The Nymphomaniac, Nancy Reagan and China Oil. What?!

(What a title huh? I have changed some of the names here because people have been killed over this mess!)

Meanwhile, an evening shift in the 1980s…

     Typing a report at my desk, My Detective Sgt Howard Kelly walked up and stood in the open door frame of my office.

     “Whatcha doin?” he asked.

     The question was rhetorical, because I knew we were going somewhere.

     “I am…” 

      “Let’s go for a ride,” he said and walked out of sight.

     “Ooookay…,” I muttered, getting my jacket. Many of our misadventures started off this way.

     On the parking lot we got into his Chevy pick-up, not his sedan, he put on his cowboy hat and off we drove, but randomly. He turned on his handheld police radio and his CB radio, keeping us in touch with HQ.

     “I have to tell somebody about this,” he said. “It’s big. It’s secret.”

     Big? Secret? Nowadays, any adult with a mature, open, unbiased mind knows that the United States, Russia, China, and smaller countries have been screwing around with each other’s countries. Even the o’ revered, great one of all times, star-child himself, Obama was learning from tapped Euro leaders, phone calls, messing with Israeli politics, colluding with Russia over nukes, etc. Can't name them all here. This kind of business has been going on forever. But those are big issues. What about bizarre, crazy issues? Crazy, concocted influences? And folks still get killed over them. In Howard Kelly’s truck that night, he told about a bizarre one.

Femail-Spies

     “The Texas Rangers and the FBI called me into Weldon’s office two weeks ago,” Kelly began. “You know Congressman ______ __________ ?”

     “Yeah,” I said. He was kind of a big deal in DC leadership. Texan. Democrat.

     “There are some people in Dallas, who want to hook up with a big Chinese oil company. Big bucks. Big money. You know that ain’t gonna happen with the Chi-Coms. But they want to figure out a way to do this. It’s the ________ Oil company.”

     “Okay,” I said. Not a familiar name to me.

     “They are pushing to get this deal done on many levels. One trick they are using? Trying to get Nancy Reagan to convince Ronnie that the Chinese are safe and okay to worth with, and push this oil deal.”

     “Well how are they gonna’ do that?” I asked.

     “They want to plant a maid, an assistant to Nancy Reagan into the White House.”

     “They…do?”

     "They have contacted Congressman _________ . They have asked him to vouch for a woman for that job. Plant her in and work on Nancy, get Nancy convinced, about it all. Then if….IF…the topic comes up with the president, Nancy will talk up the deal. The Congressman is in on it, and is pushing for her to be hired.”

     I chuckled. What a long, long shot!

     “One problem. The woman they chose? Alice Jones. She’s a real fast talker and charming and all, but she’s a nut. And she’s a nympho.”

     “A…nympho,” I repeated.

     “Yeah. As the deal was being cut, Alice was running around here screwing about 6 guys at the same time.”

     “Okay,” I said, wondering where I fit in all this?

     “The Rangers and the FBI think she has told all 6 of those guys about the plan. One of them told the Feds. And the Feds told the Rangers.”

     “Then told you. Okay.” And now me, still wondering.

     “Well, one of the guys she told? Was a local veterinarian. Horse doctor out on Highway 318.”

     “There’s a vet missing…” I said.

     “Yeah, Doc Reed Smith.”

     “Him? It’s an unassigned case. He’s just gone. His wife said he packed up his bags, took off in his truck. Yeah. No one is working the case because it looks like he took off.”

     “He’s on the run.”

     “Huh.”

     “He’s running. For some reason. Some threat. Over this.”

     “What about the other five guys?”

     “They don’t live in our city. They didn't tell me about the other guys.”

     “Okay.”

     We drove around the quiet, dark streets of downtown.

     “What will we do?” I finally asked. This is usually the point where I am told where I fit in. 

     “Nothing. Nothing right now. But I want you to know all this. I don’t think one person in our PD should know all this. So now you know. Just keep your ears open for anything that sounds connected to this.”

     Nothing! Whew! I sez to myself.

Back at the station, I pulled the missing persons report. About three weeks prior, a patrolman documented the sudden disappearance. Doc Smith acted real funny, scared, packed his bags and left the wife and daughters. Our admin did not assign the case because there was no apparent crime. A BOLO was dispatched on NCIC. Just one. And that was that.

That was that. Until two weeks later at my home. I opened the local newspaper to read a story about our local citizen, a veterinarian Doctor Reed Smith. He was shot and killed in a motel out Amarillo way, the previous night.

     “Damn!” I declared.

     “What?” my wife asked.

     “A dead guy. Too complicated to explain,” I said.

 The next day at work, I walked into Kelly’s office, closed the door and sat down. Howard leaned back in his chair and looked at me over his reading glasses.

     “What about the other five guys?” I asked. We knew what we were talking about.

     “Not our problem. Ranger problem. FBI problem. They live all over north Texas.

     “Any leads out west?”

     “Nope. He was living in motels. He was shot dead in his room. Looks like a hit.”

     I nodded. I knew the shooting was not our case either.

     “They call us for any background on the Doc?”

     “I referred them to the FBI.”

     “Oh, I’ll be they were thrilled to hear that,” I said.

me and h kelly_medium

Me and Howard Kelly, yesteryear and last year

 

About three weeks later, Howard Kelly and I were working the same shift and called me on the radio.

     “Eight-nine (me).”

     “Eighty-nine, go ahead.”

     “Meet me behind the Wells Fargo Bank.”

     “Ten-four.”

     I did. We drove up, the usual car-door-to-car-door style, meet.

     “You remember that Alice Jones, the woman they tried to plant with Nancy Reagan?” he asked.

     “Yeah. The so-called nympho spy.”

    “The Feds just told me this. They have been follerin’ her. She went to the funeral home here where Doc Smith's body was taken.”

     “Yeah.”

     “Haaa-ha. Well, get this…she went in after hours and visited one of the directors. She paid the director to visit the Doc Smith corpse. She paid him to leave her alone with the corpse for a while.”

     “Uh-oh,” I said.

     “Yeah. She had sex with the corpse. The Feds saw it.”

     “I think that goes a bit beyond nymphomania,” I said.

    “Ya think?”

     "They report the funeral home yet?” I asked. The State of Texas is very anal retention about the rules and regs of funeral homes. I knew the home. I also knew weird things happen in all these homes, but that’s another few stories.

     “Nope. Probably won’t. It’ll blow the surveillance. Maybe someday?”

     And we both laughed, because man…we have a sick sense of humor and that shit was off-the-charts, weird.

And life for us went on from there. We never heard another word about this. Alice Jones was never hired by the White House. No one was ever arrested for Doc Smith’s murder. There was never a Chi-Com, oil deal cut with the Dallas company. The famous congressman died in a car crash years later.

     Who would imagine such a plot? And how such a gamble might pay off, that Alice could coyly, talk up China and oil with Nancy, and then Nancy would talk to Ronnie about this subject? What I learned was how small and how low and conniving, how multi-level, these conspirators have been, are, and will be in good ol’ politics and it doesn’t matter what form of government is in play, commies, socialists or republics. All this modern Russia-Trump crap just cracks me up. Like this is new in any way?

     Oh, and never hire a nymphomaniac, necrophiliac as an undercover spy. Just saying…

Hock's email is HockHochheim@ForceNecessary.com

Enjoyed this story? Get Hock's two police story books…

PoliceCoversTestMasterMedium

 Get the paperback books

 Get the E-books