Short Stories
Written by me!
Fall of the Farm Girl
Luis Strickland: The Interview Transcript by MPR STAFF Roger Spiegel interviewed retired FBI Agent Luis Strickland on A Lot of Things Well Thought Out on Feb. 12. This is the full transcript of their conversation: ROBERT SPIEGEL: Agent Strickland, welcome to the program. AGENT LUIS STRICKLAND: I’m happy to be here. MR. SPIEGEL: The release this week of your book, titled The Fall of the Farm Girl has stirred quite a debate about the accuracy of your story. If I may be frank, Agent Strickland - people just don’t believe you. AGENT STRICKLAND: That’s understandable. If I hadn’t been there myself, I wouldn’t have believed it. MR. SPIEGEL: You retired from the FBI after 25 years as a field agent. You investigated hundreds of criminal cases and received numerous commendations. Your work record is impeccable. Yet, the New York Times’ Dwight Garner says -The Justice Department should be investigated for allowing a nut like Luis Strickland to carry a gun. AGENT STRICKLAND: (pause) Yeah. That one stung a little. MR. SPIEGEL: Let’s start from the beginning. How did you come to write this book? AGENT STRICKLAND: The Fall of the Farm Girl is the account of a case that I worked on during my 20th year as a field agent with the FBI. At that time, I was a Supervisory Special Agent who oversaw investigations of violent crimes in rural areas. MR. SPIEGEL: Who called you in to investigate this crime? AGENT STRICKLAND: We were called in by the local sheriff, who just didn’t have the resources to investigate this type of crime. It’s a very rural farming community of only about 200 residents. There’s only one road going into the village, and one road going out. The townspeople - I guess you could say - are stuck in the past. No modern technology to speak of. No computers. No televisions. It’s really hard to believe in this day and age. MR. SPIEGEL: So, this is an Amish-like community? AGENT STRICKLAND: No. Not Amish. The Amish are very subdued and wear only black and white clothing. These people are - very colorful, to say the least. But, back to the case - we arrived on the scene a few hours after the discovery of the crime, which was the murder of an adult female. MR. SPIEGEL: And how was this woman murdered? AGENT STRICKLAND: She was crushed by a house. MR. SPIEGEL: A house? AGENT STRICKLAND: Yes. Eyewitnesses reported they saw a house fall down from the sky, right on top of the victim. MR. SPIEGEL: And you believed them? AGENT STRICKLAND: Well, yes. We saw the house. You couldn’t miss it. Compared to the other houses in the village, it stuck out like a sore thumb. MR. SPIEGEL: What kind of house was it? AGENT STRICKLAND: It was a very old single-family farmhouse - not very big, and not very well taken care of. But it was intact. I was surprised that there was no structural damage, considering the fall from the sky. MR. SPIEGEL: The woman’s body must have been in terrible condition. AGENT STRICKLAND: That’s one of the things that made this case so, uh - unique. When we jacked up the house, the only evidence we could find was the victim’s clothing. MR. SPIEGEL: You never found a body? AGENT STRICKLAND: No. MR. SPIEGEL: Did the killer take the body? AGENT STRICKLAND? No. According to witnesses, the body seemed to – shrivel up and disappear. We concluded that the killer must have used some type of advanced chemical agent on the victim, but our lab tests were inconclusive. MR. SPIEGEL: That’s very strange. Had you seen this type of murder before? AGENT STRICKLAND: In my 20 years as an FBI agent, I’d never seen anything like this. MR. SPIEGEL: What was the victim’s name? AGENT STRICKLAND: She was known to the townspeople only as - The Wicked Witch of the East. MR. SPIEGEL: The – Wicked - Witch of the East? AGENT STRICKLAND: Yes. That’s when we suspected possible gang involvement. Gangs name themselves according to their geographic localities. East siders - West siders - but we ruled out the murder as a gang hit after witnesses described the killer. MR. SPIEGEL: And who was your prime suspect? AGENT STRICKLAND: A Dorothy Gale, teenage farm girl from Kansas. The house – or in this case, the murder weapon, belonged to her. MR. SPIEGEL: From Kansas. Do you think this was a hate crime, Agent Strickland? AGENT STRICKLAND: We considered that at first, but we were unable to establish any connections to the Westboro Baptist Church. We did find out that the victim’s sister arrived not long after the murder and threatened physical violence against Dorothy - and her little dog, too. MR. SPIEGEL: The suspect had a dog? AGENT STRICKLAND: Yes. Some kind of little black terrier named Toto. MR. SPIEGEL: Like, the rock band from the 80s? AGENT STRICKLAND: Exactly. MR. SPIEGEL: What role did the victim’s sister play in all this? AGENT STRICKLAND: We determined that both the victim and her sister were involved in some kind of religious cult. MR. SPIEGEL: A cult? AGENT STRICKLAND: Yes. Witness reports stated that the victim’s sister called herself - The Wicked Witch of the West. Both the victim and her sister considered themselves witches, so this was obviously a Wiccan cult, or coven. Witness statements also described another female who showed up after the murder, and intervened when the victim’s sister threatened Ms. Gale. She called herself Glinda, The Good Witch of the North. MR. SPIEGEL: So, we’re talking about rival Wiccan cults? AGENT STRICKLAND: That seemed to be the case, yes. MR. SPIEGEL: You have based most of your investigation, and your book, on reports from eyewitnesses. What was the overall attitude of the townspeople during your investigation? AGENT STRICKLAND: You mean, the Munchkins? MR. SPIEGEL: The who? AGENT STRICKLAND: The Munchkins – from Munchkin land, where the murder took place. The entire population of Munchkin land suffers from dwarfism. I mean, every single one. Sure, some are taller than others, but when you’re looking at four-foot-two verses four-foot-six, there’s not much difference. MR. SPIEGEL: A town full of dwarfs? AGENT STRIKCLAND: Yes. Must be something in the water. Anyway - at first, I was very suspicious of their behavior. They didn’t seem to be too broken up about the brutal murder of a woman in their little town – no pun intended. In fact, they were quite happy about it. When we arrived on the scene, they were all singing and dancing like it was the Fourth of July. They kept singing over and over – Ding-dong, the witch is dead. MR. SPIEGEL: Ding-dong? AGENT STRICKLAND: Ding-dong. MR. SPIEGEL: So, these – Munchkins – were pleased about the murder? AGENT STRICKLAND: They were not displeased. But I don’t believe that they were celebrating the victim’s death - as much as I believe that - it’s just their nature to do things like that. They are, generally, a very happy people – they sing – they dance. I mean – there’s no Internet there, so what else are they going to do. Oh, and they landscape. MR. SPIEGEL: Landscape? AGENT STRICKLAND: Yes. Impeccable landscapers – not one blade of grass or flower out of place. You know, now that I think about it, we did have a little problem with one of the Munchkins who found out we were looking at Ms. Gale as a murder suspect. He was part of some union – the Lollypop Guild. He didn’t like us very much and he kicked one of my agents in the shin. Left a nasty bruise. MR. SPIEGEL: How did you handle that? AGENT STRICKLAND: We tazed him, of course, and took him into Federal custody. MR. SPIEGEL: Is that in your book? AGENT STRICKLAND: No. MR. SPIEGEL: Let’s go back to Ms. Gale – teenage farm girl – who killed a woman with a house. What did she do next? AGENT STRICKLAND: At this point, she’s stuck. She needs to get out of Munchkin land and escape back to Kansas where she came from, but she needs help – cash, maybe a car. Glinda points her in the direction of Emerald City to meet with the head of that city’s organized crime ring, a former con man who calls himself - The Wizard of Oz. After learning this, we issued a federal arrest warrant on Glinda for aiding and abetting a fugitive. MR. SPIEGEL: What proof did you have that this Wizard was involved in organized crime? AGENT STRICKLAND: Everyone feared him. He had them believing he was all-knowing and all-powerful. But it was just a ruse for his drug operation. The city itself was surrounded by poppy fields - which, as I’m sure you know, are used in heroin production. We suspected that the Wizard was smuggling the drugs out of Emerald City by using horses that were painted different colors. We couldn’t determine the significance of the colors, so we turned that part of our investigation over to the DEA. MR. SPIEGEL: Did Ms. Gale ever make it to see the Wizard? AGENT STRICKLAND: She did, but facts concerning events that transpired during her travel to Emerald City are a little sketchy. Here’s what we know: somewhere along the way she took three full-grown men hostage and disguised them to conceal their identities. MR. SPIEGEL: How is a teenage girl able to subdue and kidnap three grown men? AGENT STRICKLAND: We asked ourselves that same question. We found out that each man suffered from some sort of disability. One had a brain disorder, one a heart condition, and the third was a paranoid schizophrenic. MR. SPIEGEL: Did Ms. Gale disguise herself as well? AGENT STRICKLAND: No. That’s how bold she was. Teenage girl or not, we knew we were dealing with a ruthless and dangerous killer. I mean - you have to be pretty sick and twisted to take advantage of the disabled. MR. SPIEGEL: Did you ever catch up to her? AGENT STRICKLAND: Unfortunately, no. She was very cunning – always one step ahead of us. By the time we got to Emerald City, she was on her way to carry out a contract hit, issued by the Wizard, on the Wicked Witch of the West. MR. SPIEGEL: Why did the Wizard put a hit on the Wicked Witch of the West? AGENT STRICKLAND: A demonstration of power. With one Wicked Witch already dead, if the Wizard could eliminate the other, he’d have full control of the territory. That’s when we determined that the Wizard of Oz was the mastermind behind this curtain of evil - and sweet, innocent looking Dorothy Gale, farm girl from Kansas, was a killer for hire. MR. SPIEGEL: It’s incredible – and quite ingenious. Who would suspect a teenage girl as a brutal killer? So, did she carry out the hit? AGENT STRICKLAND: After interrogating the Wizard and learning of the hit, I called in the FBI’s HRT – the Hostage Rescue Team. The HRT is a highly trained S.W.A.T. unit that the FBI uses in very volatile and dangerous situations. We did a full containment and assault on the Wicked Witch of the West’s residence, but we were too late. Despite the Witch’s fortified compound and heavy security presence – it was almost like an army – Ms. Gale was able to kill the Wicked Witch of the West in the same manner that she killed her sister before. All we found were clothes. But it wasn’t easy for Ms. Gale. We learned from the Witch’s security that, prior to Ms. Gale’s arrival - she, along with her three hostages, were attacked by a low-level street gang called the Flying Monkeys, known for doing the Wicked Witch’s dirty work. They captured Ms. Gale and took her to the Witch’s compound. As it turned out, that was just a ploy by Ms. Gale to get close to the Witch and fulfill her contract with the Wizard. MR. SPIEGEL: At any time – were you close to apprehending Ms. Gale? AGENT STRICKLAND: We went back to Emerald City, thinking we could intercept Ms. Gale before she collected payment from the Wizard. But by the time we got there, the girl and the Wizard of Oz were both gone. We were told that the Wizard left by air – probably a private helicopter he had hidden somewhere in the city. MR. SPIEGEL: And Ms. Gale? AGENT STRICKLAND: No one knows – or at least, no one would tell us. We questioned her three hostages, but it was clear they had succumbed to Stockholm syndrome. That’s where— MR. SPIEGEL: The hostages feel sympathy for their hostage takers and their cause. AGENT STRICKLAND: Yes – exactly. They wouldn’t tell us a thing. That girl had them so messed up - they even refused to remove the disguises she put them in. MR. SPIEGEL: Looking back, Agent Strickland – out of every heinous act committed by Ms. Gale in this case – what sticks out in your mind as that the most – wicked? AGENT STRICKLAND: (pause) The red shoes. MR. SPIEGEL: The red shoes? AGENT STRICKLAND: Ms. Gale stole a pair of red shoes off her first victim’s body. It wasn’t enough that she crushed that poor woman with a house - she had to steal her shoes, too. MR. SPIEGEL: Will we ever understand fully how the criminal mind works, Agent Strickland? AGENT STRICKLAND: No. Not in my lifetime. MR. SPIEGEL: Where is the investigation now? AGENT STRICKLAND: Well - It’s been five years. Dorothy Gale is still on the FBI’s ten most wanted list, but she’s just an afterthought now. That’s why I wrote this book. So people won’t forget what she did. MR. SPIEGEL: Where do you think Dorothy Gale is, Agent Strickland? AGENT STRICKLAND: (pause) Somewhere – over the— MR. SPIEGEL: I’m sorry, Agent Strickland. But we’ve run out of time. Before we go, what’s next for you? AGENT STRICKLAND: I’ll be on my book tour for the next two months and then it’s back to Virginia to relax and be with my family. MR. SPIEGEL: I’m sure you’re looking forward to that. AGENT STRIKLAND: Oh, I am. There’s no place like home.
Mugbook
Warning! "Mugbook" contains adult content. If you're not old enough to read this, I'll tell your mom.
When the family business fell apart, a few of my relatives had a hard time adjusting to life in the digital age. For guys like my Uncle Vito Santini, going digital meant cutting the fingers off a guy until he fessed up. I wasn’t even born when Uncle Vito got pinched for being Big Louie Larosa’s shovel-man. According to Uncle Vito’s court testimony, he never actually killed anybody. He just dug the holes the bodies were stuck in. So after twenty-five years, he shows up at my apartment and wants me to teach him about computers. Says learning to use a “computer machine” is all part of his rehabilitation, not to mention staying one hundred feet away from any store that sells shovels. “Face what?” “Facebook. It’s social networking.” “Social networking… Do I gotta piss in a cup?” “Huh?” “You know… the clap.” “Uh… No, Uncle Vito… you’re thinking about… No, this is on the Internet. Social networking means—lots of people connecting with each other through the Internet.” “Oh. The Internet. I heard a that.” “Have you? Good. Now we’re getting somewhere.” I figure Uncle Vito had to use a computer sometime while he was in the joint. See, most Wiseguys who are sent up the river don’t really do what’s known as “hard time.” Somebody somewhere in the prison system is on the Family payroll, so favors get done and privileges are handed out like cartons of cigarettes from the back of a truck. “Okay, type in your email address in that first line there,” I say. “What the fuck is email?” “You don’t know what email is?” “Look kid, I just did twenty-five years just for diggin’ a few holes. You’d think those Fed pricks woulda put me in witness protection. But no! So the only mail I know anything about, was the letters from your old man tellin’ me about you bein’ a college boy and how smart you was. So I don’t know nothin’ about no fuckin’ email!” “Okay, Uncle Vito. Jeez, don’t get so upset.” “Sorry kid. I need a drink. Whatcha got around here?” “Uh, I got some soda. Maybe a Red Bull.” “No booze? No wine? C’mon, kid. You’re Italian, for Christ’s sake.” “I don’t think you should be drinking right now. Don’t you have to check in with your PO this afternoon?” “Alright, alright… forgetaboutit.” Uncle Vito’s not really a bad guy. In fact, out of the twelve people in my family who are doing time, he’s the only one who got out on good behavior. What’s with this email?” he says. “Email is just like getting a letter from somebody, only it’s sent electronically through communication lines.” “Let me ask you somethin’? Can they wire-tap that shit?” “Yeah… sort of.” “Then I don’t want nothin’ to do with no fuckin’ email.” “Okay, then. I guess we can use one of mine just to get you logged it. Here, type this in… Italian…sausage…man… the at sign… gmail dot com.” “Ha! You’re the Italian sausage man! You been showin’ the ladies your little Italian sausage, huh?” Santinis. Always thinking with their dicks. I have to remember not to mention anything about Internet porn, or I’ll never get him out of my apartment. “Funny, Uncle Vito,” I say, sliding him the keyboard. “Just type it in.” “Here, you do it.” He slides it back. “Alright. There… now you have to come up with a password.” “How about my name? Vito ‘The Shovel’ Santini.” “No, you don’t want to use your name, because it’s too easy to steal.” “Let me tell you somethin’… the last jamook who ripped me off, wound up in the bottom of a—“ “I don’t want to know, Uncle Vito. Look, don’t use your name. It has to be something unique, like a word or a phrase that’s easy for you to remember.” “Okay, how about… Whack the shylock?” “Why that?” “Cause that’s what I shoulda did when he ratted me out… Whack the shylock.” “Whatever. Oh, and we need to add a number to it.” “Whack the shylock 69 times.” “Can you remember that?” “Absolutely.” I can’t help but feel this is a total waste of my time. I’m supposed to be studying for my chemistry final, which is going to be a bitch of a test. Then again… if I do help out Uncle Vito, maybe he can get a few of his pals to pay my professor a visit and guarantee me an “A.” Nah. I could never do that. My pop, God rest his soul, would turn over in his grave if he knew I was asking for favors from his brother. See, pop was the youngest of seven boys, and his older brothers kept him out of the business by sending him to trade school to be a plumber. Yeah, I know. An Italian plumber… I’ve heard all the Donkey Kong jokes. “Alright, this is your Facebook home page, and it wants you to upload some pictures of yourself.” “Why?” “So other people know what you look like. People use Facebook as a way to share theirs lives with their friends. So, they put pictures of themselves and their families on here.” “If I put pictures of the family on here… I’m gonna get whacked.” “That’s a good point. Let’s do a friend search instead.” “You think some of my pals are on here?” “It’s possible. Give me some names.” “Let’s see… there’s Benny ‘The Goon’ Gorbonzo, Leo ‘The Leach’ Monitelli… no, wait… he’s still got five years. Hey, you think that stripper from Queens is on here?” “Uncle Vito… this is getting way out of hand.” “Hey, you’re the smart guy makin’ all the rules. I’m just sittin’ here. You know… I don’t see how this could be very popular.” “Over 3 billion people have Facebook accounts, Uncle Vito.” “3 billion! What a racket! We gotta get a piece of that action. Are they union?” “No, see… the guy who started this is some uber computer nerd who may or may not have stolen the idea from a couple of his friends.” “Stole it! He’s gotta be a Wiseguy. What’s his name?” “It’s Zuckerberg, and he’s definitely not Italian.” “Oh. Well, forgetaboutit. Okay, 3 billion people on here. Chances are, I’m gonna know somebody. What if it’s somebody I don’t like?” “Well, if you’re friends with somebody, and you don’t want to be friends with them anymore, you just use the ‘unfriend’ button.” “And, what happens then?” “They just go away and you don’t have to worry about them anymore.” “GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE! He has to a Wiseguy! I gotta go find him.” “What are you talking about, Uncle Vito? You’ll never get close to Zuckerberg. He’s like a gazillionaire.” “Always got his crew around him, huh? I can appreciate that. Smart guy. Look, I got an idea. What about a Facebook for people like me? You know… Wiseguys? We bring people in… offer them protection… we make a killing! We’ll call it… Mugbook. What do ya think?” I can see the newspaper headlines now: Mobsters Attempting Facebook Extortion Beaten By Facebook’s Former Navy Seal Security Force. It is apparent that nothing I do to teach Uncle Vito about computer machines will keep him from thinking about crime. Some people, no matter how hard they try, just can’t change. I mean… he wasn’t here five minutes when I saw him pocket my roommate’s gold watch. “I… think it’s a great idea, Uncle Vito. Go with it,” I say. “I knew it! See, you’re smart. Just like your old man said. Now, how do I find this Fuckerberg guy?” “Uh… try the phonebook.” “Right. I’ll get his address… round up a few goombahs from the neighborhood… we’ll make him an offer—“ “Don’t say it!” “I’m tellin’ you kid, the family’s back in business!”