The Eden Roc

By C. Edward Samuels

The Garden of Eden has its snake. It preyed upon the weakness of temptation. Ancient Arabic mythology had its Roc, a gigantic bird of prey. The Garden of Eden, that we call Puerto Rico, was visited by the Eden Roc, a monster of greed and perversion that preys upon children!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477128718

C. Edward Samuels

C. Edward Samuels: FACTION: Fiction wrapped in fact. Fact: Evil exists on planet Earth and must be constantly fought. Fiction: We can fight it alone! All of us are fighters, but we often need someone in our corner. The author is a veteran of over thirty years in this struggle. Special Agent, Military Intelligence; Police Detective; Protective Service Team Supervisor and Federal Police Chief all can be found in his resume. Polygraph Examiner; PADI Master SCUBA Instructor and Secret Service certified Small Arms Instructor adds method to his madness - Vietnam Vet adds a degree of madness to his method. A formal education to the PhD Candidate level contributes less to his legitimacy than does his life experience. “My stories are intended to be an entertaining way of facing some of the shocking actualities of life on this third rock from the sun. I write about real good guys and gals: exemplary crime fighters that I have known. These are my heroes. I do not use their actual names simply because not one of them wants notoriety. ” Expect some coarse language, some base street humor, and both liberal and conservative viewpoints on many topics. “I have not attempted to create the great American novel. My stories are meant to entertain, while stirring reminders of duties intrinsic in this life –responsibility for your actions; give more than you take, live, laugh, love your heart out! C. Edward Samuels

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The Eden Roc

C. Edward Samuels

Copyright © 2012 by C. Edward Samuels.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2012910724

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4771-2870-1

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4771-2869-5

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4771-2871-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

In a Perfect World      December 1979—Aberdeen, Washington

Retrospect      December, 1979—Ocosta, Washington

’Tis the Season      December 1979—Montesano, Washington, to Andros Island, Bahamas

Fertilizer Hits the Ventilator      January 02, 1980—Bahamas, South and East

Estado Libre Asociado de Puerto Rico      January 1980—The Associated Free State of Puerto Rico

Guess Who’s Coming to Supper?      January 1980—Mayaguez, Puerto Rico

The Wizard of Odd      January, 1980—Isle de Vieques, Puerto Rico

Eden Tarnished      February 1980—Isla Culebrita, Spanish Virgin Islands

Pride and Prudence      February 1980—Bellezza di Roma

Dreams      February 1980—Same Time, Same Place

Let It Be      February 1980—Vieques to Cancun

Mount Odium      February 1980—Culebra, Puerto Rico

Snake Eyes!      February 1980—Hacienda Heaven’s Gate

Feathers in the Wind      February 1980—Puerto Rico and Isle of Youth, Cuba

Wise Men Say      February 19, 1980—Galveston, Texas

Eighteen and Counting      Early to Mid 1980—USA

Epilogue

Endnotes

Disclaimer

This novel is intended to be unadulterated fiction. Poetic license has been exorcized to avoid any direct correlation with actual events. Certain countries are properly named simply because, well, because they are there! Any famous personages assumed because the time and dates make them probable will be the reader’s own assumption. Places mentioned; oceans, mountains, etc., may be real places, and may be recognized. Effort has been made to offer a level of possibility, capable of cultivating believability. No effort has been made to produce a suspicion of reality. There may be similarities, real or imagined, to certain persons.

The sole purpose of this work is to entertain. It will be a success if it brings a reasonable degree of activity to the mind of the reader. If political innuendo is found in any part of this book, it will be the reader’s own interpretation of my, hopefully, fertile imagination, nothing more. None of the events described herein are offered as revelations of secrets of any kind. Any correlation to actual state or military operations, past or present, is purely coincidental.

Dedication

To my parents, who truly protected me.

To my wife, whose patience has been beyond my ability to describe.

To my kids, who have done without their father for so long.

To my Grandchildren, who barely know me.

To my older brother, Sam, who has been so supportive of me, through good times, and bad.

To my teachers, who put me on the right path.

To our military, God bless them all!

To my fellow police officers, Agents, and supervisors, who all made me look good.

To certain friends from High School, who have overlooked my many faults and still call me ‘friend.’

To Our Heroes

The United States Air Force

The United States Army

The United States Coast Guard

The United States Marine Corps

The United States Navy

Police Officers—Special Agents

Held to a higher standard than those they so selflessly serve

Teachers. Firefighters. Emergency Medical Personnel

I cannot imagine a world without them!

Dealers in child slavery and prostitution are the devil’s worst. Bringing them to some form of justice is the task in Eden Roc.

The Garden of Eden has its snake: it preyed upon the weakness of temptation. Ancient Arabic mythology had its Roc—a gigantic bird of prey! The Garden of Eden we call Puerto Rico was visited by the Eden Roc—a monster of greed and perversion that preys upon children!

In a Perfect World

December 1979—Aberdeen, Washington

Every general increase of freedom is accompanied by some degeneracy, attributable to the same causes as the freedom.

Charles Horton Cooley

Charles Horton Cooley (August 17, 1864-May 8, 1929)—American sociologist

Nothing is wrong! Everything is right! Search for the dream! Reach for the ethereal image of it! Pray that you capture it! Would that we could: what a wonderful world this would be!

Sit back and relax as best you can, I instruct. "I know you have not been through this before. This test, by rule of the American Polygraph Association and the Washington State Criminal Justice Training Commission, requires a minimum of ninety minutes to complete. I take no shortcuts. You will get your full ninety minutes and more if needed.

Mr. William R. Grayson, you are being tested today because you agreed to be tested every three months as a condition of your parole. I make no personal judgments, Mr. Grayson. The paperwork sent to me by the Washington State Probation and Parole Authority states that you have been diagnosed as a pedophile and sexual psychopath. I do not have access to your criminal case file regarding the details that warranted these charges. My interest is only in the results of this test. What I do have is a copy of the conditions of your parole. Your parole orders state, ‘No contact with a child under the age of sixteen years.’ No personal contact, no telephonic contact, no contact by mail, no contact! You know whether or not you have or have not violated these rules. I will also know when we are finished here today! Let me repeat that, Mr. Grayson. I will know the truth once I grade the charts resulting from the test you are about to take. It is to your benefit to be completely truthful when you answer during this test. Do you have any questions of me so far?

Grayson says, I’m a little confused. Then he asks, How can I be sent back to prison because I flunk a polygraph test? They are not even allowed in court these days!

I am fully aware that Grayson knows the laws concerning polygraph almost as well as I do, but the game must be played for all four quarters. I tell Grayson, A polygraph is not a great mystery. It is simply a tool used to document some very basic physiological impulses that we all have. I repeat for him verbatim what his lawyer told him, "You are being tested because you agreed to abide by the results of quarterly testing in order to avoid further incarceration! Washington is a stipulated polygraph state. Prior to your being paroled, you, your attorney, a parole board lawyer, and a judge agreed to stipulate to the results of these tests as a condition of your parole. You know now, as you knew then, follow the rules and you can stay out of prison.

"Mr. Grayson, my intention is to provide you with a fair and unbiased test. The law requires me to respect your right to refuse to take this test. If you refuse, your parole will be automatically revoked. That is not my idea, but I was not asked for my opinion when the law was written.

Respect my sincere good intentions, Mr. Grayson. Let me give you a valuable gift—my advice. Be honest on this test. Don’t play with it. Do not question it. Answer truthfully each and every question and you may go home today rather than back to McNeil Island Prison. The truth may actually set you free!

I am, among other various and sundry titles, a well-respected polygraph examiner—to my face at least. I attended training at a DOD¹-sponsored school in Vancouver, Washington, for no other purpose than to contribute to the defense of molested children. I have used these unique skills for other things, but catching pedophiles and sexual psychopaths is the fuel that drives my passion for the truth.

Frederick L. Grayson is a fifty-eight-year-old Caucasian male who has been paroled from McNeil Island Prison in Washington State. His original sentence of twenty years for numerous counts of juvenile rape is now being served under the supervision of a parole officer instead of a prison warden. His release from confinement is based upon a medical diagnosis of terminal liver cancer and, in my humble opinion, the blatant ignorance of true political posturing! But mine is never to question why but to do, or—oh well!

Grayson was once a respected leader of the local stevedore union in the Great Northwest. He was married to the daughter of a Presbyterian minister and heir to a substantial logging company fortune. After being convicted of repeated sodomy upon his adopted nine-year-old son, he lost all his social status, his wife and natural children, and whatever modicum of dignity he might have once possessed. Remaining out in society depends upon his ability to pass a polygraph test every three months indicating that he, number 1, has no contact of any kind with the victim; number 2, has never gone within one thousand yards of a school or playground; number 3, has no contact with a juvenile age sixteen or under; and number 4, is gainfully employed.

Today, during his very first polygraph test after being released, he breaks down in the middle of his interview and confesses that he may have called his victim several times. I stop the polygraph test and advise Grayson that my report to his parole officer will include that last statement. I do, in fact, advise the parole officer, Jerry Milligan.

Grayson is placed under arrest for parole violation, and after I clean and store my polygraph instrument and VCR equipment, I return to the sheriff’s office.

I have lost count of the Hail Marys, Lord’s Prayers, and sincere Acts of Contrition that I offer upon my mental escape from a Grayson’s insanity! Just being in the same county with a pedophile turns my stomach!

Hey, Keith, Janet Welsh, a department dispatcher, yells through the key slot as I enter via the rear doors in Montesano. Did you just arrest a guy named Grayson over at Probation and Parole?

I reply, Yes. Jerry Milligan revoked his parole. Why?

Janet advises me, We just got a report of ‘shots fired’ at Grayson’s trailer out in Ocosta!

Damn it! Damn it! I knew Grayson acted despondent, but so do most people who are on their way back to prison. Advise responding units that Grayson was in custody when I saw him thirty minutes ago. Milligan may be in trouble! I’ll be en route as backup! With that, I return to my patrol car and head for the Ocosta Mobile Home Park, code three!

Ocosta is a mail drop located on the southern shore of the harbor of Captain Gray’s discovery in 1792. It sets about halfway between Aberdeen and Westport on Highway 105. Aside from a few well-scattered homes in the general area, including my A-frame just down a dirt road—a work in progress—the Ocosta Mobile Home Park boasts fifteen trailers and forty residents. This represents the majority of the citizenry of the immediate area. I had strongly suggested to Parole Officer Milligan that he protest Grayson’s living here because of a highly dysfunctional neighboring family that I suspect of child abuse. I have not yet been able to prove my suspicion beyond reasonable doubt, so Jerry’s hands are tied. The rope that strangles our criminal justice system is strong!

Upon my arrival, I find South Beach resident deputy Paul Winsal leaning against his cruiser in front of Grayson’s trailer. He is taking a written statement from a neighbor, Midge Millay. She is one-half of the family of my concerns in this place. Paul already has crime scene tape up around the front of the mobile home. As I approach on foot, Paul advises me that both Milligan and Grayson are dead inside the trailer. He adds, Looks like Milligan brought him here to pick up some personals before the trip to McNeil Island. He screwed up! Our careless ex-parole officer has a .45-caliber hole in his head to justify his ignoring basic police procedures! Grayson has one in his temple! It’s going to take all the king’s horses and all of the king’s men to put these Humpties back together again! After a few of these, you get callous as a defense against pure shock.

Coroner John Beditch exits the mobile home about an hour after Paul’s poetic initial report, and he says to me, "This is an obvious homicide/suicide. Keith, I saw an open ledger of some kind in there. It’s in plain view, and it has photos of nude young boys and girls in the two pages that I saw.

Detective Sergeant Lane Yomins and two of his unit are here now, and I advise him of the coroner’s information. Telephonic search warrant applications are not yet popular here in the land of crab and honey. So what do you think, mi capitán? Lane has become a good friend since my transfer here from St. Louis County PD. He loves to remind me, however, that this is not the big city beat that I came from.

Because I know that our friendship will weather the storm, I reply, Screw you, big ears! Just because your old man is chairman of the Board of County Commissioners don’t mean that your poop is clean! I have been the next in line at an outhouse when you evacuated some of your prior night’s fun! I happen to know that your feces emanate a putrid aroma! What say we get ourselves a legal license to pilfer this wreck before I throw up from just thinking about it?

Lane never laughs! He does, however, have a way without words! He has a grin that is the envy of every aspiring district attorney who has ever confronted it. His tiny lip adjustments, subtle as they may be, scream implication! Mess with me, one curl may say! Go ahead, mess with me! another slight curl asks. I’ve got your—right here, you big leather dumb f—k! Let your mind run free on that one! If any wool has ever been pulled over Lane’s eyes, it came from one hell of a sheep!

In 1979 in the Great Northwest, to the best of my knowledge, a search warrant has never been so quickly issued! Child sexual abuse is taboo here in the land of self-professed Paul Bunyans! This is a land of men, big men, and real men! These are men by any imaginable definition of the word: Loggers that defy nature’s worst collecting the fir, hemlock, and precious old-growth cedar of west central Washington. This is also the home of the commercial fishermen and crabbers that brave Neptune’s mighty wrath in the Bering Sea. One of the largest tribes of true American Indians has sovereign states right over the very northwest corner of the county. These are pure-blooded descendants of Native American warriors! All these men among men are certainly above abusing young children! Sure they are—if only!

Because of my earlier contact with both Grayson and Milligan, Detective Yomins clears it with my shift sergeant for me to be assigned to the investigation. I volunteer to return to Montesano to seek a search warrant. After the obligatory arguing the obvious with an assistant prosecutor, an affidavit of probable cause is prepared, returns are attached, and I go in search of a judge.

Usually during normal court hours, the judge of the county district court reviews and approves warrants. Today, because of the involvement of a state employee, the ex-parole officer Milligan, I am sent to the superior court for warrant application review. Gray’s Harbor has three superior court judges of general jurisdiction. Their chambers are located on either side of a rather imposing great hall inside a true piece of Western history. They are accessed via beautiful, curved, old dark oak banister stairways. Visiting the super court judges can be pretty intimidating for a simple cop. Today I am duly daunted.

The Honorable Julius Gerard is required to take a ten-minute recess to review my warrant application. That’s a little like asking someone in free fall to return to the plane! Gruff, I’ve heard him called. Picture a giant man in a black dress—OK, don’t! When he removes the robe, his informal Lee Riders and plaid shirt do little to help put me at ease! Sit down, Deputy, you make me nervous! he hisses. I make you nervous? I think to myself. Then he simply holds out his right hand, palm up, and wiggles his fingers. This is a signal for me to give him the paperwork. No problemo, mi amigo! In less than three minutes, he looks up over his half-glasses and asks me to stand, raise my right hand, and swear to the contents of the affidavit. I do. He puts his flowing black dress back on, and I’m on my way back to Ocosta! I am now finished waiting to inhale!

We find hair, teeth and eyeballs, pieces of brain, bone, and blood—lots of blood, some bone, not so much brain! These are the commonly found decorations adorning a room recently remodeled by an army-issue Colt .45! Poor Milligan apparently forgot the most basic of street rules: Number 1, never allow anyone in your custody to go anywhere, not even the bathroom, without you closely monitoring him! Number 2, if you make the conscious decision to break rule number 1, find yourself a comfortable chair, sit down, loosen all tight belts, ties, and buttons. Now spread your legs wide apart, bend over as far as you can, and kiss your ass good-bye! Milligan had, for whatever insane reason, chosen number 2.

Sherlock Holmes will not be needed inside Grayson’s trailer to figure out what happened. While the misguided Milligan sat in a secondhand Kmart recliner, Grayson walked up to a thirdhand chest of drawers. This piece of designer furniture is just inside his bedroom door, which is behind the Kmart recliner in the living room, where Milligan apparently chose to die. Grayson opened the top drawer, removed his old .45, and blew the ill-advised parole officer’s face all over the little TV that sits against the opposite wall. Powder fragments from gunshot wounds, called stippling, clearly indicate that the gun was within one to two inches from the back of Milligan’s head. Next, without moving from behind the recliner, Grayson put the hungry end of the old Colt against his right temple and absolutely obliterated the velveteen likeness of Elvis hanging on the wall to the immediate left of the entry door! (That lack of respect for the king, in and of itself, would be a felony in Arkansas!) There is little doubt that lab analysis will confirm the blow-back² on the gun barrel will be from both of the deceased.

At 3:45pm, our dispatcher advises that a team from the Washington State’s Attorney’s Office is en route. They are requesting that the scene be left undisturbed until they have a chance to photograph it. Detective Yomins and I shrug our shoulders. This is our jurisdiction, thus our problem! However, out of professional courtesy, we comply. Lane advises the dispatcher that the coroner has already removed the bodies, but we will hold the scene integrity for State. While we wait, I take 35 mm stills, and Lane records the scene on VCR.

The album that the coroner told me about is open on a round table in the tiny space inside this mobile home that is dedicated to eating. I put on plastic gloves and quickly leaf through the first few pages. Much more than nudity is documented in full living color! Absolute moral degradation is displayed in the pages of this collection. Perhaps even more disturbing are the shelves lined with VCR tapes along the rear wall of the living room. Thankfully, experience has taught me to include video equipment in the warrant. The raw potential for what is recorded on these tapes is gut-wrenching!

Lane and I both smell the unmistakable odor of marijuana. In the very back bedroom, several pots of cannabis are growing under halogen lights. Not that one necessarily correlates with the other, but in the several dozen cases I have been involved in, I have yet to search a pornography crime scene that does not have the psychoactive plant product present. The reverse is not true! Some, not many, but some grow operations are without pornographic material present.

The State team arrives at 5:15pm and properly requests permission to enter our crime scene. Lane hands them hospital-style plastic gloves and shoe coverings and says, Gentlemen, ma’am, please do not touch anything. He then documents the exact time and method of entry along with their name, rank, and DSN³. I hand Lane a hand-drawn rough diagram of the inside of the trailer, and he marks their path through the mess inside. These State people are some of the good guys, but failure to ensure the integrity of a crime scene has brought about the acquittal of many a guilty perpetrator. In order to accurately validate the reconstruction of a crime scene months later in open court, you may be required to prove whom a hair belongs to or doesn’t belong to. Even good guys lose a hair now and then at a crime scene!

State departs at 6:20 PM with our solemn promise to hand deliver reports and duplicate photographs of our scene processing to them. Now we start our tedious and time-consuming CSI⁴ chores. Unlike the TV shows, we have no curvaceous blondes, instant DNA results, and no redheaded version of Sherlock Holmes with all the answers.

It is 12:45 AM of the following day when Lane sends Detective Mike Behn to the Aberdeen Denny’s Restaurant with department vouchers for a hot meal for four. At 1:55 AM we all move outside to enjoy barely warm French dip sandwiches and barely palatable soggy French fries. What is it with the French anyway? We all think, Thank you, Lord, for giving Mike the foresight to bring several dozen catsup packets so that we at least have a degree of recognizable flavor!

Cold coffee tops off the gourmet cuisine and magnifies the growing rumble in our stomachs. We seriously consider chewing some of the Styrofoam from the carryout containers just to help neutralize the overabundance of acids. By consensus, we shun the temptation. We fear that the foam may bind us up, thus making it difficult to eventually rid ourselves of the greasy poison within. We wouldn’t want that! We return to the other gruesome task at hand.

With all the VCR tapes properly tagged and boxed, we turn to dusting for fingerprints. Because of the obvious evidence of child pornography, we thoroughly dust every smooth surface available to us for fingerprints. Many of the photographs in the ledger were taken right here in this trailer. No names are written by the children’s pictures. The prints will be critical in identifying them.

For some reason, I continually return to the album. In my near-exhausted condition, it takes a while to sink in, but finally I realize what has been bothering me. There are phone numbers written under each photograph. Not one of them is a Washington State area code! The same number appears under pictures involving different children. After looking at it so often that I see it in my mind’s eye, even when I walk away from it, it hits me! Like numbers appear with like children; for example, 202 is a Washington, DC, code. It is written under every eight—to ten-year-old blond and blue-eyed boy. The code 305 is from the Miami, Florida, region. It is found next to every brown-haired, brown-eyed girl in the ten—to fourteen-year-old range. The code 325 is a Central Texas exchange. It seems to denote very young redheaded boys and/or girls.

I yell out, Lane, come here! Tell me what you see here. I leaf through a few pages and point out the numbers and descriptions.

Lane is much brighter than me. In short order, he points to titles at the top of the page: Old Enough to Pee—Old Enough for Me, Bleeders Are Doers, The Closer the Bone, the Sweeter the Meat!

Can you believe this shit? he almost cries out. "This asshole is cataloging these kids for specific clientele groups! These sick bastards