by Todd Borg
Jamie leaned back in her chair.
“The smaller charities simply funnel their revenue into for-profit fundraising companies. The large charities blatantly ignore the rules. They say they don’t have any fundraising expenses, even though they hire telemarketers to bother you during dinner and direct mail companies to fill your mailbox with junk mail. Why the IRS treats them with soft gloves, we don’t know. I suspect that bureaucrats actually believe that nearly all charities are doing such good work that they don’t deserve scrutiny.”
“In your work, you obviously get an insider’s view of bad charities. But isn’t the overall charity business ethical?”
“There are some good, ethical charities out there that actually appear to exist to serve the people they claim to serve. The most effective charity efforts seem to be small community efforts, local soup kitchens feeding the homeless, local service clubs buying holiday presents for the poor kids in town, hands-on school programs that get poor kids to and from the classrooms and feed them hot lunches, community programs to expand literacy. But after all the years I’ve worked in this job, I believe it is rare.”
“Is there a way to tell the good from the bad?”
“In my opinion, yes,” she said. “And the distinction is easy to verify. I believe the best charities are the ones completely run by volunteers. If no one is paid, and if the checking account requires two people to sign off on every expense, there is little graft. But as soon as a charity pays people to distribute money, you have the possibility of a different perspective among the employees. Those people see the money coming in and know it provides for their income. That can produce a shift in perspective that tempts them to consider ways in which more of the revenue could legally be routed into their personal accounts or the for-profit accounts of friends and associates running fundraising companies and other companies that provide business services to charities. The worst case situation is when a charity is run by just one or two people with little-to-no outside oversight. Those individuals are confronted by an enormous temptation when they realize that by utilizing certain techniques, they can legally keep most of the money the charity raises. The simple truth is that charities run by volunteers remain focused on the mission of charitable giving. Whereas for many charity employees who are paid, the charity is a business to make money, to earn an income.”
“Like most other businesses,” I said.
“Right. But when we give money, we like to think that the charity operates on a higher standard than the local sports bar or casino. The essence of a charity is getting people to donate their hard-earned money, and the charity does that by convincing them of their good work. But if you showed those donors pictures of the charity CEOs’ houses and vacation homes and private airplanes, they would be outraged.”
I said, “In addition to the murder of the Red Roses charity woman, we’ve had another murder in Tahoe. This victim was a man who may have also been involved in a charity. Is there some kind of charity database that provides information? Something a murderer might consult for information on charities and their owners?”
Jamie frowned, thinking. “First, I should say that charities don’t have owners the way we usually think of it. Nonprofits belong to the public. The people who run them are managers or stakeholders. One of the easiest ways to get information on them is to contact one of the watchdog groups I mentioned. They won’t usually be forthcoming except with positive portrayals of their member charities and negative portrayals of charities that are widely recognized as frauds.”
“These are the organizations that you said are run by the very charities they purport to rate?”
“Yes.”
“Who would you suggest I look up?”
“I’d start with a local group called Charity Lights Archive. Like other rating agencies, they are biased toward their charity investors. But a murderer might find them useful, as they provide information on many charities and then rate the best and the worst.” Jamie opened a file drawer, pulled out some papers that were stapled together, and handed them to me. It was interesting that she had the papers preassembled.
“Thanks very much.”
“Good luck,” she said. “I’m sorry to say that you’re going to need it. This business is one of the biggest there is. Bigger than most any industry.” Jamie radiated frustration and even anger.
I stood up. “With a job like yours, I bet you can use frequent vacation getaways. Do you ever get up to Tahoe for a break?”
She immediately blushed. “I, uh…” She paused, thinking. “I was just up there last week.”
“Not the best timing,” I said. “The weather was chilly, and we had some snow, but hopefully that didn’t cramp your visit.”
I wondered why she blushed. Maybe she was like Douglas Fairbanks and met a romantic partner there. Or maybe she was up there to take out her frustrations on charity scammers...
“Yes, it was cold, but Tahoe’s always enjoyable,” she said.
I smiled, made a little nod, and left.
THIRTY-EIGHT
S pot was excited when I got back to the Jeep. I dialed the number that Jamie had given me for Charity Lights Archive.
A man answered. “Reese Rangeman at Charity Lights Archive where we answer all of your questions about charities.”
“Hello, Mr. Rangeman. By name is Owen McKenna. I was just given your name by Jamie Johnsrud at the Bureau of Investigation. I have some questions I’d like to ask you about charities.”
“I’m happy to oblige.”
“May I come to your office?”
“Yes, of course. Any time you like.”
“I’m in downtown Sac right now. Are you nearby? Maybe I could stop by this afternoon.”
“We’re out in Folsom. Rush hour is bad right now. But you can probably get here in forty minutes. I’ll be here if that works for you. I’ll give you the address.”
“Great,” I said. “See you soon.”
Folsom is twenty-some miles east of downtown Sacramento. The small historic town near Folsom Lake still exists, but much of the area is now a continuation of the urban sprawl of Sacramento, a place of hotels and restaurants and shopping.
The rush hour was heavy, but people in Sac need only compare themselves to the Bay Area to feel that their highways are lonely places.
The Charity Lights Archive office was near the Highway 50 freeway in a large, four-story office building sheathed in glass that was nearly as shiny as mirrors. As I pulled into the parking lot, the wall of windows reflected the variegated green slopes of the foothills to the east, slopes that, because of the wet spring, were slow in turning the sunny warm-colored hues that the Golden State is famous for.
I parked in the shade of two large trees, left Spot’s window open, and got out. He stuck his head out. When I gave him a pet, he turned his head away from me, more interested in the local scents than the love and affection of his master. Although, as I had the thought, I realized that I was only Spot’s master when I held food that he wanted. The rest of the time I was his driver.
As I walked to the building, I perused the sheets that the Bureau of Investigation woman had given me. I found the Charity Lights office on the third floor, down a hallway with thick carpet in forest green with swirls of maroon. Between the green and maroon were curving pinstripes of gold. The door was heavy oak, and the name Charity Lights Archive was emblazoned in raised gold letters.
It was the opposite of the government office of Jamie Johnsrud. One was all about making a fancy impression. Probably some were impressed, especially wealthy people who might donate large sums to charity. The other was all about getting a job done and being efficient with space and cost.
I opened the door and heard the swish as the door brushed carpet even thicker than that in the hall.
A distinguished-looking man sat behind a large mahogany desk. There was a green desk blotter and a green and brass banker’s lamp and a brass pen and pencil holder. On one corner was a brass clock with a
rounded top. It stood about ten inches high. Behind its glass front and back one could see gears turning, bit by bit.
The man wore a dark gray suit with a light gray pinstripe. His shirt was light gray, his tie dark gray. Peaking out of his suit pocket was a dark gray handkerchief. The man’s hair was the same color as his shirt, and it was thick and brushed carefully to the side. He looked like a politician, someone who’d pick up babies and smile at them for photo-ops.
“Good afternoon,” he said as he stood up. He smiled. His teeth were too perfect to be real. “You must be Owen McKenna. Reese Rangeman. Pleased to meet you.” He reached out to shake my hand. On the cuff of his right sleeve flashed a gold cufflink. He gestured toward one of two leather chairs in front of his desk, then sat down.
“What can I help you with?” he asked.
“I’d like to know about scam charities.”
Reese jerked as if he’d been slapped. “Well, let’s get right to the point, eh?” He made a nervous chuckle.
“I’m investigating the murder of a woman who ran a scam charity. Something called the Red Roses of Hope Charity for Children. I’m here to ask you about it because I understand that your organization sorts out good charities from bad.”
Reese gave me a kind, reassuring smile. “Well, Mr. McKenna, you’ve come to the right place. You are correct about our role in charity oversight. We investigate charity business practices and help to inform the public about charities such as the one you describe.”
“How do you do that?”
Reese gave me an avuncular nod. “We look through public records, examine non-profit tax filings, do background checks on members of charity boards, things like that. Then we publish on our website a list of the fifty worst charities and another list of the fifty best charities.”
“Is it possible that the Red Roses of Hope charity is on your list?”
“That’s an easy question to answer. I’ll pull it up and print it out.”
He typed on his computer, clicked a couple of times, and I heard the whirring of a printer. Rangeman reached down, pulled some sheets of paper from a lower shelf, and scanned down them.
“Yes, indeed, look at that. The Red Roses of Hope Charity for Children.” He tapped his fingertip on the papers, then handed them to me.
The listing was near the bottom of his 50 Worst Charities list. To the side of the name was the contact info, the Market Street address. Dory Spatt was listed as the CEO.
“You’ll see by our list of bad charities that we are dedicated to protecting consumers from the questionable people who try to corrupt the good work of charities.”
“Is this common?”
“Just enough to be a cancer on the charitable world. When people solicit money under the guise of doing good and then keep that money, those people should be punished. Severely punished. And not just because they give a bad name to what we do. Because they do evil.”
Rangeman’s antipathy was notable. It sounded like he took it personally when scam charities stole money. I wondered if he had also been in Tahoe when Dory was murdered.
“Is there anything else that Charity Lights Archive does beyond listing the best and worst charities?”
“Of course. One of our most important missions is to shine the light on how good charities work, and how there is a complex interaction among the various components of a well-functioning charity.”
“Such as?”
Reese smiled. “For example, people always want to boil down complexities into bite-sized concepts. They often want a single metric for measuring the performance of a charity. Common desires are knowing the percentage of charitable contributions that get spent on charitable activities.”
“You mean, if I give a hundred dollars to help feed poor kids, I’ll want to know how many dollars actually go to buying food for kids.”
“Exactly.”
“What could be wrong with that?”
Another smile. “Just that it overlooks a more complex picture, such as what food is bought, how it is distributed, where it is distributed. Sometimes a charity that spends money on better distribution does more good than a charity that simply buys more food.”
I said, “What you say makes sense, but the concept could possibly be used to justify charity expenditures outside of the stated goal of the charity.”
“Technically, yes. That’s why Charity Lights Archive pays so much attention to the inner workings of charities. We try to take a big-picture look at the charity system and find the good eggs as well as the bad eggs.”
“Who runs your company?” I asked.
“You mean, the Charity Lights Archive?”
“Yes.”
“Charity Lights is itself a non-profit. We have a board of directors, which has hired me as its Executive Director.”
“But who runs it? Somebody has to set up a non-profit, right?”
“Yes, of course.” Reese shifted in his chair, reached up and put his index finger behind the knot of his tie and gave a little tug to create more room. “We have multiple investors. They are people and companies who see the need for our services. They want the public to be informed. Charity Lights Archive is ultimately run by those investors.”
“Can you give me some of their names?”
“Sure, but you wouldn’t know them. Think of them as generous givers, people who feel it is important to fund activities that benefit society.”
“Nevertheless, I’d like some names. Management records of corporations, for-profit or non-profit, are public. It would take some digging, but I can get the names. You can save me that trouble.”
Reese again shifted in his chair. He pushed the chair back from his desk, crossed one foot over the other knee. His shoe looked Italian, polished leather, very expensive. “Our investors include companies like First Equality International, The Premise Foundation, Gift of Raptor Wings, Inc, Federal Amalgamated Veterans for Peace. All good companies spreading good will.”
“And if you were to characterise the common ground of these businesses and organizations, what would that be?”
“Other than their positive community outreach, I couldn’t characterise them. They are a diverse group who simply share a belief in what we’re doing at Charity Lights Archive.”
“Are these investors charities themselves?”
Reese seemed to think about his response. “Yes. But they are looking out for the good of the public at large.”
“What exactly is your job?”
“I do the hands-on work of analyzing the charities we study. I also liaise with the legislators in Sacramento teaching them about the important concerns of legitimate charities.”
“You mean, you’re a lobbyist.”
Reese made a little harumph and frowned. “Lobbyists are generally hustlers who are paid to go golfing and twist the arms of legislators who need campaign funds for their next election. I’m a consultant and educator.”
I looked down at the pages that the Bureau of Investigation woman had given me. “Mr. Rangeman, is it true that your base salary is one hundred ninety-five thousand dollars?”
Reese frowned. “I’m sorry, but this is getting way too personal. I don’t see how this could possibly impact on your investigation.”
“You talk about the big picture of charity organizations. This is one more bit of information that I can get by myself. Why not save me the trouble and keep me from wondering what you are trying to hide?”
Reese looked flustered. “I’m not trying to hide anything.” He took a deep breath. “Yes, that is my salary.”
“Bonus? Health insurance? Unpaid sick leave? Other compensation?”
Reese’s look seemed to progress from frustration to anger.
“Everything included, my entire compensation last year was two hundred forty-nine thousand, which, I should add, is much less than what I’d earn in many other industries.” He narrowed his eyes.
“One more question. Are any of your investor charities included on the list of the
fifty best charities?”
It was a moment before Reese nodded. “Yes,” he finally said.
“How many of them?”
“All of them. Now, I’d like to remind you that this is not a deposition. No one is suing me or Charity Lights Archive. This interview is through.” He stood up and held his hand out, gesturing toward the door. “You may leave.”
I stood, opened the door, and was leaving when I stopped and turned back.
“Mr. Rangeman, do you ever get up to Tahoe?”
“Of course. Doesn’t everybody? I have a cabin there. What does that have to do with charity work?”
“Nothing. I was just curious. Thanks.”
THIRTY-NINE
O n my drive back to Tahoe, I thought about how the people had died, hanging by their ankles.
When I got up to my cabin, I made a call to Doc Lee, a friend who’s an ER doc at the hospital. I left a message on his voicemail asking if we could talk.
Doc Lee called back and said his graveyard shift was going to stretch to late morning and would I be available to meet for breakfast at The Red Hut restaurant around 11 a.m. the next morning.
“Sounds good,” I said.
I next called Agent Ramos and reported on what I’d learned about the Bureau of Investigation woman Jamie and the charity watchdog man Rangeman, who was actually a charity apologist whose bosses were the very charities he claimed to rate.
“Busy day,” Ramos said. “Conclusions?”
“Charity laws need to be changed. No one should donate to any charity without doing a lot of research. And I’m not any closer to finding out what happened to Dory Spatt.”
“Stay in touch,” he said, and we hung up.
Next, I checked in with Street.
“Any more feelings you’re being followed?” I asked.
