A big shock from the Wheat State last week where police arrested a suspect in the 31 year investigation in BTK ( Bind, Torture, Kill ) case and everything about the guy is wrong. He’s active in the church, a solid employee, a Cub Scout leader and otherwise model citizen. Ten or more murders from a man with these credentials is ponderous.

Ironically, the matter nearly closed last year, chalked as a cold case. But when police and reporters received packages filled with details that only the killer would know, the prosecutors office reopened the investigation.

The reason I mention this at all, is it reinforces my firm belief that every serial killer wants to get caught. They want to stop. Either they brag to friends, write to police or the press, get sloppy or otherwise draw attention to themselves. Doubt my theory? Ask yourself how many serial killers escape arrest indefinitely.

I can think of only one, The Zodiac Killer, who possibly murdered as many as seven people between 1968-1974 before disappearing presumably forever. SFPD closed the Zodiac case in April 2004.

Perhaps even the most despicable of killers have a conscience.

…and failed.

Behold! Here’s the sound of an entry that says nothing. May this never happen again.

Outside came the roar of a great happening mobile, and the smell of tasty snacks. Reaching the street, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

I took a closer look.

It was them! Scooby and the gang! Heading right for a snowbank. I shouted look out! And then….

The van fishtailed and Fred lost control. I shouted Oh no!

Rut roo. Too late. So I rhoned for a Medirac. The moral of the story: just because you have an SUV doesn’t mean drive hopped up on Scooby snacks.

Fans of Resovoir Dogs, a film by Quentin Tarantino that was cool, remember the scene in the diner where the bad guys clashed over tipping. A crucial scene from a logistics standpoint, for no crew commits felonies on empty stomachs. Now, the baddies considered tipping a good and healthy practice. Every baddie minus Mr. Orange.

Mr. Orange ( Tim Roth ) argued that a waitress wasn’t any different from a cashier at McDonalds. Both served food, handled money and walked to and from the kitchen. To Mr. Orange the jobs were identical, thus the waitress deserved the same gratuity as the cashier. The other baddies blasted Mr. Orange for this stance. After five minutes of Labor and Bureau statistics they finally shamed the tightwad. He tipped, but with extreme prejudice and reservation.

Now the irony: Mr. Orange was the only surrvivor of the crime spree. So this begs several questions. First, is there a karmic consequence to stiffing the waiter/waitress? Second, is the seventeen percent guideline fair and reasonable? Lastly, have you seen what your favorite celebrity tips?

Oh yeah, and Happy Birthday to the Wife.

Every eighteen months my PC takes a doodie in the sandbox. Gosh, I’ve stared at the opening sentence for the last ten minutes - it’s not getting any better. Pardon my analogies, let’s try this again. Think of the sandbox as work and the dootie a mess that makes the playground unworkable. In other words, the machine broke and broke badly.

There’s a technical explanation for the problem, but for those who prefer English: cat fur clogged the intake fans, causing the drive to overheat and then short. And if not for the knowledge of Big Matt and the Buddhapuss Books expense account - all data would be lost.

In a perfect world, by Thursday everything returns to normal. Big Matt made me promise to order a new case with special filters that catch fur and dust and a spare external harddrive for cloning.

Hunter S. Thompson was a multi-talented man: a novelist, a model, a journalist, co-creator of the TV show Nash Bridges, a politico and an irritant to nearly every Republican administration since Nixon. Also, he lived in a nifty bunker in Colorado, had attractive coeds for assistants, and shot bears from the porch.

He was an intense man who took the work seriously, but not himself. He had a great sense of humor and knew how to twist a phrase. Everywhere he was, controversy swirled.

Allegations of drug abuse dogged him throughout his career. Of which charges are myth and which are fact, no one was certain. Perhaps he proved that in massive quantities LSD is a vitamin.

Mr. Hunter S. Thompson was at the top of my want to meet list. Not certain if he would’ve shook my hand or punched me, and for some reason I don’t care. Whatever it might have been, it would’ve been vintage Gonzo.

They don’t make writers like him any more. They don’t make anyone like him. I doubt they will again.

Remember Joey Vinny?
So that was the crew at thirty thousand feet. They were good guys in small doses, all tied to the deal by Joey Vinny loser ways.
Like I said, Joey gambled. Badly. He earned, he bet, he lost. At least he was consistent. Most people craved variety. Oh no, not Joey Vinny.
Much like the Tommy Q gonna-make-pizza rant, Joey had a personal catchphrase. “1-7-19-23-24-35-41″. Those were his lottery picks. He played those numbers from age ten until death.
Legally the minimum purchase age was eighteen. Patel’s convenience store believed that age was no basis for discrimination. Customers that wanted lottery tickets - got lottery tickets.
Patel also had a liberal check cashing policy. A sign over the front door read: No ID? No problem! They only proofed for cigarettes and bidis because the state dispatched agents once a month. Bidis were flavored cigarettes from India spiked with caffeine. Not my thing. If Patel knew you from the neighborhood, then no worries about identification.
Joey worked there most weekends. He was the only white kid on staff. He was the only staff. Otherwise it was only Patel on point. The owner had a real soft spot for Joey Vinny because once Joey thwarted a robbery attempt.
The way the robbery almost happened was two thugs stormed the place five minutes before closing. Five minutes before close was always the riskiest time in retail operations. As the thugs demanded money, Joey wandered in for a pack of smokes for his dad. Joey always quick on the uptake, asked “What’s going on?”
Shocked, the thugs turned away from Patel and faced Joey, who was ten years old at the time. Big mistake. Patel kept a .357 Magnum under the counter. Only two people lived to tell what happened next. Final score: Patel 2, Wanna Be Gangsters 0. Problem was, it turned out that the thugs didn’t have a gun, so the DA wanted Patel on manslaughter charges. But Joey Vinny testified to a grand jury and said that the thugs had yelled that they had a gun and had threatened to shoot both him and Patel. When the papers got the story community pressure so overwhelmed the DA, he dropped the case. Patel was a hero for saving little Joey Vinny. After the dismissal Patel and Joey had some kind of father son thing going. Which was good because Joey’s real dad only bonded with a bottle.
I knew what really happened, or at least what Joey said really happened. I asked Joey once why he lied to the DA and he said, “Patel never called me no loser.” So Joey was loyal to Patel, like Tommy Q was to Joey.
For a reward, Patel offered Joey whatever he wanted in the store. Joey wanted weekly lotto tickets for life. This was before his scratch off phase.
And that was how at ten, he caught the lotto bug. From that point he was religious about the game, always playing the same the numbers, always twice a week, always losing. Joey was good like that.
So now flash ahead like twelve years. It’s the day we got the news about Joey and nothing matters but our friend is dead. I mean it was an absolute shock to us. No warning, just poof, Joey Vinny was gone. Life was fragile. It was hard for me too, you know? I not only lost a crew member, I lost a cousin. And he owed me fourteen bucks.
I’m not going to go into the wake too much, or the funeral neither, cause that wasn’t exactly the point at the moment. Suffice to say the whole affair was brutal.
What mattered was that during the wake we each had a moment alone with Joey Vinny to say good bye. He looked pretty good in black suit and white tie. The last time he wore a suit was First Communion. In my head I wished him good luck. Didn’t think too much about loving him cause that would be weird.
The morning of the funeral, I ran into Bobby in front of the church before the services. I’ve never seen anyone so upset. He was bawling. I couldn’t get a word out of him. He wasn’t even talking English.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Tommy Q is going to kill me!” said Bobby, tears streaking down his face.
“Woah! What’s up?”
“Please Gerald. Don’t let Tommy Q kill me!”
“What are you talking? Why would Tommy Q do that?”
“He’s going to kill me. Don’t let him kill me, Gerald. Please? Please?! Please don’t let him kill me!”
That’s what Bobby kept saying over and over. Tommy Q was going to kill him. I drug the kid out back and pumped a few shots of Jager down him. Bobby just couldn’t communicate sometimes. After boozing it up, I stuffed Bobby in a pew and told him to be quiet, while I waited outside for Tommy Q.
Tommy Q rolled up a few minutes later. “Still can’t believe it.” he said.
“Me either. If someone had to die, Bobby should’ve gone first.”
“Absolutely.” said Tommy.
“Is something going on with you and Bobby?” I asked. This was not the day to law down the law, but something was amiss with my crew.
“No. Why?”
“He’s going on about how you’re going to kill him,” I said. “Why would he think that?”
“Everything’s fine as far as I know. I mean, except Joey dying.”
At that moment, I believed Tommy Q. He was a good guy. He didn’t want to kill Bobby. So we went inside and waited for the service start. And that’s when everything went nuts. Well, Bobby went nuts.
He almost cried straight through the whole mass. Couple of times, I punched him to shut up. He wouldn’t stop. Bobby kept talking to himself, real loud, like a soldier who spent the last month in a foxhole and wasn’t sure if he was alone or not. Finally, Tommy and I drag Bobby out of the church, right in the middle of the eulogy.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” I asked.
Bobby looked at me, then at Tommy Q, then back at me. “Gerald, please don’t let Tommy Q kill me.”
“Enough with this already! No one is killing anyone.”
“Did you see the news?”
“What news?” I asked.
Bobby reached into his pocket and pulled out a newspaper clipping with the lotto drawing results. He flinched like I might hit him. I ripped the paper away and read the highlighted numbers out loud. They sounded so familiar. “1-7-19-23-24-35-41. Hey, are those today’s numbers?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Bobby.
“Joey Vinny’s numbers!” said Tommy Q.
“Yes,” said Bobby.
“I can’t believe it, of all the bum luck the one time he doesn’t play, his numbers hit.” I said.
“I…well…I’m sorry…envelope…didn’t understand…” Bobby stumbled.
Bobby might have kept going like that forever so I slapped him right across the face then, so hard it almost broke the skin. Calmed him right down. He was being insolent. “Joey Vinny had the winning ticket?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“OK, now Bobby this is very important. Where is that ticket right now?”
“I….” Tears streamed down his face. He couldn’t look at either of us.
“You have the ticket?” I asked.
“No…I…”
Tommy Q leaned in real close, “It’s OK Bobby, it’ll just be between the crew. We’re not telling nobody.”
“I’m sorry guys…”
“It’s in the church somewhere? You left it back in the pew?” I asked.
“Help us help you,” said Tommy Q.
Finally the dam burst wide and Bobby confessed. “Last night at the wake, I’m about to go and I’m thinking about the last conversation I had with.
“A few hours before he died, he stopped by my place. He gave me an envelope and told me if something ever happened to him, open up the envelope and I’ll know exactly what to do. I’m thinking this is just a big joke, why should he give me something important instead of Tommy Q? I mean those two were tight and all.
“Three hours later, the call cames, Joey was dead. Next afternoon, I open the envelope and inside is a lottery ticket, and I’m not thinking or something, because I see this and I like freak out, and I think what the hell am I supposed to do with this thing? Joey said I would know what to do, and I don’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to do at all…”
“Don’t make me smack you again.” I said.
Bobby recovered. “I stuff the envelope and the ticket in my back pocket and go to the wake, and I’m thinking the whole time, Joey said I would know what to do with the envelope. I would know. And it’s really bugging me. But it hits me like a shot. There’s one place that ticket truly belongs. There’s one place it’s meant to be.” he paused.
“Bobby,” I grabbed both of his shoulders and shook. “Where is the ticket?”
The recessional started. Ash and the smell of grief poured out the doors. We stepped aside as my father and uncle and two other pallbearers carried the casket down the stairs and into the hearse. Mr. Vinny closed the door.
Bobby pointed to the long black car. “It’s with Joey.”