Coffin Dancer

When James Lincoln Warren launched CriminalBrief.com , he assigned nicknames to our fellow bloggers. Mine was ADD Detective, a riff on Monk’s OCD Detective. During a workday or when wanting to sleep, I imbibed litres of caffeine, self-medicating without realizing it.

A common trait of ADD/ADHD is inventiveness thinking outside cubicle enclosures. Gradually I came to view ADD as a superpower, a garden of creative seeds, yet this isn’t about me, but a stranger than fiction experience. Literally.

Dr Ronald Malavé © CBS 48 Hours

Until then, I found most doctors almost as clueless as I was and occasionally dangerous. During a discussion among colleagues at Disney, a few friends suggested I visit their doctor, a Dr Ronald Malavé, who numbered some of Disney management among his patients. He wasn’t known for useless blathering, but for digging into chemical problems in the brain.

He resembled David Suchet, not a handsome man, definitely more Hercule Poirot than Richard Castle. Fastidious, conservatively dressed, short with thinning hair, he was no one’s idea of a love icon.

His main office differed from others in his field. It was awkwardly placed next to a busy corridor in a business building where conversations and footsteps echoed up and down the hall. His secretary chatted up patients more than he did. When she stepped away, lost people opened the door interrupting discussions.

No soothing hues and bland prints covered the walls. No artsy rugs, no couch, no pot of tea. File cabinets and a laptop dominated the décor. Fine with me. I wanted a diagnostician, not a fuzzy wuzzy chatty chemist.

But things turned weird.

Barely did I get two visits under my belt when I arrived and found the office in chaos. Dr Malavé had been arrested.

I listened as the staff gathered at the secretary’s desk. Hereafter, I’ll refer to the complainant as CD. She was a highly intelligent, highly troubled patient diagnosed with multiple personalities, referred to Malavé because of his talent and track record of success with hard cases, and this was a very difficult case.

“How could someone accuse him?” the receptionist said. “He’s such a good man.”

His secretary burst into tears. “He cared so much. Never would he do that with a patient. Plus she’s… I’m not supposed to say it, but she’s off the deep end.”

As they commiserated, I listened quietly. I didn’t have anywhere else to go, and I couldn't turn away from this train wreck. As if the situation wasn't peculiar enough, the story grew even stranger. I don’t recall exactly when, but a little nugget dropped into my ear.

"So weird. She keeps using that nasty email ID.”

“What's that?”

“Coffin Dancer.”

What?

Now they really had my attention. Eventually someone realized I wasn’t supposed to be there. The staff headed for a bar and I headed home.

During the next several weeks, I chatted with the secretary. She was loquacious, unprofessionally voluble, but she was deeply wounded.

The accuser had provided a calendar when she claimed to have had sex with the doctor in that severe but servicable office, and the secretary had been the one to comb their records, discovering some dates didn’t match. Investigators attributed this to confusion of a mentally disturbed person.

The secretary confided the accuser had stalked Dr Malavé for months. CD had trailed him home, learning where he lived. She began a habit of going through trash set out on the curb, learning what she could about the residents.

At least three major investigations ensued. The secretary had to wind down both offices, effecting layoffs, and idling operations until the State of Florida permitted him to see patients again. She warned clients police would interview us. In my case, they did not, but good news arrived. The criminal investigation and jury trial ended with Dr Malavé declared not guilty.

In the Sunshine State, licensing of physicians and critical healthcare workers is controlled by two entities, the Florida Department of Health and the Florida Board of Medicine. They stalled, refusing to return his licence to practice as they reinvestigated. Some physicians published open letters asking Board and Department to restore his licence. The secretary suggested the obstinate Board was caught up in ‘Believe the Woman’ fever.

I wasn’t so sure, but my interviewer could not have been more disinterested. I felt someone wanted to bury Dr Malavé. My impatient interviewer gave me the feeling they didn’t want evidence vindicating him but sought evidence to kill his career. I had something to say.

“I’m told the accuser used the handle Coffin Dancer.”

“I don’t know anything about that and it doesn’t matter.”

“I disagree. Author Jeffrey Deaver writes a series featuring Lincoln Rhyme. He’s a forensics and crime scene expert.”

“That sounds like a made-up name.”

“It is a made up name. One of the novels is titled The Coffin Dancer.”

“So…?”

I grow tense and frustrated when I’m not heard.

“Don’t you agree using a title about DNA harvesting and violent murder is a bit odd?”

“Dancing on someone’s grave is a common expression. People can use any handle they want.”

I realized I was making no headway at all. It turned out another major inquiry was under way, the season premier of CBS News 48 Hours Investigates. It’s still featured on the CBS web site.

They focused on DNA. CD provided police with a number of panties containing secretions from both parties. However, local news reported at least some (plural) had not been available for retail sale until after the date in question. An unsatisfactory suggestion of a mixup surfaced. At least one reporter indicated CD had taken condoms from Malavé’s garbage bins, but if true, that report passed into obscurity.

CD was described as having a brilliant mind, but suffered from borderline personality dissociative identity disorder (DID), once referred to as multiple personalities and Sybil’s Syndrome. CBS experts dismissed multiple personalities out of hand, but Malavé’s attorneys believed at least three of CD’s internal characters conspired to accuse Malavé of having sex with CD.

Following professional medical training, she worked for a urologist, harvesting and working with semen. She had the knowledge, she had the experience of working with and manipulating seminal and vaginal DNA.

☛ Curiously suggestive, a central plot point in the novel The Coffin Dancer is collecting DNA from semen by going through trash bins.

Nonetheless, 48 Hours hired their own expert who concluded the ratio of male secretions indicated intercourse, not transfer. 48 Hours Investigates season premiere ended with a gleeful assertion the show had vindicated Coffin Dancer.

The Florida Board of Medicine leaped upon the 48 Hours conclusion rather than police reports and a jury’s conclusion, and denied reinstatement of his licence to practice.

Maybe CBS got it right, but I wonder if Board members read Deavers novels. They might have reached a different conclusion. I wonder if Coffin Dancer, the accuser, outsmarted them all.

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References

• Open Letter by a Fellow Physician

Links in the CBS News articles are broken. Use the following to navigate the three segments.

1. A Crime of the Mind, Part I
2. A Crime of the Mind, Part II
3. A Crime of the Mind, Part III

Half Time at Hard Time

You remember that larcenous prisoner pal Shifty. Turns out his brother-in-law, Shaky, the crime ring’s explosives expert, was in the penitentiary and looking for a way out. He discovered the prison updated their security system at midnight.

At zero-hundred hours, the computer initiated the cycling process. Exactly 45 seconds later, it shut off the electrified fence and alarms for mere moments, whereupon it was fully reactivated with fresh recording media. If Shaky could breach the fence at the 45-second mark, he could escape. Three seconds early or late, and his goose was cooked. And by goose, we mean an electric Shaky.

There was just one problem. A bell always clanged at midnight, but how could Shaky time 45 seconds without a watch or cell phone, both banned by incarceration rules.

Having studied under explosives master Dixon Hill, Shaky felt confident he could figure out a way. He discreetly assembled fuses in the prison workshop. Although each length burned exactly one minute, they burned unevenly. The first half of this homemade det cord might burn in forty seconds while the second half would race to the finish in twenty. He couldn’t depend that three quarters of a fuse would give him 45 seconds and not risk his life.

But then Shaky saw the answer. Armed with two one-minute lengths of det cord and a lighter, he affected his escape. How did he do it?

Rules

1. The prison’s system reset begins at midnight when a tone sounds. Exactly 45 seconds later, the fence deactivates and mere moments later it re-electrifies.
2. Shaky carries only a lighter and two lengths of fuse cord.
3. Each cord will burn exactly one minute. However, burn rate is not proportional or even.

How did Shaky escape?

Here is an entertaining three minute Ted Talk presentation and answer to the puzzle.

 

 

 

 

© SleuthSayers

 

Solution

The Spurious Scurrilous Scurril.

domesticated flying squirrel

Monday, our Chris Knopf persuasively wrote The Irresistible Sciurus carolinensis, i.e, the grey squirrel. I'm here today with a rebuttal. Much like Miss Bubbles LaFerne, squirrels are cute cuddly…

Homewreckers!

Yep. Wild squirrels let me pet them and I’ve had flying squirrels as pets– they’re small, like gerbils. I’ve met black squirrels, white squirrels, and red squirrels.

But at the moment, I’m leaning toward the rats-with-furry-tails philosophy. The Florida floods following Hurricane Ian persuaded rodents of all sorts to seek higher ground. In my area, the August Council of Rodent Emigration (ACRE) decided that meant Leigh’s attic.

Soffits, we laugh at you! Sciurus carolinensis moved in and never left. Invasive greys are known for driving red squirrels out of their traditional habitats. I know that feeling. They are…

black squirrel

Hometakers!

They refused rat bait (not intended for squirrels) and they discovered Valentine’s cockatoo food suited them quite nicely: sunflowers and salads and fancy nuts, thank you very much. During the recent cold snap– okay, what passes for a cold snap in Florida– the squirrel delegation decided they need not go out when fresh food is delivered downstairs.

Quite the overstayed guests, they are rude little…

Homemakers! (aka Make Themselves at Home)

New drywall– the gypsum board to replace that damaged in Hurricane Ian’s wake– represents a small barrier. The furballs gnaw windows above the fireplace to see what’s going on. The scene resembles one of those old gothic movies where spirits lean out of picture frames. That’s our squirrels, resting their elbows on their most recent window-to-the-world, wondering why Miss M is hurling pots and pans and curses at them. But once upon a time…

white squirrel

Home Fries!

Before Florida, I lived in a state forest in Minnesota. Lots of wildlife, lots of squirrels. Not by coincidence, the electrical power would sometimes go boom with an explosion like a shotgun blast.

The house had its own transformer high on a utility pole. You may have noticed squirrels like to climb, and the pole was no exception. From time to time, Squeaky or Squiffy or Squirmy's curiosity would come to the fore. One or another would climb on the transformer, shorting it out and blowing the fuse with a bang heard ’round the forest. Lois at the electric company would exclaim, “Glory be. Sounds like Leigh’s transformer blew again. Earl, you up for the trip?”

As a result of tripping the fuse link, Squiffy or Squirmy or Squeaky would be blown away, figuratively and literally. Funeral arrangements occurred the next day. Furry families requested sunflower seeds in lieu of sunflowers.

red squirrel

Home Savers!

After transformer blasts occurred a few times, I told the company’s lineman these untenable squirrel blasts were expensive for the electric company, the squirrel population, and me in the middle of critical lines of code on my computer.

“Oh,” Earl said. “Why don’t you request a squirrel sleeve?”

“Why has no one mentioned this?” I said. “What’s a squirrel sleeve?”

The device, as you might surmise, was a 20-inch / 50cm length of galvanized sheet metal wrapped high around the utility pole. Squirrels might ascend to the sleeve, but not climb past its slippery surface. No more Spiffys or Squiffys or Rocky Js would die on my watch.

My thoughtfulness won numerous Squirrelman of the Year awards, whereupon rodents everywhere figured I’d welcome them to my house and hearth.

grey squirrel

Homebody!

I concede a major point to Chris: If I could reincarnate as any karmic wheel-of-life creature, a squirrel would make a good candidate. Sure, they work hard, but the little acrobats play hard too, scampering and teasing, friends-with-benefits flirting and playing you-can’t catch-me tag.

They are smart and wily. Defeated homeowners have posted videos of incredible obstacle courses originally intended to keep the little buggers out of bird feeders.

Score:    Squirrels 137,528    Humans 0

Moreover, naturalists tell us squirrels are the only mammal that can survive a drop from any height. When they spread their limbs, loose skin of the abdomen flattens just enough to resemble a wing suit, letting them parachute safely to a landing. Better than a flat cat! How cool is that!

Rocky J Squirrel
© Geico, Jay Ward Prod. et al

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But chewing the wiring in someone’s old house?

Nuts to that.

So…

Any chance your karmic lineage includes a squirrel?

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wingsuit human flying squirrel © Squirrel.ws

Our Town

Fans of Midsomer Murders and Agatha Christie know villages are dangerous places, and I’m pretty sure Miss Marple made a tidy living from hamlets paying her to stay away. But the other afternoon there I was, minding my own business, half-listening to a crime podcast… actually a video of five homicides titled ‘5 Cases Solved With The Most Insane Twists’. The episodes had little in the way of twists, but I mentally noted how many crimes take place in out-of-the-way villages no one has heard of.

Then Case 5 queued up:

Valerie Tindall was born on August 29 2005 in Indianapolis, Indiana. She had a big loving family: her parents, a brother, and four sisters. They decided to leave the big city and move to a tiny town called Arlington, about an hour's drive from Indianapolis. With only a few hundred residents, …

Wait! What? What a shock. I know Arlington. It’s my hometown, I know it well. I graduated from high school there. My brothers and I sold the volunteer fire department land to build a new fire station. In upcoming issue 17 of Michael Bracken’s Black Cat Magazine, I set a story in and around Arlington and the county seat of Rushville. But deliberate death of a teenage girl?

Proximity from eastern edge of Lundin farm (at left edge of map) to crime scene.
Fire Department sold to the town is depicted immediately to right of property.

It’s not that we’re not exposed to sudden demise. Farming is the second most dangerous occupation, a percentage point or so behind construction. Indeed, the two professions account for a third of work-related loss of life. If heavy machinery, angry horses or bulls, open field lightning, blizzards, or drowning don’t kill a farmer, then carcinogenic chemicals could bring him down… or her… Everyone pitches in. Running a small farm is a family occupation for adults and children alike.

Childhood is a litany of don’ts: • Don’t reach into moving machinery. • Don’t go near the bogs. • Don’t go near the ponds. • Don’t go near the bullpen. • Don’t go near a wild boar. Don’t flip the tractor. • Don’t play in the grain silos. • Don’t play in the hay mow. • Don’t drown in the sugar bins– that’s a real thing.

Three classmates died, a girl and two boys, one of encephalitis and another from a tractor rolling over him. We grew up with this, but no one expects a teen to be intentionally killed. I can’t compare the violence with our colleague Fran Rizer’s ordeal, but the impact shocked me. Our home had been willfully violated.

The village of Arlington is perhaps six or seven blocks wide and maybe five blocks north-to-south counting the ‘new’ addition. Census generally claim three hundred or more residents, but I’m hard pressed where two hundred of them are hiding. I suspect the census includes domestic rabbits and hunting dogs.

My mother and a handful of friends used to keep me updated on current events, but after my parents died and friends either moved away or passed away, I lost touch without realizing it. I knew a number of Scotts in Rush and Shelby counties including in-laws, but not Patrick Scott involved in the case.

I didn’t know the Tindall family at all, but it turns out Haboob knew the grandparents and probably great-grandparents. The great-grandmother, according to her calculations, taught piano lessons to Haboob.

Setting aside my work, I rewound to the beginning of the story, listening carefully. The case made national news, but for reasons unknown, I missed it entirely. Other than a few reporting errors, the homicide and resolution are well documented, so I won’t go into detail.

Summary

On the 7^th of June 2023, seventeen-year-old Valerie Tyndall left her family’s home, presumably to go to work for her neighbor and boss, Patrick Scott. He owned properties in Arlington and operated small businesses including landscaping and lawn care. When Valerie didn’t return that evening and her parents couldn’t locate her, they called Rush County Sheriff’s Office.

Soon the FBI, the US Marshals Service, and the Indiana State Police joined Rush County deputies. Authorities questioned Scott early on, who insisted Valerie was not scheduled to work.

Scott turned out to be a remarkably poor liar, and virtually from the beginning, detectives had an eye on him. For reasons unknown, he set fire to a garage he owned, but police couldn’t connect it to the case. Some news outlets stated Valerie’s corpse was found in a barrel in the burned-out shed, but that was not the situation.

Position of victim and perpetrator properties, and detail of search areas.

Cadaver dogs signaled at a nearby pond, but divers turned up nothing. However, a couple of investigators noted prevailing winds and realized a breeze might have wafted scents from Scott’s home and office.

Spade work turned up nothing, but at last the crew turned their attention to a mass of construction debris. Under a pile of dirt, they turned up a large, hand-crafted box. It turned out to contain VHS video tapes. Police have not said what the tapes contained.

But under that, they found another box that gave off an odor of decomposition. Inside, they found young Valerie.

Scott admitted killing her, claiming she tried to blackmail him. He denied having a sexual relationship, although he had strangled her with his belt. Observers noted at times he acted like a jealous lover. One article suggested another reason possibly hinted at by the mother Shena Sandefur, which I’ll leave to you to discover. Following a plea agreement, he was sentenced to 57 years.

Aftermath

No offense to city dwellers living in an atmosphere of anonymity, I’m not sure urbanites could understand the impact. At this moment, Haboob resides seven miles from the crime scene. She didn’t believe it when I first told her. She had to research it herself and then try to internalize it.

The surrounding towns mentioned in articles we know well. My cherry bedroom suite came from The Sampler in the hamlet of Homer. My high school girlfriend lived in Carthage. I loved reading in the quiet of the Rushville library. I worked summers in Shelbyville. Andrew Jackson signed the land grant for my mother’s people outside Morristown. The land and inhabitants resemble a small budget Tara, under the skin and affecting the heart.

Tindall family during happier times

Worst of all, a family moved from the big city to a village, looking for a healthier, quieter, safer life. Instead, they lost their daughter and the promise of her future. It hurts us all.

Scrooge McGrinch and the Four Elves (a Christmas Puzzle)

E. Scrooge McGrinch

In the hour before the sun peeked around the mountain, a green, green figure clumped up the hill, dysphoria washing over him yet again. Scrooge McGrinch felt misunderstood. His shrink explained he suffered from hereditary hormonal imbalance, festiphobia (a fear of holidays) and affluenza (a love of money). As the 7^th generation following the historic marriage of Ebenezer Scrooge Jr and Ethylene Glycol MacGrinch, his skin still bore the same pigment as an eight-dollar bill.

[For our vast audience of molecular biologists, see DAT1, DRD2, and SOD1-/- in ‘Condition Green’, Morley et al, JAM, 2022.]

Then he heard a racket, a cacophony of four voices, and his spirits leaped in joy. Off the trail, caught in an avalanche of snow, were wedged his sworn nemeses, a quartet of bratty elves who made his pitiful life miserable.

Four Awful Elves

Boozy, Doozy, Floozy, and Woozy had awakened at 4:30, giggling and chuckling. The lads chortled at the notion of joyriding the village’s most recent resident, Bolderdash, understudy for the nine celebrity reindeer. In the dark of the mudroom, they pulled on boots, mittens, and stocking caps. Emboldened by a generous slug of wintergreen schnapps, they headed toward the barns.

Bolderdash was not thrilled to be shaken and awakened when a bridle slipped over his nose. The brightly lit factory and rail yard swarmed with activity at that early hour, so the jackanapes led their captive reindeer into the dark before climbing aboard.

They cantered down the tracks of the Polar Express and galloped into the night. At the edge of the plateau near Kringle International Airport, a landing FedEx cargo plane zoomed overhead, startling Bolderdash. He balked. He had had enough. In a fit of pique, he bucked and skidded to a halt at the edge of a precipice.

Four little figures flew over a cliff and landed up to their chins in deep snow, fortunate they didn’t set off an avalanche. They found themselves trapped in cold white stuff, unable to move. Meantime, Bolderdash sulkily stalked back to the barns, hoping for a little more sleep before roll call.

The Problem and the Proposal

A half hour passed until Scrooge McGrinch stumbled upon the naughty elves. He said, “You… You in the red hat. What are you miscreants doing?”

The elves appeared confused. Two wore red hats and two wore green hats. “In the dark, O Verdant One, we grabbed toques without noticing the colors. None of us can see what we’re wearing.”

“You brats wear colorful hats, but you don’t know the hue, do you?” said McGrinch. “Let’s play a little game.”

Scrooge McGrinch wasn’t a mean man… Well, okay, he was mean in multiple senses of the word, but he wasn’t entirely heartless. Following a modicum of smug enjoyment, he said, “If anyone can figure out the color cap you’re wearing, I’ll rush to Ski Patrol to dig you out, else I’ll call your parents and they won’t be happy.”

The elves shivered. “We’ll give it a try, Your Viridescence.”

McGrinch grimaced. “Fine. Here are the rules.”

The Puzzle

1. Four elves in a row are immovably buried up to their chins in snow.
2. Their names and positions are Boozy₁, Doozy₂, Floozy₃, and Woozy₄.
3. Two wear red hats, two wear green, but no elf knows what color he wears.
4. Each elf can see only the elf or elves directly ahead.
5. Woozy is separated by an impenetrable snowdrift.
6. None can glimpse their own hat, nor do colors reflect off the snow.
7. Elves are not permitted to discuss what they see.

Solution after the break.

And so Scrooge McGrinch promised to rescue them if any elf correctly identified the color hat he was wearing, otherwise they faced the humiliation of begging the Big Elf’s help. Which elf might deduce his hat?

The Good, The Bad, and The Confusing

The ‘Wicked’ Witch of the West

At first blush, the home life of Rebecca and Maddie, Hunter and Christina might sound make-believe. They live on an idyllic farm where they raise goats, chickens, and garden vegetables south of the big city of Indianapolis. Their father is a dual-degree family physician and their mother started life as a ballerina.

They’re real, I assure you, but they have a few rules. One of them is no television. Although mother and father have different reasons for forbidding TV, they reached the same agreement.

The family actually owns a television, a huge clunker, but it’s not hooked up to anything, not even stray signals that might beam far into the countryside. Instead, it’s use is restricted to videos deemed suitable by the parents. When I visited, I raided the town’s library and borrowed a number of classic comedies the kids hadn’t seen. They loved Marx Brothers and Buster Keaton, and liked It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World and Betty Boop. They didn’t care much for Laurel and Hardy– Stan and Ollie slapstick didn’t appeal to them.

Popcorn Capitalism

To a degree, their upbringing mirrored my experience, including no television. The only kids’ movie I recall as a child (not counting the devastating The Little Match Girl) was sponsored by Indianapolis merchants on a shopping Saturday. To give moms a break, parents could drop off their younglings at a theatre that provided popcorn, a drink, and Abbot & Costello on the silvery screen. Our visit happened only once. A voyage into the city was a 70 miles (112km) round trip, a little over an hour and a half of driving.

However, our nearby town hosted a free summer movie nights. They showed classic (and cheap) films on an outdoor screen attached to a wall of the Armory, Masonic Lodge, or other large building. Viewers would bring blankets and cushions, and snuggle as Chief Crazy Horse played on the screen. Like drive-ins of the era, the show often led with a cartoon followed by an adult drama.

Then a funny thing happened. The venue shifted to the school, where show operators hooked the large screen to the outer wall of the school gymnasium directly across a narrow street from my grandmother’s house. Had she chosen, granny could have enjoyed the movie from the comfort of her living room.

Instead, my mother had a brainstorm. She cooked popcorn and steeped iced tea. Within minutes of our arrival, movie-goers came sniffing and mom handed out cups of Kool-Ade, tea, and brown bags of popcorn. The fare disappeared within minutes. Next time, she iced a tub of Coke and Nehi soda, and again sold out. Throughout the summer, my family ran a de facto concession stand. Mom, bless her, figured out a way to make money from free movies.

Catchin’ Up with the Crowd

But, the time and distance of running a farm and a second job meant my parents couldn’t take off to visit a city for a movie night. Until I dated in high school, I had never seen a current kids’ film. I wasn’t unaware of current showings, but when Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland, and Wizard of Oz cycled through movie houses, I read the stories but didn’t see the films.

Not until I was an adult. As previously mentioned, I consulted for Walt Disney World. I wasn’t an employee, a ‘cast member’ in Disney parlance, but they often extended privileges to me.

Follow me here: As you emerge from under the Magic Kingdom’s train station and face the park, to the immediate right is a theatre. Not the silent showing of Steamboat Willie under the marquee up the street, but a real theatre. On Fridays, Disney occasionally sponsored free family movie nights. For the first time, I saw Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland, Fantasia, and other classic animated films.

And I soaked them up. As a little kid, I loved Peter Pan. I read all versions– J.M. Barrie’s novel evolved over time from a short story of a wild boy who frequented Regent’s Park, to the novel we know and love. My Aunt Esther gave me a huge Peter Pan comic book, 25¢ instead of the usual dime. I spent hours reading and re-reading it. I would have gladly traded my brothers for one Tinkerbell and a sister like Wendy. Along the line, I fell in love with Indian Princess Tiger Lily.

But an odd thing happened when as an adult, I saw the films. I empathized with Captain Hook. He was intelligent, erudite, well-spoken, well-dressed, and very, very annoyed by a pestering brat who cost him his right hand and fed it to a crocodile. (Or left hand… it changed with stage showings and even between scenes.) Much as I admired Peter, I’d feel irritated too. I must not have been the only one to feel that way– Disney released Hook, which I saw in their Magic Kingdom theatre.

Wicked Thoughts

The same phenomenon happened with the Wicked Witches of the East and West in The Wizard of Oz. Why did sister witches hate each other so much? Was it simply because of a skin condition surprisingly similar to that which affected the Grinch, the Hulk, and perhaps Mr. Spock, all known for ill temper and lack of patience? Couldn’t one of the beautiful witch sisters lend green ones their extensive supply of Neutrogena or Aveeno?

When East Witch was unceremoniously crunched under Dorothy’s house, why couldn’t someone show sympathy to her Western sister? While thinking about it, did some witchery party give the house a little nudge to alter its landing?

Didn’t Witches North and South lie to Dorothy about how to get home?

Consider the following contrasts:

Good Witches, North and South	Wicked Witches, East and West
• are blest with great beauty	• are afflicted with green skin
• celebrate death of fellow witch	• squashed sister is mocked and derided
• lie to Dorothy knowing shoes can return her to Kansas	• mother’s valuable shoes stolen by Glinda given to Dorothy
• set Dorothy on path to kill rivals	• East Witch killed by Dorothy
• seize power after Wizard departs	• West Witch killed by Dorothy

Who exactly is the bad guy? Could it be the so-called‘good witches’? Or even Dorothy? Sure, she slummed around with Straw Man, Metal Man, and the Frightened Feline, but toward what end?

Gregory Maguire may agree with me, the author who wrote Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West. I confess I haven’t read the novel, enjoyed the award-winning stage play, or seen the movie (Part 1), as I’d hoped this weekend. But hey, the showing isn’t over yet.

In what movies or stories did you find heroes to be less than honorable?

ConVocation

Presumed US location of Adven

Consequences

Lily has a knack for drawing scammers like some people attract mosquitoes with similar blood-sucking results. You’ve met Lily a couple of times including a phishing scam involving Chase Bank.

I’m dismayed how often Chase victimizes its customers, freely handing out money to con artists and then blaming customers. I’ve noted a number of Chase fraud stories since and spoke with a lady who lost tens of thousands to a scam that Chase refused to acknowledge. Because Lily received advice to withdraw her funds and not a penny more, she remains the only person I know who survived monetarily intact.

She and I spent hours making phone call warnings and visiting Chase and state police, trying to apprise them of a crime in progress. We explained how the fraud worked, despite snorts and sniggers and snarky wishes *they* had a friend (wink, wink, nudge, nudge) who’d deposit thousands in their account.

“There is no money,” I insisted.

“Sure there is, we can see it right… right… Wait! Where did it go?”

After the fact, the bank blamed Lily and demanded she reimburse them for their shortfall and shortcomings as a so-called trusted financial institution. Ha. That’s ever likely.

Presumed US headquarters of Adven

Conversation

Lily sometimes struggles. She listed with LinkedIn seeking work at home. Unlike some, the girl self-motivates as long as the job doesn’t require copying the Encyclopædia Britannica in longhand.

Out of the blue, she receives a message from a European company expanding into North America. They require Lily to take a test and write an essay, but she’s hopped. She can take on as much work as she chooses and the pay is respectable, even a bit higher than her current salary, nicely filling in financial gaps.

Conjecture

Lily excitedly calls her boyfriend, she calls her mother, she calls me. I can’t pinpoint what, but something sets off my alarms. I ask for all the information she can provide, including text messages and anything else she can tell me. The list of accounting programs dismays me. Normally companies seek one or two, not half a dozen. I’m putting a damper on her happiness, but it turns out her boyfriend also senses something off.

I go to work.

Content

First thing, Adven exists. It’s a 600 employé company registered with a real web site and a presence in other European countries. But they mention nothing in the Americas. Okay, the contact explains they are setting up shop in the US.

I’ve been through that before, working for European concerns expanding into the States and vice versa. I consider calling to double check and notify Adven I suspect they are being used in a scam, but for the moment, I opt to let things play out.

Further research reveals Hanna Summa is a real person with a Linked-In page and a profile on her company’s web site. Acting so hands-on for a potential entry level employee raises an eyebrow, but again, I’ve seen this within major corporations when placing fresh folks overseas. Directors and vice presidents keep an eye on details to avoid screw-ups.  An executive engaging with new staff and line isn’t inconceivable.

Meanwhile, this ‘Hanna Summa’ assigns Lily an essay. I suggest she consider an AI piece to avoid heavy vestment at this early stage, but, honest as she is, she writes a paper as agreed. Hanna Summa promises to send a check.

And she did.

Concept

I recognize the scheme. I advise Lily not to deposit it, but ask her bank to vet the check. Most checks clear the same day, but occasionally a draft may take fifteen days or so to slog through the system. This is where this type of scam takes root. Senders instruct their victim to spend or send much of that money elsewhere, ultimately into scammers’ own pockets. By the time a check is returned as fraudulent, it’s too late– the victim has been financing the scheme with her own money.

Conversion

This method obviates another scheme, the business of money laundering. Con artists arrange with a person in another country to sell goods or collect and distribute funds and perhaps packages. The unknowing party isn’t so much a victim as a patsy, flushing money through the system. In one case, a foreign ‘artist’ arranged for ‘commissioned partners’ in North America to sell his paintings, retain 10% and return 90% to the cheerful dauber who just laundered illicit monies or and avoided taxes.

Contrariwise

Meanwhile back at the bank, instead of making a conditional deposit as usual, at Lily’s behest, clerks go to work investigating that critical slip of paper with its excellent engraving and holographic sticker between the memo and signature. When they reluctantly hand the check back to Lily, they shake their heads but with respect for her instincts.

Still playing along, Lily tearfully informs her Adven contact that her bank has refused the check, saying it was no good. Our fake Hanna expresses shock and dismay, shock I say, shock. She posited her company’s accounting partner inexplicably made a mistake, perhaps a matter of misinterpretation. She will investigate and get back to Lily posthaste.

Shock, I tell you.

Lily is still waiting for the results of the investigation.

Conclusion

Lily merely wanted earnest work to make an honest wage. Reaching back to the J.P. Morgan Chase episode, her first reaction was to visit the bank at least twice and explain something was wrong.

Opinionated pundits contend victims perpetuate swindles because of their greed. I disagree with such a blanket statement. ‘Found cash’ scams work because no owner can be found. ‘Bible bequests’ play upon emotions of grief, not greed, supplemented by deepset religious underpinnings. Avarice might motivate cynical experts, not necessarily others.

I sometimes toy with fraudsters, an activity called scam baiting. My approach is more psychological than technical. One future day I might talk about that, but know I have no sympathy for those who drain bank accounts and ruin lives.

Service with a Guile

Recently I came across a conversation about process servers filming or photographing handoffs with the words, “You’ve been served.” I don’t know how long or limited the practice is, but I opined visual evidence of service is wise.

Not everyone agreed, responding that taking time to record could make a tense situation worse. Furthermore, one said, a process server’s oath prevented them from lying. In a YouTube cast from last year, favorite YouTube lawyer Steve Letho seemed to say faulty service is virtually nonexistent.

I’m aware of at least two cases– personally aware.

Huissier de Justice

If you’ve been on either side of a legal case– adoption, divorce, eviction, foreclosure, small claims, or other non-criminal matter, you or someone on your behalf likely sent or received papers demanding a respondent’s presence and participation in a hearing. Courts provide a number of options, but hand delivery is popular and relatively foolproof– most of the time. Plaintiff may choose a deputy for the job or hire a private process server.

Professional Florida servers may be certified by county court or appointed by the sheriff’s office. Servers must be local permanent residents, at least 18, drug, disease, disability, and felony free, of good character, pass a background check, and pass a certification exam administered by the court of the sheriff’s department.

Notifications other beyond process service may include publishing or posting. More on that in a moment.

Case 1, Mind Your Pronouns

A party listed me in a suit. When I didn’t respond, an attorney for a fellow defendant called to ask why. I knew nothing about it.

Umm…

“But you were served,” he said.

“No, I wasn’t.”

“But you were.”

I insisted I had not been served, so he opened an inquiry. The process server wrote something like, “Neighbors at 5601 Hobbit Habitat identified her by name and she received service at 1:38pm.”

There were only two problems. There was no 5601 and… as must be abundantly clear… I am not a she or a her. To my surprise, the court did nothing, merely saying, “Well, you’re here now and that’s what counts.”

Unless some discipline took place out of the public eye, I believe the court had a problem processor on its hands.

Case 2, No Good Deed

My consulting client, Westinghouse Europe, took over a Florida subsidiary. I knew I’d be leaving Minnesota where I owned another small business. Rather than layoff and liquidate, an employee asked to buy the company subject to seller financing. I agreed. I worked closely with her to take over the concern, then left for my job.

Upon my return, I found mail stating a judgment against me of some ten thousand dollars. Apparently, the former employee found the shop more difficult to run than she’s thought. In violation of our agreement, she laid off remaining employees, closed the doors, liquidated assets of several thousands of dollars, and then sued me.

For what? I hired a lawyer. He confirmed the suit and judgment. Unsatisfied with profiting from the sale of stock and equipment, the former buyer realized she might profit another way. She claimed in court she was still an employee now owed nine months of wages. She knew I was working overseas and couldn’t defend a suit I knew nothing about.

The process server wrote that he identified the residence by mail and a newspaper at the door with my name on it. He said the house was occupied as evidenced by smoke from the chimney and a television playing inside, but residents refused to come to the door.

My home was in a state forest. I had no rural mail delivery because I maintained a post box in a neighboring town and never subscribed to a newspaper. I didn’t own a television and couldn’t answer the door because I was working an ocean away.

If we assume the server was an honest man and the plaintiff knew where I lived (which was doubtful), then I suspect the plaintiff deliberately misdirected him. I don’t know how long she planned hijacking the business, but she waited until I was well out of the country.

Courts don’t like to undo judgments, but to my attorney’s surprise, they agreed to hear arguments if I made an escrow deposit of twelve thousand dollars, which I did.

The case languished. For a couple of years, hardly a peep arose from the other side. When another former employee confronted our plaintiff, she claimed her boyfriend made her do it.

That made little sense. I collected the escrow and moved on.

Posting

Evictions and perhaps foreclosures may require a copy of the complaint be affixed to the door of the dwelling. Photographing the attachment is wise although I don’t recall a tenant ever denied service. However, one story made the rounds of a particularly lazy server required to issue summons to residences in a gated community. When denied entry to homes beyond the fence, he simply dumped the papers in a culvert by the entry. Later he attempted to justify it by saying that was the closest to the front door as he could get. The court was not pleased.

But other process servers could be far more dedicated. I discussed ‘Dr. Bob Black’ (not his real name), a disbarred lawyer and defrocked judge who plagued the Orlando area with pesky cons and scams. Dr. Bob (the ‘Dr’ is as phony as the rest of him) bragged about being judgment-proof with his funds out of reach of the courts.

Nonetheless, I was brought in as a witness by a New York homicide detective who sued the fraudster. Unfortunately, the processor found it nigh impossible to catch the subject out of his house. Serving him became a matter of pride.

Picturing the scene without knowledge of the landscape is difficult, but the summoner reported he hid in a tree. When Black didn’t emerge, our man edged up to the house, turned off the water, returned to his tree, and called the water company to report an outage.

Twenty five minutes later, a service truck pulled up to the house. Our dedicated server slipped down from his tree. When Black appeared in his doorway, the process server shot forward, jammed a thick envelope into his hands and galloped off, shouting, “You’ve been served!”

Publishing

In bygone eras, villagers could find notices ‘published’ in their town square with perhaps a crier to draw the attention of those who couldn’t read. These days, some situations require parties to publish notices in a local paper.

Florida has more code enforcement agencies than any other state. If by chance a resident wasn’t afflicted with a home owners association, code enforcement could step in to keep life miserable. ‘The décor police’ is an apt description. Their lobby, er, professional group FACE (Florida Association of Code Enforcement) lobbied for their ‘officers’ (inspectors) to carry badges and guns (likely in dire situations of color clashing paint protestors or an outbreak of pink plastic yard flamingos). Serious looking police-type badges are now de rigueur, but thus far, code enforcement inspectors remain unarmed (Joel Greenberg’s tax collector’s office nonwithstanding).

Not so long ago, Orange County’s Code Enforcement had a deeply corrupt pocket of ‘officers’ who used their agency to wage personal battle. They violated their own rules and regulations and statutes. Expectations like due process, equal treatment under the law, and trespassing meant little to them.

And they used a dirty trick. When required to publish notices they didn’t want the public to see, they indeed published in a local paper… The Heritage Florida Jewish News. When confronted about this obscure paper, Code Enforcement giggled. They tittered. They sniggered. They chortled. As one Jewish lawyer said, even Jews didn’t read the newspaper. Legal notices still make up a substantial section of its pages.

These days Code Enforcement has become more professional and I was pleasantly surprised to see inspectors following the law. I’ll never become a fan; if a pink plastic yard flamingo makes my neighbor happy, then I’m happy, but plenty of teapot potentates think otherwise. At least I can no longer complain about abusive and corrupt practices.

Accepting

You may find yourself served. If so, I suggest accepting politely and gracefully, i.e, don’t shoot the messenger.

If you have to serve someone, you usually have a choice between using a deputy or hiring a professional process server. You may choose to send a non-verbal message with one or the other, or if you have safety concerns, you may use a deputy.

Be safe. Be respectful, and don’t let anyone fib about service. It’s all part of the process.

Autumn's Poet, part 2

What connects poetic Halloween tales of terror, Little Orphan Annie, and Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls?

An Indiana poet and an actual little orphan nicknamed Allie. You’ve heard James Whitcomb Riley’s poem, famous for the iconic lines intended to be read aloud,

    The Gobble-ums will get you

    If you don’t watch out.

Little Orphant Annie
by James Whitcomb Riley

Little Orphant Annie’s come to our house to stay,
An’ wash the cups an’ saucers up, an’ brush the crumbs away,
An’ shoo the chickens off the porch, an’ dust the hearth, an’ sweep,
An’ make the fire, an’ bake the bread, an’ earn her board-an’-keep;

An’ all us other childern, when the supper-things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an’ has the mostest fun
A-list’nin’ to the witch-tales ‘at Annie tells about,
An’ the Gobble-uns ‘at gits you
   Ef you
      Don’t
         Watch
            Out!

Orphant Annie illustration
by Ethel Franklin Betts

Annie was based upon a real orphan, Mary Alice ‘Allie’ Smith, a childhood companion of Riley. At age ten, James’ parents brought Allie into their house to clean, cook, and help their mother. She quickly became part of the family, which found her real talent was telling horror stories while sitting around the fire after dinner.

Riley’s ‘Frost is on the Punkin’ hinted at the supernatural, but the real Annie (Allie) happily tore into tales of terror replete with beheadings and other murders, according to Riley’s recollections. The children loved them.

Riley incorporated some of her tellings into poems and tales of his own. His muse didn’t realize she was his inspiration until her 60s, which she visited him. The girl certainly had an effect upon him.

Wunst they wuz a little boy wouldn’t say his prayers, —
An’ when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs,
His Mammy heerd him holler, an’ his Daddy heerd him bawl,
An’ when they turn’t the kivvers down, he wuzn’t there at all!

An’ they seeked him in the rafter-room, an’ cubby-hole, an’ press,
An’ seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an’ ever’-wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found wuz thist his pants an’ roundabout: —
An’ the Gobble-uns‘ll git you
   Ef you
      Don’t
         Watch
            Out!

Until the 1900s, children were often treated as undersized adults. In line with that view, children’s stories were written as cautionary tales, ‘who’s naughty or nice’ morality plays. Many times children’s stories featured blood and guts, horrible events, and murder.

The poem is surprisingly complex for a children’s work. It utilizes alliteration, dialect, onomatopoeia, ordinary rhyme, parallels, and phonetic intensifiers brought together in iambic meter.

The work went by several titles including ‘The Elf Child’ before an accident changed the name to Orphant Annie. A typesetter spelled the title wrong. Riley initially wanted it corrected to Orphan Allie, but the poem’s reception and increasing popularity persuaded him to leave it alone.

An’ one time a little girl ‘ud allus laugh an’ grin,
An’ make fun of ever’ one, an’ all her blood-an’-kin;
An’ wunst, when they was “company,” an’ ole folks wuz there,
She mocked ‘em an’ shocked ‘em, an’ said she didn’t care!

An’ thist as she kicked her heels, an’ turn’t to run an’ hide,
They wuz two great big Black Things a-standin’ by her side,
An’ they snatched her through the ceilin’ ‘fore she knowed what she’s about.
An’ the Gobble-uns‘ll git you
   Ef you
      Don’t
         Watch
            Out!

The actual orphan muse
Mary Alice ‘Allie’ Smith

‘Little Orphan Annie’ became a silent movie. A reading was cut on early phonograph records. It provided inspiration for songs, musicals, films, television and radio broadcasts.

• In 1911, American composer Margaret Hoberg Turrell composed an arrangement for choir.
• Harold Gray’s comic strip, Little Orphan Annie with the trademark hollow eyes, and the Broadway show, Annie, based their titles and initial plot premise on Riley’s poem.
• Johnny Gruelle’s Raggedy Ann and Andy characters and part of the story line were based on Riley’s poem.
• The 21 September 1972 second episode (S01E02) ‘The Carnival’ of the CBS television series The Waltons featured John Boy Walton reading Little Orphant Annie to Jim Bob and Elizabeth.
• Other television programs have referenced ‘Little Orphans Annie’ including Cracking Up: The Darrell Hammond Story and the series Getting On.
• Little girls in Texas Killing Fields recited the poem whilst skipping rope.
• Dean Koontz’s 2004 novel The Taking featured the same premise as the previous stanza written 140 years ago.

An’ little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
An’ the lamp-wick sputters, an’ the wind goes woo-oo!
An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ the moon is gray,
An’ the lightnin’-bugs in dew is all squenched away, —

You better mind yer parunts, an’ yer teachurs fond an’ dear,
An’ churish them ‘at loves you, an’ dry the orphant’s tear,
An’ he’p the pore an’ needy ones ‘at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns‘ll git you
   Ef you
      Don’t
         Watch
            Out!

And that, my young friends, is the story behind the story. Remember,

The Gobble-ums will get you

If you don’t watch out!

---

Autumn's Poet, part 1

When the Frost is on the Punkin

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,

And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,

And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens,

And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;

O, it’s then’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,

With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,

As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

As the Americas developed as nations, they adopted and adapted arts from the ‘old countries’ until the US, Canada, and the Caribbean found their footings. Massachusetts operated as an intellectual axis while the City of New York grew into a cultural centre. To the surprise of many, movements arose from America’s heartland, in particular Indiana, which for half a century beginning in the latter 1800s, enjoyed a reputed Golden Age.

Landscape painting and a nexus of folk music, blues, and jazz rose through the tumult. With plain talk and an absence of affectations, a nation’s voice echoed quips, slang, and dialect of the fields, forests, farms, and soon enough, city streets. One could argue this laid the groundwork for pop culture.

They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere

When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here—

Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,

And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;

But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze

Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days

Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock—

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

Prominent names in turn-of-the-century Hoosier literature include George Ade, Theodore Dreiser, Edward Eggleston, Frank McKinney Hubbard, George Barr McCutcheon, Meredith Nicholson, Gene Stratton Porter, the recently mentioned Booth Tarkington, Maurice Thompson, Lew Wallace, and for today’s article, James Whitcomb Riley, the Hoosier Poet, sometimes called the Children’s Poet.

If you’ve wondered where the phrase, “The goblins will get you if you don’t watch out,” that’s Riley. ‘The Old Swimming Hole’  (which as a kid I waded in and deeply cut a muscle in the arch of my foot) and ‘The Frost is on the Punkin’… That’s Riley again. He also composed the popular plantation parody folk song, ‘Short’n Bread’.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,

And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;

The stubble in the furries—kindo’ lonesome-like, but still

A-preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;

The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;

The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover over-head!—

O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

Greenfield, Indiana is known for two American icons, Eli Lilly and … Riley. His home serves as a local museum. Although Riley became wealthy through his writing and touring, he lived a typically modest Midwestern life, although he battled alcoholism in mid-life. Surprisingly, extant recordings of him reading his poetry can be found, but unsurprisingly, sound quality is murky. At least the author’s cadence survives. Generation Z might appreciate the quirky spelling… or not.

Note: I can’t be certain I can respond to comments. Thanks to Hurricane Helene, our area has internet outages with no promise of repair dates, very minor compared to the deadly losses in other states. (To post this article, I purchased cellular data from Google Fi, slow, expensive, with spotty reliability.)

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps

Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;

And your cider-makin’ ’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through

With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and sausage, too!

I don’t know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be

As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me—

I’d want to ’commodate ’em—all the whole-indurin’ flock—

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

Next time, little horror stories.