Got home late last night. There were two messages on my phone answering machine.
One was from the FBI. On the recording, a friendly and intelligent-sounding fellow, Special Agent E, said that he wanted to talk to me about some information I might have. He left his number.
That was odd. I tried to think what this could be about. I came up with nothing.
This morning, just after 8:00, I called Special Agent E. He answered.
“Oh, great. Thanks for getting back to me so soon,” he said, chirpily.
“Sure. What’s up?” I asked.
“We got an anonymous tip that you’ve been posting on &#! (some kind of site), claiming to be the Night Stalker killer and the Golden State killer.”
“I’ve been posting where?”
“&#!,” he repeated.
“Never heard of it. And I’ve certainly never made such claims—there or anywhere else.”
“Yeah, I hear you. But we’ve got to run this stuff down. It's our job. Could you come down to the office so we can get your DNA? That way we can exclude you. We’d sure appreciate it!”
“Yeah, sure, I guess,” I said. “But the County already has my DNA. Why don’t you just get it from them?” (Years ago, I got a big ticket—expired Drivers License—and was offered a deal: agree to add my DNA in the County system and the infraction would disappear. I said, “OK.”)
“Yeah, well, we’re the FBI, so, no, you’ll have to come to our office and do it again.”
We agreed that we'd meet at noon. The FBI office is in Orange, near the Theo Lacy Facility (jail). He said he’d call back to confirm.
After an hour, we determined that our meeting would have to be postponed to 1:30.
“See you then!” he said. “If I’m not here, ask for Special Agent S, OK?”
“OK,” I said.
“And thanks for cooperating!”
At 10:00, I left for a meeting of the School of Humanities. On the agenda was a demonstration of a contraption we’re supposed to use to move wheelchair-bound folks down the stairs during an emergency. I was looking forward to that bit of fun.
During the rest of the meeting, colleagues expressed annoyance and frustration over various events and situations on campus. We're a pretty disgruntled group.
I really laid into that cluster fuck called the “Guided Pathways” initiative:
“It’s demoralizing, at this late stage of my teaching career,” I said, “to keep having to deal with idiotic and counterproductive state and accreditation mandates and initiatives.” I explained that virtually everyone—even the janitors—are being pulled into committees and workgroups to help develop “Guided Pathways,” which, we’re told, is only for “some students,” and yet this damned thing is obviously some kind of full court press, as far as administrators are concerned.
“It seems clear,” I said, “that no one on campus has any idea what this Pathways thing is supposed to be or how it’s supposed to work. Many, including me, are sure it’s a massive waste of time and money.
“Again,” I said.
At just after 1:00, I left IVC for Orange, taking the 5 to the 55 and then to the 22.
The FBI office is right across the street from what used to be called “The Block.” It’s in a dreary building that once housed ITT Technical Institute—no one has bothered to remove the lettering out front. The Bureau apparently keeps 110 employees there, though I sure didn't see them. There are 5 commercial tenants in the building.
I went up to the second floor and followed a sign. I found a door to the FBI reception area. It was locked. I looked around. There was a switch on the wall. I flipped it. After a few seconds, I heard a voice over an intercom.
“What’s your name?”
I gave it and the unseen Fed remotely unlocked the door. Upon opening it, I confronted a large metal detector—
the kind you see at Federal buildings and courthouses. I walked through it to a smallish waiting room. The receptionist was standing
behind a glass wall and counter. Through the glass, he asked me to sit down and wait.
I looked around a bit. There were several “most wanted” posters on a wall. Very cool. One posting explained that those who enters “an FBI Zone” must have no camera equipment, recording equipment, wi-fi equipment, or any kind of electronics.
I didn’t have any of that.
Pretty soon, Special Agents E and S came out and greeted me. They were informally dressed and friendly. We shook hands and smiled. They had me walk through the metal/gun detector again. They asked me to removed my keys. Metal was detected again.
“It’s OK,” said Agent S.
They had me sit down where I had been sitting (outside, I guess, the “FBI Zone”).
“This’ll only take five minutes,” said Agent S. Agent E started fumbling with the DNA equipment. There were three swabs.
“Have you heard about these crimes?” asked Agent S.
“Didn’t they catch the Night Stalker years ago? He died in prison, right?” I said.
Agent E stuck a swab into my right cheek.
“Yeah, but this crime concerns the original Night Stalker, who's also called the Golden State Killer.”
According to Wikipedia,
The crimes initially centered on the then unincorporated areas of Carmichael, Citrus Heights and Rancho Cordova, all east of Sacramento, where at least fifty women were raped between June 18, 1976, and July 5, 1979. ... In 2001, several of the Northern California rapes were linked by DNA to murders in Southern California. All of the DNA-linked assaults occurred in Contra Costa County but the distinctive modus operandi (MO) of the rapist makes it very likely the same man was also responsible for the attacks in the Sacramento area. His last known crime, the only one after 1981, took place in 1986.
The Golden State Killer has never been apprehended….
“Do you have any idea why someone would accuse you of claiming to be this killer?” asked Agent S.
“It could be political,” I said. I told Agents E and S about publishing a newsletter years ago (Dissent) that criticized the college President where I work—and the corrupt faculty union that placed a group of right-wing morons—Steve Frogue, John Williams, Dorothy Fortune, and Teddi Lorch—on the district Board. I made some enemies, I guess (I said). At one point, someone “informed” the board that I was a fraud; I had no Philosophy degree. On another occasion, someone sent sex equipment to my office.
The IVC cops got quite a kick out of that.
Special agent E—a lawyer, S told me—stuck a swab into my other cheek. I waited.
“Nowadays," I said, “I’ve got a blog, and I’m guessing that some reader got steamed about my criticisms of our current college president, a real jackass.”
“A real jackass, eh?" said E.
"Yeah. A real jackass."
"Maybe it’s an ex-student?” asked S.
“Naw, don’t think so,” I said.
After a few seconds I suggested that it's a shame that the FBI has to waste its time with these so-called “tips.”
“Well, we’ve got to check ‘em all out,” said Agent S. “It's our job.”
“It would be kinda ironic,” I said, “if I were this killer. I teach Ethics and I’m a goddam Eagle Scout.”
S looked at me.
“So you know how to tie knots,” said Agent S.
“Well, yeah. Fucking Boy Scout knots.”
It was an odd moment. Agent E poked me with one last swab.
The moment passed. The two agents thanked me again and I got up and walked to the door, careful not to bump into the massive metal detector.
“It’s been exotic,” I said. “Good luck finding your killer.”
I headed downstairs and stood just outside the building, near where it says “ITT Technical Institute,” not “FBI.”
It was a beautiful day. Just to the left, I could see the CashCall building towering before me.
It’s pretty damned ugly, that "CashCall."
I could also see the Crystal Cathedral a mile or so off to the west. My in-laws came to OC once—maybe 25 years ago—and made a point of visiting that stupid place.
The Crystal Cathedral went bust. Nowadays, it’s owned by the Roman Catholic Church. They're calling it "Christ Cathedral."
“More assholes,” I thought.
A couple hours later, I briefly spoke with my little bro, who came to watch over my mom tonight.
I told him my FBI story.
He was amazed.
"I used to work in that building," he said, after a while.
"You mean the 'ITT Technical Institute' building?"
"Yeah. I recall that ugly CashCall building across the street."
"And that stupid Crystal Cathedral?"
"Yeah."
It turns out that Bugay has long pursued a writing career. As writer, he now goes by the pen name "Doc D" (see below). Aside from The Naked Turtle Dances, Doc D has written such works as Backbonology: Tough Decisions at Work, Zombie Dearest: Poems for Young Zombies, and Zombie Dearest: a Two-Act Musical Comedy:
