Prologue

The body had been left unceremoniously in the bar, in the booth where it had been found-upright, back to the wall, eyes glazed, and looking very ready for more to drink. The whiskey glass, part of the exhibit, remained half full on the table, within easy reach, daring someone to chug it.

The man strutted in front of his captive audience in the mountain lodge’s dining room, “Promoted to chief inspector because I always solve the crime. This is no exception, as you will see momentarily as we solve the murder of Tax Dollars.”

He paused while surveying his audience, which included many suspects. Nodding, the chief inspector said, “Just who murdered Tax Dollars? There are many suspects, no?” He continued his monologue, winding his right hand clockwise, the index finger extended, “But this time, it had to be one of you. No one else could get into this snowbound lodge perched next to this high mountain lake during the middle of such a blizzard.”

Betty Bush, no rookie at showcasing the star cluster beneath the Blond Nebula, smiled as she said, “I’m sure you’re always right,” while crossing and recrossing longer legs under a shorter skirt.

A woman dressed as a queen, taking the opposite tack, spoke with a fake southern accent, drawing out her syllables, “WTF? No one here flipping did it. What possible f’ing motive could any of us have had? We hardly frig’n knew him. Maybe that’s what you freak’n get for having a frick’n drink with a ficky fi’k’n ghost!” The queen was flanked on each side by her entourage, who appeared to be identical sisters, all four bobbling in unison at each of the queen’s pronouncements.

“I agree,” came next, in a Russian accent. “It wasn’t any of us.” Her associate sat next to her, silently staring off into space, her head apparently in an Oort cloud of her own making.

“Darlng Tortz here. You know clues? Or is it has no clue? You wouldn’t know a clue if it were taped to your nose,” she hissed as she started winking. “We don’t have to do anything- ever,” Tortz advised, as she motioned to herself and her companions. “I’m calling regional office right now.”

Chaft Yew added, “I will do an investigation. Wait until I get back to you with the report. Do nothing until then.”

“Yeah, well, my staff has already done the research,” Zariah Zorrino proclaimed. “My research shows his qualities were really bad. Had to be stopped.”

“Poison, perhaps,” the chief inspector suggested. “In his drink?”

Stacy Stasie opined, “I don’t have to tell you anything. I’ll get back with you when I feel like it; if I feel like it.”

“Who is he?” Phoenicia said, pointing to the easel. “Yeah,” said Cheka Crudela, “He smells bad. Smoking that cigar!”

The three proceeded to have a mutual meltdown, ranting about “stupid men.”

“That’s Good Fellow, my sketch artist, finishing his composite draft based on your witness statements,” the inspector was able to eventually explain. “He always travels with me.”

Another suspect, Gregory Sam Saugh, slinking, as if to avoid the light, reported, “Tax Dollars wasn’t a dues-paying union member. Why investigate?” He looked quizzically at Punchinello, as if awaiting instructions.

Punchinello, pointing at the chief inspector, shouted, “Seniority should be the only factor considered. Besides, I want to see that drawing!” He moved for the easel, his jerky movements looking like a marionette’s. Reaching the sketch, he turned it so all could see. It portrayed all the suspects in the room simultaneously bolting for various exits, engaging in all sorts of ill- mannered behaviors. Flying elbows were not the half of it. Nothing was off-limits-bumping, pushing, shoving, and trampling. They all looked fairly guilty.

_____

I thought I heard parting steps as I emerged from a somnolent haze, sure there had been others present, but finding no one. There was an odd thing in the room-an easel with a drawing with an illegible signature. The drawing appeared to show a scene from a movie: an inspector interrogating a roomful of suspects. What a funny dream, I thought. Who would ever want to abuse Tax Dollars…

Chapter 6

Abracadabra

(Wherein Social Security Managers Magically Get Promotions and Raises)

Sleight of Hand

Vickie Falls and I had gone to the magic show. Although the show was highly touted and had expensive tickets, the headliner’s name was not familiar. Nevertheless, the tickets were sold out, and the rather large auditorium in downtown Fillmore was jammed. The magician had asked for volunteers, and many had jumped at the opportunity to be a part of the show, Vickie among them. In fact, she was seated on the stage on a bench reserved for volunteers, having been selected for the final act, which involved sawing her in half. I was surprised at her courage, but knew her fascination with magic and performances, having been an amateur actress herself. It was not going well on stage, with trick after trick having failed. He did not find the right card. The dove did not fly from the handkerchief. The bunny did not drop from the hat, although something else did. In the next-to-the-last act, the magician endeavored to transport six volunteers to another dimension behind a curtain, which fluttered as if moved by magic. When the curtain opened, the volunteers all stood there smiling, not knowing whether the trick had worked or not. Either way, they had not been transported anywhere, looking as if their shoes had been glued to the stage. Falls, left alone on the volunteers’ bench, made a quick, nearly indiscernible nod. Her expressionless face pointed straight ahead while her stealthily left-shifted, narrowed blue eyes fixated on the magic-mangling magician.

The magician turned to the audience, bowed, and said, “We now move to the final act, in which, with the proper invocation of spells, I will saw this lady in half and reassemble her right before your very eyes,” sweeping his right arm and hand toward the volunteers’ bench, which was empty.

Falls had bolted, fleeing down the stairs into the audience toward the auditorium’s exit, moving faster than I had ever seen her.

“Wait!” shouted the magician. “Don’t go yet! You are just in the process of becoming a star!”

Falls flung an uncharacteristically vulgar two-word retort over her fleeing shoulders before bursting through the auditorium doors, speeding past gawkers in the lobby, and gaining the sanity of the street side of the building entrance. I rose and followed her into the night, unable to catch her for several miles.

Shazam

Health and Human Services (HHS) and Social Security (SSA) would finally go their separate ways. The parent organization, HHS, was losing its component, the SSA. Henceforth, the two would live apart. Social Security would become an independent agency, like the post office. The Secretary of HHS had been in charge of the SSA. The divorce had made the SSA commissioner the head of the SSA, including the disability program. Since HHS would no longer be in the chain of command, there was no one to protect us from the ensuing mischievous misconduct. The winds had been let loose from the bag, fierce winds carrying lust after full-time equivalents, pay grades, benefits, job ratings, titles, status, and honors. These winds continue to blow to this day, crashing many ships onto the rocks.

It took the SSA several years to devise a plan to manage the disability program following the separation from the former parent organization, HHS. The Social Security commissioner was free to develop plans as he saw fit. Their amateurish plan to refashion the management of the disability program would prove to be disastrous. When it was finally announced, we all became hipsters, even if against our wishes. This effort included a catchy new name for the reform program – catchy as they saw it: Hearing Process Improvement, HPI for short. The plan would be illustrated by a comic book and associated with funny slogans. “No more stove-piping,” I hooted at one of their slogans, which meant no delaying cases. “What is the cause-and-effect relationship?” I asked.