Category Archives: Uncategorized

DR. DEATH—THE KILLER SURGEON

Dr. Death sounds like a horror story title. In the case of Christopher Daniel Duntsch, it’s a true horror story. Christopher Duntsch was an American doctor and specialized as a spinal surgeon—a deadly spinal surgeon—who killed three of his patients and maimed 31 others during a two-year span. Today, Duntsch is serving a life imprisonment term in a Texas prison, and he’s now the subject of an NBC Peacock netstreaming series featuring some big-name, A-List actors like Alex Baldwin, Christian Slater, and Kelsey Grammer. The series is rightly titled “Dr. Death.”

The story of this psychopath with a scalpel is shocking. But what’s equally shocking is how the “medical system” allowed this monstrous medical menace to operate on completely innocent and critically ill people. It was no secret in medical circles that Duntsch was a clear and present danger to patients. In fact, it was peers within the system who nicknamed him Dr. Death, but few did anything about it.

The Dr. Death tragic story is that of major systemic failure. It’s a common theme in true crime stories, and there’s nothing truer than the tragic damage done by Christopher Duntsch to unwitting patients. It’s a story of incompetence. It’s a story of cover-ups. And it’s a story of corporate greed within the medical business community.

To understand how Christopher Duntsch turned into Dr. Death, it’s necessary to know his background. Let’s first look at Duntsch’s upbringing and his training before examining the carnage created by turning Dr. Death—The Killer Surgeon—loose in the hospital O.R.

Christopher Duntsch was born in 1971 in Montana. He was raised in Memphis, Tennessee in a stable, middle-class, evangelical Christian home. Duntsch was an average student and sports player. However, Duntsch was driven in his football interest and, despite his lack of natural ability, he trained far harder than other players and made the college team when he enrolled at Colorado State University. One of his teammates later said, “Chris lacked talent but he worked harder than the rest of us.”

Duntsch carried this drive back to Memphis when he was accepted into medical school at Memphis State University. He completed the ambitious MD-PhD program then entered the neurosurgery residency program at the University of Tennessee. Following graduation as a doctor at U of T, Duntsch completed a spine fellowship at the Semmes-Murphy clinic in Memphis.

A later investigation determined Duntsch only juniored in around 100 minimal-invasive surgeries when the typical neurosurgeon completes 1,000 during their residency and before they’re considered competent to lead a surgery. Cracks were obvious during Duntsch’s training time which was plagued with drug use and a suspension period served in a rehab facility. One colleague later testified that Duntsch regularly used LSD and cocaine at night and then go to work performing spinal operations in the morning.

During his university years, Christopher Duntsch married Wendy Renee Young with whom he had two children. Duntsch also racked up a half-million in debt and a drug dependency. Then he formulated a fraudulent curriculum vitae. In a 12-page, single-spaced document, Christopher Duntsch looked eminently qualified as a neurosurgeon. One, of many, false claims was  stating he’d graduated magna cum laude from a prestigious doctorate in microbiology.

One of the reasons Duntsch focused on neurosurgery was its lucrative salary of approximately $600,000 per year. It’s also why so many medical facilities conveniently overlooked his background checks—neurosurgery was their most lucrative (ie profitable) division. Neurosurgeons were in short supply and corporate greed ultimately trumped patient safety while Christopher Duntsch preyed on poor people propped up by pools of money. A later investigation determined the average cost of a US spinal surgery exceeded $75,000 with much of that being profit for the hospital.

Duntsch’s first solo surgical employment was at Baylor Scott & White Medical Center in Plano, Texas. This was in 2011. He was under the watchful eye of a very experienced neurosurgeon, Dr. Randall Kirby, who was immediately suspicious of Duntsch’s surgical ability despite Duntsch’s boasting and alleged credentials. Dr. Kirby later testified that, “Dr. Duntsch had no business in the operating room, and he could not wield a scalpel.”

After five majorly botched operations, the hospital allowed Duntsch to resign rather than be fired. The later investigation learned the Baylor hospital administration feared Duntsch would win a wrongful dismissal lawsuit if forcibly dismissed that could cost the institution millions of dollars. This deal was devastating to future Duntsch patients at other facilities because the hospital could not report Dr. Duntsch to the National Practitioner Data Bank (NPDB) which kept easy-access records of flagged problematic physicians.

Christopher Duntsch escaped what should have been mandatory NPDB registry for malpractice situations like:

  • Operating on the wrong part of the back leaving Kenneth Fennell in permanent chronic pain with debilitated mobility.
  • Cutting an unnecessary ligament in Lee Passmore as well as leaving stainless screws in incorrect positions and stripping the threads so they could not be removed.
  • Leaving bone fragments in Barry Morguloff that worked their way into his spinal cord leaving him paralyzed and in a wheelchair.
  • Causing Jerry Summers to suffer so much blood loss that he died from an infection from excessive transfusions.
  • Severing a major artery in Kelli Martin and causing her to bleed to death without adding blood during her surgery.

It was no secret at Baylor that Christopher Duntsch was dangerous. Many even wondered about his sanity. But that didn’t stop his medical career.

Dallas Medical Center hired Dr. Dirtsch as a temporary neurosurgeon in 2012. Almost immediately, hospital staff questioned Duntsch’s qualifications and suspected him of being under drug influence while operating. Some of Duntsch’s catastrophes in Dallas were:

  • Severing Floella Brown’s vertebral artery and allowing her to bleed to death without medical intervention.
  • Maiming a senior, Mary Efurd, and causing her excruciating pain—rated as ten-plus on a 1-10 scale.

Longtime neurosurgeon, Dr. Robert Henderson, performed a salvage surgery on Mary Efurd. Henderson realized what an awful job Duntsch did, and he began investigating Duntsch’s history which was now following him around. Dr. Henderson contacted Dr. Kirby of Plano. The two pacted to do their own investigation and put a stop to Dr. Death.

Because Duntsch was a temporary employee, he was immediately dismissed after these two incidents. And because Duntsch was a temporary employee, Dallas Medical Center was not required to report Dr. Duntsch to the NPDB. They didn’t, and Duntsch moved on to two more Texas medical facilities, the South Hampton Community Hospital in Dallas and the Legacy Surgery Center in Frisco.

By 2013, Christopher Duntsch’s behavior was getting bizarre. He caused a string of devastating surgeries and, thankfully, no one else died. However, many folks suffered significant and long-lasting trauma. University General Hospital in Dallas was Duntsch’s last operation. Here, he severed Jeff Glidewell’s esophagus and the neighboring artery. To stop the bleeding, Duntsch stuffed a surgical sponge down Glidewell’s throat and sewed him up with the sponge still inside. The poor man nearly choked before others intervened and removed it.

On June 26, 2013, the Texas Medical Board suspended Christopher Duntsch’s practitioner license. This was after appeals by Dr. Kirby and Dr. Henderson who told the board Duntsch was a sociopath and a clear and present danger to the citizens of Texas. The board slowly investigated with most of its members not believing that any medical doctor could be this bad and incompetent. They found out otherwise and revoked Duntsch’s license on December 6, 2013.

Meanwhile, Kirby and Henderson lobbied the Dallas DA to file charges against Duntsch. This investigation lumbered along at a tree’s pace. Duntsch then left town. He moved to Denver, declared bankruptcy for over $1 million in debt, got arrested for DUI and shoplifting, and was hospitalized for psychiatric evaluation.

Private lawsuits began against some of the medical facilities that allowed Duntsch to operate. Finally, in July 2015, the DA filed six felony counts of aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, five counts of aggravated assault causing bodily harm, and one count of injuring an elderly person—Mary Efurd. Murder charges weren’t laid as the DA felt the state couldn’t prove Duntch’s clear intent to kill anyone. This was despite a piece of evidence turned over by Duntsch’s now ex-wife—an email to her from him stating, “I am ready to leave the love and kindness and goodness and patience that I mix with everything else that I am and become a cold-blooded killer.”

After a 15-day trial, a Texas jury found Christopher Duntsch guilty on all counts. The Appeals Court upheld Duntsch’s sentence of life imprisonment. Currently, he’s held in Huntsville and won’t be eligible to apply for parole until 2045 when he’ll be 74 years old.

Duntsch’s conviction was precedent-setting. It was the first time in United States history that a medical practitioner was convicted of criminally harming their patients. In Duntsch’s defense, his lawyer told the jury, “The only way this happens is that the entire system failed the patients.”

Primum non nocere is a Latin phrase that means “First, do no harm”. This is med-school 101 along with taking the Hippocratic Oath. The oath is as old as the ancient Greeks and the modern version goes:

I swear to fulfill, to the best of my ability and judgment, this covenant:

  • I will respect the hard-won scientific gains of those physicians in whose steps I walk, and gladly share such knowledge as is mine with those who are to follow.
  • I will apply, for the benefit of the sick, all measures [that] are required, avoiding those twin traps of overtreatment and therapeutic nihilism.
  • I will remember that there is art to medicine as well as science, and that warmth, sympathy, and understanding may outweigh the surgeon’s knife or the chemist’s drug.
  • I will not be ashamed to say “I know not”, nor will I fail to call in my colleagues when the skills of another are needed for a patient’s recovery.
  • I will respect the privacy of my patients, for their problems are not disclosed to me that the world may know. Most especially must I tread with care in matters of life and death. If it is given me to save a life, all thanks. But it may also be within my power to take a life; this awesome responsibility must be faced with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty. Above all, I must not play at God.
  • I will remember that I do not treat a fever chart, a cancerous growth, but a sick human being, whose illness may affect the person’s family and economic stability. My responsibility includes these related problems, if I am to care adequately for the sick.
  • I will prevent disease whenever I can, for prevention is preferable to cure.
  • I will remember that I remain a member of society, with special obligations to all my fellow human beings, those sound of mind and body as well as the infirm.
  • If I do not violate this oath, may I enjoy life and art, respected while I live and remembered with affection thereafter. May I always act so as to preserve the finest traditions of my calling and may I long experience the joy of healing those who seek my help.

Christopher Duntsch—Dr. Death, The Killer Surgeon—had blatant disdain for primum non nocere. He took a scalpel to his Hippocratic Oath.

WHAT REALLY BECAME OF CAPTAIN KIDD’S BURIED TREASURE?

Treasure. The very word is intriguing, invigorating, and—to some—even intoxifying. There’s something magical about lost treasure whether sunken, hidden, or buried beneath the earth in a clandestine location. Such is the lure of Captain Kidd, the infamous pirate, whose hoard of richness may still be out there, stashed in some secret site and silently awaiting discovery.

There’s no doubt Captain William Kidd buried some treasure. That’s an indisputable fact, as his chests containing gold, silver, and a few emeralds were dug up on Gardiners Island in now-New York State in 1699. Kidd’s treasure was inventoried, forfeited to the British Crown, and entered as evidence during his trial for murder and piracy. Captain Kidd was convicted and hung in 1701. Then, his body was garroted and suspended in public display as a warning to other pirates.

By all accounts, William Kidd was not your typical pirate. Kidd wasn’t a swashbuckling Johnny Depp—Jack Sparrow character, nor was he a homicidal psychopath like Blackbeard or Black Bart. No, Captain Kidd was a gentleman of high status who got sucked into the job by the British King and got screwed in the end. You could say Kidd got royally shafted.

Captain Kidd is long dead. But the legend of his remaining treasure lives on, and there may be some real truth to folklore that the bulk of Kidd’s bounty was never seized by authorities. Are Kidd’s real valuables—precious gems, coins, ivory, opium, and ornaments—buried somewhere and lost in time? Let’s look at who Captain Kidd truly was and the highly-suspicious circumstances that led to his easily-convertible, common commodities of gold and silver being found for the Crown while priceless pieces somehow disappeared.

——

William Kidd was a Scotsman. He was born in 1655 to a seafaring family. From the time Kidd was a kid and could put on boots and a slicker, he was onboard sailing ships that crossed the Atlantic. William Kidd received a Captain position within the British merchant marine. He was not a Navy man, but he was well-skilled with navigation and vessel armaments. This was the historical period when piracy ruled the Seven Seas, and civilian vessels needed all the protection they could get.

Captain Kidd relocated to New York City around 1690. He had given service to England’s King George III as a “privateer” commissioned to hunt down “buccaneers” and “pirates”. Kidd did an admirable job. He seemed to be in the King’s favor when he returned to normal life and married a wealthy American socialite.

Kidd temporarily boxed-up his sexton and settled into land-based businesses. However, King George III had different designs for William Kidd’s seagoing talents. Several events were going on where the King needed civilian help in the naval department. England was at war with France and Spain. As well, the age of piracy was at its peak, and the King wanted to take advantage of the situation.

Here’s where William Kidd came in. The British Lords decreed (with the King’s royal assent) that all goods aboard French, Spanish, and pirate vessels could be commandeered for the financial benefit of the Crown. It was a strategic way of paying for war costs and subduing the enemy at the same time.

One of the British Admiralty’s tactics was to commission or charter civilians like Kidd to “privateer” and profit-share spoils with the uppers. A privateer, by definition, is  “a private person or ship that engages in maritime warfare under a commission of war”. Buccaneers are basically unsanctioned privateers, while pirates are common thieves on the water.

Through the King, a group of nobles enlisted Captain Kidd’s privateer services in a way he couldn’t say no. As a man with Kidd’s social status, it would appear disloyal to refuse a royal request. Kidd acquiesced his commander and returned to England in 1696 where he received a Letter of Marque authorizing him to set forth and prey on French, Spanish, and pirate property.

The deal was sealed. Kidd’s role was to collect and share spoils with his financiers—noble Whig Lords, Earls, and Knights before which 10 percent was skimmed by the King. The arrangement was still profitable for Kidd and his crew, provided they could locate plunderable targets. That proved problematic.

Things started bad and went worse for Captain Kidd. He weighed anchor in September 1696 in the Adventure Galley, a 284-ton hybrid ship equipped with sails and oars as well as 34 cannons. Kidd had hand-selected his crew of 150 and felt confident as he headed down the Thames for the Cape of Good Hope and hunting off the coast of Madagascar.

Still on the Thames, Kidd’s Adventure Galley passed a British Naval frigate whose commander knew not of Kidd’s mission. Kidd failed to offer a courtesy salute which offended the Naval Commander who heaved-to the Adventure Galley and summarily pressed one-third of Kidd’s men into naval service. Kidd changed course for America where, in New York, he hired replacements.

Kidd’s replacement crew was not from the cut-above. Rather, the available stock were criminals and societal rejects who the Governor of New York was glad to see go. Other fine sailors abandoned ship in New York because the Adventure Galley was a poorly and hastily-built piece of shit that leaked like a sieve and steered like a stone.

“Many flocked to Kidd from all parts. Men of desperate fortunes and necessities, in expectation of getting vast treasure. It is generally believed here that if he (Kidd) misses the design named in his commission, he will not be able to govern such a villainous herd.”  ~ Governor Fletcher of New York Colony.

But Captain Kidd was no quitter. He accepted a bag of rag tags and set forth on his chartered commission. Before Kidd reached the Cape, a cholera outbreak plagued the ship and another third of his compliment perished. Now Captain Kidd was at a distinct disadvantage at controlling the crew and murmurs of mutiny floated about.

Kidd had no luck at all. Not only was his crew a band of devious deviants, much like the cutthroats of lore, Kidd’s officers were also disloyal. William Kidd commanded his ship according to the rules of maritime law and legal engagement. Pirate hunting was poor in the Indian Ocean as was locating valid targets sailing under French and Spanish flags. Kidd refused to engage ships under Dutch registration or anything that resembled a British subject.

A year passed. Kidd’s charge had no income and little left to pay or outfit his men. Open revolt was on deck and led to violence on October 30, 1697, when Captain Kidd and gunner William Moore got into a fight. Kidd hit Moore on the head with an iron-strapped bucket, and Moore died the next day of a brain injury.

Word of Kidd’s poor performance got back to the Whig backers. They were displeased and began undermining Kidd’s credibility. Rumors that Kidd may have gone rogue and turned from privateer to pirate circulated through dispatches distributed through the British colonies and far-reaching colonial interests.

Kidd, however, knew or did anything of the sort. He was simply a victim of changing times when France and Spain were tiring of war and their interests in the Indian Ocean dried up. The pirates, once finding less and less loot, left the area and returned to plunder the Caribbean.

On January 30, 1698, Captain Kidd and the Adventure Galley finally found a victim. It was the 400-ton Quedagh Merchant which was Armenian registered and French flagged. The ship was bound from Bengal to Surat in India, and Kidd engaged it near Kochi on the southwest tip of the subcontinent.

The engagement was peaceful. The Quedagh Merchant’s captain was an Englishman employed by a Dutch firm and crew operating for India’s Grand Mughal. The ship had a written pass from the French East India Company and all was in good order. The Quedagh Merchant was also loaded with highly-prized valuables—silk bales, opium chests, satin fabrics, muslins, sugar, tobacco, and tea. In its hold was a mass of gold, silver, and gemstones along with jeweled and ornate artifacts fit for the Mughal.

Captain Kidd was in a quandary, for sure. On one hand, Kidd viewed the Quedagh Merchant as a non-viable engagement. It was not a pirate ship by any standards and belonged to an entity not in conflict with British rule. On the other hand, this was the first chance Kidd’s crew had at getting paid, and they threatened to cut Kidd adrift if he didn’t seize the ship and its contents.

Kidd succumbed to his crew. He justified that the Quedagh Merchant was French authorized under the pass and set forth to commandeer the vessel with a privateer claim for the British Crown. This pissed off the Indian Grand Mughal to no end. His goods were now gone, and he loudly complained to the British High Commission that, in turn, reported back to the King.

Captain Kidd was a practical man as well as a competent sailor. Rather than transfer goods to the leaky Adventure Galley, he made port in Kochi, dismissed the Dutch crew, and made off with their Quedagh Merchant. Kidd renamed it the Adventure Prize and set sail for the Caribbean’s West Indies.

Kidd and his converted merchant vessel stopped in Madagascar in April 1698. Here, more of Kidd’s crew jumped ship and joined a pirate venture captained by Robert Culliford who was a notorious man and a long foe of Captain Kidd. Port tensions rand high, so Kidd slipped away on the newly-named and treasure-laden Adventure Prize.

He arrived at Catalina Island off the south side of the Dominican Republic in late 1698. Here, Kidd anchored in a secluded lagoon and made arrangements for a smaller vessel, a sloop, to take him with a select small crew to New York to bargain with the British Crown. Captain Kidd was now well aware of the piracy accusations levied against him.

Massachusetts Governor Bellomont was Kidd’s long-time acquaintance who Kidd thought he could trust. T’wasn’t so. Kidd was a wary sort, so he took treasures from the Quedagh Merchant’s cargo that could be easily converted into negotiable currency—gold, silver, gems, and elaborate jewelry and ornaments. This was Kidd’s insurance policy—his bargaining chips—that he held for safekeeping.

Kidd cautiously approached the American Atlantic coast in June 1699. He was well-familiar with the region and many New York area inhabitants. That included the Lion Gardiner family and their private 3,318-acre island rightfully called Gardiners Island situated at the northeast tip of Long Island.

Here, Captain William Kidd arranged with the Gardiners to offload treasure and bury it on Gardiners Island. Exactly what was buried or how many burial spots Kidd used remain unknown. This is where the legend of Captain Kidd’s lost treasure began.

Captain Kidd sent a lawyer-delivered letter to Governor Bellomont in Boston stating he was back and ready to negotiate a pardon for piracy accusations against him. Throughout Kidd’s time on this three-year privateer voyage, he firmly believed he was acting according to his royal Commission and his noble backers would soundly support him.

Kidd was wrong. Politics changed during his absence, and the new Torrie powerbrokers in England planned to use Kidd as a pawn to help impeach his Whig patrons. Even the King turned on William Kidd. Governor Bellomont replied with a letter to Kidd stating:

“I have advised with His Majesty’s Council and showed them your letter, and they are of the opinion that, if you can be so clear as you said, then you may safely come hither. And I make no manner of doubt but to obtain the King’s pardon for you and those few men you have left who, I understand, have been faithful to you and have refused as well as you to dishonor the commission you have from England. I assure you on my word and honour, I will perform nicely what I have promised.”

It was a trap. Captain William Kidd fell for it, and he was arrested on July 6, 1699, as soon as he set foot on Massachusetts land. He was transported to London where he went to trial and lost. Captain Kidd was convicted in a sham of a trial where he was not allowed to testify on his own behalf nor cross-examine witnesses. On May 23, 1701, Kidd was hung by his neck and strung out to rot in a body cage for privateer and pirate viewing.

——

So what became of Captain Kidd’s buried treasure? Some of this is well documented. Other portions—possibly the majority of his take—is not. Part of Kidd’s defense strategy was to offset his predicament by buying his way out. Somehow, through someone, the Gardiner family produced treasure from Captain Kidd and turned it over to Governor Bellomont.

This is perfectly documented, and the recorded inventory shows a tally of 1,111 ounces of gold, 2,549 ounces of silver, and a small bag of emeralds weighing 66 ounces. The value at that time, in July of 1699, put Kidd’s treasure at 5,453.6 British pounds. In today’s USD, his gold, silver, and emeralds would be worth about 2.1 million dollars.

Most people at the time, and most historians today, feel Captain Kidd’s total treasure taken from the Quedagh Merchant was far more than that. Far, far more. It’s somewhat safe to say that Kidd left the bulky treasure—silk and satin bales, barrels of tea, crates of coffee, and sacks of sugar—on the hidden ship in the Caribbean. Once Kidd was doomed, the remaining crew disbursed what was left and burned the ship. Salvagers discovered the wreckage in 2007 exactly where Kidd was suspected to have anchored it.

But what became of other valuables known to be on board the Quedagh Merchant when Kidd took it under full authority of the British Monarch? Riches like precious gems of sapphire, rubies, diamonds, topaz, and opals? What about jewelry such as pearl strings, tiaras, and clusters in brooches? Chalices? Porringers? Candlesticks? Crucifixes? And religious figurines? What became of the other stuff that was really worth something?

You probably don’t need to look further than those privy to Kidd’s treasure on Gardiners Island—the Lion Gardiner family.

This circles back to the central question—what really became of Captain Kidd’s buried treasure. It’s obvious what the Gardiners turned over to the British Crown was mainly gold and silver. These commodities were not proportionately worth in 1699 what they are in 2020. Gold and silver were strictly regulated in price, and there would be no disputing their market value by weight. That made gold and silver predictable in price and easy to exchange.

The same couldn’t be said for precious stones or man-made artifacts embedding their beauty in artwork. Some of the Kidd treasure, assuming it was there, would be most challenging to price. Rightfully, some of the pieces would be priceless, and it’s these treasured works that are gone.

Let’s look at who the Gardiner family was and where they are today. Lion Gardiner was a British immigrant to Connecticut. In 1639, he bought the island from the chief of the Montaukett tribe for (reportedly) “a large black dog, some powder and shot, and a few Dutch blankets”. Lion Gardiner moved his wife, children, and a few workers to the island and began subsistence farming.

It was fertile land, and Lion Gardiner was an enterprising farmer. He was also a shrewd operator. Gardiner senior sought a royal patent with the clause that he and his family had the “right to possess the land forever”. This “in-perpetuity” clause remains in effect and today Gardiners Island is the oldest single landholding in the United States. Old Gardiner even got the King to sign-off on foreshore rights with the interesting measure of owning all sea shore out from land “as far as a large ox can wade before his belly gets wet”.

The Gardiner family is one of the wealthiest groups of generational folks in America. “Old money” that is, and not quite to current standards of Gates, Buffet, Bezos, and Zuckerberg. No, the Gardiners are more in line with the names Forbes, Rockefeller, Astor, and DuPont. It’s clear how Gardiner counterparts got their dry-land start, but there’s murkiness in Gardiners Island waters.

Shortly after Captain Kidd died, the Gardiner family showed signs of unusual income. They spent more than could logically be earned by marketing apples and corn and eggs and milk in New York markets. Successive Gardiners got progressively richer. They acquired large land tracts and secured lucrative lending arrangements.

Robert Lion Gardiner, 16th Lord of the Manor, with a ring and artefact from the “Kidd Collection”.

Over the years, the heads of the Gardiner dynasty (who got a royal peerage “Lord of the Manor”) held lavish parties on Gardiners Island. The who’s who of society, old money and nouveau riche included, attended by invitation and hobnobbed in lavishly catered exclusivity. A Gardiner became an American First Lady and First Ladies like Jacqueline Kennedy were part of the Gardiners Island scene.

Robert David Lion Gardiner was the last Lord of the Manor at Gardiners Island. He was a colorful character, albeit eccentric, and all but confirmed where the family fortune arose. Robert Gardiner, the 16th Lord, showed many people artifacts from the “Kidd Collection” that remained in his family’s possession. He died in 2004 with no biological heirs.

Today, Gardiners Island (that once held colony status) is solely owned by a reclusive Gardiner relative, a removed niece named Alexandria Goelet. Estimators say the island property is worth several billion dollars, and no one publically knows the Gardiner family fortune’s mass. Maybe this wealth is what really became of Captain Kidd’s buried treasure.

BETWEEN THE BIKERS — NEW BASED-ON-TRUE-CRIME BOOK RELEASE

Between The Bikers is the new release in my based-on-true-crime series. It’s Book #6 in a 12-part project that takes real cases and brings you, the reader, right inside actual criminal investigations with real cops and real crooks. I start each story with a warning about graphic content including gory scenes, sensitive techniques, and profane language. But that’s the real world of true crime. Here’s the online book description followed by the first two chapters of Between The Bikers.

Who had the most to gain by murdering a bad-ass biker—especially the powerful president of a Hells Angels Motorcycle Club chapter? The answer lies in Between The Bikers—Book 6 in the Based-On-True-Crime-Series by retired homicide detective and coroner, Garry Rodgers.

Mark Mitchell, aka Zeke, disappears on a Saturday afternoon just before a full-patch ceremony held between the bikers at a Hells Angels clubhouse on Vancouver Island in British Columbia at Canada’s west coast. The bikers are furious and the police are frantic to control an escalating mess that could lead to an all-out war within the Angels’ criminal organization. All fear a deadly underworld rift is about to explode.

While the bikers witch-hunt within their ranks and outside the law to ferret Zeke’s killers, the police urgently use every tactic and technique to solve the crime and contain the volatile gangsters. Wiretaps, surreptitious surveillance, clandestine operations, and highly-placed secret informants work through an unheard-of alliance between the bikers and their sworn enemies—the cops.

What happened to Zeke, and why, shocks both sides. The truth behind Mark Mitchell’s murder is something unmatched between the bikers who show the feared death head logo on their backs below the red-on-white words “Hells Angels”. It’s a truth known only by those with the most to gain—a truth that lies between the bikers.

——

Between The Bikers comes with a warning: This book is based on a true crime story. Explicit descriptions of crime scenes, factual dialogue, real forensic procedures, highly-sensitive sources and actual police investigation, interview, and interrogation techniques are portrayed. Some names, times, and locations have been changed for privacy concerns and commercial purposes.

This is the sixth story in the Based-On-True-Crime Series by Garry Rodgers. Other titles include In The Attic, Under The Ground, From The Shadows, Beside The Road, and On The Floor. Reviewers describe Rodgers’ story-telling style as a 21st century Joseph Wambaugh using Elmore Leonard dialogue with plot, pacing, and characterization in the flare of Fiona Barton and Paula Hawkins.

*   *   *

BETWEEN THE BIKERS

Chapter One — Monday, April 27th – 8:20 a.m.

“Zeke’s missing.” Harry clomped into our Serious Crimes Section. She plopped herself down in her desk chair. “Word is he’s been done in.”
“Well, if he’s been whacked…” I rolled back from my cubicle and smiled at my detective partner, Harry. “It’ll be between the bikers.”
“Yup.” Harry took a slurp from her stainless Starbucks mug. “I took a spin by the Hells Angels clubhouse. They’re swarming like ants on a fucking hill.”
“Your word… how good is it?” Harry had my full attention.
“Like, my word?” She smiled back. “Impeccable. Obviously, you know that.”
“No, shithead. Not your word. I meant, who’d you hear this from?”
Harry took another pull from her cup. She subconsciously looked from side to side. “Don Ransom at Drug Squad. His wiretaps and cameras are lit up like Times Square.”
“Okay.” I nodded and leaned in. “Something’s going on. Someone’s stuck a honey-coated stick in the ant pile.”
“I stopped by Drugs this morning about something else.” Harry lowered her voice. “The guys are working flat-out, interpreting audio intercepts and video surveillance. Looks like the HAs are preparing for all-out war with whoever hit Zeke. Don’s pretty sure Zeke’s dead and you know what that means.”
“Yeah.” I moved back. “We’re going to inherit Zeke’s fuckin’ mess.”
By “we”, I meant the detectives at Nanaimo Serious Crimes Section. And by “Zeke”, I meant Mark Mitchell, who was the president of the Nanaimo Hells Angels Motorcycle Club chapter. Zeke was Mark Mitchell’s nickname, and he was well known—very well known—to our police department.

Nanaimo is a small seaside city of a hundred thousand, set on the southeast side of Vancouver Island. It’s right across from the City of Vancouver in British Columbia, Canada which is one of the most exotic, erotic, and expensive places in the world.
Although Nanaimo is cut off by water from the B.C. mainland, it takes on the same crime characteristics as a large metropolis. Nanaimo has its share of serious stuff like murders, rapes, robberies, extortions, arsons, loansharking, and money laundering. There are homeless and junkies begging on the street, and well-paid prostitutes doing their thing with high-profile clients behind closed doors.
Nanaimo has graft in the civic circles and grief at the street scene. Most grief is caused by addicts and mental cases that have no hope for treatment, never mind a chance at recovery. There are losers on welfare and gambling fanatics, thieves and tag-artists, as well as pot-growers and meth-cookers. And there’s a subculture that profits from bottom-feeders and contributes to nothing but trouble and tragedy—the bikers.

The Nanaimo Hells Angels chapter, or charter as the outlaw motorcycle club is sometimes called, had a regular complement of about thirteen guys. That was give or take a few that may have quit, got fired, been jailed, or suddenly disappeared, like what had happened to Zeke. And what happened to Zeke was unlike anything anyone in our Serious Crimes Section ever experienced.
Serious Crimes in Nanaimo was part of the police department’s support services that assisted the rank-and-file General Duty or Patrol division. Harry and I were a team of two assigned to investigate complicated and time-consuming files that patrol officers couldn’t stick with. There were other two-person teams as well as an overall detective boss, Staff Sergeant Leaky Lewis. Leaky also supervised Drug Squad, Forensics, Property Crimes, Street Crew, Sex Crimes, Commercial Crimes, and one poor prick plagued with mitigating frauds and bad plastic.
Harry, by the way, was not my partner’s real name. She was Sheryl Henderson, a large lady with large hair and an even larger personality. We called Sheryl “Harry” after the bigfoot or sasquatch in the movie Harry and The Hendersons.

“So what else did you find out at Drug Squad?” I’d stopped smiling. It quickly sunk in that, although Zeke’s loss would be the community’s gain, there would be hell to pay in fallout. Intrinsically, I knew—or thought I knew—that whatever happened to Mark Mitchell, aka Zeke, would be an issue between the bikers, and I knew that the biker mentality would not take this lying down.
Harry took another sip from her Starbucks cup, which was as tarnished and dented as a few parts of her career. “So, what Don Ransom tells me is that Zeke was last seen on Saturday afternoon. He’d been over to Vancouver to pick up some rings for a patch-over ceremony that was supposed to happen on Saturday night. He fell off the radar and hasn’t flown since.”
“Rings?”
“Yeah.” Harry examined her cup and picked at something caked on it. “Biker rings. You know those gold death head things that full-patches wear?”
“Oh, yeah. Biker rings.”
“They’re clunky and gaudy if you want my opinion.” Harry kept picking. “Anyway, they’re an initiation gift for someone who is accepted full-time into the club. So Zeke got the rings but hasn’t been heard from since.”
“Hey. Wait a minute.” I smiled again. “You mean he was last seen in Vancouver? He disappeared in Vancouver? Then it’s not our problem.”
Harry did the time-out sign. “No. Not so lucky there, Louie. Zeke made it back from Vancouver. His truck was found abandoned here. Beside the Harewood Arms pub. Locked. Keys gone. Zeke gone.”
“Fuuuck—”
Harry waved her finger. “You know the last-seen rule. He was last seen here in Nanaimo so that does make it our fucking problem. Wish it weren’t so, but it is so. We’re stuck with finding out what’s happened to Zeke.”
I wished it weren’t so, too. The last thing I needed as an old cop ready to retire was refereeing a ferocious fight between the bikers.

Chapter Two — Monday, April 27th – 8:50 a.m.

Leaky Lewis called Harry and me into his office. He closed the door and nudged us towards two wooden chairs in front of his solid oak desk. His blinds were shut tight, but his lights were on bright, giving the room sort of an unnerving feel.
That was far from the case when dealing with Leaky. As a boss, it was hard to find anyone fairer and, as a person, you couldn’t find anyone more approachable. I’d known Leaky since he was a new-hire in the Nanaimo police department. He’d quickly climbed the ladder and was now officially ranked as a Detective Staff Sergeant, making him my direct supervisor.
Almost all cops get nicknames. They’re usually earned from a play-on-words, or some career-haunting mishap. Leaky was Jim Lewis. He got the moniker because he suffered a chronic case of post-urinary drip.

“So something’s happened to Zeke, I hear.” Leaky looked at Harry and me with a neutral expression. “Where are we going to go with this?”
Harry and I hesitated to answer.
“This isn’t a trick question.” Leaky grinned. “Seriously. I want some input on how we’re going to handle this, ah, situation.”
“I’d like to say we do fuck-all.” I grinned back. “But… we all know that if someone’s offed Zeke, then someone’s going to pay for it and someone else is going to pay for that and we’re going to be into a full-on biker war. And I don’t want no part of that at this stage of my game.”
Leaky nodded and looked at Harry. “Your take?”
One thing about Harry, she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind.
“We got to get on this right away. I have no doubt he’s right.” Harry thumbed at me. “This could be a fucking blood bath if we don’t go right out and get in their faces.”
“Don Ransom told me he’s never heard the Angels talk so openly on their phones.” Leaky shuffled in his chair. “Don’s had them wired up for a long time… off and on… and he knows their pattern. He says they sound rattled. Confused. Trying to make sense of what’s going on. Don thinks the Nanaimo chapter really doesn’t know what’s happened. They’re scrambling for clues.”
Harry continued. “From what Don told me an hour ago, and what I saw when I drove past the clubhouse, I think the HA full-patches are going to start grabbing people here, there, and all over and muscle them for information. This thing will escalate real fast unless we show a lot of force, and right away. They have to know we’re not going to let them run the fucking show around here.”
Leaky nodded again. “Show of force? How do you see doing that?”
Harry already had a plan in her mind. “A big drive-by back and forth at the clubhouse. Setting up the command center mobile at the edge of their property. Leaving the cameras on twenty-four seven. Even hovering Air One on top of their fucking room. Let them know we’re not going to let a biker war start or we’ll bug-squash them.”
Leaky didn’t nod. “I’m not so sure… It might just agitate them even more. I think we should watch all right. But, I think we should rely on intel with sources already in place. Some intel is just starting to come in. Don called me just before you guys sat down and says he’s going to come here and talk in person. Let’s wait for what he has. What about the basics… like opening a file and deciding who’s going to coordinate this. After all, we don’t even have an official complaint.”
Harry shrugged. “The paperwork can wait. I say we get right out there and fly the flag before they decide to run away with biker law.”
Leaky stood up. It wasn’t like he was mad or upset, but more like he was starting to feel uncomfortable. “I’m also thinking of opening a communication channel. Like going right to the leader and simply asking him what’s going on.”
“Their leader is missing.” Harry made a good point. “Zeke is, was, whatever, the president. He has, or had, been for a long time.”
Leaky nodded again. “Fred Wallacott is the past-president. He’s been with the club since they were the 101 Knights and the Satan’s Angels. I’ve known Fred since college. Not that we were ever friends or buddies or anything. But I think I can talk to him.”
I spoke up. “I have a reasonable rapport with Fred Wallacott. Big Wally as they call him. It might be best if I talk to him in private… away from the club scene.”
Harry gave me a quizzical eye. “I didn’t know that. What’s your connection to Fred Wallacott?”
“I don’t go around advertising it, but we’ve gotten to know each other semi-socially over the years.”
Harry laughed. “You? Partying with the fucking Hells Angels?”
“No. Not partying. Our kids traveled in the same circles. Fred’s daughter and my daughter went to Highland dance classes and gymnastic classes together. Fred’s son and my son went to kickboxing lessons together. So I’d regularly run into Fred—two dads dropping off and picking up kids—and then I’d see him at events like graduations, competitions, and demonstrations.”
Harry stopped laughing. “You think you can actually talk to a fucking biker like one-on-one?”
“I know I can.”
“You’re serious about this?”
“Yeah. I know he’s big and intimidating and has this tough-guy biker persona. Deep down, Fred’s a reasonable guy. Actually—very well-read and informed. Tell you a funny story about Fred. He has a bunch of rental properties around town. Once, he had to serve an eviction notice and didn’t want to get into a violent situation where the guy could press charges against him. So, Fred came into the police station and asked for a plainclothes officer to stand by to keep the peace while he hangs paper on the tenant. We go over to Fred’s block. He knocks on the door. Guy opens it and refuses to take the notice so Fred takes out his Buck knife and jams it into the door, face-pinning the paper, and says, ‘Here. You’re fucking served’. Then we just left.”
Leaky and Harry laughed.
Leaky brought us back to the business at hand. “I know you’re rammy, Harry, and you want to show them our colors. And, you might be right about that. We can use that as plan B, but first I want to get as much info on this as possible. Looking at this objectively, we don’t even know if Zeke is dead. He might be abducted and held for some biker reason. For that matter, he might have even fucked off and faked his own disappearance.”
I agreed with Leaky. “Let’s take this a step at a time. Like, we don’t even have an official missing person complaint to start sticking our noses into. Let’s get our source intel and then do a back-channel move. After that, we can show all the muscle we want.”

There was a rap at the door. It opened. In came Don Ransom with breaking biker news.

Get the Between The Bikers eBook at: