Seven Degrees of Bogus

by Ilan Herman

part 2 of 6

Two days later, after she had finished the quarterly report, Gina read the story. The protagonist was a nippy and eccentric fellow, full of himself in a passive-aggressive way. She didn’t like him at all. He reminded her of Simon, her second husband, an Australian bloke who thought his proverbial shit didn’t stink.

Then she got to the end of the story, where the man loses his passive-aggressive persona and becomes a pissed-off killer disloyal to national and international law and order. His hubris offended her deeply. Why would anyone write such a story knowing he’d be offending his readers? The last two paragraphs had Gina frowning and hissing, “Asshole.”

For a moment the story became real, as though it had really happened, as though the character were alive in his shadowy conduct toward God and Country. Gina turned away from the computer and poured herself a glass of Chardonnay. Then she texted Jem: “I read the story. He’s a nasty SOB.”

“Lots of nasty SOB’s out there,” Jem texted back. “Forget about him. Wanna go see Inception on Friday?”

“You bet. I hear it’s good, and that Leo is great.”

“Sigh... what a dreamboat. I’d be happy to watch him read the phone book.”

“Well... forget about him... LOL... He’s dating that Israeli supermodel with the funny name.”

“Are we ever gonna be happy with a man?” Jem asked.

“No weepy crap, please.... Too tired.”

“K. Love U.”

“LU2.”

Before she turned in, Gina zipped an e-mail to Rodney, her brother-in-law. She attached the story and wrote, “What do you think? I figure you’re the expert.”

Two days later, Rodney e-mailed back: “WTF?”

“I know,” Gina typed. “I wasn’t sure what to do.”

“You don’t do anything. He’s just a loony writer.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. We have real fish to fry. How did you come across the story?”

“Jem met him on Plenty of Fish, it’s a dating site. He’s a copy editor for some publisher, I think Penguin, and he lives in Folsom.”

Rodney LOL’d: “And he tried to impress Jem with that story? No wonder he isn’t published. Talk about clueless. Did she meet him?”

“No. The story creeped her out and she bailed.”

“Haha. I can see why. Did you get the raise at work?”

“No, and I worked 30 extra hours this month.”

“Want me to send a couple of my boys to rough up ur boss? LOL.”

“Will you? Pretty please?”

“You’re funny. Are you bringing your world-famous deviled eggs to the barbecue on Saturday?”

“I have no choice...haha.. You won’t let me in the house unless I do.”

“U know me well, Gina. See you Sat. Amanda wants to show you her new American Doll.”

“Sigh. She’s my treasure, like my own child. Love 2 sis.”

“K.”

* * *

Rodney Green leaned back in his swivel chair and stared out the window of his fifth-floor office across from the California State Capitol in downtown Sacramento. Then he opened the Word file and read the story again. He shrugged. “Maybe I don’t get it but this is a really crappy story.”

He could live with that, but what concerned him beyond the blatant antipatriotic overtones was the writer’s detailed and accurate knowledge of heavily classified shipping and air routes leading to certain desolate and hostile locations. One got the sensation the writer had traveled those routes.

Rodney shrugged. The far better chance was that the writer, though an asshole, was harmless and innocent, had done his careful research on Google and had imagined the rest, but what if — as when the 9/11 terrorists used civilian U.S, flying schools and learned to fly commercial jets — no one connected the dots back then, or maybe a few had but they were shrugged off with a roll of the eyes. But what if...?

The academy had taught him to never leave a stone unturned, no matter how far-fetched the crime. Redundancy is good. Better safe than sorry. No one is ever chastised for being too cautious, especially after 9/11, the shining monolith and beacon to Murphy’s Paranoid Law: What can go wrong will go wrong. Cover thy arse.

Rodney grappled with his dilemma for the next three days, time enough for basic background checks on one Alan Abalian, a copy editor and writer of Armenian heritage living in Folsom, California. The man led a quiet and unremarkable life. His bank statements had several cash deposits made in Los Angeles, but the amounts were insignificant, never more than 400 dollars. The man filed taxes within the fair margin of cheating.

Rodney grudgingly came to admit that Abalian was a decent writer after reading several short stories published by tiny e-zines. Dean Koontz he wasn’t and would never be, but at least he wasn’t always boring. He had a story about a man who adopts a puppy only to give it away to a girl whose dog has died. The story was predictable and dipped in saccharine, but Abalian was also able to strike the universal chord of empathy.

About to resist Murphy’s Law and consider Abalian water under the bridge, Rodney returned to review the profile on Plenty of Fish, and again looked over the photo of Alan sitting on a rock overlooking the sea. This time he read the caption: Petra at Sunset.

“Oh hell,” said Rodney and then took an hour to uncover that, ten years earlier, the suspect, Alan Abalian had taken an extensive trip through the Middle East, including hostile cities like Cairo, Beirut, Ramallah, and Amman. Was it an innocent journey one takes to better know the planet? Probably, but Rodney quickly ascertained that probably wasn’t nearly good enough when pertaining to Murphy’s Law and his own derrière.

He typed: “Hi Melissa. Been checking out this case for a couple of days. Probably bogus but figured I’ll pass it on for review.”

Rodney Green attached the file and the story and clicked off the e-mail.

* * *

Proceed to part 3...