next day. I know there's a bunch of people want to say, 'hi" in town. Want to congratulate you."
"I know, momma. Tomorrow."
She nodded and then walked off with the her long chain of keys to the family station wagon. The door to the garage closed and Bill could hear the rumble of the engine and the garage door being flung open.
Just then, Bill's brother Tommy walked into the kitchen, perhaps timing it for their mother's escape.
"Hey," Bill said.
"Hey," Tommy said. "You going to be home all day?"
"I think so. Why, am I cramping you're style?"
"No, dude, I'm just wondering, that's all."
"You need a haircut."
"Thanks, dad," Tommy said. "What's it to you, anyway?"
"You'll look like a hippy."
"What's the big deal about that? The hippies were cool."
"Hippies were not cool, Tommy. They burned out and ended up in jail or died or else they cleaned up and got square jobs, like everybody else."
"Wow," Tommy said. "That's the daddiest thing I've ever heard come out of your mouth."
Bill supposed Tommy was right. Bill usually was a bit more reserved with his opinions.
"Anyway, you're going to make dad go crazy."
"So what if I do? I'm not afraid of him."
"I guess you're not," Bill said, clamming up.
"Anyway, Bill," Tommy said. "Are you like a pastor now?"
"I'm qualified to be a pastor. I got to find my flock."
"You've got to find a group of suckers. You'll find one."
"You think all pastors have to be the same?"
"I know all pastors are the same."
"What about me?"
"You will definitely be the same."
Their sister, Deirdre, emerged from the TV room. "Can you guys keep it down. I can't hear the television!"
"Sorry," they both said.
"Anyway," Tommy said. "I'm glad you're home. Takes some of the heat off of me and Deirdre."
"Dad ever say anything bad about Deirdre?"
"You're right. Just me, then."
What would you think of me if you knew I killed a man?
Looking at Tommy right now, Bill honestly believed that Tommy would think it was cool or something.
There was a knock on the door.
"Who's that?"
Tommy ran over and opened up the door for a girl.
"Hey Tommy," the girl said.
He closed the door behind him so he could talk to her, then he came back inside for about a minute and a half before leaving with her.
"Who was that?" Bill asked his sister.
"That's Annie. That's Tommy's girlfriend."
"He's got a girlfriend?"
"Yeah, they're always making out. It's really gross."
"Did you tell mom and dad anything?"
She didn't look up from the television. "I'm always telling them, and they tell me they'll talk to him but they never do. I think they're not bothered by it or something."
"Not bothered by it?"
"Yeah, they let Tommy get away with anything ever since his suicide attempt."
"His suicide attempt? When was this?"
"While you were away."
"So much has changed since I've been gone."
"Yeah," Deirdre said, but she wanted to watch the television.
Pripyat
And so what
If this is the end
Of our time here,
And in this place?
What if the door
Remains unlocked,
But no one
Will come inside?
What if the swing
Will not be swung?
The book will
Take a bookmark,
But the place
Will never be come back to?
The calendar date circled
But the occasion never come?
And what of all the toys,
And bicycles,
And skates and dolls
Left haphazardly.
And all the lovers' embraces,
And pacts entered into,
And blood enemies sworn
Disrupted.
What if this is the last moment
You get to enjoy the life you have?
Disruption is the course of life.
Your adolescence disrupted childhood,
And your adulthood your adolescence,
Your marriage your relationship,
And your child your marriage.
Admit it.
Nuclear meltdown:
No, that is not the usual way.
But we can learn
From a sudden change,
Because the usual changes
Are submerged
Beneath years
Of anger, frustration and regret.
And opportunities,
Of which every day is full.
If this is the end
Of our time here,
And in this place?
What if the door
Remains unlocked,
But no one
Will come inside?
What if the swing
Will not be swung?
The book will
Take a bookmark,
But the place
Will never be come back to?
The calendar date circled
But the occasion never come?
And what of all the toys,
And bicycles,
And skates and dolls
Left haphazardly.
And all the lovers' embraces,
And pacts entered into,
And blood enemies sworn
Disrupted.
What if this is the last moment
You get to enjoy the life you have?
Disruption is the course of life.
Your adolescence disrupted childhood,
And your adulthood your adolescence,
Your marriage your relationship,
And your child your marriage.
Admit it.
Nuclear meltdown:
No, that is not the usual way.
But we can learn
From a sudden change,
Because the usual changes
Are submerged
Beneath years
Of anger, frustration and regret.
And opportunities,
Of which every day is full.
May 5, 1986, 8:18 AM
4
May 5, 1986
8:18 AM
Agent Danley walked out in the bright, beautiful Texas sunshine following Lieutenant Cantroux out to his car. It had been too long since he had been out in the field. His whole life felt like it was now hemmed in by budgetary meetings in darkened conference rooms. He'd spent so long with other bureaucrats he'd forgotten what it was like to spend time with good old fashioned law enforcement. How good it was to trade the hustle and bustle of DC for the simplicity of Austin.
Of course, it wasn't all roses. They were having trouble connecting with the Sheriff from Fidello, who they going to meet up with, because his secretary was on maternity leave and one of his deputies was out sick. A well-oiled machine, that Sheriff's Department did not appear to be. Considering Agent Danley's intentions when he got there, he half-suspected he'd be spending a good part of the next two days filing instead of looking through files.
But Agent Danley knew he had to put his big-city snobbery on pause for just a minute, or else he wouldn't get buy-in from the Sheriff or his deputies, and he was intending to put them to work after he'd gotten the lay of the land.
"You think this Sheriff's department has a computerized system?"
Lieutenant Cantroux looked at him. "That a joke?"
"There are so many grant programs out there! The system would basically be free."
"Something tells me the good Sheriff is not your grant-writing type."
"Then I'm going to guess he doesn't have any body armor or assault rifles, either."
"Perhaps a bit of incentive is necessary."
"Yeah, I guess I got to give him the incentive."
"A lot of these small departments, I don't think will ever get there. It's not the resources, really. Going to take a change in generations."
"Right. But what would your life be life without computerized records?"
"We're managing a state with ten million people, Agent Danley. Not a one-stoplight town."
Lieutenant Cantroux smiled and then put on his sunglasses.
"I'm following you?"
"Yeah. If you get lost, I'll meet you at the 6 West turnoff. It's about a mile before Waco."
"Mile before Waco. Got it."
As soon as Agent Danley got behind the wheel of the unmarked black Lincoln Towncar, he started to search his thoughts. What did he know about the person responsible? Religious, yes, but no preacher. Probably young and idealistic. Military background possibly. Probable history of substance abuse. Marital problems. Possibly a DWI or assault charge on his record. Possible juvenile detention in middle school or high school.
Probable transient or at least transplant. If he was well known he would have been discovered already, or even revealed himself by now. What were the boardinghouses, schools, and small businesses that hired transient workers? Agent Danley would guess, he worked for a preacher or a religious school and had been made to view himself as a Christian soldier by somebody. Whether or not that person was providing material support was the question, as whoever did it may be one of several acolytes, perhaps all of them disposable in some regard. Mental retardation possible.
He could have kicked himself for not remembering to reread some of the narratives of Palestinian terrorists he had in his office. He needed to get inside this person's head. What he was seeing around him felt too familiar for him to create a picture of the perpetrator. Every time he saw him in his mind's eye, Agent Danley saw himself staring back.
Agent Danley was a religious man, and he was sympathetic to the pro-life cause. But he had to remember that this was someone who was attempting to use terrorism to lionize himself using the sheep's clothing of other people's pro-life sympathies. This man did not want there to be any change. This person had no political goals. His goal was to be remembered after he died, and he had found a cause that allowed him to practice his profound narcissism.
This was a PLO terrorist. This was a man that thought nothing of gunning down a doctor, a man with a family, for performing a legal medical procedure. To catch a terrorist, he had to remember all those forgettable details, all those little steps along the way that seemed like accidents but were the method by which a terrorist was made. A handler. There was surely a handler somewhere, but finding the handler would be difficult. He was no doubt shrouded in some mystery and perhaps would only be found through the usual ways: a nasty divorce, children after their estate or death.
And financial records. Because, ultimately, money was always involved, even in the case of fanatics moved by their passion for religious warfare. Even if you planned to pay for everything in cash, you weren't going to have that money lying around unless you had a lucrative cash-only side business. Prostitution and drugs seemed unlikely complimenting businesses. Church donations, sure, the collection box could be good for it, but guns and ammo cost hundreds of dollars. It took a lot of singles and fives to get there.
No, there was a bank draft somewhere out there that paid for this, or even several. Someone spent their personal money or money from a legitimate business with books and tax records and everything.
He started to salivate thinking about the paper trail that was no doubt awaiting him. It felt good to be out in the field!
May 5, 1986
8:18 AM
Agent Danley walked out in the bright, beautiful Texas sunshine following Lieutenant Cantroux out to his car. It had been too long since he had been out in the field. His whole life felt like it was now hemmed in by budgetary meetings in darkened conference rooms. He'd spent so long with other bureaucrats he'd forgotten what it was like to spend time with good old fashioned law enforcement. How good it was to trade the hustle and bustle of DC for the simplicity of Austin.
Of course, it wasn't all roses. They were having trouble connecting with the Sheriff from Fidello, who they going to meet up with, because his secretary was on maternity leave and one of his deputies was out sick. A well-oiled machine, that Sheriff's Department did not appear to be. Considering Agent Danley's intentions when he got there, he half-suspected he'd be spending a good part of the next two days filing instead of looking through files.
But Agent Danley knew he had to put his big-city snobbery on pause for just a minute, or else he wouldn't get buy-in from the Sheriff or his deputies, and he was intending to put them to work after he'd gotten the lay of the land.
"You think this Sheriff's department has a computerized system?"
Lieutenant Cantroux looked at him. "That a joke?"
"There are so many grant programs out there! The system would basically be free."
"Something tells me the good Sheriff is not your grant-writing type."
"Then I'm going to guess he doesn't have any body armor or assault rifles, either."
"Perhaps a bit of incentive is necessary."
"Yeah, I guess I got to give him the incentive."
"A lot of these small departments, I don't think will ever get there. It's not the resources, really. Going to take a change in generations."
"Right. But what would your life be life without computerized records?"
"We're managing a state with ten million people, Agent Danley. Not a one-stoplight town."
Lieutenant Cantroux smiled and then put on his sunglasses.
"I'm following you?"
"Yeah. If you get lost, I'll meet you at the 6 West turnoff. It's about a mile before Waco."
"Mile before Waco. Got it."
As soon as Agent Danley got behind the wheel of the unmarked black Lincoln Towncar, he started to search his thoughts. What did he know about the person responsible? Religious, yes, but no preacher. Probably young and idealistic. Military background possibly. Probable history of substance abuse. Marital problems. Possibly a DWI or assault charge on his record. Possible juvenile detention in middle school or high school.
Probable transient or at least transplant. If he was well known he would have been discovered already, or even revealed himself by now. What were the boardinghouses, schools, and small businesses that hired transient workers? Agent Danley would guess, he worked for a preacher or a religious school and had been made to view himself as a Christian soldier by somebody. Whether or not that person was providing material support was the question, as whoever did it may be one of several acolytes, perhaps all of them disposable in some regard. Mental retardation possible.
He could have kicked himself for not remembering to reread some of the narratives of Palestinian terrorists he had in his office. He needed to get inside this person's head. What he was seeing around him felt too familiar for him to create a picture of the perpetrator. Every time he saw him in his mind's eye, Agent Danley saw himself staring back.
Agent Danley was a religious man, and he was sympathetic to the pro-life cause. But he had to remember that this was someone who was attempting to use terrorism to lionize himself using the sheep's clothing of other people's pro-life sympathies. This man did not want there to be any change. This person had no political goals. His goal was to be remembered after he died, and he had found a cause that allowed him to practice his profound narcissism.
This was a PLO terrorist. This was a man that thought nothing of gunning down a doctor, a man with a family, for performing a legal medical procedure. To catch a terrorist, he had to remember all those forgettable details, all those little steps along the way that seemed like accidents but were the method by which a terrorist was made. A handler. There was surely a handler somewhere, but finding the handler would be difficult. He was no doubt shrouded in some mystery and perhaps would only be found through the usual ways: a nasty divorce, children after their estate or death.
And financial records. Because, ultimately, money was always involved, even in the case of fanatics moved by their passion for religious warfare. Even if you planned to pay for everything in cash, you weren't going to have that money lying around unless you had a lucrative cash-only side business. Prostitution and drugs seemed unlikely complimenting businesses. Church donations, sure, the collection box could be good for it, but guns and ammo cost hundreds of dollars. It took a lot of singles and fives to get there.
No, there was a bank draft somewhere out there that paid for this, or even several. Someone spent their personal money or money from a legitimate business with books and tax records and everything.
He started to salivate thinking about the paper trail that was no doubt awaiting him. It felt good to be out in the field!
My Father the Fraud
So says he, what he believes,
But he does not live
The life
To which his beliefs lead him.
He is a fraud,
And I am the avenging angel
Come to redeem him.
And so he says,
I live in a fantasy world,
And I ought
To recognize that
The way we live our life
Can never be as we wish,
But always is and must always be
As we have to to survive.
But the soul cannot survive
As an empty vessel,
Crossing the rough seas
For no purpose but to cross them.
So he says,
I will feel different one day.
But does he admit
What day it is?
For in his own mind
Is he not on his way?
Is he not planning the day
When his life and ideals will match?
Has he not simply said
Not today, no
But tomorrow
And every day after that one?
He says he has made amends
With how he lives his life,
But he has only made amends with today.
Perhaps the week,
Perhaps the month,
Perhaps even the year,
But he has not put off until forever
Being as he imagined he could.
No, my father is fraud.
For, in his own mind,
Every night before he goes to bed
He says to himself,
Tomorrow is the day!
Tomorrow I will activate
All the long dead dreams
Of my misspent youth.
But he wakes up in the morning,
Instead,
And says he never did,
And he tells me
To get my head out of the clouds
And come join the rest of us,
Down here
On planet Earth.
Perhaps he will join me
Some day when he is ready.
Some day when the night is too long
For morning to remove it.
But he does not live
The life
To which his beliefs lead him.
He is a fraud,
And I am the avenging angel
Come to redeem him.
And so he says,
I live in a fantasy world,
And I ought
To recognize that
The way we live our life
Can never be as we wish,
But always is and must always be
As we have to to survive.
But the soul cannot survive
As an empty vessel,
Crossing the rough seas
For no purpose but to cross them.
So he says,
I will feel different one day.
But does he admit
What day it is?
For in his own mind
Is he not on his way?
Is he not planning the day
When his life and ideals will match?
Has he not simply said
Not today, no
But tomorrow
And every day after that one?
He says he has made amends
With how he lives his life,
But he has only made amends with today.
Perhaps the week,
Perhaps the month,
Perhaps even the year,
But he has not put off until forever
Being as he imagined he could.
No, my father is fraud.
For, in his own mind,
Every night before he goes to bed
He says to himself,
Tomorrow is the day!
Tomorrow I will activate
All the long dead dreams
Of my misspent youth.
But he wakes up in the morning,
Instead,
And says he never did,
And he tells me
To get my head out of the clouds
And come join the rest of us,
Down here
On planet Earth.
Perhaps he will join me
Some day when he is ready.
Some day when the night is too long
For morning to remove it.
Friday, April 24, 2020
May 4, 1986
3
May 4, 1986
Bill opened the door to the darkened apartment almost absolutely sure that law enforcement would be waiting for him. Ready to take him away for the awful thing he had done. Ready to put him to death for taking that poor doctor's life away. Why had he done it?
He heard a laugh erupt from the other side of the room.
"Caleb, that you?"
"Yeah," he said, through his laughing.
"Why the hell are you laughing?"
"I been staring at that door for at least the last hour ready to blow to bits the first thing that walked through it. And you know what?"
"What's that, Caleb?"
"Lucky you, I wasn't ready in the least to do it."
Bill stared at his friend.
"How's that funny?"
"I don't know," Caleb said. "It just is."
"I'm ditching this town," Bill said. "I think I ought to, like, right now."
Caleb nodded. "I thought that was the plan all along."
"Yeah, I mean I just got to ditch with the apartment just like this."
"That would probably be wise."
"You wouldn't hate me for it?"
"I can't stay here anymore. They're going to find us one way or another eventually. We got our homes to go to. We got our degrees."
"I'm not going to write or call for a good long while, Cal."
"I suppose you shouldn't."
"I'm going to miss you."
"You, too, pal."
"Why did we do this?"
"We didn't know what to do. You know, even though I regret it, I still think we did the right thing."
"Maybe we did. Maybe we didn't. But now we got to live with it, and that's harder than living with the pain in the first place that we couldn't stop those babies from being killed."
"We couldn't live with either."
"No," Bill said, glad for his friend to the point that it made him tear up. "We couldn't live with either."
If it hadn't been for Lorlene, Bill kept thinking. She had wanted that baby, but she'd been convinced it was a normal thing to kill that baby. She'd been convinced it was a normal thing to take the baby's life and just pretend like nothing had happened. I had to show her that it wasn't.
And Bill even still felt the impulse to go visit Lorlene, to tell her that her baby's death had been avenged, but that was the kind of thing that got people put behind bars for the rest of their lives. In a state like Texas, could mean time in the electric chair. There was so much he wanted to say to her. So much he wanted to make right because he wasn't able to change the outcome, he wasn't able to convince her of the preciousness of that life.
But the time for that stuff is over. It's time to ditch, before it's too late to ditch.
And so he found himself in the place he had called home for the last two years dumping his belongings in a suitcase and getting ready to leave it forever. He decided to leave a note to the landlord and a fifty dollar bill, knowing there was cleanup to do. He claimed a family emergency and hoped Joe wouldn't hate them too much for it.
He'd been renting to students for years, Bill thought. He's probably seen just about everything.
Except for the things Bill couldn't shove in his car, the place wasn't in terrible shape.
The more Bill packed, the less real that doctor's death became. The less real everything in Fidello became. Everything was starting to recede into the background. Soon, he would be home, and with family. Of course, he gave his father about until dinner the night he was home to ask him how he planned to get employment. His right, Bill supposed.
He thought it would have been perfect to be arrested right there, at the table. Perfect to say what it was he was being arrested for.
Bill reemerged. "Well, Caleb old buddy, I guess this is it."
"I don't think it's ever it."
"No, I suppose not. We'll see each other when it's time."
Bill nodded. "When it's time."
May 4, 1986
Bill opened the door to the darkened apartment almost absolutely sure that law enforcement would be waiting for him. Ready to take him away for the awful thing he had done. Ready to put him to death for taking that poor doctor's life away. Why had he done it?
He heard a laugh erupt from the other side of the room.
"Caleb, that you?"
"Yeah," he said, through his laughing.
"Why the hell are you laughing?"
"I been staring at that door for at least the last hour ready to blow to bits the first thing that walked through it. And you know what?"
"What's that, Caleb?"
"Lucky you, I wasn't ready in the least to do it."
Bill stared at his friend.
"How's that funny?"
"I don't know," Caleb said. "It just is."
"I'm ditching this town," Bill said. "I think I ought to, like, right now."
Caleb nodded. "I thought that was the plan all along."
"Yeah, I mean I just got to ditch with the apartment just like this."
"That would probably be wise."
"You wouldn't hate me for it?"
"I can't stay here anymore. They're going to find us one way or another eventually. We got our homes to go to. We got our degrees."
"I'm not going to write or call for a good long while, Cal."
"I suppose you shouldn't."
"I'm going to miss you."
"You, too, pal."
"Why did we do this?"
"We didn't know what to do. You know, even though I regret it, I still think we did the right thing."
"Maybe we did. Maybe we didn't. But now we got to live with it, and that's harder than living with the pain in the first place that we couldn't stop those babies from being killed."
"We couldn't live with either."
"No," Bill said, glad for his friend to the point that it made him tear up. "We couldn't live with either."
If it hadn't been for Lorlene, Bill kept thinking. She had wanted that baby, but she'd been convinced it was a normal thing to kill that baby. She'd been convinced it was a normal thing to take the baby's life and just pretend like nothing had happened. I had to show her that it wasn't.
And Bill even still felt the impulse to go visit Lorlene, to tell her that her baby's death had been avenged, but that was the kind of thing that got people put behind bars for the rest of their lives. In a state like Texas, could mean time in the electric chair. There was so much he wanted to say to her. So much he wanted to make right because he wasn't able to change the outcome, he wasn't able to convince her of the preciousness of that life.
But the time for that stuff is over. It's time to ditch, before it's too late to ditch.
And so he found himself in the place he had called home for the last two years dumping his belongings in a suitcase and getting ready to leave it forever. He decided to leave a note to the landlord and a fifty dollar bill, knowing there was cleanup to do. He claimed a family emergency and hoped Joe wouldn't hate them too much for it.
He'd been renting to students for years, Bill thought. He's probably seen just about everything.
Except for the things Bill couldn't shove in his car, the place wasn't in terrible shape.
The more Bill packed, the less real that doctor's death became. The less real everything in Fidello became. Everything was starting to recede into the background. Soon, he would be home, and with family. Of course, he gave his father about until dinner the night he was home to ask him how he planned to get employment. His right, Bill supposed.
He thought it would have been perfect to be arrested right there, at the table. Perfect to say what it was he was being arrested for.
Bill reemerged. "Well, Caleb old buddy, I guess this is it."
"I don't think it's ever it."
"No, I suppose not. We'll see each other when it's time."
Bill nodded. "When it's time."
Nuclear
Nuclear
We cannot approach
Poison radiation
In the severity
Of current problems.
Radioactive isotopes
Take the place
Of nutrients
In our bones and teeth.
Destruction of our bodies
Will come in days
Or months or weeks,
But is assured by our exposure.
The radioactive elements
Remain in our body,
Fitting into the spaces
Normally occupied by the normal isotopes.
You talk of a virus.
At least a virus dies
When its host dies.
Radioactivity lives
For potentially thousands of years,
Recycled through the environment,
Wreaking havoc everywhere it goes
And can you imagine
Nations threaten each other
With this terrible fate?
As if a human has a right
To damn another human
To this inhuman fate
And ultimately can protect themselves
From radiation cycling back.
There is no match
Between our current problems
And nuclear apocalypse.
The one is so much worse
Than the other.
We can breathe the air
Drink the water
Eat food without worry.
Nuclear weapons,
That people create,
And threaten each other with,
Takes all of these things
And, in large quantities,
Sunlight itself.
That we still have this capability
Is disgusting.
April 30, 1986
2
April 30, 1986
Agent Danley moved on to his final slide in the darkened conference room.
"And that's why domestic counter-terrorism will be the primary strategic challenge to the United States in the coming decade."
Agent Danley closed up his papers and the house lights came on. He had gotten used to being the in-house Chicken Little by now, but he usually got at least a polite question or two about the methods of his study or some potential uses to root out communist spies or something.
He looked out on the room full of Bureau employees that should be engaged in helping him, and all was silence.
Well, Danley supposed, terrorism did seem like a job for the Central Intelligence Agency or the military, not the FBI. Terrorism was happening in places like Germany and Greece, accessible to the places terrorists were, not in America. It was being done by guys like Gaddafi, which, no matter how much credit you gave him, you probably couldn't imagine him having any sympathizers among Americans.
And then there was Chernobyl, which really didn't have much to do with the Bureau except that everyone was paying attention to it. Chernobyl was real-time failure of the Soviet state, which no one in the Bureau could help but root for, as unwise as it ever is to root for a terrible human tragedy unfolding. In America, Agent Danley thought, the government was scared of the people, not the other way around.
As people filed towards the exits, Agent Danley could see that Agent Harper, the powerful head of the Organized Crime Division, was waiting for him right at the door. Harper didn't like that part of his budget had been earmarked for domestic counter-terrorism, necessitating, among other things, this meeting.
"Great presentation, Howard. I especially liked the part...well I can't remember any part of it, but I thought it was a great presentation."
Luckily, Agent Danley's secretary popped in.
"A call for you in your office."
Agent Danley was appreciative. He couldn't explain to Agent Harper why the Mafia was on the way out and that groups of paranoid conspiracy theorists were on the rise. He'd just have to see it himself.
Agent Danley walked briskly down the hall and hit the elevator door. He and his secretary rode down together and his heart was in his throat. No one ever called his desk. They must have a case.
He flipped the light on his phone and picked up the receiver.
"Agent Danley?"
"Yes, go ahead."
"This is Craig Cantroux with the Texas Rangers. How are you today?"
"I'm fine, Craig. What can I do for you?"
"I've got a homicide. Male. Fifty-four. Shot outside his home. No sign of struggle, no theft to his home, himself or his car. Dedicated family man, no known enemies. Only one motive we can find, it was his occupation."
"What he do?"
"He was an OB/GYN."
"Abortion doctor."
"Yup."
"You think it was religious? Maybe a struggle between two young lovers?"
"Agent Danley, I'm sensing resistance."
"No, no, none at all. I'm just paid to be skeptical."
"Yes, of course."
"Well, fax me over all the particulars. You need me to be on the scene?"
"I normally wouldn't ask, Agent Danley, you know I normally wouldn't except this fits a pattern of harassment behavior and seems to involve multiple actors working in coordination."
"You mean like a terror cell?"
"Not to put too fine a point on it, yeah, a terror cell. We appear to have a terror cell operating in Texas and they've just struck for the first but I'm not sure the last time."
"I'll canvass, see what resources we have to give you. I will definitely be there to consult, possibly tomorrow or the next day."
"I really appreciate that, Agent Danley. I really do."
They hung up, and Agent Danley was left in silence. It was strange, he thought. Now that it was happening, he didn't feel relief or vindication. No, he felt terror, for the families and the lives that were being affected.
Didn't this guy (or gal) think about running for political office? Couldn't he find some way to achieve his political objective through the system that was already in place? But then, he had to remember that ultimately it wasn't the political objective that was really at stake, but the lionization of the person in charge of the terror cell. To be known, to be a soldier for ideals, and then ultimately to become a martyr to the furtherance of the ideology. To be a hero and to be remembered.
To actually accomplish those goals would undercut the messianic fantasies of the leader or leaders of the cult. To actually try to run for office and change the law in question would prove that the system worked and that gradual change was possible. That would make the leader just another charismatic leader, not the soldier of God he or she imagined themselves to be.
Against the state. That was what this joker wanted to be. As if the state was not itself an expression of the people.
April 30, 1986
Agent Danley moved on to his final slide in the darkened conference room.
"And that's why domestic counter-terrorism will be the primary strategic challenge to the United States in the coming decade."
Agent Danley closed up his papers and the house lights came on. He had gotten used to being the in-house Chicken Little by now, but he usually got at least a polite question or two about the methods of his study or some potential uses to root out communist spies or something.
He looked out on the room full of Bureau employees that should be engaged in helping him, and all was silence.
Well, Danley supposed, terrorism did seem like a job for the Central Intelligence Agency or the military, not the FBI. Terrorism was happening in places like Germany and Greece, accessible to the places terrorists were, not in America. It was being done by guys like Gaddafi, which, no matter how much credit you gave him, you probably couldn't imagine him having any sympathizers among Americans.
And then there was Chernobyl, which really didn't have much to do with the Bureau except that everyone was paying attention to it. Chernobyl was real-time failure of the Soviet state, which no one in the Bureau could help but root for, as unwise as it ever is to root for a terrible human tragedy unfolding. In America, Agent Danley thought, the government was scared of the people, not the other way around.
As people filed towards the exits, Agent Danley could see that Agent Harper, the powerful head of the Organized Crime Division, was waiting for him right at the door. Harper didn't like that part of his budget had been earmarked for domestic counter-terrorism, necessitating, among other things, this meeting.
"Great presentation, Howard. I especially liked the part...well I can't remember any part of it, but I thought it was a great presentation."
Luckily, Agent Danley's secretary popped in.
"A call for you in your office."
Agent Danley was appreciative. He couldn't explain to Agent Harper why the Mafia was on the way out and that groups of paranoid conspiracy theorists were on the rise. He'd just have to see it himself.
Agent Danley walked briskly down the hall and hit the elevator door. He and his secretary rode down together and his heart was in his throat. No one ever called his desk. They must have a case.
He flipped the light on his phone and picked up the receiver.
"Agent Danley?"
"Yes, go ahead."
"This is Craig Cantroux with the Texas Rangers. How are you today?"
"I'm fine, Craig. What can I do for you?"
"I've got a homicide. Male. Fifty-four. Shot outside his home. No sign of struggle, no theft to his home, himself or his car. Dedicated family man, no known enemies. Only one motive we can find, it was his occupation."
"What he do?"
"He was an OB/GYN."
"Abortion doctor."
"Yup."
"You think it was religious? Maybe a struggle between two young lovers?"
"Agent Danley, I'm sensing resistance."
"No, no, none at all. I'm just paid to be skeptical."
"Yes, of course."
"Well, fax me over all the particulars. You need me to be on the scene?"
"I normally wouldn't ask, Agent Danley, you know I normally wouldn't except this fits a pattern of harassment behavior and seems to involve multiple actors working in coordination."
"You mean like a terror cell?"
"Not to put too fine a point on it, yeah, a terror cell. We appear to have a terror cell operating in Texas and they've just struck for the first but I'm not sure the last time."
"I'll canvass, see what resources we have to give you. I will definitely be there to consult, possibly tomorrow or the next day."
"I really appreciate that, Agent Danley. I really do."
They hung up, and Agent Danley was left in silence. It was strange, he thought. Now that it was happening, he didn't feel relief or vindication. No, he felt terror, for the families and the lives that were being affected.
Didn't this guy (or gal) think about running for political office? Couldn't he find some way to achieve his political objective through the system that was already in place? But then, he had to remember that ultimately it wasn't the political objective that was really at stake, but the lionization of the person in charge of the terror cell. To be known, to be a soldier for ideals, and then ultimately to become a martyr to the furtherance of the ideology. To be a hero and to be remembered.
To actually accomplish those goals would undercut the messianic fantasies of the leader or leaders of the cult. To actually try to run for office and change the law in question would prove that the system worked and that gradual change was possible. That would make the leader just another charismatic leader, not the soldier of God he or she imagined themselves to be.
Against the state. That was what this joker wanted to be. As if the state was not itself an expression of the people.
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