Chapter 10: Poppy

The FBI came through. In a roundabout way. Cyrus Vandenberg’s original piece of gossip — a failed med student spending large — hadn’t proven out. Douglas Mulvaney was a smalltime drug pusher, but I didn’t care about that. Let Independence police solve Independence crimes.

The two techies from the FBI’s Pittsburg office bought into the concept that the serial killer, Mr. Television, might well be working up to selling body parts. He certainly had no qualms about murdering innocent people. And the body organs concept had come from another European noir series. Plus there were those strange, tentative cuts around the Lady in Red’s eyes. Alice Rancher.

The techno team focused on current and former medical school students. Added dentistry too. Which makes sense to me. What kind of psychological profile does someone have to go into that profession? The pain profession.

The FBI also focused on illegal abortion mills. Back-alley abortions with unlicensed fucks operating on gullible girls after the 21 weeks and 6 days from conception line had been crossed.

Add in the rougher B & D dungeons. Nasty underground hangouts for sadists who go beyond the ritualized dance that their putative partners expect. Want, need.

B & D? The FlexiCuffs that Matt Had tucked into my luggage are discreetly tucked away in my dresser. Bottom drawer, along with other miscellaneous conveniences. Keep your prying eyes out of my bedroom! Fucking feds.

At the same time, the Special Operations Squad was running its own parallel operation. Leaning on its own network of local lowlifes.

Very much in third place, my Winter Irregulars were reaching out to their street contacts.

Then, as it happens so often, too often for our investigative pride, happenstance delivered the first occupational hint.

Rex Pettigrew was killed by a hit-and-run driver. Mr. Pettigrew had been the night janitor at 1300 Summit Street for 16 years. He’d been hired by Hank Morristown in 2001 and hadn’t missed a day of work since. Night of work.

I’d been introduced to Rex and enjoyed a few late night conversations back when I was feverishly researching all things Gunther. He was a pleasant, smiling black man who wore thick bifocals.

Security camera footage quickly nailed the driver — a 32-year old mother of two. Texting.

Most of the office stopped by the Raymond Lewis Funeral Parlor in the Northeast to pay respect to Mr. Pettigrew. Sign the book, sip weak coffee, nibble on store-bought cookies.

I happened to be a few feet away when I saw Sandra Fleming stop dead still in mid stride. She frowned in concentration. Looked around the chair-filled room and strode over to one of the Pittsburg techies, Red Maplethorpe. Whispered. He nodded and left the building walking quickly.

Walker was back in the bedroom — another ‘Overwatch’ game in that league he’s in. Pilar, Vanessa, and I were shucking the last of this season’s corn. We’d grill it, along with fresh salmon, up on the roof later on. Toss some asparagus on too.

Pilar, understanding at some molecular level, that conversational bombshells are much more effective when casually dropped, said, “Sucking isn’t the only way Papi can ... give himself pleasure.”

Vanessa and I looked at each other. Now what?

Pilar, still no exclamation points in her voice, elaborated, “There’s oral of course.” She smiled sweetly, “And anal.”

Vanessa gasped. Not loudly, just sort of a sucked-in breath. I ... my mind was reeling.

Matt and I made creative use of our unexpected free time. I can report that certain ... um, implements, are as efficient in morning light as they are at night. For me, restraints, my being in them, well, that’s a trust issue. More than a sexual enticement.

Okay, they are that too, no question. But it’s such a delicious feeling to care for someone enough to allow him to render you ... unambiguously available.

Our extracurricular activities explain why my tummy was letting me know how it felt about life in general. Matt and I had played, and rested, and played some more, through lunchtime and well into the afternoon; it was now getting dark. He made a reservation at Filomena, an Italian joint on Wisconsin. Here in Georgetown.

I held up my new Heckler & Koch and arched an eyebrow. Matt shook his head, “I’ll take my Sig Sauer.” It’s a beaut, the P320RX Carry Optic model. The Romeo dot sight makes it accurate more than 20 yards away. Unless you’re shaking and crying, stuff like that.

Matt drives a black 2012 Audi. The A6 model with 310 HP — I know because I checked out the manual when I riffled his glove box. He smiled indulgently at my snoopiness and slid his firearm into a hidden compartment in front of the armrest.

I said, “Pretty slick.”

He hit a spot below the gearshift lever and the lid popped up with the handle of the pistol front and center. Okay, now I had concealment-envy. “I need that. For my truck.”

“Treat me right and I may show you how.”

I reached between his thighs and gripped. “Oh, you’ll show me, all right.”

Sandra Fleming had been looking at Rex Pettigrew’s closed coffin when she thought, Embalmers!

They’re used to working with bodies. Had, presumably, gotten over any squeamishness. Would have had some medical training. Particularly the specialists involved in corpse restoration.

Personally, I would become a dentist before going anywhere near the mortuary business. I mean, what kid dreams of ... well, my personal prejudices don’t matter.

The FBI techies had now added mortuary personnel to Operation Organs. The two Pittsburg agents layered in sophisticated search techniques and accessed databases that are unknown to most of the world.

Mr. Television.

Pilar and I rode up in the Wrigley elevator. She gave Boy a pat on the butt, “Three please.”

He said, “Of course, Ms. Pilar.” And glided to a stop on five.

Pilar was puzzled by all the fuss regarding that Alabama candidate for the US Senate. He’d lost to a Democrat, challenging to do in that state. The also-ran had been accused of dating teenage girls when he was in his 30s.

“What’s the big deal?”

I started to give her the standard age-appropriate line. Vanessa was smiling at me. Fuck it. “I agree, Pilar. Some teenage girls are mature enough to handle adult relationships.”

Vanessa smiled to herself. She knows I was speaking from what linguistic professors call ‘personal experience’.

Pilar nodded, “Thank you.”

I said, “About the other ... um, Walker ... possibility.”

Vanessa said, “Self-anal.”

Pilar smiled, “Yes?”

I said, “What are your ... I mean ... are you thinking of... ?”

Pilar took pity on me. “No, Papi doesn’t want to. Well, part of him does. He’s curious.” She smiled again, “And he certainly has the equipment. I’ve experimented with him — no question he could do it.”

Fuck himself. In the butt.

Vanessa was frowning, trying to picture it.

I said to Pilar, “But you’re not...”

“No. I’m curious too, but Papi ... isn’t ready. Maybe never will be. And that’s fine.”

Right before I left for DC, Lina Paloma went into labor and all of us sped to St. Luke’s. Pilar was outwardly calm, but I imagine she was intensely focused on her mother. The birth itself was uneventful, which means hugely successful. And I’m speaking from a woman’s perspective — we’re the only ones who can truly appreciate the sentiment.

Lina and Matt Whitney named their daughter Ana Paula, but were calling her Poppy before they even left the hospital.

Pilar moved in with her mother, stepfather, and new baby sister. She’ stay in Brookside for three weeks or so. Longer if her mother needed the help.

Walker will just have to take matters into his own hands. Or mouth. Or ... never mind.

The FBI is a huge, largely insular institution. How big? In 2016 they made over 150,000 arrests.

It’s a conservative organization. Conservative in recruitment, policy, activities. And, somewhat, in politics. The majority of agents — and there are certainly exceptions — are Republicans. Or right-leaning Independents.

Yet in another way, they are radical. Open to new ideas, new methods. The FBI pioneered the professionalization of law enforcement. They were the first to study what later became known as serial killers. Created the first profilers. And they use outside consultants like Daddy and the Sullivan twins.

So, to their credit, they listened to Vanessa’s Mr. Television theory with an open mind.

The FBI, specifically the high-powered tech team from Pittsburgh, now had 42 local men on the Mr. Television ‘possibles’ list. Some were involved, one way or another, in the medical field. Others were felons with a history of steadily escalating violence. Some had been fingered by snitches. A typical potpourri.

The suspects included some of the usual miscreants that any local police organization would have identified. But thanks to the sophisticated algorithms and database access that Pittsburg has developed over the past decade, the FBI was able to drill down far deeper.

Which, in a counterintuitive way, the enhanced technology methods also made it easier to eliminate some of their initial targets. The list apex — 43 suspects — was slowly, painstakingly, being reduced. Alibis, witness testimonies, physical evidence ... all contributed to a roster that grew smaller and smaller. There was an occasional addition, but more cross-outs than not.

Of course even those men who had been moved to the ‘Probably Not’ column were kept under intermittent surveillance.

One man — Oscar Norville of the Moriarty Brothers Funeral Home —- became ‘a person of interest’ and remained so. Norville was spotted the third day after the FBI had added ‘embalmers’ to the search for Mr. Television.

Norville hadn’t attended med school, but had one year studying dentistry at UMKC. University of Missouri — Kansas City.

What caught the attention of the FBI investigators was the timing of Norville’s early departure from the program. He left a couple of weeks after one of the school’s three anesthetic machines had gone missing.

This particular piece of equipment had cost the university $14,495. It was The Datex-Ohmeda Aestiva/5 Anesthesia Machine, a refurbished model. New, it would have run around double that. Guess it was good enough for classroom work.

The theft had been investigated by the UMKC Police. But the Kansas City Police Department had not been informed. The school had decided to keep everything in the family.

The FBI learned about the theft when a deep search of the dental college files revealed a claim to AIG. The insurance company sent its own investigator, but eventually cut a check for $8,126.37. There was a 35% deductible. Plus depreciation.

Stolen at the same time ... a vaporizer, ventilator, and inhaler.

This particular package would allow hospital-like applications of a nitrous oxide / ether mix. Laughing gas to relax a subject; ether to knock him out. Or her.

It’s interesting what you can pick up, learn, when you listen instead of talk. Now the act, the very idea, of not talking is unnatural. At least to me. But sometimes I forget. Like when Gertie had a footnote conversation with me on Bitcoin. Not that I’ll ever invest in it — balancing my checkbook is taxing enough.

We were in the Vanessa Lacey Gallery in the Livestock Exchange Building. It hosts international showings several time a year. Kaylee Thomas was featured this month — “Elements”. Plus, she plays a variety of instruments. Multimedia.

Gertie said, “Bitcoin. There’s been an interesting federal development over the past few years.”

Some smartass said, “It would have to be over the past few years, Gertie, cryptocurrency hasn’t been around very long.”

“True enough. But the law enforcement aspect is fascinating. Of course government almost always trails the private sector in innovations.”

“Of course.” I guess that’s true, now that I think about it.

“Suddenly agencies like the DEA and FBI are finding themselves with loads of Bitcoins. And similar currencies.”

“Asset forfeiture?”

“Yeah. Dread Pirate Roberts was the most visible. Ross Ulbricht.” Silk Road.

“I remember reading about that one. Drugs, weapons, child porn, murder for hire ... all bartered in Bitcoins.”

“The problem for the Feds was Ulbricht didn’t use use a standard broker like Coinbase to hold the digital funds. He created his own online wallet.”

“Why is that a problem?”

“The only way the authorities could get at the funds in a situation like that is if someone tells them the key. A private key like Ulbricht created would have an incredibly long, intricate set of random characters. Virtually impossible to crack.”

“So what’d they do with the Dread Pirate?”

“They grabbed him in a library. San Francisco. They also snatched his laptop. Which was open and unlocked at the time.”

“So they got his loot.”

“Yep. Just like seizing a drug dealer’s Maserati. But nobody really knew what to do with all those Bitcoins.”

“So what happened?”

“All the federal agencies turn asset forfeitures over to the US Marshals Service. It’s the oldest law-enforcement agency in the country. But you knew that.”

I adjusted my Anaïs Nin beret, “Of course.” Now I know it.

“People think of Wyatt Earp and Bill Hickok, but these days the Marshals are charged with converting all those seizures into cash.”

“How do they do that?”

“Public auctions. Visit their website — boats, cars, watches, airplanes.”

“And now Bitcoins.”

“Yep. And other cryptocurrencies.”