Ellis Stockwell also came with the property.
He’s the former owner, a retired Customs and Border Protection officer who lost the property in foreclosure. After retiring from CBP about ten years ago, he started a security consulting firm that quickly grew into a multimillion-dollar international operation. Ellis says he had a lot of luck growing the business, but I suspect the fourteen-hour days and seven-day work weeks had something to do with it.
Within four years he was living well. He had Big Perch custom-built, bought a Corvette, and managed to find a new wife along the way. That would be Vanessa, twenty years his junior, with a champagne-and-diamonds appetite.
Almost immediately Ellis began constructing Little Perch for Vanessa’s divorced mother—the two were inseparable. No one was more surprised than Ellis when two years later Vanessa emptied the business bank account and various investment accounts to the tune of $1.7 million. Hiding the money in a series of offshore accounts while Ellis was on a business trip, she hopped a flight to Cincinnati and shacked up with some guy she knew in college. They’d been Facebook friends for three years after reconnecting online. Go figure.
Ellis returned to an empty house. All Vanessa left behind was a single cup, a single plate, and a single knife, fork, and spoon. And one half-used roll of toilet paper in the guest bathroom.
The business was ruined.
Ellis was ruined.
When the bank foreclosed I must have visited the property a half dozen times before making an offer. On every visit, there was Ellis, still tending the flower beds, pressure-washing the sidewalks, touching up the paint. He was always cheerful, despite his troubles. He still has his federal retirement, which is substantial, but you could tell he loved the property.
On my first visit we talked a little; on other visits we talked a little more. He was intelligent, interesting, and had an endless supply of seemingly far-fetched stories. His bushy mustache and strong British accent seemed to fit him—though I remember wondering how it was that a British citizen could work for U.S. Customs and Border Protection. Six months later I learned that Ellis wasn’t British at all, he was born and raised in Philadelphia. He just likes the British accent.
He’s odd like that.
In the end we came to an arrangement that served both our purposes. I let him live in Little Perch rent-free and he looks after the property, making repairs when needed and keeping the landscaping under control.
You would have thought I’d given him back all the money his ex-wife had stolen from him, he was that happy. It’s been four years and I have no regrets; he’s as good as family now … bizarre, odd, sometimes Dr. Seuss–like family, but family nonetheless.
Jimmy gives me the quick rundown on the Buerger case as I shave and then scrounge a clean suit from my brother’s closet. Jens is five years my junior, but we’re about the same build—okay, he’s a couple inches longer in the torso, but other than that we’re mostly the same.
Jens is a postgraduate student at Western Washington University. I asked him once why he wanted to study anthropology and he said, “Because people are funny.” I couldn’t agree more, though he meant in the queer and unusual way, whereas I think people are funny in the dark and sinister way.
I like having him stay with me.
I’m gone half the time anyway, so someone might as well enjoy the view, the hot tub, the fireplace, the multiple large-screen TVs, the game room, and the endless flow of college girls that seem drawn to the place … though I’m pretty sure Jens has something to do with the latter.
Finding a striped gray jacket and matching slacks, I dress. Jimmy’s telling me how pissed Matt Buerger was when he found out Ann was indeed dead. By that time he’d already been Mirandized and had given a very detailed written statement summarizing how he’d planned the attack for weeks (something us law enforcement types call premeditation, which is usually redeemable for copious amounts of high voltage or a needle in the arm and some bye-bye juice). He even admitted to failing on a previous attempt when he lost his nerve as Ann jogged by.
When I ask why Buerger had a beef with his wife, Jimmy’s response comes as no surprise: The self-indulgent weasel had a girlfriend on the side and didn’t want the hassle and monetary loss of a divorce. It’s so much easier to pitch the wife over a cliff. With any luck his prison girlfriend will be a three-hundred-pound butt-squeezer named Meat, who likes sharing his boy toy with the other guys on the cell block.
Jimmy blathers on about some new case law we need to read up on, and a possible serial killer in Tulsa that may end up on our plate.
I like Tulsa—except for the weather. It doesn’t really matter, though; as Jimmy often says, “We’re not tourists.” Jet in, jet out. Wheels up, wheels down. Get the job done as quickly as possible, and come home. Then do it all over again somewhere else.
“I’m good to go,” I announce as I swing the jacket on, then I remember something. “Actually, I need three minutes.” Grabbing my backpack, I scoot to the master bedroom as Jimmy looks with disdain at his watch.
Digging out the Canon PowerShot S95, I plug it into the computer and quickly download the single image from the disk. Thirty seconds of trimming, sizing, and correcting in Photoshop, and I send it to the printer, which kicks out a beautiful, sharp, yet terrible photo. With scissors in hand, I cut the image from the photo paper, leaving a five-by-seven picture.