I said, “That’s not funny.”
He pulled the trigger again.
I knocked his arm away, saying, “Seriously, don’t play like that with guns,” but he grabbed me by the neck and put the pistol back against my temple to pull the trigger three more times in rapid succession.
Now I was pissed, saying, “You’re going to blow my damn head off.”
But he was confused. He frowned while opening the cylinder and dumping the empty cartridges into his palm.
I demanded his attention, asking, “Are you unaware of how many deaths occur when people fool around like this?”
He held his hand up for patience while he looked through his pockets. He pulled the change from one side of his pants and inspected it, holding a finger up for me to wait, then felt around his other before turning to his jacket pockets, and all the while I was angrily watching him. Finally, from inside his jacket, he found a bullet. He raised his hand for just a moment’s more tolerance while he loaded the gun.
I was stamping off for the house when he grabbed me by the shoulder. Trying to shrug him off, I snapped, “Marco, I am not going to play Russian Roulette with you.”
Then I was walking free and heard from behind, “You say my name.”
“It was an accident.”
He growled, caught up, and jerked me around. He wanted to say something but he was angry and confused, hopeful and exasperated, his features contorting as each emotion gave way to the next; and every time he opened his mouth to speak, one hand marked each painful change with a sharp gesture, while in the other, the pistol was held at his side.
And I was staring with irritation.
His frustration punched him in the stomach, bending him at the waist, making him bellow. He rose up to yell at me, “You make much trouble for me!”
“Good,” I was glad to hear it.
Hands clamped to his head, the gun was pressed flat against his temple and he was demanding, “You crazy?”
“At this point, yes, I think a little.”
He dropped his hands and then his shoulders followed in defeat. Shaking his head to dispel his thoughts, he returned the revolver to his pocket and said with resignation, “We go eat now.”
~~~~~~
On about the third day, it finally registered with me what had happened on the golf course. It was one of those harsh realizations where your head swivels because something that should have been plainly obvious gets knocked across your face like a steel bat.
I thought, “He tried to kill me.”
I wasn’t terribly surprised, or even upset, I was just tired. I couldn’t think of a reason to continue with the elaborate fiction I was playing. At some point it had gone horribly wrong, and I was looking at a place very close to the beginning. It had to do with sex, and everyone asking me who I’d had it with. And it was sex right up to the end that was causing so much grief.
I didn’t want to go forward and I didn’t want to go back. Both options seemed like a hassle. I was sitting on the couch, absently wondering what it would be like to swallow a family-sized bottle of aspirin. I’d heard it was a painful way to go, but once the aspirin made it into your system, there was nothing a medical team could do to save you. It was permanent, which at least guaranteed I wouldn’t be returned to the mental hospital.
My thoughts must have been on my face because Tricia stopped as she passed through the living room. She dropped into the corner of the couch to sit crooked and study me. I knew she was concerned, but I didn’t have enough energy to fake a smile. She said, “Why don’t you tell me where you’re from.”
I didn’t look at her but answered, “Tennessee.”
She was quiet for a long time before asking, “Your story isn’t true, is it?”
“Not a bit of it.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
I heard her breath stop. Even louder, I heard her draw her next breath in. She asked, “Did you say fifteen?”
“Yes.”
“Is that the truth?”
“Yes.”
She sat back. After a moment, she shared what she’d been thinking. “It all makes sense now. You think like a teenager. You don’t look like one, but you make decisions like a teenager. Did you know I have a daughter that’s sixteen?”
I turned to face her.
“She lives with her father. She doesn’t really like me, but she’s at that age.” Then she asked, “Do you have a mother?”
“Yes.”
“Do you love her?”
“Yes.”
“I love my daughter, too. If my daughter were missing, I know what I’d be going through. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t make you call your mother.”
I nodded.
She handed me the phone, reinforcing, “You have to call your parents.”
It was my father that answered. I said, “Hi Dad, it’s me.”
“Tanya?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“Dallas.”
He said, “I love you.” I knew he did. I’d heard it countless times before, but this time it made me cry. He was calm though. He had it all under control. He said, “There will be a ticket waiting for you at the airport counter. Go and get it now.”
So I went home and told my parents what I had been doing for the past seven months, telling them about the FBI and Interpol and the mental institution, Congress and the ACLU and Ron Howard. Then I heard my father on the phone with the hospital, saying, “I think she’s been doing drugs.”
It was the only way to account for the mad story I was telling.
But he came back and started to ask specifics, and eventually stuck on the name Rick with the Collin County Sheriff’s Department. He called the detective, and Rick told him that Ron Howard and the ACLU and Interpol were all ringing, wanting to know where I was, but worst among them was Ron Howard’s assistants who wanted to know what the hell was going on.
I heard my father explaining who I was and where I was, and then the funniest exchange occurred.
Rick must have asked, “How old is she?”
Because my father started answering, “Fifteen,” and then again, “Fifteen,” and when Rick didn’t think that was right, my father continued to confirm, “No, she’s fifteen … One, five … Fifteen … No, you’re not hearing wrong, she’s fifteen … Fifteen … Detective, I know how old my daughter is … Alright: one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten-eleven-twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.” Then a longer pause while he listened and responded with solace, “It’s alright son, I understand, she’s very charming.”
The Aftermath
The headlines across the country started much the same: “Authorities Fooled by Teen,” or “Teenager Tricked Officials,” and also “Authorities Duped by Runaway,” but they all essentially printed in bold: “Girl Fooled Officials with White Slavery Tale.”
The opening paragraphs were nearly identical as well:
A 15-year-old girl who ran away from her Tennessee home fooled authorities for seven months with tales of an international white slavery ring before she finally gave up the masquerade.
Of all the agencies that investigated and examined her – the Collin County Sheriff’s Department, Wichita Falls State Hospital, the FBI, the Immigration and Naturalization Service, the Drug Enforcement Administration and Interpol – none could find a flaw in her story.
There’s a massive difference in not finding a flaw and being fooled. The problem with the headlines was very few people were genuinely deceived; they just didn’t know what to do with me. I stuck to my story and didn’t make many mistakes, and the ones I did, people were willing to overlook or forget.
But still the papers asked: How did she fool all those investigators for all those months?
I’m quoted as saying, “Creative genius.”
Rick confirmed that and then said, “I was dealing with a mastermind.”
He went on to say, “It wouldn’
t have surprised me if she had known half the things I was thinking.”
And then, “It’s the most bizarre thing this office has ever encountered. I’m not angered because it’s very logical … a person with the IQ she has could easily have pulled this off. And she did.”
It might have been easy but it wasn’t logical. I also think he might have been cut off and that was meant to read, “It’s very logical that someone with her IQ would get bored and think it entertaining to cut loose all the cannons on a ship.”
He did say, “Despite the testing in Wichita Falls, Tanya needs ‘psychological services of some kind.’”
That assessment was going to be shared by many, but it was a tiny sentence that didn’t make it into many papers. The big story was that a 15-year-old had told an elaborate tale of white slavery, and the Texas authorities had been duped.
But that wasn’t accurate. I caused a lot of doubt in everyone’s mind, and not even Sergiu suspected I was so young, or American. But the only person I fooled, full out, from start to finish, was the deputy in Shelbyville who had helped me run away.
Now that poor man, I had truly tricked. Our short encounter had been a fast, hard con, and that’s where I truly excelled.
~~~~~~
With some hope of trying to make sense of what I’d done, the local psychologist gave me the Stanford–Binet Intelligence test. She looked worried with the results. At 176, I was just a few points higher than the test actually allowed, and she’d had to calculate the score separately.
It didn’t make her nearly as happy to tell me this as it did for me to hear it.
She tried for a better result with the Wechsler Intelligence test. The Wechsler version gave no extra points for answering with speed, and I’d racked up fourteen points for going fast, but the difference wasn’t enough to provide her any comfort.
In my case, intelligence was a disease that had led to a psychotic episode. But I had returned home of my own will and freely admitted my behavior while away, so it was diagnosed as nothing more than that, an episode.
Hoping to prevent my madness from resurfacing, the psychologist spoke with the dean of the nearby community college and convinced him to accept me into the school based on the scores.
After two tests, one interview, and admission into college, the psychologist didn’t think there was much more she could offer. She warned my parents I would likely do something again if I was not mentally challenged, but, “Other than a high need for stimulation, Tanya is mentally healthy.”
I quoted the first news article, “Either that or ‘a deeply disturbed, very capable liar.’”
But no one in the room found that funny. It was a little too close to what everyone suspected.
My humor hadn’t changed and I felt much the same, but I was viewed differently. I was an unsettling presence in the community that caused people to fall silent. Strangers and friends had to step back for a bit of perspective. They needed to quietly inspect me for cracks, afraid I might break mental at any moment.
One woman was bold enough to ask, “Are you better now?”
I had no idea how to answer that, and it really didn’t matter because nothing I said would make people comfortable with me again. There were questions they couldn’t ask and I couldn’t guess. The papers said slave, but they didn’t mention sex, and the connection was clear to everyone except me.
My father was very disturbed. He no longer believed my behavior with older men had been entirely innocent, and I wasn’t going to tell him that it wasn’t, and neither was I.
But that was something everybody needed to be protected from. It was an image my parents did not need in their head. After every other heartache I had caused them over the past seven months, I did not want my mother crying while my father drove to Texas with a gun.
He was worried enough without knowing about Sergiu, and already he felt the need to express the importance of men respecting women. I agreed. Time and again, I agreed, but he had three dozen ways to say it and a long summer to say it in.
He finally got around to saying, “I never spanked you.”
“And I appreciate it.”
“And I never let that school touch you either.”
The high school had corporal punishment and had tried, but I’d refused to submit. It turned into a three-hour battle with four teachers and the principal. By midafternoon, the principal threatened to call my father and I begged, “Please do.”
They were quickly familiarized with what happens when you stand between a protective father and his youngest child. He was furious, demanding of the administration, “I don’t hit my daughter, so what makes you think I’m going to permit you?” In half the time it took to drive there, he was in the office, and then everyone was hiding their wooden paddles lest he follow through with his threat to try it out on them first.
Why he felt the need to remind me was a mystery, and he’d only say, “No one over the age of four needs to be spanked.”
I said, “Okay. But I told you when I was five I was never having kids, and I haven’t changed my mind.”
“I’m not worried about you having kids.”
I couldn’t imagine who else he thought I might hit. The lesson was making less and less sense. Maybe he thought I had quintessentially changed. I tried to reassure him, “I’m not violent. I’d never hurt anyone.”
That admission made nothing better. He shook his head and asked, “You know Star?” Star was his best friend’s daughter. She had five PhD’s by the time she was 30 and a black belt in karate when she was 12. She was a 13-year-old senior when the six-foot captain of the basketball team passed her in the hall and grabbed her breast. She bounced him down the hall, knocking him off one locker after the next, never letting him fully regain his feet, slamming him one direction to break his nose, and then hurling him another to blacken his eyes. Before she was done making an example of him, she’d cracked his wrist and a rib. After a two-week suspension, she came back to part the crowded halls like Moses at the sea. My father said, “Star never took any shit. You could learn a lot from Star.”
Paper Hanging
My parents cautiously waited for me to turn sixteen so I could drive myself to college, but I’d waited for the driver’s license so I could continue my search for legitimate identification under an assumed name. I kept Sergiu’s secrets, mentioning him only as the person who had taught me to drive. When I failed the road test, no one was too impressed with his tutoring, but by the fall semester, I’d managed to stop slinging the testing official into the passenger window on the corners, and finally passed when I recognized the stop signs and speed limits weren’t just friendly suggestions.
Having procured my first piece of genuine identification, I understood the basic exchange of information required to get another. You needed something easy like a library card, school form, or bank book, and then a birth certificate.
I was fortunate to have been born at the cusp of all things bad. My birth did not require an immediate Social Security number to see the doctor. My parents only applied for it when I was twelve so I could open a saving’s account. Social Security hadn’t yet turned into our official identity number, so I didn’t have to offer it to get my first driver’s license.
The problem was the birth certificate. I studied mine, which had been issued in New York, and my sister’s issued in Miami. I looked at my friends’ birth certificates from Los Angeles, Atlanta, and Nashville, and then all the small towns of Tennessee. Every one of them was different and most of them were laughably plain without raised seals, official stamps, or even a watermark for security. I was convinced there was no way the Tennessee Department of Driver’s License Services was confirming these shoddy typewriter-abused pieces of paper were genuine. I knew I could forge them if I could get access to a laser printer. But at the time, laser printers cost four thousand dollars, and even my professors only had access to dot matrix.
I needed a laser printer and an IBM computer.
But
then I had another idea. I went back to the license center and said, “I lost my driver’s license.”
They said, “Well, you’ll need to get your picture taken again to make a new one.”
I asked, “Don’t you have a copy of my picture on file?”
“No, we don’t make copies.”
Oh man, oh-man-oh-man, there was a question I wanted to ask but didn’t know how to phrase. I worked and worked for a way to say it without giving away my intentions, but there was no subtle way to ask, “So, you’re just taking my word that I am the person on the license?” I went ahead and asked it.
“You are aged sixteen, five-foot-eight with brown hair and eyes,” like duh, it’s your description you idiotic little girl.
“And the only place this picture exists is on my license?”
“It’s the only place it needs to exist.”
I didn’t believe her. There was no way it was that simple. I went to another licensing center to have the same conversation a second time, and then I went slightly giddy with wonder.
~~~~~~
I had the local printers run a thousand stylish flyers and then plastered them all over Nashville and Atlanta.
Models needed for winter runway work. Must be over eighteen and between 5’8” and 5’9”. Headshots preferred but photographs accepted. Please send details to: P.O. Box in Nashville.
The Caucasian models with brown, black, or red hair received a phone call.
“This all sounds excellent. I think you’ll be perfect for the team. You’ll absolutely love the other nine girls. I need to send you a contract, but before I do, I just need proof you’re over eighteen. If you could mail to the same P.O. Box a copy of your driver’s license or birth certificate, either will be fine, both would be even better. And you know what? Just throw in your Social Security number while you’re at it — you know how the auditors are with taxes these days,” and we’d both groan at the trouble they caused.
Assuming Names: a con artist's masquerade (Criminal Mischief Book 1) Page 12
