The saying goes: April showers bring May flowers......and Mayflowers bring Pilgrims!
Well, September in Jakarta brings fasting, illness and expats. It seems everyone around me is falling ill. The cubicles outside my office resonate with the sound of hacking and coughing. For some, I think it is a dry cough of dehydration. A side effect of forgoing drink during the fast. For others, I have learned, it comes from poor diet during the fasting month.
Prior to the fasting, an expat friend of mine told me that many people have tremendous difficulty balancing their blood sugar during this time. They exacerbate the situation by breaking fast with sweet drinks and cakes instead of real food. The Friday before fasting began, my company even sent out a memo reminding everyone of good dietary habits during the fasting month. On my ride home today, my driver was sneezing and coughing. I asked him if he was catching a cold. He told me that he had forgotten to eat rice - a staple of his diet - for the last three days because he has had nothing but cakes! The fasting seems to be taking a toll on everyone. I fully understand how it can teach the suffering of the poor and provide a better understanding of their plight.
The flip side of fasting is the arrival of the large, loud, gluttonous expats. They are the ones you see walking down the street eating an ice cream cone as all the people fasting conserve energy under the shade of a lean-to. Our neighborhood is filled with kids playing in the streets, the tennis courts, and the playgrounds into the early evening. The gym is more crowded, the pool always has someone in it. Many people had told us that expats disappear for the summer and for Christmas. Well, they're back. Summer must be over.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Communication Breakdowns
One of the more frustrating aspects of living in a foreign country is understanding the immigration laws. For our time in Indonesia, my company has an entire department dedicated to assisting expats with all of the rules and processes of Indonesian immigration. I don't even have to think about it. Delivering our baby in Singapore is turning out to be a much different experience.
We've done what reading we can on the subject, so we know that we need our marriage certificate, our passports, and about seven days of time to obtain a passport for our son once he is born. We will need this passport for him to enter Indonesia. We also know from our last trip to Singapore, that the airlines have a cutoff date for pregnant women. According to our doctor in Singapore, the international policy for airlines is 32 weeks, but because Jakarta is a mere one hour flight from Singapore, they typically allow up to 34 weeks.
This week, we put all of that to the test. My wife saw her local doctor and mentioned that we would be heading to Singapore on Thursday. Her doctor said she could not approve a departure after Monday. So now I'm scrambling to determine our options. Our apartment in Singapore isn't ready until Thursday. Our tickets are for Thursday.
I explained the situation to my admin, and asked her to call the medical facility we use (International SOS), and the airline, to determine what we can do. Things move much more smoothly here when discussed in the local language. She was able to discover that SOS was "unaware" that we were going to Singapore to deliver. This came as a shock to us as we've told them that at every visit and even went to Singapore in July, on a referral from them, to meet with the doctor and visit the hospital that will perform the delivery.
Once they knew we were going there to deliver, that helped. They called the airline and facilitated travel pre-approval. This also introduced a new problem, however. They asked if we had the required visa to allow us to deliver a baby in Singapore. Singapore is very strict about people coming there to deliver - to the point of not allowing pregnant women without the appropriate visa to leave the airport. To deliver there, a family must apply for the visa and sign documents stating that the child will have the nationality of the parents and they are not seeking Singaporean citizenship. SOS informs us this process typically requires one month.
Great! I have 4 days to do something that requires a month. They send me all the paperwork - 33 pages in all - that we need to fill out. Once again, I start asking for options. Can we complete it when we get there? Can we pay a fee to expedite? How come no one told us this when we had enough time to pursue it? Once they found out I was angry, they asked if we were American citizens. "Yes". American citizens are not required to fill out the paperwork. The appropriate visa is automatically given to US citizens. Apparently Americans are not ones to give up their citizenship and become Singaporeans.
Apparently we're also the ones who get angry....
We've done what reading we can on the subject, so we know that we need our marriage certificate, our passports, and about seven days of time to obtain a passport for our son once he is born. We will need this passport for him to enter Indonesia. We also know from our last trip to Singapore, that the airlines have a cutoff date for pregnant women. According to our doctor in Singapore, the international policy for airlines is 32 weeks, but because Jakarta is a mere one hour flight from Singapore, they typically allow up to 34 weeks.
This week, we put all of that to the test. My wife saw her local doctor and mentioned that we would be heading to Singapore on Thursday. Her doctor said she could not approve a departure after Monday. So now I'm scrambling to determine our options. Our apartment in Singapore isn't ready until Thursday. Our tickets are for Thursday.
I explained the situation to my admin, and asked her to call the medical facility we use (International SOS), and the airline, to determine what we can do. Things move much more smoothly here when discussed in the local language. She was able to discover that SOS was "unaware" that we were going to Singapore to deliver. This came as a shock to us as we've told them that at every visit and even went to Singapore in July, on a referral from them, to meet with the doctor and visit the hospital that will perform the delivery.
Once they knew we were going there to deliver, that helped. They called the airline and facilitated travel pre-approval. This also introduced a new problem, however. They asked if we had the required visa to allow us to deliver a baby in Singapore. Singapore is very strict about people coming there to deliver - to the point of not allowing pregnant women without the appropriate visa to leave the airport. To deliver there, a family must apply for the visa and sign documents stating that the child will have the nationality of the parents and they are not seeking Singaporean citizenship. SOS informs us this process typically requires one month.
Great! I have 4 days to do something that requires a month. They send me all the paperwork - 33 pages in all - that we need to fill out. Once again, I start asking for options. Can we complete it when we get there? Can we pay a fee to expedite? How come no one told us this when we had enough time to pursue it? Once they found out I was angry, they asked if we were American citizens. "Yes". American citizens are not required to fill out the paperwork. The appropriate visa is automatically given to US citizens. Apparently Americans are not ones to give up their citizenship and become Singaporeans.
Apparently we're also the ones who get angry....
Friday, August 28, 2009
Dinner at The Apartment
Wednesday night has become our date night. My wife and I try new restaurants, new spas, and/or have dinner with friends. This week, we tried a new restaurant called "The Apartment". The concept behind The Apartment is to eat out without having to leave home.
Each room of the restaurant is designed like a traditional room in an apartment - a bathroom with a sink and tub, a bedroom with a large bed, a living room with TV and couches, a study where you eat surrounded by books, and a pantry. Our table was in the bathroom connected to the tub. To complete the concept, the wait staff serve you wearing pajamas.
We dined with our good friends who are locals in Jakarta. It was their first visit, too, so it was a unique experience for everyone. I took the opportunity to try "wagyu" beef. I've never tasted steak so good. I could have eaten it with a spoon, it was so tender.
Each room of the restaurant is designed like a traditional room in an apartment - a bathroom with a sink and tub, a bedroom with a large bed, a living room with TV and couches, a study where you eat surrounded by books, and a pantry. Our table was in the bathroom connected to the tub. To complete the concept, the wait staff serve you wearing pajamas.
We dined with our good friends who are locals in Jakarta. It was their first visit, too, so it was a unique experience for everyone. I took the opportunity to try "wagyu" beef. I've never tasted steak so good. I could have eaten it with a spoon, it was so tender.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Day of un-fasting
Ying and Yang. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. He giveth and He taketh away.
Fasting removed the vendors from our streets, and put the cars on it. During the fast, Muslims wake around 3 AM and eat before 5 AM. No point in sitting around the house, so they head into work. Because fasting ends around 6 PM, they want to get home in time to break fast. This means they leave the office at 4 PM. My 45 minute commute from office to home took 90 minutes today. My understanding is this only lasts the first week, and then everyone heads back to the village and clears the streets.
The only other change at the office was the erection of privacy screens in the cafeteria so that casual wanderers by don't see anyone eating. I was a little surprised to see the little street vendors peddling bottles of water at 4:30. As 6 PM approached, the vendors started flooding the streets and selling food in take-out containers to the cars stuck in traffic. I would be interested to know if this time of year is as lucrative for the local merchants as Christmas is for retailers in the US.
Fasting removed the vendors from our streets, and put the cars on it. During the fast, Muslims wake around 3 AM and eat before 5 AM. No point in sitting around the house, so they head into work. Because fasting ends around 6 PM, they want to get home in time to break fast. This means they leave the office at 4 PM. My 45 minute commute from office to home took 90 minutes today. My understanding is this only lasts the first week, and then everyone heads back to the village and clears the streets.
The only other change at the office was the erection of privacy screens in the cafeteria so that casual wanderers by don't see anyone eating. I was a little surprised to see the little street vendors peddling bottles of water at 4:30. As 6 PM approached, the vendors started flooding the streets and selling food in take-out containers to the cars stuck in traffic. I would be interested to know if this time of year is as lucrative for the local merchants as Christmas is for retailers in the US.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
A 'sensitive' subject
I apologize in advance to any sensitive eyes or for those to whom a topic like this will offend your sensibilities. Maybe it is a trivial thing I'm making too big a deal out of. Next to the name you give your child, I consider this the second largest potentially emotionally scarring decision a parent can make.
Circumcise, or no circumcise.
Decades ago, conventional wisdom, and even medical recommendation, was to perform the circumcision. Proponents still argue it is 'cleaner'. Opponents argue that it is barbaric, unnecessary, and reduces sensitivity during sex by up to 80%... not that I think men need any more help in the ability to experience heightened sensations in that area.
I've vacillated on this topic for several months. I know my wife's preference. Ultimately, as the male advisor to the male scion, the decision is mine. Theoretically, I could decide to not do it, and he would still have the option later in life. Realistically, the decision I make will be permanent. I don't imagine my son voluntarily having an 'elective' surgery of that nature when he is of an age to make such decisions.
Fundamentally, here is the question(s) I am trying to answer:
The first time he is exposed in public, whether it be a locker room at school, or in an amorous situation, how likely is it to be an opportunity for ridicule?
And, just as important, is that enough of a reason to have an elective surgery?
I'd appreciate feedback, especially from the romantic situation perspective. The last thing I want is for my son's first experience to contain "What's wrong with it?" or "Gross, is it supposed to look like that?"
Circumcise, or no circumcise.
Decades ago, conventional wisdom, and even medical recommendation, was to perform the circumcision. Proponents still argue it is 'cleaner'. Opponents argue that it is barbaric, unnecessary, and reduces sensitivity during sex by up to 80%... not that I think men need any more help in the ability to experience heightened sensations in that area.
I've vacillated on this topic for several months. I know my wife's preference. Ultimately, as the male advisor to the male scion, the decision is mine. Theoretically, I could decide to not do it, and he would still have the option later in life. Realistically, the decision I make will be permanent. I don't imagine my son voluntarily having an 'elective' surgery of that nature when he is of an age to make such decisions.
Fundamentally, here is the question(s) I am trying to answer:
The first time he is exposed in public, whether it be a locker room at school, or in an amorous situation, how likely is it to be an opportunity for ridicule?
And, just as important, is that enough of a reason to have an elective surgery?
I'd appreciate feedback, especially from the romantic situation perspective. The last thing I want is for my son's first experience to contain "What's wrong with it?" or "Gross, is it supposed to look like that?"
The Fasting Begins
Saturday marked the start of the Muslim holiday of Ramadan. Ramadan is the fasting month and is a time for Muslims to better understand the plight of the poor by experiencing what hunger and thirst feels like. For the next month, Muslims will refrain from drinking, eating, and smoking from sunup to sundown. The official start and end of the day is announced for each region by the local religious leader.
Non-Muslim are asked to be sensitive to our Muslim colleagues who are fasting by not eating or drinking in front of them. The streets are already clear of the food vendors, many of whom would lose their customer base if they tried to sell food during the day. Even the restaurants have installed curtains that they will keep closed during the day so people walking on the street cannot see patrons inside the restaurant eating. Driving by a McDonalds with drawn curtains always seems a bit odd.
As a manager, I have to recognize that many on my staff are rising around 4 AM, or earlier, to eat as much as they can before the day begins. They will then refrain from eating all day until around 6 PM, when they will "break fast" and have a meal with other Muslims. Because of the long commute times, most employees just remain at the office and the break room becomes a loud cafeteria atmosphere after 6 PM. Fatigue can be a concern during the fasting month, so we try to maintain a tranquil, low stress environment (I wish I could to this all year!).
The real key to supporting Muslims during Ramadan is to not ask them to fast longer than they have to. This means recognizing that my driver will need a drink and some food around 6 PM, and scheduling my day around that need. Same thing is true with late-night meetings at work - plan on stopping so the Muslims can break their fast.
Ramadan will culminate with Lebaran, or Idul Fitri. This is a two day holiday at the end of the fasting and is the biggest Muslim holiday of the year. Those that can afford it 'pulang kampu', which means - "return to village", or, more directly, go home and visit the family. 70% of my staff will be off that week, and we plan our project schedules around it.
Non-Muslim are asked to be sensitive to our Muslim colleagues who are fasting by not eating or drinking in front of them. The streets are already clear of the food vendors, many of whom would lose their customer base if they tried to sell food during the day. Even the restaurants have installed curtains that they will keep closed during the day so people walking on the street cannot see patrons inside the restaurant eating. Driving by a McDonalds with drawn curtains always seems a bit odd.
As a manager, I have to recognize that many on my staff are rising around 4 AM, or earlier, to eat as much as they can before the day begins. They will then refrain from eating all day until around 6 PM, when they will "break fast" and have a meal with other Muslims. Because of the long commute times, most employees just remain at the office and the break room becomes a loud cafeteria atmosphere after 6 PM. Fatigue can be a concern during the fasting month, so we try to maintain a tranquil, low stress environment (I wish I could to this all year!).
The real key to supporting Muslims during Ramadan is to not ask them to fast longer than they have to. This means recognizing that my driver will need a drink and some food around 6 PM, and scheduling my day around that need. Same thing is true with late-night meetings at work - plan on stopping so the Muslims can break their fast.
Ramadan will culminate with Lebaran, or Idul Fitri. This is a two day holiday at the end of the fasting and is the biggest Muslim holiday of the year. Those that can afford it 'pulang kampu', which means - "return to village", or, more directly, go home and visit the family. 70% of my staff will be off that week, and we plan our project schedules around it.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Eventful Week
Last weekend was a three day weekend in Jakarta as we celebrated Indonesian Independence Day.
Saturday, I participated in the final Freeport Olympics event - golf. It was a sad reminder of how much practice I need in the sport of executives. Each of the four Olympic teams could provide eight players. Most were lucky to provide two. Prior to the event all players had to provide their handicap with a cap of 28. I, like nearly all the others participating, listed a 28 handicap.
The morning of the event, the organizers grouped players into pairs for a best ball scramble. They put the highest handicapped person on a team with the lowest handicapped person and worked their way to the middle. The only other rule was alternating who would do the putting on each hole. They had individual tournaments for longest drive, closest to the pin, and closest to the line - a rope in the center of the fairway around where a normal drive distance would be. They also gave each team a yellow ball. On each hole, we had to alternate which player would use the ball. Any team that still had the ball at the end of 18 holes would win a prize.
Long story short, the opposing team in my foursome lost their yellow ball on the first hole. My team, thanks to my partner, lost it on the drive of the second hole. I played horrible from the tees and the fairways, and was on fire near the greens and putting. I made any putt within 15 feet and would chip/pitch within ten feet of the cup on every hole. My partner was driving 300 yards and hitting well from the fairway when I had a bad shot. We complemented each other nicely - and still ended up shooting a 96. After our handicap reduction, we were left with a 4-under par 68, which was 14 strokes better than our opponent. The score was good enough for second. Another pair from my team took first, so my Olympic team took the gold medal for the event, and we won gold overall.
Saturday, I participated in the final Freeport Olympics event - golf. It was a sad reminder of how much practice I need in the sport of executives. Each of the four Olympic teams could provide eight players. Most were lucky to provide two. Prior to the event all players had to provide their handicap with a cap of 28. I, like nearly all the others participating, listed a 28 handicap.
The morning of the event, the organizers grouped players into pairs for a best ball scramble. They put the highest handicapped person on a team with the lowest handicapped person and worked their way to the middle. The only other rule was alternating who would do the putting on each hole. They had individual tournaments for longest drive, closest to the pin, and closest to the line - a rope in the center of the fairway around where a normal drive distance would be. They also gave each team a yellow ball. On each hole, we had to alternate which player would use the ball. Any team that still had the ball at the end of 18 holes would win a prize.
Long story short, the opposing team in my foursome lost their yellow ball on the first hole. My team, thanks to my partner, lost it on the drive of the second hole. I played horrible from the tees and the fairways, and was on fire near the greens and putting. I made any putt within 15 feet and would chip/pitch within ten feet of the cup on every hole. My partner was driving 300 yards and hitting well from the fairway when I had a bad shot. We complemented each other nicely - and still ended up shooting a 96. After our handicap reduction, we were left with a 4-under par 68, which was 14 strokes better than our opponent. The score was good enough for second. Another pair from my team took first, so my Olympic team took the gold medal for the event, and we won gold overall.
Sunday, we took our daughter to a polo and equestrian club outside Jakarta so she could go horseback riding. For ten dollars, she took a 45 minute ride up into the mountains on a horse by herself with a guide holding the reins. We watched her leave and then realized we just sent our 3 year old daughter off into the jungle on a horse with someone we just met. We sat in the open-air cafeteria to wait for her return, which turned out to be a mistake. When she came back and didn't see us, she freaked out. She screamed loud enough the whole restaurant turned in the direction of the noise. The guide she had gone riding with was holding her hand walking her to the cafeteria and she was bawling. Once she saw us, she calmed down, and, after a few moments, admitted to having a good time.
Monday, I went to work for a semi-mandatory Independence Day celebration. I asked around and expats typically do not attend this event. I was also the only expat who participated in the Olympic events, though, so that did not deter me. One of my expat colleagues, however, came by later to inform me that, even though he had never attended in his seven years, he was attending this year because they were going to take attendance and note who was there.
The locals appeared to have a very good time. For me, I kept thinking how an event like this would never happen in the United States. Even on a voluntary basis, someone would have sued. We stood in military formation based on our Olympic team membership. Someone from our security team barked out orders and we alternated between saluting, being at ease, and standing at attention. Very militaristic. I felt uncomfortable saluting the Indonesian flag, but I did so, so I would not offend anyone. I probably will not attend next years event. I really think this event is intended for Indonesians who want display their nationalist fervor, not for an expat visiting.
During the week, my daughter had an opportunity to try out her adventurous side by riding a gyroscope. This is a ride that many adults won't brave. She's doing it at the age of three.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
New Pictures
I haven't posted pictures in a while, so I thought I'd bypass the normal story telling and just post some already.
Our daughter is going through the obligatory "princess" phase and wants to play dress up a lot. Mommy, of course, is thrilled to take pictures of her when she does this.
Our daughter is going through the obligatory "princess" phase and wants to play dress up a lot. Mommy, of course, is thrilled to take pictures of her when she does this.
When she isn't home playing dress up or with her toys, she's at Ballet, Summer Camp, or some park. Keeping our daughter busy goes hand in hand with maintaining our sanity. She's growing more independent each day. Luckily, this means she goes on rides without us. Like trains at the mall or race horses at Safari Park.
My favorite animal to see in the zoo is the Barbary Apes. These are some smart, funny apes. In the picture, I'm holding a granola bar that the ape wants me to throw to him. When he realized I wouldn't, he spit at me! The first time I came across Barbary Apes was in Albuquerque, New Mexico. The ape there would throw poop at you if you didn't give him food.
Finally large enough to ride her tricycle, our daughter does so with speed. She loves riding it all over the neighborhood and wants to venture out in the heavier traffic of our larger neighborhood - something we have not yet let her do. It can be difficult to get over the speed bumps if she slows down, but she is ever determined. On one of our walks, she didn't get over it the first time and then, out of the blue, she looked up at me and said with great authority and conviction "I can DO this!" She pedalled as hard as she could and made it over. That determination will help her go far in life, I hope.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Based on a true story
Last week, I remembered a legal case study we studied for fun in one of my college courses on ethics and law. A story of the events started forming in my mind. Over dinner with friends on Wednesday, I related the details of the true story, and everyone, much as I was when I first read it, was amazed.
What you are about to read is historical fiction. This actually happened. I've just added the dialogue I imagine took place.
Based on a True Story
Bradley "Bud" Johnson sat quietly at his desk sipping his coffee and completing the paperwork for his caseload. More accustomed to reviewing information and interviewing leads than he was to completing paperwork, he had to break every fifteen minutes to stay awake or shake the stiffness from his hands. His third cup of coffee was not helping his fatigue. It was from boredom, not from lack of rest. It was only 7:30 AM Monday. He had a full week of this to look forward to.
Three short months ago he had informed his superiors, per union policy, of his intention to retire this coming Friday. Two weeks ago, they stopped giving him new cases so he could focus on closing out, updating and transferring those currently assigned to him. Had he known how boring this would be, he would have held off his wife's nagging pleas for at least two more years.
Bud leaned back in his chair, stretching loudly, cracking the knuckles on his large, weathered hands. He felt there was still energy left in his sixty year-old body and knew he was still smarter than any criminal out there. His hair was graying, and receding, but he still had a full head. His eyes were still clear enough to notice even the most obscure of clues, and his mind sharp enough to link the clues together. He still wanted to work.
His wife, ultimately, tipped the scales for him. Retirement is what you work your whole life for, she always reminded him. She wanted to move down to Georgia to live with her sister. The last winter in Grand Rapids was hard on her and her rheumatism. He knew, ultimately, retirement to a golf course outside Atlanta was for the best.
"Bud, am I interrupting something", Janet said, stopping by his desk.
"Not at all", Bud replied, smiling up at the young, attractive new recruit. She had transferred from the small town of Lowell, and still had some of her small-town mannerisms - politeness, being one of the finer qualities she retained.
"Normally, I wouldn't bother you with this, you know, with your retirement and all", she began, handing him a piece of paper, "but there's no one else here and the desk Sergeant said it would be okay if you handled this one."
Bud took the slip of paper from her hand and reviewed it. It was an alert notice from the non-emergency hotline. A friend of one Michael Thomason called to report she had received an eerie email from him and was concerned for his safety. A twenty year veteran of the homicide task force, Bud had not responded to a "wellness check" in nearly forty years. Happy for the diversion, he asked Janet if she wanted to accompany him, and they left for the listed address.
He pulled up to the complex in his city-issued sedan and stopped in the parking space marked "Police Only". Dispatch radioed as he was exiting the car.
"5230, are you there? Bud?", they called.
"Hey, Jones, this is Bud, go ahead", Bud replied.
"Were you heading out to the VanVos Apartments", Jones asked.
"I'm here, actually", Bud replied. "What's up?"
"Construction crews just arrived at rear of building, reported finding a body or something. Mind checking it out while we track down someone to help out?"
Bud shot Janet a knowing look and shrugged. They had a guess who the body might be. Together they walked around the weathered concrete building. A recent revitalization project selected by the Chamber of Commerce and funded by a grant from the President's Economic Stimulus plan had resurfaced the front of the previously run down building. Today, they were preparing to start in the rear of the building, the side overlooking the river.
Bud and Janet flashed their badges at the private security guard standing at the gated entrance to the construction activity. He waved them through after remarking how quickly they had arrived seeing as he had just called them fifteen minutes ago. They walked a short distance to where a crowd of men in hard hats stood chatting about the loss of the only professional football team in the state worth watching - the Arena League’s Rampage.
"Where's the body?", Bud asked them. They pointed up and he followed their fingers to a safety net between the third and fourth floors. A twenty-something man lay face down, propped against the building, with dried blood on his face.
"The way I figure it", one of them said, pointing at a broken window on the seventh floor, "The guy jumped from the roof not knowing we had put up the net, dies when he hits his head on that broken window, and lands like that in our net."
"You're probably right", Bud replied, as the man's crew slapped the back of the man they would now call ‘CSI’. "I think I'll let the Medical Examiner give me a cause of death before I write this off as a suicide, though."
Bud and Janet spent the next thirty minutes interviewing the crew while waiting for the crime scene investigators to arrive. They learned the project team put the net up late afternoon the prior day. They were all gone for the day by six PM, and the security guard was the first to arrive at six this morning. The first to notice the body was the foreman, the man who had offered his thoughts on what had happened to the deceased. He called 911 to report what he found, and then kept anyone from disturbing the scene until the police arrived. He now wanted to know how long it would be until he could start his day.
"Hey Bud, how did you get this assignment?", Ben Miller asked as he approached his old friend. "I thought they didn't give these assignments to people on their way out."
"Long story", Bud replied, shaking Ben's hand. He introduced Janet and then filled him in on the details of their morning.
"Well, I'd appreciate whatever help you can provide", Ben said, "that is, if you don't have anything better to do. Golf outing maybe?"
Bud laughed sarcastically and offered to help. Even documenting the typically mundane details of a suicide was better than sitting idly at his desk.
A few hours after Bud had arrived, the crime scene crew had the pictures they needed and lowered the body from the netting to the street below in a body bag. Janet cautiously took a peek at the body. This was her first time seeing a dead person. She hadn't even been to a funeral.
"What's that on his forehead?", she asked, pointing at a circular red spot. Bud and Ben stopped their conversation and took a closer look. They had already decided the foreman's theory was the most probable and that they would just wait for the ME to confirm the theory before closing the case.
"That looks like a GSW", Bud said, concerned. Gun Shot Wound. That was definitely an unexpected twist and changed the whole theory on the cause of death. He asked the M.E. to turn him over and, sure enough, there was a rather large exit wound in the back. He was betting the M.E. would say the bullet, not the fall, was the cause of death. Like it or not, Bud was now the first responder to a murder investigation.
"Any ID on the victim?", Ben asked, moving into investigation mode.
"Michael Thomason", the M.E. replied, showing him the wallet they had removed from the man's pants. "Twenty-six. Lives in this building, apartment 8G."
"Sounds like it's time to start asking more questions", Bud said. He walked to the front of the building followed closely by Janet and Ben. "Did anyone contact the property manager?"
"I'm who you're looking for", a short, fat man dressed in jeans and a long-sleeve workshirt replied. He was walking towards the building from his work truck. He stopped and handed them each a business card. "John Mitchell. I'm the property manager and maintenance man for this and three other buildings. I'm here to repair a busted window on the seventh floor. Tenants called it in late last night to our messaging service. How can I help you?"
"We're investigating a death that happened on premises last night", Ben explained. "Michael Thomason. You know him?"
"Yeah, young guy, lived in 8G", John replied, saddened. "Messed up kid. Major family issues."
"You know all your tenants this well", Bud asked.
"No. Mike was a special case. He was always asking for an extension on paying his rent", John said derisively, then quickly followed up with: "but he always did eventually pay."
"He had money troubles? Know if he was into anyone for some big debts?", Ben asked.
"That would surprise me. They guy lived like a pauper. Starving artist is more likely than anything with gambling", John said.
"Know of anyone who would be looking to hurt him?", Bud said.
"He was a good guy. Never heard him say a bad word about anyone. Except his mother", John said. "He couldn't stand her. She was always riding him about something."
"Anyone report anything out of the ordinary last night?", Ben asked.
"Nah. Except for the broken window, it was the usual complaints", John replied. "Loud music, fighting neighbors, gun shots."
"Gun shots?", Bud asked.
"Yeah, we get a few of those reported every week", John explained. "Pretty common for this neighborhood, unfortunately. This facelift we're doing is supposed to allow us to increase the rent and improve the area. More like putting lipstick on a pig if you ask me."
"What time did that call come in?", Bud followed up.
"Our messaging service - we call it that, but it's just a machine - it doesn't have a timestamp on the call. It's one of those older models. Still uses tape. Lawyer told us to use one of those and never erase the messages in case we get sued. We keep putting in new tapes", John replied.
"So no idea what time the call came in?", Ben said.
"Our office hours on Sundays are from one to four. No one called then, so it was after that. The call about the broken window was the next call on the machine. They told us the time of their call was a little after ten-thirty. So, the call from the tenant venting about shots fired in the building must have been between four and ten-thirty", John said.
"Mind letting us in to 8G?", Bud asked.
"Don't you need a warrant for that?", John asked.
"If you want us to get one, we can", Ben said leaning closely. "I'd just ask you to come down to the station so we can ask you what you were doing yesterday between four and ten-thirty and why you were so interested in preserving the entry rights of a dead man."
"No, no need for that", John stammered. "I'll be happy to take you up."
They crammed into the small elevator and emerged a few moments later on the eighth floor. Bud was beginning to agree with John's 'lipstick on a pig' comment. The hallway had tattered, fleur-de-leaf carpeting that was probably once brightly colored but now was a dingy, dark blue. The walls were stained with urine or beer, Bud couldn't decide. The smell could have been from either.
John led them to the end of the hall where they stopped at a door with an 8 and an upside-down G hanging loosely. Per company policy, John knocked several times and waited for a reply before finding the correct key in his enormous collection and letting them in.
Bud, Janet and Ben entered the small studio apartment behind John. Built in the early 1920's, when Grand Rapids' furniture industry drew job seekers from around the country, the architect of VanVos Apartments – originally named the Riverside Tenements - had one thing in mind: squeeze as many people on each floor as possible. Overzealous in his goal, the studio apartment was less than one hundred square feet in total and consisted of two rooms. The bathroom, no larger than the bathroom of the interior cabin Bud and his wife shared on their anniversary cruise five years ago, was off to the right. The remaining space combined kitchen, living room and bedroom all in one, cramped area.
With the exception of easels, paint, a blackberry cell phone and a dirty mattress on the floor in the corner, the room was empty. The only light they had to see by came from the window looking over the river at the Gerald R Ford Presidential Museum. Bud flipped the light switch. Nothing.
"We often receive notices from the electric company that Michael wasn't paying his bills and they were cutting him off", John offered.
Ben removed a flashlight from his jacket pocket and scanned the room. "No sign of blood or a struggle", he said and walked over to the window. "Window is locked from the inside, too. He definitely wasn't shot here."
"Is there roof access?", Bud asked John, then seeing some photographs, walked over to the refrigerator. The fridge was covered in them. Michael with friends, standing by the lighthouse in Grand Haven, receiving a check for one of his paintings. He grabbed a pack and handed them to Janet. "See if you can get the identity of anyone in these pictures, will you?"
"Do you want to go up on the roof?", John asked, heading for the door.
"What's that on the fridge", Janet asked, pointing. Underneath the section of pictures Bud removed was a note-sized piece of paper with erratic scribbles on it.
"Looks like a suicide note", Bud said, reading it to the group. "'This life sucks. See you in the next. Sorry for what I've done. Maybe my paintings will be worth something now'".
"I wonder what he meant by 'Sorry for what I've done'", Ben said.
"Could that GSW been self-inflicted", Janet asked.
Ben shook his head. "Not likely. Suicides using guns go under the chin, in the mouth, or at the temple. It's very awkward to hold a gun at the middle of your forehead. Plus, unless I'm mistaken, and the M.E. will confirm, his wound was caused by a .22 caliber round. It's impossible to hold a rifle steady enough to shoot yourself in the forehead. This guy was murdered."
"Guys, I really need to go and repair that window. Do you want up on the roof or not?", John broke in, pale in the face. Hearing the details of a murder did not sit well with his breakfast. He didn’t even like watching movies with gore.
Bud nodded and they followed John up to the roof. He told them he'd be down in 7G and left them to their own devices. Bud walked toward the river and looked over the edge of the building. He lined himself up with the net and turned around, looking down at the ground.
"To land in that net, he would have to go over the edge here", Bud said, pointing to the ledge just above the net. " I don't see blood anywhere."
"You're right", Ben said, looking around. "Not a drop. No sign of dragging feet, or a body, either."
"If he had been shot up here, there would be blood. If he had been carried up here from somewhere else, there would be a trail of blood", Bud said, processing the information as he spoke it.
"What if they wrapped him in a tarp and carried him up here?", Janet asked.
"Why do that", Ben interjected. "I mean, why would someone kill a guy and then drag him all they way up on the roof just to throw him over it? They can't be dumb enough to think we wouldn't find a bullet hole and consider the death a suicide."
"What are you thinking?", Bud asked.
"I think they bring him to the roof and toss him. They look over the edge to make sure he's dead and see him struggling in the ropes. Needing to finish their job, they rush downstairs and shoot him", Ben offered.
"I could see it", Bud said. "Let's head down and see if Crime Scene has anything of interest and then we'll wait for the M.E.'s time of death. I have another question for Mr. Mitchell, too."
"Shouldn't you be packing up at the office", Ben said, jabbing Bud playfully in the ribs.
"Yes", Bud smiled. "But let's humor a retiring old man and swing by 7G to ask Mr. Mitchell a few more questions. I'd like to know who reported the shots fired."
Ben radioed down to the crime scene team and asked them to send a few up to the roof to look around. Maybe they could find something. He caught up to Bud and Janet as they exited the stairwell on the seventh floor. They turned toward the river and walked down the hall to 7G. They knocked and a weary looking elderly man opened the door.
"Can I help you", he asked, cautiously looking at the three of them.
"Is Mr. Mitchell in there with you?", Bud asked, showing his badge. "We have a few more questions for him."
"It's alright, Jerry", John called back to him. Jerry opened the door allowing the three of them to pass. John set his tools down and walked over to them. "Find what you were looking for?"
"Not yet", Bud replied, "I was wondering if you knew who called in the report about gunshots fired in the building?"
"Sorry, that's my fault", Jerry jumped in, sheepishly.
"What do you mean?", Bud said, suddenly very interested in Jerry.
"That's how my window got busted", Jerry explained. "Shot right through it."
Jerry went on to explain that yesterday evening, he and his wife got into another one of their arguments. "Rows", he called them. She had been nagging him about spending too much money bowling and drinking with his buddies and not spending enough time with her. As was typical for their arguments, he eventually went to the hall closet and pulled out his gun, threatening her with it.
"I've done that dozens of times over the last five years, and I've never had a scare like that", Jerry said. "I nearly killed her. Made me realize how much I do love her, nearly losing her like that. Gonna cost me a hundred bucks for that window, but it was worth it to me to receive the wake up call."
"Me too", his wife smiled, walking over and encircling his waist with her arm.
"Where is the gun now", Bud asked.
"Back in the closet", Jerry said, pointing. "Scared me near to death. I couldn't bear to touch the thing anymore so I put it away and haven't been near it since."
"Mind if I look at it?", Ben asked, opening the closet. Jerry shook his head and Ben, putting on latex gloves, took the gun out of the closet and sniffed the barrel. Still smelled like gun powder residue.
"This is a nice .22", Ben said, giving Bud a quick look. "What time did you say this happend?"
"I think it was around nine or nine-thirty", Jerry replied. "Took me about an hour or so to calm down enough to call in the broken window, which I know I did at ten-thirty because I told them that on my message."
Bud was processing this new information quickly and quietly. When he arrived, he thought he just had to verify the well-being of a troubled soul. Ten minutes later he's looking at a suicide. Twenty minutes after that, he was looking at a murder-one homicide. Now he didn't know what to think. There was no way Jerry could have killed Michael, then carried him to the roof and thrown him over. Not even with his wife's help.
A light went on in Bud's head. Could it be possible? The chances were so improbably low. He followed the train of thought. Michael is suicidal. He goes on the roof and jumps. As he's falling, he sees he's going to land in the net. He's either cursing his bad luck that he'll have to build up the courage to jump again, or thanking Fate for giving him another chance. As he passes the seventh floor, in the blink of an eye, a bullet flies out the window and kills him. His luck changed.
Unfortunately for Jerry, so does his. Intentional or not, Jerry just killed someone who would not have otherwise died. It isn't murder, but it is at least manslaughter. Bud looks over at Jerry smiling down at his wife with his new perspective. Be a shame to send an old man with a new look on life to jail for the next five years. He was glad he wouldn't have to make that call, a jury would. His job was to investigate and provide facts to the prosecuting attorney.
"Mind if I take your gun down to ballistics?", Bud asked casually, not wanting to scare the old man. It didn't work.
"Am I in some kind of trouble?", Jerry asked, hesitantly.
"We have reason to believe the bullet fired from your gun may have killed someone", Bud explained. "I'd like to take it down to see if the ballistics match. Maybe they will, maybe they won't."
"I don't know how", Jerry said, "I mean, I'm on the seventh floor and the river is out there. Unless I hit someone fishing late at night. Is that what happened?"
"I'm afraid I can't go into specifics", Bud replied. "Do you mind if I take it in, or do you want me to get a warrant?"
"Take it", Jerry said, mystified. Slowly, he sat down on the couch next to his shaking wife. He tried to comfort her, but he was as shaken as she so was little help.
"What gets me most", Jerry continued, "is how that gun was loaded."
"What do you mean", Bud asked.
"I mean, I clean that gun every Saturday. First thing in the AM. It's my ritual. Done the same thing every Saturday for the last twenty years. My father gave me that gun right before he died. It's my last connection with him", Jerry explained. "It wasn't loaded then. I've never even bought bullets for it. I honestly think it was God's way of telling me to be nicer to my wife. That's why I don't believe I killed anyone. He wouldn't have taught me a lesson like that by killing someone else."
Bud and Ben looked at each other in disbelief. The guy seemed credible. More credible than Bud's theory about shooting a man accidentally as he passed by your window while you're arguing with your wife and threatening her with a gun.
"Then I'm sure you have nothing to worry about", Bud answered. "We'll know tomorrow morning. Janet here is going to get your information so I can reach you if I need to. I'm also going to ask you to not leave town for the next few days. Can you manage that?"
"I got nowhere to go", Jerry replied, pointing at his impoverished conditions. "Not like I have a cottage in the country to visit if I'm living here."
Bud arrived the next morning to a manila folder waiting on his desk. He opened it, read through the contents, and cursed under his breath. The file contained a report from the M.E. listing cause of death as homicide with a .22 caliber round, fired from the front, at a near distance. The ballistics report said the bullet that killed Michael Thomason matched Jerry's gun. Bud had to go back and arrest Jerry for homicide.
"Here's the case file", Janet said, returning from the copy room and seeing Bud at his desk. "I was able to get a copy of the email Michael sent to his friend. This case just gets more weird by the minute."
Bud opened the file and took out the email.
'Allison - I hate my mother, always have, but I never wanted to kill her. I think I just did something that will. I can no longer control my emotions or impulses. I hope you understand. Mike'
"Have you contacted his mother or next of kin?", Bud asked when he had finished reading.
"The contact information on file with Motor Vehicle Department was invalid", Janet explained. "Disconnected."
"What did it list?"
Janet flipped through pages in the case file. "Janice Thomason, mother", she replied, pointing when she found it.
"See what you can do. Try calling the person who reported the email", Bud said.
"Already called. Waiting a call back", Janet said. Bud smiled at her. She was sharp. She was going to be a good cop.
"What do the ballistics say?", Ben said, roaring into the room and sitting on the desk with one leg.
"It's a match", Bud replied, solemnly.
"Poor guy", Ben said, "Some guys have the worst luck. What are you going to do?"
"Let's check out his story", Bud said. "Find out who could have loaded the gun. Maybe his wife had enemies?"
Ben nodded and they pulled up Jerry's contact information. Bud punched the speakerphone button and dialed Jerry's number. It rang twice before Jerry picked up.
"Hello?", Jerry said.
"Jerry, it's Detective Bud Johnson. We spoke yesterday."
"I remember. I couldn't sleep last night waiting for this call."
"I understand", Bud replied. "Listen, I'm here with Ben and Janet, the two officers with me yesterday. We were just going over your statement. How you never loaded the gun. I have a few questions for you. Do you have time?"
"Like I said, Detective, I got nowhere else to go", Jerry replied, fatigued.
"Was anyone in your apartment on Saturday or Sunday?", Bud asked.
"Just my wife and I", Jerry replied.
"Were you home all weekend?"
"Yeah - well, except when I went down to the sports bar to watch the Michigan game and she went grocery shopping", Jerry said.
"Any sign of a break-in while you were out", Bud continued.
"No."
"Anyone else have keys to your apartment?"
"The building management", Jerry replied. "I think my wife's son has one, too."
"Her son?", Bud asked.
"Yeah. I think she gave it to him when we first moved in. They were trying to reconcile after years of fighting. It was her olive branch, so to speak", Jerry explained. "Peace didn't last very long."
"Does he know you like to threaten her with your gun?", Bud asked.
"Well, yeah. Hell, everyone does. They can all tell you she knows it isn't loaded...", Jerry stopped mid-sentence. "You don't think that little piece... I mean, they fight.... I'll kill him!"
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that", Bud said. He was feeling better about this case. He would have hated bringing Jerry down to the precinct in cuffs. Jerry was a little crazy, but he didn't deserve jail. The son, on the other hand, if he loaded the gun, he had intent to kill. He loaded a gun he knew Jerry often pointed at his mother. Probably knew they fought a lot and wouldn't have to wait very long for her to be shot. He was back at a muder case, and an
interesting one at that. At least I'll go out on a high note, Bud thought to himself.
"Where can I find your son?", Bud asked.
"Her son", Jerry correct. "Janice had a son before we got married. He lives upstairs in 8G. Michael Thomason."
Time stopped. Janet, Bud and Ben all stared at the phone in disbelief. Did they really just hear that? It had to be a different Michael Thomason. The name was common enough. But he had also said he lived in 8G. Where the deceased had lived.
"Detective?", Jerry said after a long moment of silence.
"Just making notes", Bud managed to blurt out. "We'll be in touch."
Bud quickly hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. A theory formed in his mind. Michael Thomason lives above his mother, whom he hates. He hears them leave for the day, goes down and enters the apartment using a key they had long forgotten he had. Removing bullets from his pocket, he loads the gun, chambers one, and puts it back where he found it. Then waits. The next night, he hears them arguing and remembers the gun. Now he has regrets. He can't stop it, he's too much of a coward. He quickly sends an email to his friend, scribbles a note that he magnets to his fridge underneath a bunch of pictures and rushes to the top of his building. He jumps, not knowing construction erected a safety net earlier that morning. As he passes his mother's apartment, the gun goes off, killing him with the bullets he had intended for her.
"What do we do now", Janet asked, breaking the continued silence.
Bud flipped through the case file and found the M.E.'s report. He scanned down to cause of death: Homicide. Picking up a pen, he scratches out the M.E.'s determination, writes in his own and initials it. He then put the file back together and handed it to Janet.
"I don't know what you two are going to do, but I'm going to finish packing and go home early", Bud said, standing up. "First, I'm getting some coffee. Anyone want any?"
They shook their heads and Bud headed off to the breakroom. Janet, still stunned, opened the case file and looked at what Bud had written. She smiled and shook her head, then handed the file to Ben. He took it and glanced at Bud's comment.
"Smart man", he said. "Suicide. I couldn't agree more. Case closed."
What you are about to read is historical fiction. This actually happened. I've just added the dialogue I imagine took place.
Based on a True Story
Bradley "Bud" Johnson sat quietly at his desk sipping his coffee and completing the paperwork for his caseload. More accustomed to reviewing information and interviewing leads than he was to completing paperwork, he had to break every fifteen minutes to stay awake or shake the stiffness from his hands. His third cup of coffee was not helping his fatigue. It was from boredom, not from lack of rest. It was only 7:30 AM Monday. He had a full week of this to look forward to.
Three short months ago he had informed his superiors, per union policy, of his intention to retire this coming Friday. Two weeks ago, they stopped giving him new cases so he could focus on closing out, updating and transferring those currently assigned to him. Had he known how boring this would be, he would have held off his wife's nagging pleas for at least two more years.
Bud leaned back in his chair, stretching loudly, cracking the knuckles on his large, weathered hands. He felt there was still energy left in his sixty year-old body and knew he was still smarter than any criminal out there. His hair was graying, and receding, but he still had a full head. His eyes were still clear enough to notice even the most obscure of clues, and his mind sharp enough to link the clues together. He still wanted to work.
His wife, ultimately, tipped the scales for him. Retirement is what you work your whole life for, she always reminded him. She wanted to move down to Georgia to live with her sister. The last winter in Grand Rapids was hard on her and her rheumatism. He knew, ultimately, retirement to a golf course outside Atlanta was for the best.
"Bud, am I interrupting something", Janet said, stopping by his desk.
"Not at all", Bud replied, smiling up at the young, attractive new recruit. She had transferred from the small town of Lowell, and still had some of her small-town mannerisms - politeness, being one of the finer qualities she retained.
"Normally, I wouldn't bother you with this, you know, with your retirement and all", she began, handing him a piece of paper, "but there's no one else here and the desk Sergeant said it would be okay if you handled this one."
Bud took the slip of paper from her hand and reviewed it. It was an alert notice from the non-emergency hotline. A friend of one Michael Thomason called to report she had received an eerie email from him and was concerned for his safety. A twenty year veteran of the homicide task force, Bud had not responded to a "wellness check" in nearly forty years. Happy for the diversion, he asked Janet if she wanted to accompany him, and they left for the listed address.
He pulled up to the complex in his city-issued sedan and stopped in the parking space marked "Police Only". Dispatch radioed as he was exiting the car.
"5230, are you there? Bud?", they called.
"Hey, Jones, this is Bud, go ahead", Bud replied.
"Were you heading out to the VanVos Apartments", Jones asked.
"I'm here, actually", Bud replied. "What's up?"
"Construction crews just arrived at rear of building, reported finding a body or something. Mind checking it out while we track down someone to help out?"
Bud shot Janet a knowing look and shrugged. They had a guess who the body might be. Together they walked around the weathered concrete building. A recent revitalization project selected by the Chamber of Commerce and funded by a grant from the President's Economic Stimulus plan had resurfaced the front of the previously run down building. Today, they were preparing to start in the rear of the building, the side overlooking the river.
Bud and Janet flashed their badges at the private security guard standing at the gated entrance to the construction activity. He waved them through after remarking how quickly they had arrived seeing as he had just called them fifteen minutes ago. They walked a short distance to where a crowd of men in hard hats stood chatting about the loss of the only professional football team in the state worth watching - the Arena League’s Rampage.
"Where's the body?", Bud asked them. They pointed up and he followed their fingers to a safety net between the third and fourth floors. A twenty-something man lay face down, propped against the building, with dried blood on his face.
"The way I figure it", one of them said, pointing at a broken window on the seventh floor, "The guy jumped from the roof not knowing we had put up the net, dies when he hits his head on that broken window, and lands like that in our net."
"You're probably right", Bud replied, as the man's crew slapped the back of the man they would now call ‘CSI’. "I think I'll let the Medical Examiner give me a cause of death before I write this off as a suicide, though."
Bud and Janet spent the next thirty minutes interviewing the crew while waiting for the crime scene investigators to arrive. They learned the project team put the net up late afternoon the prior day. They were all gone for the day by six PM, and the security guard was the first to arrive at six this morning. The first to notice the body was the foreman, the man who had offered his thoughts on what had happened to the deceased. He called 911 to report what he found, and then kept anyone from disturbing the scene until the police arrived. He now wanted to know how long it would be until he could start his day.
"Hey Bud, how did you get this assignment?", Ben Miller asked as he approached his old friend. "I thought they didn't give these assignments to people on their way out."
"Long story", Bud replied, shaking Ben's hand. He introduced Janet and then filled him in on the details of their morning.
"Well, I'd appreciate whatever help you can provide", Ben said, "that is, if you don't have anything better to do. Golf outing maybe?"
Bud laughed sarcastically and offered to help. Even documenting the typically mundane details of a suicide was better than sitting idly at his desk.
A few hours after Bud had arrived, the crime scene crew had the pictures they needed and lowered the body from the netting to the street below in a body bag. Janet cautiously took a peek at the body. This was her first time seeing a dead person. She hadn't even been to a funeral.
"What's that on his forehead?", she asked, pointing at a circular red spot. Bud and Ben stopped their conversation and took a closer look. They had already decided the foreman's theory was the most probable and that they would just wait for the ME to confirm the theory before closing the case.
"That looks like a GSW", Bud said, concerned. Gun Shot Wound. That was definitely an unexpected twist and changed the whole theory on the cause of death. He asked the M.E. to turn him over and, sure enough, there was a rather large exit wound in the back. He was betting the M.E. would say the bullet, not the fall, was the cause of death. Like it or not, Bud was now the first responder to a murder investigation.
"Any ID on the victim?", Ben asked, moving into investigation mode.
"Michael Thomason", the M.E. replied, showing him the wallet they had removed from the man's pants. "Twenty-six. Lives in this building, apartment 8G."
"Sounds like it's time to start asking more questions", Bud said. He walked to the front of the building followed closely by Janet and Ben. "Did anyone contact the property manager?"
"I'm who you're looking for", a short, fat man dressed in jeans and a long-sleeve workshirt replied. He was walking towards the building from his work truck. He stopped and handed them each a business card. "John Mitchell. I'm the property manager and maintenance man for this and three other buildings. I'm here to repair a busted window on the seventh floor. Tenants called it in late last night to our messaging service. How can I help you?"
"We're investigating a death that happened on premises last night", Ben explained. "Michael Thomason. You know him?"
"Yeah, young guy, lived in 8G", John replied, saddened. "Messed up kid. Major family issues."
"You know all your tenants this well", Bud asked.
"No. Mike was a special case. He was always asking for an extension on paying his rent", John said derisively, then quickly followed up with: "but he always did eventually pay."
"He had money troubles? Know if he was into anyone for some big debts?", Ben asked.
"That would surprise me. They guy lived like a pauper. Starving artist is more likely than anything with gambling", John said.
"Know of anyone who would be looking to hurt him?", Bud said.
"He was a good guy. Never heard him say a bad word about anyone. Except his mother", John said. "He couldn't stand her. She was always riding him about something."
"Anyone report anything out of the ordinary last night?", Ben asked.
"Nah. Except for the broken window, it was the usual complaints", John replied. "Loud music, fighting neighbors, gun shots."
"Gun shots?", Bud asked.
"Yeah, we get a few of those reported every week", John explained. "Pretty common for this neighborhood, unfortunately. This facelift we're doing is supposed to allow us to increase the rent and improve the area. More like putting lipstick on a pig if you ask me."
"What time did that call come in?", Bud followed up.
"Our messaging service - we call it that, but it's just a machine - it doesn't have a timestamp on the call. It's one of those older models. Still uses tape. Lawyer told us to use one of those and never erase the messages in case we get sued. We keep putting in new tapes", John replied.
"So no idea what time the call came in?", Ben said.
"Our office hours on Sundays are from one to four. No one called then, so it was after that. The call about the broken window was the next call on the machine. They told us the time of their call was a little after ten-thirty. So, the call from the tenant venting about shots fired in the building must have been between four and ten-thirty", John said.
"Mind letting us in to 8G?", Bud asked.
"Don't you need a warrant for that?", John asked.
"If you want us to get one, we can", Ben said leaning closely. "I'd just ask you to come down to the station so we can ask you what you were doing yesterday between four and ten-thirty and why you were so interested in preserving the entry rights of a dead man."
"No, no need for that", John stammered. "I'll be happy to take you up."
They crammed into the small elevator and emerged a few moments later on the eighth floor. Bud was beginning to agree with John's 'lipstick on a pig' comment. The hallway had tattered, fleur-de-leaf carpeting that was probably once brightly colored but now was a dingy, dark blue. The walls were stained with urine or beer, Bud couldn't decide. The smell could have been from either.
John led them to the end of the hall where they stopped at a door with an 8 and an upside-down G hanging loosely. Per company policy, John knocked several times and waited for a reply before finding the correct key in his enormous collection and letting them in.
Bud, Janet and Ben entered the small studio apartment behind John. Built in the early 1920's, when Grand Rapids' furniture industry drew job seekers from around the country, the architect of VanVos Apartments – originally named the Riverside Tenements - had one thing in mind: squeeze as many people on each floor as possible. Overzealous in his goal, the studio apartment was less than one hundred square feet in total and consisted of two rooms. The bathroom, no larger than the bathroom of the interior cabin Bud and his wife shared on their anniversary cruise five years ago, was off to the right. The remaining space combined kitchen, living room and bedroom all in one, cramped area.
With the exception of easels, paint, a blackberry cell phone and a dirty mattress on the floor in the corner, the room was empty. The only light they had to see by came from the window looking over the river at the Gerald R Ford Presidential Museum. Bud flipped the light switch. Nothing.
"We often receive notices from the electric company that Michael wasn't paying his bills and they were cutting him off", John offered.
Ben removed a flashlight from his jacket pocket and scanned the room. "No sign of blood or a struggle", he said and walked over to the window. "Window is locked from the inside, too. He definitely wasn't shot here."
"Is there roof access?", Bud asked John, then seeing some photographs, walked over to the refrigerator. The fridge was covered in them. Michael with friends, standing by the lighthouse in Grand Haven, receiving a check for one of his paintings. He grabbed a pack and handed them to Janet. "See if you can get the identity of anyone in these pictures, will you?"
"Do you want to go up on the roof?", John asked, heading for the door.
"What's that on the fridge", Janet asked, pointing. Underneath the section of pictures Bud removed was a note-sized piece of paper with erratic scribbles on it.
"Looks like a suicide note", Bud said, reading it to the group. "'This life sucks. See you in the next. Sorry for what I've done. Maybe my paintings will be worth something now'".
"I wonder what he meant by 'Sorry for what I've done'", Ben said.
"Could that GSW been self-inflicted", Janet asked.
Ben shook his head. "Not likely. Suicides using guns go under the chin, in the mouth, or at the temple. It's very awkward to hold a gun at the middle of your forehead. Plus, unless I'm mistaken, and the M.E. will confirm, his wound was caused by a .22 caliber round. It's impossible to hold a rifle steady enough to shoot yourself in the forehead. This guy was murdered."
"Guys, I really need to go and repair that window. Do you want up on the roof or not?", John broke in, pale in the face. Hearing the details of a murder did not sit well with his breakfast. He didn’t even like watching movies with gore.
Bud nodded and they followed John up to the roof. He told them he'd be down in 7G and left them to their own devices. Bud walked toward the river and looked over the edge of the building. He lined himself up with the net and turned around, looking down at the ground.
"To land in that net, he would have to go over the edge here", Bud said, pointing to the ledge just above the net. " I don't see blood anywhere."
"You're right", Ben said, looking around. "Not a drop. No sign of dragging feet, or a body, either."
"If he had been shot up here, there would be blood. If he had been carried up here from somewhere else, there would be a trail of blood", Bud said, processing the information as he spoke it.
"What if they wrapped him in a tarp and carried him up here?", Janet asked.
"Why do that", Ben interjected. "I mean, why would someone kill a guy and then drag him all they way up on the roof just to throw him over it? They can't be dumb enough to think we wouldn't find a bullet hole and consider the death a suicide."
"What are you thinking?", Bud asked.
"I think they bring him to the roof and toss him. They look over the edge to make sure he's dead and see him struggling in the ropes. Needing to finish their job, they rush downstairs and shoot him", Ben offered.
"I could see it", Bud said. "Let's head down and see if Crime Scene has anything of interest and then we'll wait for the M.E.'s time of death. I have another question for Mr. Mitchell, too."
"Shouldn't you be packing up at the office", Ben said, jabbing Bud playfully in the ribs.
"Yes", Bud smiled. "But let's humor a retiring old man and swing by 7G to ask Mr. Mitchell a few more questions. I'd like to know who reported the shots fired."
Ben radioed down to the crime scene team and asked them to send a few up to the roof to look around. Maybe they could find something. He caught up to Bud and Janet as they exited the stairwell on the seventh floor. They turned toward the river and walked down the hall to 7G. They knocked and a weary looking elderly man opened the door.
"Can I help you", he asked, cautiously looking at the three of them.
"Is Mr. Mitchell in there with you?", Bud asked, showing his badge. "We have a few more questions for him."
"It's alright, Jerry", John called back to him. Jerry opened the door allowing the three of them to pass. John set his tools down and walked over to them. "Find what you were looking for?"
"Not yet", Bud replied, "I was wondering if you knew who called in the report about gunshots fired in the building?"
"Sorry, that's my fault", Jerry jumped in, sheepishly.
"What do you mean?", Bud said, suddenly very interested in Jerry.
"That's how my window got busted", Jerry explained. "Shot right through it."
Jerry went on to explain that yesterday evening, he and his wife got into another one of their arguments. "Rows", he called them. She had been nagging him about spending too much money bowling and drinking with his buddies and not spending enough time with her. As was typical for their arguments, he eventually went to the hall closet and pulled out his gun, threatening her with it.
"I've done that dozens of times over the last five years, and I've never had a scare like that", Jerry said. "I nearly killed her. Made me realize how much I do love her, nearly losing her like that. Gonna cost me a hundred bucks for that window, but it was worth it to me to receive the wake up call."
"Me too", his wife smiled, walking over and encircling his waist with her arm.
"Where is the gun now", Bud asked.
"Back in the closet", Jerry said, pointing. "Scared me near to death. I couldn't bear to touch the thing anymore so I put it away and haven't been near it since."
"Mind if I look at it?", Ben asked, opening the closet. Jerry shook his head and Ben, putting on latex gloves, took the gun out of the closet and sniffed the barrel. Still smelled like gun powder residue.
"This is a nice .22", Ben said, giving Bud a quick look. "What time did you say this happend?"
"I think it was around nine or nine-thirty", Jerry replied. "Took me about an hour or so to calm down enough to call in the broken window, which I know I did at ten-thirty because I told them that on my message."
Bud was processing this new information quickly and quietly. When he arrived, he thought he just had to verify the well-being of a troubled soul. Ten minutes later he's looking at a suicide. Twenty minutes after that, he was looking at a murder-one homicide. Now he didn't know what to think. There was no way Jerry could have killed Michael, then carried him to the roof and thrown him over. Not even with his wife's help.
A light went on in Bud's head. Could it be possible? The chances were so improbably low. He followed the train of thought. Michael is suicidal. He goes on the roof and jumps. As he's falling, he sees he's going to land in the net. He's either cursing his bad luck that he'll have to build up the courage to jump again, or thanking Fate for giving him another chance. As he passes the seventh floor, in the blink of an eye, a bullet flies out the window and kills him. His luck changed.
Unfortunately for Jerry, so does his. Intentional or not, Jerry just killed someone who would not have otherwise died. It isn't murder, but it is at least manslaughter. Bud looks over at Jerry smiling down at his wife with his new perspective. Be a shame to send an old man with a new look on life to jail for the next five years. He was glad he wouldn't have to make that call, a jury would. His job was to investigate and provide facts to the prosecuting attorney.
"Mind if I take your gun down to ballistics?", Bud asked casually, not wanting to scare the old man. It didn't work.
"Am I in some kind of trouble?", Jerry asked, hesitantly.
"We have reason to believe the bullet fired from your gun may have killed someone", Bud explained. "I'd like to take it down to see if the ballistics match. Maybe they will, maybe they won't."
"I don't know how", Jerry said, "I mean, I'm on the seventh floor and the river is out there. Unless I hit someone fishing late at night. Is that what happened?"
"I'm afraid I can't go into specifics", Bud replied. "Do you mind if I take it in, or do you want me to get a warrant?"
"Take it", Jerry said, mystified. Slowly, he sat down on the couch next to his shaking wife. He tried to comfort her, but he was as shaken as she so was little help.
"What gets me most", Jerry continued, "is how that gun was loaded."
"What do you mean", Bud asked.
"I mean, I clean that gun every Saturday. First thing in the AM. It's my ritual. Done the same thing every Saturday for the last twenty years. My father gave me that gun right before he died. It's my last connection with him", Jerry explained. "It wasn't loaded then. I've never even bought bullets for it. I honestly think it was God's way of telling me to be nicer to my wife. That's why I don't believe I killed anyone. He wouldn't have taught me a lesson like that by killing someone else."
Bud and Ben looked at each other in disbelief. The guy seemed credible. More credible than Bud's theory about shooting a man accidentally as he passed by your window while you're arguing with your wife and threatening her with a gun.
"Then I'm sure you have nothing to worry about", Bud answered. "We'll know tomorrow morning. Janet here is going to get your information so I can reach you if I need to. I'm also going to ask you to not leave town for the next few days. Can you manage that?"
"I got nowhere to go", Jerry replied, pointing at his impoverished conditions. "Not like I have a cottage in the country to visit if I'm living here."
Bud arrived the next morning to a manila folder waiting on his desk. He opened it, read through the contents, and cursed under his breath. The file contained a report from the M.E. listing cause of death as homicide with a .22 caliber round, fired from the front, at a near distance. The ballistics report said the bullet that killed Michael Thomason matched Jerry's gun. Bud had to go back and arrest Jerry for homicide.
"Here's the case file", Janet said, returning from the copy room and seeing Bud at his desk. "I was able to get a copy of the email Michael sent to his friend. This case just gets more weird by the minute."
Bud opened the file and took out the email.
'Allison - I hate my mother, always have, but I never wanted to kill her. I think I just did something that will. I can no longer control my emotions or impulses. I hope you understand. Mike'
"Have you contacted his mother or next of kin?", Bud asked when he had finished reading.
"The contact information on file with Motor Vehicle Department was invalid", Janet explained. "Disconnected."
"What did it list?"
Janet flipped through pages in the case file. "Janice Thomason, mother", she replied, pointing when she found it.
"See what you can do. Try calling the person who reported the email", Bud said.
"Already called. Waiting a call back", Janet said. Bud smiled at her. She was sharp. She was going to be a good cop.
"What do the ballistics say?", Ben said, roaring into the room and sitting on the desk with one leg.
"It's a match", Bud replied, solemnly.
"Poor guy", Ben said, "Some guys have the worst luck. What are you going to do?"
"Let's check out his story", Bud said. "Find out who could have loaded the gun. Maybe his wife had enemies?"
Ben nodded and they pulled up Jerry's contact information. Bud punched the speakerphone button and dialed Jerry's number. It rang twice before Jerry picked up.
"Hello?", Jerry said.
"Jerry, it's Detective Bud Johnson. We spoke yesterday."
"I remember. I couldn't sleep last night waiting for this call."
"I understand", Bud replied. "Listen, I'm here with Ben and Janet, the two officers with me yesterday. We were just going over your statement. How you never loaded the gun. I have a few questions for you. Do you have time?"
"Like I said, Detective, I got nowhere else to go", Jerry replied, fatigued.
"Was anyone in your apartment on Saturday or Sunday?", Bud asked.
"Just my wife and I", Jerry replied.
"Were you home all weekend?"
"Yeah - well, except when I went down to the sports bar to watch the Michigan game and she went grocery shopping", Jerry said.
"Any sign of a break-in while you were out", Bud continued.
"No."
"Anyone else have keys to your apartment?"
"The building management", Jerry replied. "I think my wife's son has one, too."
"Her son?", Bud asked.
"Yeah. I think she gave it to him when we first moved in. They were trying to reconcile after years of fighting. It was her olive branch, so to speak", Jerry explained. "Peace didn't last very long."
"Does he know you like to threaten her with your gun?", Bud asked.
"Well, yeah. Hell, everyone does. They can all tell you she knows it isn't loaded...", Jerry stopped mid-sentence. "You don't think that little piece... I mean, they fight.... I'll kill him!"
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that", Bud said. He was feeling better about this case. He would have hated bringing Jerry down to the precinct in cuffs. Jerry was a little crazy, but he didn't deserve jail. The son, on the other hand, if he loaded the gun, he had intent to kill. He loaded a gun he knew Jerry often pointed at his mother. Probably knew they fought a lot and wouldn't have to wait very long for her to be shot. He was back at a muder case, and an
interesting one at that. At least I'll go out on a high note, Bud thought to himself.
"Where can I find your son?", Bud asked.
"Her son", Jerry correct. "Janice had a son before we got married. He lives upstairs in 8G. Michael Thomason."
Time stopped. Janet, Bud and Ben all stared at the phone in disbelief. Did they really just hear that? It had to be a different Michael Thomason. The name was common enough. But he had also said he lived in 8G. Where the deceased had lived.
"Detective?", Jerry said after a long moment of silence.
"Just making notes", Bud managed to blurt out. "We'll be in touch."
Bud quickly hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. A theory formed in his mind. Michael Thomason lives above his mother, whom he hates. He hears them leave for the day, goes down and enters the apartment using a key they had long forgotten he had. Removing bullets from his pocket, he loads the gun, chambers one, and puts it back where he found it. Then waits. The next night, he hears them arguing and remembers the gun. Now he has regrets. He can't stop it, he's too much of a coward. He quickly sends an email to his friend, scribbles a note that he magnets to his fridge underneath a bunch of pictures and rushes to the top of his building. He jumps, not knowing construction erected a safety net earlier that morning. As he passes his mother's apartment, the gun goes off, killing him with the bullets he had intended for her.
"What do we do now", Janet asked, breaking the continued silence.
Bud flipped through the case file and found the M.E.'s report. He scanned down to cause of death: Homicide. Picking up a pen, he scratches out the M.E.'s determination, writes in his own and initials it. He then put the file back together and handed it to Janet.
"I don't know what you two are going to do, but I'm going to finish packing and go home early", Bud said, standing up. "First, I'm getting some coffee. Anyone want any?"
They shook their heads and Bud headed off to the breakroom. Janet, still stunned, opened the case file and looked at what Bud had written. She smiled and shook her head, then handed the file to Ben. He took it and glanced at Bud's comment.
"Smart man", he said. "Suicide. I couldn't agree more. Case closed."
Monday, August 10, 2009
Never deliver a baby in Paraguay
Normally, I wouldn't do a post simply to point people to an article. This one is just too bizarre:
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/32355096/ns/world_news-americas/
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/32355096/ns/world_news-americas/
Saturday, August 8, 2009
The Good, The Bad, The Worse
Things are back to normal in Jakarta. Security is still a little more diligent inspecting cars than they were before the bombings. The hotels have reopened for guests, though I have not driven by to see what they now look like. Work continues to plod on like a slow moving train and we continue to improve with each passing week.
On the home front, several events occurred this week: some good, some bad, some worse.
The Good
The company Olympics finally had an event that required my involvement - bowling. I've never been a frequent bowler. I don't have the spin on the ball that professionals and avid amateurs do. Over the years, I have developed an approach that allows me to bowl competently whenever I bowl. Stand one and a half dots right of center, aim for the arrow right of center. If I hit the head pin, nine times out of ten I will get a strike. If I miss the head pin, I'm left with four or five pins, but I'm setup for an easy spare. My typical score is 125 - 140. Good, but not great.
The competition started at 6:30. I arrived at 4 PM to get a few practice games in prior to the event. I played two games and bowled 130 in each. The high score from last year was 152 - a score I felt I could beat. We took up ten lanes, with four people, one from each team, in each lane.
At 6:30, the game began and we started to bowl. I started with a spare, then an open frame. My next two frames were spares, with only a 4 pin first ball in the fourth frame. My lane was pretty competitive. The bowler in the first position was following spares with strikes, and had only one open frame after 6. Going into the 7th frame, he was leading me by twenty points and looking at a finish somewhere in the high 150's. The quality of bowlers this year was higher than last year.
I had told everyone that I was going to win this event. I looked at the high scores across all ten lanes and realized I had some work to do. I told my lane I was going to throw a strike this frame so I could catch up. I did. I had a spare in both the eighth and ninth. Looking around, I knew I needed to finish strong if I was going to win.
Tenth frame comes and I increase my concentration. Standing on my preferred dot, I focus intently on the first arrow right of center. I concentrate on my arm motion and never lift my eyes from my target. STRIKE. Tenth frame, so I get two more balls. I go through the same motions - STRIKE. One more ball, same approach, same result - STRIKE.
The entire crowd around me erupting in cheers. I'm jumping madly crossing my arms in front of me. Who knew bowling could be this exciting? The computer shows its cartoon turkey and then calculates my final score - 186. This proves to be enough to win the first round. The next highest score is a 181, which was surprisingly high. My Olympic team and members from my staff on other teams all come by and give me congratulations. The event organizer announces that I had the high score, and that my team is leading the event.
Now it's time for round two. The team managers are reviewing the list of those who have arrived and those who have played. The plan is to keep those who scored high, and replace those who scored low with other members of the team. Over thirty minutes elapse between the end of the first round and the start of the second. I spend my time guarding my lucky ball (I was using a 12lb ball with damaged finger holes), and playing with my daughter.
I start the second game with a strike, making four strikes in a row. I follow it with a 2-6 open frame. By this point, I've bowled 2 games to warm up, another 2 games (unscored) warming up with everyone else, and a game in the competition. That's 100 throws. My hand is starting to hurt. The third frame I get another strike, which I follow with another open frame. I'm not setting a good trend. This lane is not as competitive as my first lane, and I think I lost my focus as a result. I do best when I am challenged. I finish the game with a respectable 142 which is good enough for fourth place. The person who bowled 181 in the first game bowls a 180 in the second. I have high game, he finishes with high series. My team wins the event and takes the gold medal.
The Bad
Several weeks ago I went to the doctor complaining of a sore throat that had lasted several weeks. I thought it was from a post nasal drip. They did a thorough examination and, not able to pinpoint the exact cause, gave me three kinds of medicine with instructions on how to use them. Try one for two days. If symptoms don't subside, try the next. The one that finally worked for me was Nexxium, which is used for acid reflux. I had 11 pills, and felt great for those 11 days. Two days after I stopped taking them, my sore throat was still gone - and has not returned - but I can tell the acid reflux is still a problem.
I first tried altering my diet. I minimized the spicy food - no more gado gado or sapi lada hitam - and ate more bananas, apples and bread. I even minimized my dairy, which meant dealing with my ice cream addiction. I could still feel my stomach churning in the evening and I still have mild stomach upset throughout the day.
Tuesday, I finally decide to see a doctor and get more pills. I relay the history of the recent weeks and tell them that Nexxium did the trick. I also tell them that 7 years ago I had an endoscopy that diagnosed me with GERD. We treated it with Nexxium for six months and it did not come back for seven years, until six weeks ago. I was hoping to get on the Nexxium again.
In the US, the doctor would have been happy to write me a prescription and send me on my way. Maybe they would have prescribed more tests, but they still would have given me a prescription. This doctor wants me to have another endoscopy. My insurance does not allow invasive procedures to occur in Indonesia, so I have to go to Singapore for the test. We were already planning a trip to Singapore the first weekend in September to move my wife and daughter their until the arrival of our son, so I've scheduled my appointment to occur on that trip. I already know the end result, so I hope they'll finally give me medicine upon my return.
The Worse
Our beloved dog Guapo, champion and protector of all Earth's little creatures, and the first dog I ever owned in Arizona, has died. In September of last year, when we were preparing for a December departure, the vet found he had a tumor on his stomach and predicted he would live just until October. He seemed perfectly healthy to me, and was still loving life, so I decided to let him have his fun as long as he could. His fun stopped on Monday. His life stopped on Wednesday.
Monday, my father-in-law noticed he was an unhappy dog. He wasn't eating, he was sluggish, and just wasn't his feisty self. He took him to the vet who told him that the tumor had ruptured and was bleeding. His gums were completely white. My father-in-law asked if we wanted to do the $1,000 surgery or euthanize. I got Guapo from the Humane Society in 1997. He was a full grown dog and estimated at 2 years old when I got him. I did not think it wise to spend $1,000 on a 14 year old dog who was now completely deaf. I gave him the go ahead to euthanize.
Wednesday morning, on the morning of the appointment, Guapo was nowhere to be found. After much looking around the backyard, he finally found him laying peacefully, breathing laboriously, under the trailer parked at the side of our house. When dogs know the end is near, instinct tells them to leave the pack and find a peaceful place to die, alone. Guapo had found his place to die.
Guapo passed on Wednesday morning sleeping on the pillow he used at night, not on the ground underneath a mobile home. I will remember him for his fearlessness and his loving protection of creatures smaller than him.
I knew I had a special dog the day two Rottweilers were inspecting him too aggressively and he made his dislike known by charging them both. Those two dogs had no idea what had happened and took off running the other direction rather than deal with the fury of my 30lb terrier. The biggest foe he ever took on was a full grown cow in the middle of the desert north of Lake Pleasant. We brought all the dogs to the lake for the day. The north part of the lake is open territory where people will camp and off-road drive. You need a four-wheel drive vehicle to get around. It's pretty wild. Cattle also roam freely in the area. We happened to be there on a day when the cows were eating the long grass around the river feeding the lake. One of them did something Guapo didn't like, and he went after it. The cow took off running and Guapo took off after it. He was running full speed underneath the cow, jumping up and nipping the cow's stomach. I was afraid he would be trampled by the hooves. Instead, he was finally stopped when he ran face first into a cactus. His normally distinguished manner was greatly humbled as he moped back to us to remove the quills embedded in his face.
He was also a protector of the smaller creatures. When I first got China, Guapo took it upon himself to be the role model for how dogs should act, and to take China under his guardianship. One Saturday, while I was getting ready to go out, Guapo came rushing into my room and spun in circles excitedly until I noticed him. I said something to him and he took off running. I laughed at his playfulness and went back to my preparations. Soon, Guapo was back and spinning in circles again. This time, when I said something to him, he started to run, but made sure I was following him before he continued.
He led me to the kitchen and stopped at the refrigerator. He pointed with his nose at the grill underneath and began scratching at it. I wondered what he was doing, so I looked. Much to my surprise, I discovered that China, who was still a very small puppy, was trapped underneath the fridge. I had to figure out how to get her out without killing her and without damaging the fridge. I finally decided the easiest thing to do would be to tilt it back and let her crawl out.
I tilted the fridge back and called to her, but she wouldn't come. I couldn't bend down and pull her out and hold the fridge at the same time, so I told Guapo: "Get her". He grabbed her collar with his teeth and pulled and yanked until he had pulled her out from underneath the fridge.
Guapo was a great dog and will be truly missed by all he knew him.
On the home front, several events occurred this week: some good, some bad, some worse.
The Good
The company Olympics finally had an event that required my involvement - bowling. I've never been a frequent bowler. I don't have the spin on the ball that professionals and avid amateurs do. Over the years, I have developed an approach that allows me to bowl competently whenever I bowl. Stand one and a half dots right of center, aim for the arrow right of center. If I hit the head pin, nine times out of ten I will get a strike. If I miss the head pin, I'm left with four or five pins, but I'm setup for an easy spare. My typical score is 125 - 140. Good, but not great.
The competition started at 6:30. I arrived at 4 PM to get a few practice games in prior to the event. I played two games and bowled 130 in each. The high score from last year was 152 - a score I felt I could beat. We took up ten lanes, with four people, one from each team, in each lane.
At 6:30, the game began and we started to bowl. I started with a spare, then an open frame. My next two frames were spares, with only a 4 pin first ball in the fourth frame. My lane was pretty competitive. The bowler in the first position was following spares with strikes, and had only one open frame after 6. Going into the 7th frame, he was leading me by twenty points and looking at a finish somewhere in the high 150's. The quality of bowlers this year was higher than last year.
I had told everyone that I was going to win this event. I looked at the high scores across all ten lanes and realized I had some work to do. I told my lane I was going to throw a strike this frame so I could catch up. I did. I had a spare in both the eighth and ninth. Looking around, I knew I needed to finish strong if I was going to win.
Tenth frame comes and I increase my concentration. Standing on my preferred dot, I focus intently on the first arrow right of center. I concentrate on my arm motion and never lift my eyes from my target. STRIKE. Tenth frame, so I get two more balls. I go through the same motions - STRIKE. One more ball, same approach, same result - STRIKE.
The entire crowd around me erupting in cheers. I'm jumping madly crossing my arms in front of me. Who knew bowling could be this exciting? The computer shows its cartoon turkey and then calculates my final score - 186. This proves to be enough to win the first round. The next highest score is a 181, which was surprisingly high. My Olympic team and members from my staff on other teams all come by and give me congratulations. The event organizer announces that I had the high score, and that my team is leading the event.
Now it's time for round two. The team managers are reviewing the list of those who have arrived and those who have played. The plan is to keep those who scored high, and replace those who scored low with other members of the team. Over thirty minutes elapse between the end of the first round and the start of the second. I spend my time guarding my lucky ball (I was using a 12lb ball with damaged finger holes), and playing with my daughter.
I start the second game with a strike, making four strikes in a row. I follow it with a 2-6 open frame. By this point, I've bowled 2 games to warm up, another 2 games (unscored) warming up with everyone else, and a game in the competition. That's 100 throws. My hand is starting to hurt. The third frame I get another strike, which I follow with another open frame. I'm not setting a good trend. This lane is not as competitive as my first lane, and I think I lost my focus as a result. I do best when I am challenged. I finish the game with a respectable 142 which is good enough for fourth place. The person who bowled 181 in the first game bowls a 180 in the second. I have high game, he finishes with high series. My team wins the event and takes the gold medal.
The Bad
Several weeks ago I went to the doctor complaining of a sore throat that had lasted several weeks. I thought it was from a post nasal drip. They did a thorough examination and, not able to pinpoint the exact cause, gave me three kinds of medicine with instructions on how to use them. Try one for two days. If symptoms don't subside, try the next. The one that finally worked for me was Nexxium, which is used for acid reflux. I had 11 pills, and felt great for those 11 days. Two days after I stopped taking them, my sore throat was still gone - and has not returned - but I can tell the acid reflux is still a problem.
I first tried altering my diet. I minimized the spicy food - no more gado gado or sapi lada hitam - and ate more bananas, apples and bread. I even minimized my dairy, which meant dealing with my ice cream addiction. I could still feel my stomach churning in the evening and I still have mild stomach upset throughout the day.
Tuesday, I finally decide to see a doctor and get more pills. I relay the history of the recent weeks and tell them that Nexxium did the trick. I also tell them that 7 years ago I had an endoscopy that diagnosed me with GERD. We treated it with Nexxium for six months and it did not come back for seven years, until six weeks ago. I was hoping to get on the Nexxium again.
In the US, the doctor would have been happy to write me a prescription and send me on my way. Maybe they would have prescribed more tests, but they still would have given me a prescription. This doctor wants me to have another endoscopy. My insurance does not allow invasive procedures to occur in Indonesia, so I have to go to Singapore for the test. We were already planning a trip to Singapore the first weekend in September to move my wife and daughter their until the arrival of our son, so I've scheduled my appointment to occur on that trip. I already know the end result, so I hope they'll finally give me medicine upon my return.
The Worse
Our beloved dog Guapo, champion and protector of all Earth's little creatures, and the first dog I ever owned in Arizona, has died. In September of last year, when we were preparing for a December departure, the vet found he had a tumor on his stomach and predicted he would live just until October. He seemed perfectly healthy to me, and was still loving life, so I decided to let him have his fun as long as he could. His fun stopped on Monday. His life stopped on Wednesday.
Monday, my father-in-law noticed he was an unhappy dog. He wasn't eating, he was sluggish, and just wasn't his feisty self. He took him to the vet who told him that the tumor had ruptured and was bleeding. His gums were completely white. My father-in-law asked if we wanted to do the $1,000 surgery or euthanize. I got Guapo from the Humane Society in 1997. He was a full grown dog and estimated at 2 years old when I got him. I did not think it wise to spend $1,000 on a 14 year old dog who was now completely deaf. I gave him the go ahead to euthanize.
Wednesday morning, on the morning of the appointment, Guapo was nowhere to be found. After much looking around the backyard, he finally found him laying peacefully, breathing laboriously, under the trailer parked at the side of our house. When dogs know the end is near, instinct tells them to leave the pack and find a peaceful place to die, alone. Guapo had found his place to die.
Guapo passed on Wednesday morning sleeping on the pillow he used at night, not on the ground underneath a mobile home. I will remember him for his fearlessness and his loving protection of creatures smaller than him.
I knew I had a special dog the day two Rottweilers were inspecting him too aggressively and he made his dislike known by charging them both. Those two dogs had no idea what had happened and took off running the other direction rather than deal with the fury of my 30lb terrier. The biggest foe he ever took on was a full grown cow in the middle of the desert north of Lake Pleasant. We brought all the dogs to the lake for the day. The north part of the lake is open territory where people will camp and off-road drive. You need a four-wheel drive vehicle to get around. It's pretty wild. Cattle also roam freely in the area. We happened to be there on a day when the cows were eating the long grass around the river feeding the lake. One of them did something Guapo didn't like, and he went after it. The cow took off running and Guapo took off after it. He was running full speed underneath the cow, jumping up and nipping the cow's stomach. I was afraid he would be trampled by the hooves. Instead, he was finally stopped when he ran face first into a cactus. His normally distinguished manner was greatly humbled as he moped back to us to remove the quills embedded in his face.
He was also a protector of the smaller creatures. When I first got China, Guapo took it upon himself to be the role model for how dogs should act, and to take China under his guardianship. One Saturday, while I was getting ready to go out, Guapo came rushing into my room and spun in circles excitedly until I noticed him. I said something to him and he took off running. I laughed at his playfulness and went back to my preparations. Soon, Guapo was back and spinning in circles again. This time, when I said something to him, he started to run, but made sure I was following him before he continued.
He led me to the kitchen and stopped at the refrigerator. He pointed with his nose at the grill underneath and began scratching at it. I wondered what he was doing, so I looked. Much to my surprise, I discovered that China, who was still a very small puppy, was trapped underneath the fridge. I had to figure out how to get her out without killing her and without damaging the fridge. I finally decided the easiest thing to do would be to tilt it back and let her crawl out.
I tilted the fridge back and called to her, but she wouldn't come. I couldn't bend down and pull her out and hold the fridge at the same time, so I told Guapo: "Get her". He grabbed her collar with his teeth and pulled and yanked until he had pulled her out from underneath the fridge.
Guapo was a great dog and will be truly missed by all he knew him.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
They don't protest like they used to
Friday was a day full of events. At 9 AM, I began looking for the protesters. They didn't show up. I received an email around 9:30 indicating it would start at 10 AM. At 10, still no one. A colleague then said they would arrive at 11:30. She was also full of information.
Protests - here they call them "demonstrations" - must first register with the police. If they don't, I imagine the police response to the gathering would not be as amenable and welcoming. The local Papuans had requested an 11:30 start time. I also learned that this is, indeed, an annual event. Typically, it starts at 11:30 and about 100 people arrive - mostly hungry college students. We give them a box lunch and they go away. It's usually completed by 12:30.
At 11-ish, we had a meeting to bid farewell to a local colleague who is taking an expat assignment in Africa. He has spent the last several years at our mine site and is looking forward to the opportunity. It is a major financial improvement for him. That, however, was not what he highlighted as the main benefit. For him, the thing he was most interested in was unfiltered internet access. His new boss is a friend of mine in the US. If the guy goes blind, I'll know what to tell his boss is the reason.
The farewell meeting took about 45 minutes, and then we gave everyone a box lunch - chicken, rice, and vegetables. I ate the PBJ sandwich I brought from home. Shortly after noon, I walked over to the window to witness the demonstration. I was very curious. Unfortunately, no one was there - not even the police. I asked what happened and was informed they had already left. I later learned from my driver that more police were present than actual demonstrators, so they didn't stay long. Must not be a lot of local support for giving Papuans a larger percentage of the mining profits.
At 4 PM, when I am usually walking out the door - especially on a Friday, we had another farewell event. Our CFO is also moving to our operations in Africa after 13 years in Indonesia. I didn't ask if he had read "The Poisonwood Bible". With an executive departure, the farewell meeting was much longer than the one for my IT colleague.
I had envisioned a brief speech thanking everyone, followed by some food and refreshments, and it would be over in thirty minutes. Nope - nothing is that quick in Indonesia.
It finally really started around 4:30. We had, literally, 30 minutes of prayers. As is the norm, first we had a Muslim prayer, then we had a Christian prayer. Speeches from four different executives thanking our CFO followed the prayers. Then they played a 15 minute video of his life in Indonesia. After the video was his speech, followed by a photo shoot with each of the departments that reported to him. I'm in one of them. By the time it was politically appropriate to leave, it was well past 5:45.
The behavior I witnessed at this event was fascinating. I'm not sure I'll ever fully appreciate the types of things that Indonesians - at least the ones I work with - find humorous. For example, the video started with a map of the world. A cartoon plane started from New Orleans and flew to Jakarta. At sight of this, the room erupted into raucous laughter. I'm racking my brain for what, possibly, was funny about that. I never did figure it out. Another surprising bout of laughter occurred during pictures. They started with the executive team and asked them all to come up front. I'd say at least 7 people around me either pretended to stand up, then turned around and laughed, or jokingly gestured for someone else to join the group. I'm not sure at what age feigning importance ceased to be humorous to me, but I know it was a long time ago.
As much as I try to understand the culture and appreciate its subtleties and nuances, I think there are just things I will never grasp, despite my best efforts. Much of it will come from frame of reference differences. Other challenges will come just from being raised as a competitive, ambitious, individualistic American. Witnessing adult professionals act in a way I think most Americans would view as childish behavior only reinforces for me how vast is the cultural divide. Sometimes, I just wish I could participate in the joke - whatever it is.
Protests - here they call them "demonstrations" - must first register with the police. If they don't, I imagine the police response to the gathering would not be as amenable and welcoming. The local Papuans had requested an 11:30 start time. I also learned that this is, indeed, an annual event. Typically, it starts at 11:30 and about 100 people arrive - mostly hungry college students. We give them a box lunch and they go away. It's usually completed by 12:30.
At 11-ish, we had a meeting to bid farewell to a local colleague who is taking an expat assignment in Africa. He has spent the last several years at our mine site and is looking forward to the opportunity. It is a major financial improvement for him. That, however, was not what he highlighted as the main benefit. For him, the thing he was most interested in was unfiltered internet access. His new boss is a friend of mine in the US. If the guy goes blind, I'll know what to tell his boss is the reason.
The farewell meeting took about 45 minutes, and then we gave everyone a box lunch - chicken, rice, and vegetables. I ate the PBJ sandwich I brought from home. Shortly after noon, I walked over to the window to witness the demonstration. I was very curious. Unfortunately, no one was there - not even the police. I asked what happened and was informed they had already left. I later learned from my driver that more police were present than actual demonstrators, so they didn't stay long. Must not be a lot of local support for giving Papuans a larger percentage of the mining profits.
At 4 PM, when I am usually walking out the door - especially on a Friday, we had another farewell event. Our CFO is also moving to our operations in Africa after 13 years in Indonesia. I didn't ask if he had read "The Poisonwood Bible". With an executive departure, the farewell meeting was much longer than the one for my IT colleague.
I had envisioned a brief speech thanking everyone, followed by some food and refreshments, and it would be over in thirty minutes. Nope - nothing is that quick in Indonesia.
It finally really started around 4:30. We had, literally, 30 minutes of prayers. As is the norm, first we had a Muslim prayer, then we had a Christian prayer. Speeches from four different executives thanking our CFO followed the prayers. Then they played a 15 minute video of his life in Indonesia. After the video was his speech, followed by a photo shoot with each of the departments that reported to him. I'm in one of them. By the time it was politically appropriate to leave, it was well past 5:45.
The behavior I witnessed at this event was fascinating. I'm not sure I'll ever fully appreciate the types of things that Indonesians - at least the ones I work with - find humorous. For example, the video started with a map of the world. A cartoon plane started from New Orleans and flew to Jakarta. At sight of this, the room erupted into raucous laughter. I'm racking my brain for what, possibly, was funny about that. I never did figure it out. Another surprising bout of laughter occurred during pictures. They started with the executive team and asked them all to come up front. I'd say at least 7 people around me either pretended to stand up, then turned around and laughed, or jokingly gestured for someone else to join the group. I'm not sure at what age feigning importance ceased to be humorous to me, but I know it was a long time ago.
As much as I try to understand the culture and appreciate its subtleties and nuances, I think there are just things I will never grasp, despite my best efforts. Much of it will come from frame of reference differences. Other challenges will come just from being raised as a competitive, ambitious, individualistic American. Witnessing adult professionals act in a way I think most Americans would view as childish behavior only reinforces for me how vast is the cultural divide. Sometimes, I just wish I could participate in the joke - whatever it is.
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