The Not So Charming Prince

Once Upon A Time

Once upon a time, little girls grew up on stories of knights on white horses, sweeping them off their feet and away from trouble. That’s when we heard of Charming Princes and Sleeping Beauties. Even Snow White, unconscious and vulnerable, remained protected by seven maladjusted little men friends who did not molest her.

In the childlike world of little girls’ minds, girls were to be cherished, protected, honored, respected.
Their men would take a sword or a bullet for their women. Men were expected to support women while they had and raised babies.

Once upon that same time, little boys wrestled and played with toy guns. They grew up on stories of Cowboys and Indians, soldiers, trucks, mud, driving, being fathered and being fathers one day.

Then somewhere along the line the world shifted on its axis.

The Beaver Cleavers of the world were over-run by Eddie Haskells. The perfect wife was more of the Stepford variety.

In my lifetime, the divorce rate and the marriage rate squared off at 50/50. Now, there are more single people on this planet than married or committed couples.

At the same time, a new generation of young women decided being a single parent was cool.

And besides being perceived as cool, being a single mother meant income at the expense of the dad. And the state. One seed from an unsuspecting man could turn into a baby and an income.

In Washington State, if a single mother can get a man to live with her a child for a requisite period of time, that man will be required to pay child support even if they aren’t the “baby daddy.”

When The Bubble Burst

Meantime, so many us older married folks rode an Internet bubble, which generated a generation of entitled kids, who have still not grown up.

We spent so much of our new-found money on our children to keep them busy and happy while we pursued our hedonistic monetary pleasures.

We gave our kids whatever they asked for while we spent big bucks on fancy cars, houses, vacations, the stock market, refinances for more spending. We believed our jobs would never change. Life would go on as it always did. We never thought the rivers of green would dry up.
We never expected the Internet bubble to burst.
And then, it did.

The economy tanked.
Everything started drying up.
Then things got blown up. Planes into buildings, wars, deaths, beheadings live on the web, our nation split into two colors, red and blue.

Our kids became addicted to video games and desensitized to violence. They sat more, exercised less. The Internet was an extension of their being, texting became talk. The college funds they took for granted were no longer there.

Mortgages payments were running late, cars were repossessed, construction halted, layoffs ensued.

TV spots for tobacco, which had been pulled off the air, were replaced by ads from drug companies with offers for every pill imaginable with side effects that can kill you.

Suffice to say, things have changed a lot since many of us here were kids. And right now, the challenges we all face most right now are two-fold: health and money.

The health part I won’t address here. The money part I will.

Because there are whole mot more murders happening, a whole lot more suicides, a whole lot more criminal cases and a whole lot more civil cases occurring over money today than I remember in the many years of my investigating.

People who do not have money want it. And will resort to all means to get it.

It’s easy to say money can’t buy you happiness. Though I do not agree. In my opinion, whoever said that was not broke.

When you don’t have enough money to keep your power on, a roof overhead, to not have your car repossessed, to see a doctor, money is the both the imperative and the immediate answer.
But not, the ultimate answer.

Some people, who have enough money, are obsessed with wanting more. That’s why there are so many murders over insurance policies and undisclosed debts.

Which leads me… and now you… to the case in point:

Meth, Murder and Mayhem

So I was in one of my favorite hangouts for supper on the Seattle side of the water, where I work. That was many moons ago, when I did stupid things even though I knew better, like have a martini and drive home.

This one place I went to was like a diner from my East Coast days. It had the same décor, the same feel for at least 25 years. When I felt like a major unwind and desire for comfort food at the end of a rough day, I would head there. I’d been going there more than a decade.

Most people in the restaurant were older folks with white or blue hair, canes and hearing aids. They had been coming there for much longer than me and I always felt young in their company.

The waitresses knew everyone by name; they all got to know me. Ultimately, word spread that I was an investigator.

Every waitress had something she needed help on.
One in particular, brought me my martini and then said, “I need your help”

“What's up?” I asked back.

“My sister’s husband killed her,” she said. “ I need you to prove it.”

The restaurant was slow because I’d always stop by early, happy hour, 4:00. She stood by my table; pen and order pad in hand and told me her story.

I will spare you the all the details. Because the devil is in those detail... the devil being the sister’s boyfriend who shot her up with an overdose of two drugs, Heroin and Meth.
It’s a very long story.
He claimed she shot herself up and was not around when it happened.
There had been prior domestic abuse police calls from the sister.

The sister’s husband, the alleged killer wanted the insurance policy. The waitress and her family did not want him to have a cent of it.

Just as I began to wonder whether this would be one of one of those stories that remained a story; or turned into a real paying case, the waitress leaned closer to me and whispered,

“I only work here because I love this place. Great people, good exercise. I don’t need money, my family is wealthy. We’ll pay whatever it costs for you to help us stop this guy from getting her insurance money and getting him locked up.”

I asked her for a summary of the facts while I sipped my martini and felt the fog descend on my weary head. I wasn’t taking notes, just listening. I made it clear to her that she was not a client yet.

I gave her my card, and said if I thought I could help, we would meet and talk later, away from the environment were in.

And so the story tumbled out of her mouth like the hundreds of stories I have heard over my many years on this planet.

In this version, he, the bad guy, married her sister within one month of meeting her. He courted her like there was no tomorrow and drove her to Vegas where he convinced her to let Elvis marry them.

He was Prince Charming on the outside.
A scumbag on the inside.
She only saw the Prince Charming because scumbags don’t usually show their scum side until after they have their targets hook, line, sinker and in the boat. Then it’s only a matter of time until the club comes out.

The scumbag-turned-husband moved into the house her sister owned, got his name on all the bank accounts, bought a Harley, Corvette, partied all the time. The he introduced the waitress’s sister to the Meth.

The rest became a most predictable history.

She was on Meth. He was on Meth. Sometime they added a little smack/heroin to the equation.
They drained the bank account. Her bank account.
He cheated on her with a lot of other women.
They fought and fought.
There was domestic violence, he hit her and she hit him. She got a restraining order against him. He got one against her. They separated. They made up.

Then one day, they got both their respective restraining orders legally unrestrained.

Things were good for 6 months. Next thing… the waitress’ sister is dead. He requested the life insurance two days later. He claimed the house she bought. He was going for everything, the waitress told me. He cleaned out her bank accounts, sold all her stocks. He had all her passwords, security codes and social security number.

So now police were involved, but not enough evidence for arrest. There were probate attorneys; a civil attorney and they needed a private investigator too.

I told her how sorry I was for her sister’s death (the sister was 28.) I told her I would need to work through her attorney on a case like this one. I told her she could expect a long and difficult road ahead and no guarantees on where it would end.

When I told her people kill people everyday and get away with it, I could see the surprise in her eyes. She stopped talking and said she’d be back; she had another table to take care of.

As I watched her carry that tray to the table of four near mine, I am not sure if her foot hit something or her brain did. But down she and the whole plate -filled tray went. She dropped on the floor. Her face was flushed.
She glanced my way, embarrassed as other waitresses hurried to help her.

I smiled at her, gave her the okay sign with my fingers. She smiled weakly back.

From that point on, I did what I could for her and her family. Which in this case, was enough to get some information to the probate court and the insurance company and the police case file to put a halt to any distribution of funds to the ex-husband.

The family ultimately won in probate. They got the insurance policy and possession of her house because it was in her name not his.

Eventually, the whole thing settled down because of the Meth the ex-husband continued to do.

Meth burns holes in your brain that never go away. Without a doubt, it will kill you if you do not end up on rehab or a jail that gets you to a rehab that works.

The ex-husband, still a Meth Head, shot and killed a buddy he was arguing with six months after he was evicted from the house. He is now in prison… still a decent looking guy on the outside, with a devil on the inside. I saw his picture. He writes to ladies on Prison Pen Pals.

And he’s up for parole in another three years.

I can’t help but wonder about the next woman he will prey on when he is released.