There was more knocking, and for a moment she just put her head in her hands. Nothing seemed very important. Then, she recalled her children again, and that became imperative.
She fumbled in the dark for the clock, even as the knocking grew louder and a part of her somehow sensed that the knocking was more important than the time, but then again it wasn’t. The meth-addled mind knew so very little about itself when it was coming down.
Jovita’s hands found the familiar contours of the table in the dark, and her fingers did a little nervous dance across magazines, food wrappers, a spilled milkshake, and the remote to the TV before finally coming across the infernal clock. When she flipped it, she discovered it was 12:16. But that didn’t make sense because there was no light outside. It took her a moment to recall that the light on the clock that indicated AM or PM had gone out long ago. Past midnight, then, she thought. Where are my girls?
She sat there for a moment, trying to concentrate. Were they with Ricky? No…no, that wasn’t right. Her brain had just brought up the old, corrupted file that reminded her Ricky was ancient history.
The knock on the door got louder. “Ms. Dupré?” came an insistent voice.
Jovita started primping herself. It was then that she discovered she had no clothes on. Oh, God, did I…? Her hand went down to her crotch to check herself. Once she felt around and made sure she hadn’t seen any of her customers tonight, she relaxed a little and stood up. Her balance was a little off. She pitched sideways on her way to the light switch and slammed against the wall. Jovita flipped the light switch up and down, her brain refusing to recall why the lights wouldn’t work. Power bill? No. We paid that. Her sister Tabitha had sent the money and she had paid for it this time, Jovita was sure of it. Light bulb. Yeah…light bulb’s blown.
“Ms. Dupré?” More knocking. No, it was hammering this time. Someone was hammering on the door.
Jovita stumbled over to one of the lamps by the front door and managed to switch it on. She was proud of herself for this momentary coordination. She almost opened the door before remembering to check the peephole. When she did, her old friend Paranoia came back to reside.
Police. What’d I do? Or was it somethin’ the girls did? Maybe they got my girls! Damn pigs! Again, she almost opened the door, but stopped herself long enough to search for some clothes. “Jes a minute!” she hollered. Jovita looked around in the dim light, searching the cluttered floor of overlapping clothes, Ricky’s old toolbox, a recliner with more duct tape holding it together than thread, and an upside-down table that was missing one of its legs. Ricky was supposed to fix that before he left, but never did. Till death do us part, my ass! she thought, snatching up a shirt hanging from one of the table legs.
More hammering. “Ms. Dupré?”
“I said, jes a minute!” She found a pair of pants, but those were Kaley’s. “Fool girl needs to do laundry!” she cursed, still on the prowl for something to cover her lower body. She eventually found one of her robes, threw it on, and was still tying it when she opened the door. She didn’t remove the chain from the door, though. Jovita wasn’t stupid. She remembered what happened to 92-year-old Kathryn Johnson up on English Avenue, who got shot in her own home by Atlanta PD officers who raided the wrong home. The story made national headlines back in 2006 was still fresh on the locals’ minds, and would always be. “What?” she snapped.
The two officers standing on her doorstep were black. It was mostly black officers that came down to the Bluff these days. White man don’t wanna see what he’s done to us, she thought, looking the traitor niggas up and down. “Are you Jovita Dupré?” the lead nigga asked.
“I—” Her voice caught. Her mouth and throat were very dry. How long had she been coming down? It seemed so much easier these days to sleep through the periods of her life where meth was scarce. These periods of rest became longer and longer, though. She was getting exhausted in her late thirties. Soon, she’d have to start sending Kaley out to fetch her stuff for her. Jovita was not proud of that fact, she was just a practical woman. She cleared her throat, swallowed, and said, “I…I am. What’s this about, Officer…?”
“Jameson,” he said. He was a big, barrel-chested nigga who looked like he made time for the gym every day. He glanced over his shoulder at his partner, a slightly smaller version of himself. “This is Officer Manning. Can we speak with you, ma’am?”
“What about?”
“Your children, ma’am. They—”
He stopped speaking when she slammed the door in his face, undid the chain, and flung it open wide. “Where they at? You got ’em? I’ll tan they little hides, an’ yours too, if you got ’em handcuffed in that squad car!”
Officer Jameson raised his hands in a gesture that told her to ease up, a gesture that she had seen directed at her many times in her life from men of all sorts, and always thought insulting. They all think I’m crazy, Jovita thought bitterly. “Ma’am, are you telling me that your daughters are not at home with you at this time?”
Jovita scoffed at him. “I think I know where my damn kids are and are not, Officer Jameson—”
“So where are they?”
“I sent them off to the sto’,” she said. As quick as she’d needed it, the memory suddenly surfaced. Yes. Yes, indeed, that was where she had sent them, wasn’t it? Yes, Jovita felt certain of that. It was so. Just before the haze had taken her, just before things had started to be less interesting, she had given Kaley some money and sent her with her sister to get a few things. She was hungry and Shannon would need something for lunch tomorrow. Sandwich stuff. Yes, that was it. That was it.
“You sent them to Dodson’s Store up a couple blocks?” the officer inquired. A notepad and pen had magically appeared in the hands of the officer behind him.
“I did. Where they at?”
“Ms. Dupré, there was an incident at Dodson’s S—”
“What kind o’ incident?” she demanded. Then, Jovita sighed. She realized what it must be. “Shit, did Shan try to put somethin’ in her pocket? I thought that girl done grew outta that already! Bring her out here! I’ll tan her black ass—”
“They didn’t steal anything, Ms. Dupré. They made a few purchases and got on their way. They turned back around for some reason and went back. Possibly they forgot something at the store. It was at that time that two vehicles approached them. A few men got out, grabbed them—at least, we are fairly certain it was your daughters now—and put them in a car. The two vehicles took off. We got their descriptions, but—Ms. Dupré? Are you listening?”
“Yeah…” But she wasn’t. Once things became a dream, why pay attention anymore? It’s all just bullshit anyway. Officer Jameson had started talking so quickly and casually about “the incident” that Jovita was now confident that it couldn’t be happening at all. Nobody could talk about such a horrible thing with such nonchalance. It just wasn’t possible.
“Ma’am, could we step inside to finish this conversation?”
“I…I d-don’t think you…” Jovita swallowed sandpaper. She tried licking her lips, but her tongue felt as dry as her skin. Only now her skin wasn’t so dry. She was sweating. Sweating profusely. She felt nauseous. “What…what’re you sayin’, Officer? I don’t…I don’t think you’re makin’ yourself very clear. You’re not very good at your job…”
Officer Jameson swallowed this pill and said, “We believe your daughters have been abducted. We need to know if you know of anyone who might have reason to—Ms. Dupré!” He rushed to catch her as she was falling.
Jovita felt her knees buckle. It was time to wake up. Yes, that was a good plan. Once she woke up, she could score another jab perhaps, maybe find some H, who knows? That would do away with these dirty, icky dreams for good.
4
Two years, three months, six days and seventeen hours before he entered Pat’s Auto, Spencer Pelletier entered the American prison system for the first time. A series of robberies had been what did him in. Not the murders. No one kne
w about those yet, and, unless someone found a cure for death by hydrofluoric acid, no one ever would.
The robberies he committed were fairly nonviolent, and they were the kind of stuff that would have him called “Brainiac” for a time by some FBI fellows who needed to give everyone they were after a nickname, the “Master Mimic” by those in the press with the same inclination, and “a master of deception” by the host of America’s Most Wanted. But those names would only come after he’d escaped Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary.
The crimes were fairly simple, and Spencer would always feel that it had nothing at all to do with his intelligence, but rather everything to do with the fact that most people were stupid. Just stupid. They just didn’t think. And they were eager to go along with the rest of the herd.
This would be a common argument of his: his sincere belief that he wasn’t anything special. In Leavenworth, Spencer had been tested for his IQ, and when Dr. McCulloch told him that it was superior to most others, that Spencer was quite the perceptive intellectual, and had asked him what he thought about that, Spencer had merely replied, “Then you need to raise the standards for IQ testing, because I’m no Al Einstein, doc.”
The first bank he hit was a Bank of America in a small town called Marble Falls, in Burnet County, Texas. It had been a sunny October afternoon during an autumnal cavalcade like no other. High winds were blowing dead leaves off of trees, creating miniature, swirling funnels of multicolored leaves dancing up and down the streets, a few of which danced across the parking lot as Spencer had approached the Bank of America wearing overalls, large rubber gloves, a reflective orange vest like a road worker might wear, and carrying a bullhorn. The radio clipped to his side was for effect, as was the hardhat, gas mask and the Geiger counter.
Spencer had opened the door and hustled with purpose right over to the manager’s office. Two female employees were within earshot, which was good. There were four customers in line waiting, one of which had spotted him, which was also good. They all saw his urgency. The unease was already palpable, and soon would spread. “I need to speak to the manager,” he told one employee. “What’s his name? Mr. Ottey?”
“Yes, he’s—”
Mr. Ottey had heard and seen Spencer’s hasty entrance, and had hopped up from his desk to run to the doorway. “Yes? What is it? What’s going on?”
“Gas main leak, sir,” Spencer said in an officious tone. He pointed out the nearest window, where the van had been parked. One week prior, Spencer had rented it and had a friend of a friend of Pat’s over in Alabama put on letters and stenciling that made it appear legit. It read MARBLE FALLS GAS & LIGHT on the side. Like the hardhat and the radio clipped at his side, it was only for effect.
“Gas main—?”
“We need to move everyone into a secure location. Not outside! A chemical truck wrecked outside and may have caused the rupture while the road work was going on, hitting the exposed main line.” Spencer said it all so quickly that Mr. Joseph Ottey never had any time to register it, or to recall that there was no road work going on outside, and no one digging up a gas main. “The chemicals spilled may mix with the gas leaking and become highly combustible! We need to move everyone to a secure location inside the bank.”
“B-but…well, okay, but where?”
“I don’t care, um…” Spencer touched the button on his radio, pretending to be in a hurry to ask the question of someone else. “I…just…just put them in the vault. Do you have a vault or a back room or someplace you can put them?”
Mr. Ottey nodded and said that he did. He pulled out a set of keys and described a back room where counting was done. By now, others had started looking. Customers were unnerved at the frenetic exchange. Spencer made sure to speak in tones just barely audible, increasing the trepidation and fear of those around him.
Then, once he had the full support of the bank manager, the alpha male, it had been easy to get them all to fall into line. “Folks!” he’d hollered. “This is an emergency! Listen up! Listen up! We’ve got a leak outside that’s emitting highly volatile chemicals! There’s a chance that it may rupture and explode! I’m going to have to ask all of you to move to safety immediately! Do not go outside to your cars! The risk of combustion is too great! The fumes are also highly noxious! The bank manager here, Mr. Ottey, is going to escort you all to the back counting room! Now—” Here, he paused suddenly to pretend he was getting something in from his radio, when all he’d really done was touch the button which made the staticky sound. To others, it would sound like a transmission coming in. Spencer touched his ear, which had no earpiece, and checked the Geiger counter before saying, “Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I’m reading, too. Some of it’s seeped in through the front door. I’m getting everyone to safety now.”
Most people were too stupid to know that a Geiger counter didn’t detect gaseous emissions leaks. Most people wouldn’t even know a Geiger counter if they saw one. But Mr. Joseph Ottey was already standing behind Spencer, lending him his support. With the bank manager at his side, his story now had verisimilitude. He was valid. He was in control of them.
They had gathered in the back room, and were left there for God knows how long after he left. Spencer had locked the front door at once. He then took the crowbar out from inside his overalls and pried open all of the tellers, robbing all six of them. He’d also come across a bagful of deposits not yet entered into the system. He went outside, got inside the van, and drove two miles before he came to his other rental car, hopped in, and drove off with his money. He’d come away with a mere $37,893.
It wasn’t genius. His schemes never were. It was the fear and gullibility of people that allowed him to get away with it all.
Two months later and three days after Christmas, Agent Gary S. Chalke of the Secret Service walked into a SunTrust bank in Brandon, Mississippi. He stepped right inside, dressed all nice in a black suit and red tie with a tie clasp in the shape of handcuffs, his expensive shoes clicking on the marble floor as he approached the manager’s desk and pulled out a badge identifying himself as a member of the Secret Service. He’d pulled out a series of hundred-dollar bills he claimed were all counterfeit and said that every single one of them had come from this bank.
“Oh, dear,” said the Mississippi bank manager, a man named Mr. Tanner, who bristled a bit at the insinuation his bank was somehow involved in a nefarious scheme.
Agent Chalke talked fast, making it clear that he meant no such implication. In the next few months, Mr. Tanner would try and convey to law enforcement officials just how fast Agent Chalke talked, and how utterly confusing some of the things he’d said were, yet how he had spoken with such confidence and authority that it was difficult not to believe every word he said.
At one point, Mr. Tanner asked, “Is this all, you know, for real?”
“We’re a part of the Department of Homeland Security, sir. And our role with the Treasury mandates we monitor laundered or counterfeited money like this if we’re to stay a step ahead. We take this very seriously.” Mr. Tanner had protested very little after that.
Over the next thirty minutes, Agent Chalke convinced Mr. Tanner to bring him samplings of other hundred-dollar bills. He produced a kit that could chemically test the bills. Chalke had dipped a small brush in liquid and fanned it delicately across the paper, turning all of the bills yellow. “We’ve got a serious problem here,” Chalke had said. Mr. Tanner almost phoned someone, probably the regional manager, but each time Agent Chalke had assured him that it wasn’t necessary. “All the essential people are being informed as we speak,” he told Mr. Tanner.
Agent Chalke convinced Mr. Tanner to bring him more and more samplings of bills, tested only a few and they all turned yellow when tested with the liquid. Chalke had nodded knowingly, broodingly, and asked for more. Eventually, he had Mr. Tanner bring him a few dozen stacks of hundred-dollar bills. It was around this time that Mr. Tanner had started getting suspicious, and just as he’d asked to see Agent Chalke’s badge an
d identification again, he’d been hit over the head with a hammer. Agent Chalke had made sure the manager’s door was suitably closed just before that happened.
Of course, there was no such person as Agent Gary S. Chalke, and the liquid he’d used to test the money had been an ammonia mixture that turned all money yellow. Spencer had made off with $54,300, and Mr. Tanner had been hospitalized with brain injuries for six months.
The story made a few headlines, but was mostly just told as a side story to other more important things in the world—the withdrawal of U.S. troops from the Middle East, the latest development in the scandal involving that senator from Idaho, and a sexting story involving a bunch of high school cheerleaders that had the media ostensibly in an uproar while at the same time daring to give away the most titillating details.
“The last time I saw ya was around that time,” Pat said presently. “That’s when you came around an’ needed that spruced up black sedan, right?”
Spencer took a sip of his Bud, and nodded. “Yeah, but I ended up not needing it. But if anybody saw me driving up in a van an’ then hopping out an’ saying I’m a Secret Service agent, it wouldn’t have been convincing. But nobody saw me hop in the sedan when I arrived or when I left. Still, it was a precaution. It was clean, so I brought it back to you, if you recall.”
“I do. So, what happened next? If ya got away clean, how’d they bring ya in?”
“Random fucking traffic stop. Can you believe it?” Spencer laughed mirthlessly and rapped his knuckles on the desk beside him. He downed the last of the Bud, belched, and tossed the bottle into an overflowing trash bin beside Pat’s desk. Outside, some pneumatic drills were getting to work on the jacked up Lincoln. “Cop pulled me over for a roll-and-go at a stop sign in, uh, let’s see…I think it was some fuckin’ town called Foley?” He scratched at the back of his head. “Yeah, yeah, Foley, Alabama. Goddam tenacious motherfucker, this cop was.”
Psycho Save Us Page 8
