The Melting Man

Today, he was a currency trader. He would be trading the First National Bank of Bonita’s currency in exchange for his time. In reality, he was about to become a bank robber. But that was such a common and almost judgmental term. Given the fact that he was in the middle of nowhere in a blinding snowstorm, he was anything but common. Most bank robbers wrote a note demanding money or waved a gun in someone’s face and ended up in jail a short time later. He had no plans to ever spend a day in jail or demand anything from anyone. His plan was simply to trade the banks money for his time and effort. Yes, ‘currency trader’ had a much more sophisticated ring to it. It gave him a sense of confidence that he knew didn’t help his chances but it didn’t hurt them either.

Bonita was a small town 100 miles north of Dallas and it had a very large cash position on hand this first weekend of April 1982. The following day would have many of the farmers and oilmen lining up to bid on some prime real estate chock full of oil and dark rich soil for farming: a true Texas two-team parlay if ever there was one. Every interested buyer brought plenty of money to bribe his way into position. Business ethics 101 in Texas was not taught at Harvard Law. Between what was transpiring under the table and on the black market, the small bank was carrying a cash position that would rival any one of the more famous national banks. Including money for the payroll of the local farm workers, the currency trader had calculated that First National should have more than $1 million in cold, very cold, cash. His calculations would prove to be quite accurate.

The snowstorm had hit about seven hours earlier and already dumped 10 inches on the ground. The ice got into town first and paralyzed the city before the first flakes began to cover it up. Driving was impossible for a hundred miles north and at least 50 in any other direction. The wind had picked up to almost gale force dropping the visibility to virtually zero on the roads. What a beautiful day it was shaping up to be. The currency trader had very carefully planned out this day and to get the full cooperation from Mother Nature was just a cherry on the top of a very cold ice cream sundae. The fact that all traffic was done for the day was the key. He didn’t need anybody out for a casual drive to stumble over him and provide a description to the police after he was gone.

He walked deliberately into the wind and squatted behind the southwest corner of the brick structure long enough to remove the C4 from his backpack. He quickly stuck it on the side of the building and rounded the corner. The explosion was extremely loud, but heard by no one. The alarms were wailing, but heard by no one. The only sound he heard were lyrics in his head from a Zeppelin song about coming from a land of ice and snow. Exactly58 minutes later the currency trader was back on his snowmobile, a Polaris 280, and heading out of town. The trailer he was pulling behind his snowmobile was weighted down with what he estimated to be $750,000 or so. Funny thing was, the weight of the money actually helped his traction. This just keeps getting better and better he thought.

He guided the snowmobile up to his truck almost 30 minutes later. He quickly lowered the ramp and drove it up into the back and pulled down the false front. Working extremely quickly he drilled the front into the floor board and raised the ramp. The truck started without so much as a groan and he eased it onto the snow and ice covered road. The traffic was almost non-existent until he hit dry pavement in New Mexico. If he had to guess he doubted his heart rate ever went above 80 during the entire operation. Proper planning meant not having to get nervous. He knew the police force would be operating on a skeleton crew with the storm. Alarms would be going off all over the city and they would go unanswered until the wind stopped. By the time they would get to the bank he would be nothing but a memory. Not even a footprint in the snow.

Eighteen hours later the first officer from the Bonita Police Department arrived at the bank. He radioed in for back up and sealed off the area. The storm had passed and the April sun was high in the sky with the temperature above 50 degrees already. By the time forensics and the bomb squad showed up from Dallas, it was later in the afternoon and the evidence had literally melted away. No prints were ever found. No get away tracks were ever found. No video tape produced even a grainy image of anything other than snow. The FBI dubbed the case The Melting Man.

Chapter 1 - Duluth, Minnesota

Matt Maki stared into his coffee cup has if trying to divine some sort of wisdom from the way his life had changed. He grew up in the Copper Country of Michigan on the coast of Lake Superior and hated every minute of the cold. Even though his heritage was 100% Finnish, his hair was dark and his eyes darker. Years of fighting and fucking the Russians had mixed the blonde hair, blue eyed gene with a more sinister look. Because of his gift for athletics and his fertile mind, he landed a scholarship to play hockey for Boston University. One shattered ankle and a broken wrist led him to a criminal justice degree and a trip to Quantico.

He took to the FBI the way a duck takes to water. Appearing calm to all on the surface, he was paddling like hell underneath. His skills were top notch and his power of reasoning and gut instinct even better. The rest of the class would wait for his logic and piggy back to the same conclusion. It wasn’t if he would be the first new agent out, it was when. His superiors routinely wrote glowing reports of his progress and the high marks he made. Matt was a prodigy when it came to being a star in the agency. He was what one of the senior instructors called a one in a million agent: an agent of quick instinct and skill that could be placed anywhere and make an impact.

The only flaw they could find in his emotional make-up was more than likely genetic. He had a propensity for vodka, and a lot of it. He could handle his booze very well and was the life of the party. When he went into the regular towns, he was a big hit with the ladies. The main reason he was tolerated so well was because when he was sober he was probably the nicest guy you would ever meet. The bigger problem was that when Matt started drinking everyone knew he wasn’t going to be sober long. Anyone who has battled the demons of being able to drink more than the brain can handle knew that eventually Matt would crash. He always knew his limit and managed to pass out before reaching it.

Graduating and being assigned to do the scouting work for a Presidential speech was his first detail. Matt did perfect work except that he was really drunk the night before President Reagan was shot outside a D.C. hotel. What made everything so much worse was one of the main witnesses to his binge was a New York Times reporter who took it personally that Matt was not drunk enough to have lowered his standards enough to think she was attractive. He was drunk but not blindly drunk, and she wrote a scathing article about the FBI and the seemingly lax standards it now employed. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

The shining star was given a year in Duluth, Minnesota, to think about his future. Duluth isn’t the place to send someone to quit drinking, to start, maybe, but certainly not to quit. Between the guilt of blowing his first detail and his hatred for the cold, the drinking got worse. One morning he woke to find a policeman standing over him with a most pissed-off look. He had passed out just outside the door of his home. And least that was how he remembered it. The actual owner of the home saw it differently. The owner had the deed to his house for proof.

Less than a week, later Matt stopped off at the local watering hole for a couple of quick drinks before going home to do some paperwork. These days, paperwork was all he was assigned to. Well, one drink led to two and two to three and so on and so forth. Once he realized that several hours had passed he jumped in his car and drove home. At least that is the way he remembered it. The police department found his car half way inside a building and they had a completely different version. He knew that another transfer was possible. There was even an outside chance he would be let go entirely. It was time to find out for sure.

He choked down the rest of his stale coffee and stood up quickly. Self pity was never his game and he didn’t want to start now. As he walked into the office of the Assistant Deputy Director of the FBI’s Upper Midwest Division, he said a quick prayer. Not for mercy or to keep his job. He prayed that it wouldn’t take too long. It was Happy Hour somewhere.

Chapter 2

Anthony Traccone was the Assistant Deputy Director of the Upper Midwest Division of the FBI and proud of it. So was his family apparently, considering they had given him a statue that said World’s Greatest Assistant Deputy Director. Way to set the bar high Tony, was all Matt could think of when he sat down. Tony was a career bureaucrat who not only had never fired a weapon, but he also had never fired at a person. Not even a wayward janitor had felt the wrath of Tony Traccone. This was the third and final meeting Matt would have to endure if luck was on his side. It was. You have embarrassed the Bureau and me for the last time, Mr. Maki Tony sternly said. Since my last little pep talk you have been found sleeping on a citizen’s porch, missed two mandatory sessions with a substance abuse counselor and showed up for a briefing with the local law so hung over you would have set yourself on fire if you lit up a smoke. You aren’t exactly Winston Churchill when it comes to speeches are you? Matt joked. He could see the hatred in Tony’s eyes. How long before you pull your gun or get drunk and get in a fight and kill somebody? I’m sure your wife has told you I am a lover and not a fighter Matt replied. He knew Tony wouldn’t or probably couldn’t fire him. He didn’t know what was coming next. I’m through with you, funny guy. You are to check into The Preston Trail Rehabilitation clinic in Dallas tomorrow. If you are not checked in by 6 p.m., you are no longer an agent.

The shock was clearly evident on Matt’s face. What the fuck was this? Sure he got drunk but so did a lot of agents. And he was better than all of them. He had led the investigation of three cases last year and all three were caught and incarcerated. He did all that from behind a desk. With a perfect record in his first year, there should have been some slack cut somewhere. Shock was quickly turning to anger and embarrassment. He knew he was about to blow when Tony leaned in and smiled and said, See ya, podner. He rose and left without another word being spoken.

Chapter 3 - Las Vegas, Nevada

As the cab was fighting its way through traffic on the Las Vegas strip, Stan Forrester took a quick mental rundown of the task in front of him. He had to circulate $400,000 in cash throughout the city. This was his second trip to do currency trading and the first had gone very well. He accepted a couple of free show tickets and some dinners, but never asked for the penthouse suite. The goal was to establish his identity and trade stolen money for money won.

He checked in-to the Golden Nugget and presented all the proper documents. His driver’s license showing he lived in Lakeland, Tennessee, with a matching credit card. The name could not have been any more bogus, but the Social Security number was very real. So was the credit card, if you were Stan Forrester. He wasn’t, but nobody in this town would ever know. He had a lot of work to do and if they didn’t know him and trust him, his plan could unravel, and that was not an option. What good was robbing banks if you couldn’t use the money? Like tits on a bull … useless.

The 20th floor of the tower casino was where they put him. This will do nicely, he thought. Once he took his jacket off, he removed the money belt that doubled as a disguise. It added 30 pounds to his fit frame and he appeared out of breath to enhance the image. After a quick shower and a snack from room service, it was time to go to work. He found a high stakes table out of the main flow of traffic and started with $5,000 in chips. When he reached $12,000 he colored up his chips and moved across the street to the Horseshoe. He went for $50,000 and truly gambled hard at the Shoe. It was a gambler’s casino and to get that many chips and not try to win would certainly garner some unwanted attention. That was precisely what he wanted to avoid. His goal was just to trade those dollars a couple hundred at a time and get out of town.

Four days, three trips to the spa and one round of golf later, Stan Forrester went to the cage with his host and arranged for a very proper and reasonable transfer of his $1.1 million dollars to his account in Tennessee. He promised to return soon and took the limo ride to the airport. Going home was always easier than coming in, and today was no exception. The lines were light and the flight smooth. At his current rate, he could complete his career as a currency trader in a couple more years. Of course, that all depends on the weather, he thought.

Chapter 4 - Dallas, Texas

The drive from the Dallas airport wasn’t nearly long enough for Matt’s taste. He wasn’t sure what he was walking into, but he had an idea. There was a standard substance abuse class at Quantico and the area he grew up with was full of people who drank too much. He didn’t think he fell into the category of alcoholic or a substance abuser. He was about to find out they were the same thing and he was a perfect match for both groups. He not only couldn’t drink socially, but he also never wanted to. Drunk was the goal, drinking was the process.

Walking into the foyer he was all of sudden struck by a most disturbing thought. What if I fail? That thought had never before crossed his mind, ever. Could it be that the world he thought he knew was about to change? Somewhere inside the dark crevices of his brain, changes had already started. Matt took a deep breath, smiled, and asked the lady behind the front desk who he needed to talk to. Mr. Maki, I presume she drawled. Guilty as charged ma’am he said trying to sound Texan. He failed miserably. The doctor will be out shortly. Please have a seat. Matt took a seat on the nearest leather couch and stared straight ahead seeing nothing. He was trying to lower his pulse rate when the doctor strode through the doors and straight toward him. He was a very large man, at least 6 feet 8 inches tall and 350 pounds. Matt, Robert Todd, pleased to meet you. Matt Maki. My friends call me Matt but I’m starting to run out of those. They shared a laugh and then Matt started playing agent, asking about how the Bureau ran the place, who paid for it and a host of other questions. Robert answered them all with great patience and then told Matt, Turn in your badge, gun, wallet and all other identifications with Melanie at the front desk. Matt looked stunned. Don’t be shocked because you aren’t shit to me until I see if you’re serious about being sober. If this is a ‘get the bosses off my back trip’, I won’t cross the street to piss on you if you’re on fire. Are we clear? Matt replied, Yes we are, and thank you for telling me how this is going to work. Matt knew he was screwed.

After giving up all his bureau goodies, he was shown to his dorm room. His first two years in college, he had a room almost identical to the one he had now. It was explained to him later that they didn’t want people staying in the rooms. It sounded like the same strategy the casinos in Vegas used. They wanted you to meet other people and go to meetings and start trying to get comfortable with being sober and in public. Matt had no problem being in public but he did prefer to do it with a few shots under his belt. He finished unpacking, which took all of five minutes, and headed out in search of the meeting hall.

There was always coffee brewing somewhere is what Matt’s nose told him. He found a crowd of three people near the coffee-maker and introduced himself. The man closest to him looked up into his eyes and asked him point blank if he was scared. Matt replied he was nervous, but not really scared. Don’t worry about a thing, Mr. Maki, because I can assure you one thing, you will be he said, laughing. Matt laughed with him, but it started him thinking about fear. It was a concept with which he was not familiar. There was a time and a place for everything.

Chapter 5

Nobody wakes up one morning and thinks to themselves, I think I’ll become an alcoholic today. I think I will alienate even my closest friends, my family, my employer and most perfect strangers and then, just for good measure, I’ll have a few more drinks and do it all again tomorrow. The problem is, this is what happens to most alcoholics. Matt Maki was a walking, talking, perfect example.

He had been a drinker since he was 15 years old and handled it like most of his friends and the adults he had looked up to. He would get seriously drunk and wake up hung over, take a couple of aspirin and go to work or school. He would take almost a perverse pride in the fact that a hangover never kept him from being where he was supposed to be. He later learned that -poisoning yourself to the point of being sick and then bragging about working with the results was stupid. One member described it this way: Alcoholics will shoot themselves in the foot and then brag because they have a limp. That was just about right, he thought.

Matt attended his first meeting on his first day in. When it came time for him to speak or pass he simply stated, My name is Matt and I would just like to listen today. Everyone said in unison, Hi, Matt and it kind of scared him. The next person to speak was the man who had warned him earlier. He directed his remarks strictly about being new to the program. He warned of the dangers of beginning with a pre-conceived notion of what you would see, hear or feel. And the last comment he made was sent directly to Matt when he turned and looked him right in the eye and said, The ability to be honest enough to be weak is the single biggest reason most people don’t succeed inside these four walls. We are all weak and afraid of something and if you don’t figure that out while you are here, you are a dead man the minute you walk out. Matt nodded toward the man and the rest of the meeting became a blur. Matt knew then he had a lot of work to do.

It was 26 days into his internment as he referred to it that the fog began to lift. Some of the things people said in the thrice a day meetings sounded logical. They all weren’t just drunk tales told by frustrated, weak-willed alcoholics. They had a purpose. They had a plan on how to live without drinking. And what shocked him most was the laughter. These people were actually happy most of the time. He had resisted all attempts to take accountability for his drinking until a 76 year old man, who had been sober more than 50 years, told him, Even the three little pigs figured out they had to build a stronger house. That was the start. His house didn’t even have a foundation.

His days would alternate between euphoria and self-righteous indignation. Some days he would feel as if he never would want a drink again and others would be spent lamenting the fact that he was forced to submit to this circus at all. Matt was a mental rat on a wheel running faster, faster, faster and going nowhere. The thing that pissed him off the most was that all the old timers told him this would happen. Anyone who actually remained sober for a length of time figured it out.

When his very sharp and analytical mind finally exhausted itself trying to figure it out, his heart took over. The light bulb came on one day during an individual session with Dr. Robert. You mean the only way I win is to give up? Matt asked. Now you are getting somewhere. This disease or whatever you want to call it is stronger than you are. Does it matter why? Does it matter that you need help from a higher power? Does it matter if it’s genetic or a learned habit? Or does the only thing that matters is that you stay sober? the doctor asked. Matt sat back and realized his life had indeed changed. The thought that giving up was the only way to win was so opposite of his very nature that it made perfect sense. He had never given up in his life. And look where he was.

Okay. Now the rest of my life will be spent doing what? Matt asked. That’s up to you. I would recommend hitting your knees every morning and asking for the strength not to drink. I would also recommend that you continue to share this gift through meetings and public speaking to pass it along. It helps others and helps you stay sober. The last advice I can give you that might help is to quit trying to figure everything out. It is what it is and it will always be. Dr. Robert spoke with a great big grin. It took another 48 days of meetings and exercises for Matt to feel like he was ready for the outside world. He checked in a confident drunk of a man. He would leave a sober, humbled straight arrow who prayed to God as he understood Him - every day.

He decided to embrace everything he learned with one glaring exception. Some secrets are better left in the darkness of one’s mind was his reasoning. Dr. Robert Todd knew that Matt decided to hold onto to something because he could see it in his eyes during some of their sessions together. He admitted doing a lot of nasty things when he was a drunk, but observation told the good doctor this wasn’t one of them. Whatever it was, Matt would have to come clean with himself and his God one day. Hopefully it would come before the guilt was too much for him and he ended up inside a bottle of Jack Daniels.

Chapter 6 - Houston, Texas

Being raised by the most decorated colonel in the Air Force had advantages and disadvantages. Chris Keast tried to take all the advantages he could and accentuate them and bury the disadvantages so far into his psyche they would never come out. The advantage he was using today was discipline. He had prepared well for his meeting and now all that remained was the discipline to remain calm when conducting the interview. He had no doubt he would.

Chris sat watching Langford Pitts Jr. finish his workout. The man worked out as if he was entrusted to save the world by generating power from an exercise bike. He stayed in amazing shape himself and this man would make him look like a two-pack a day smoker taking the stairs at the Empire State Building. After an hour, LP, as he was known to almost everyone, grabbed his workout bag and headed out the door. Mr. Pitts, can I talk to you a minute? Chris asked. Do I know you? LP replied, a slight haughtiness creeping into his voice. No sir. We haven’t met. But I really need to speak to you about a job. I am just a doctor. The hospital does the hiring. I work for them. If you’ll excuse me I am running late. Chris smiled broadly and said, No you’re not. You have nothing scheduled the rest of the day except a pedicure and dinner with Amy. I’m not looking for a job, I’m offering you one. LP was now pissed and interested as to how he knew his name and Amy. Who do you think you are, telling me what I have planned? And how in the hell do you know my name and the name of my girlfriend? You better start talking or the police will be called shortly he hissed.

This was the part Chris Keast was really looking forward to. He knew that LP was a pompous arrogant ass who was also the best child cancer surgeon in the country. He also had a deep dark secret that was about to be exposed. You won’t be calling the police. I know everything about you, Mr. Pitts. I know you had the best scores in the history of MCAPS. I know you like to smoke pot some, but not too much. I know you do pro-bono work at Mercy Hospital downtown to give back to the community. I know you make a half million dollars a year and that will probably triple shortly.Chris rattled off while taking a step forward and forcing LP to back up.

The last thing you want is for me to start talking. I might start talking about the second operation of your career. The one that went bad right from the start and a four-year-old child named Tommy Sawlter died during a procedure you could do in your sleep, but apparently not coming off a 24 hour cocaine binge. If I were to start talking I might say I have evidence of you snorting coke until three hours before the surgery started. Are you sure you want me to start talking or would you rather politely ask me to lunch and hear what I have to offer you? Chris almost growled at him. The bravado was gone from the esteemed Mr. Pitts. He shakily leaned against the hood of his Mercedes and ran a hand through his hair. Can I buy lunch, Chris, was it? he managed to get out without crying. I would like that very much. How about I drive, you look a little off your game. Chris offered. LP mumbled something about that being a good idea.

The rest of the lunch went very well by the standards Chris had set. Langston Pitts was in a state of shock for the first bit, but then the color returned to his face. He seemed to steady his nerves and grasp the situation he found himself in. The dark secret he thought had disappeared was indeed alive and well. The man delivering the news did not seem like the sort of man who was about to take no for an answer. He also wasn’t the type of man to make idle threats. Langston knew without having to be told that his life was about to change. There was an appealing part of the offer he had just received. The weight of what he had been carrying was about to be lifted off him. The truth shall set you free indeed.

Chapter 7 - Dallas, Texas

They released him on April fool’s Day in the middle of a snowstorm in Dallas. The city was shut down for all intents and purposes. He walked with his suitcase in hand to a local hotel on Preston Road. He called the number they gave him when checking out and talked to Winston, his sponsor for the rest of his outpatient treatment: all of which consisted of attending meetings every day. They made an agreement to at least touch base on the telephone each day if one or the other was out of town. Matt unpacked quickly and dressed for a run. After living in Duluth for a while, he had gotten to almost enjoying running in the extreme cold. After about five miles, he was back in the hotel barely breathing hard. Then he broke down and cried. He bawled like a baby for the first time since he was a child. When he was done, he felt like the first day he had been at Quantico. Energized and ready to take on the world. He could do this.

Matt took a quick shower and called the Dallas office of the Bureau. He spoke with Al Johnson, his new partner for the next little while anyway. The temperature was going back up in the morning so they agreed to meet at 9 a.m. at the office. That done, Matt opened the big book he was given and began to read and take notes. That was one of his habits that had served him well. His memory was well above average, but time fades even the best photographs so he took notes. Somewhere before midnight, he fell asleep and dreamed of getting drunk. He was told this was common and not to be alarmed. It still shook him up and when he came to the conclusion that it was only he a dream, he started laughing. Well, I may be crazy but at least I’m sober he said aloud. He was showered and dressed and was halfway out the door when he turned back to the telephone. He called Winston to let him know he was headed to work. Have a good time and I’ll see you at the meeting after work. Winston encouraged him.

Al Johnson was a twenty year veteran of the FBI and a devout Southern Baptist. He stood at least a full inch over five feet tall and was built basically like a cinder block. Hours spent pumping iron in the gym to compensate for being vertically challenged had obviously paid off. His skin was the color of blackness on a moonless night in the middle of the country. From the minute Matt was introduced he decided that his new partner would be known as Big Al. He also knew he would find out very quickly if his new partner had a sense of humor.

After the introductions Matt got a quick tour and then they went over the active cases Big Al was working on. Doesn’t seem like anything that keeps you up at night right now. Matt said. "No, it’s been