Whatever purpose Snevets had in committing these crimes, it started to weigh on him. His later jobs were more workman-like and earnest. He increasingly regarded his job as gravely important–more than that, critical for the world. That is a lot of weight on one’s shoulders. To tell you the truth, I missed the playfulness of his earlier crimes when he would do things with words just because he could. Sometimes it felt like he was as surprised as we were, like he was discovering himself. If he hadn’t made a fool of me so many times, I would have really enjoyed it.

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At one point we had Snevets surrounded in a library downtown. And not just with a unit this time. He was swarmed. We are talking Billy the Kid swarmed–at least 100 men. There were hostages inside so we were being extra cautious though. I’d never known Snevets to carry a firearm, but he was somehow controlling the library staff and the patrons inside. He had one standing in each window to prevent our snipers from getting off a shot. We called in to the circulation desk from our command tent outside. Snevets picked up. He sounded funny, but that was because we masked his audio with a filter so he couldn’t slow us down with his sonorous speech powers. We informed him there was no escape. He was surrounded by at least 100 men. He nonetheless persisted, claiming that no one would be hurt, and he would send a list of demands within the hour. I was cautiously optimistic. We had him dead to rights, but I also knew that being in a library would only fuel his powers. 

After forty-five minutes, the front door of the library opened. A man hesitantly slid out, his arms raised with a note in his right hand. We searched the hostage list and identified him as Ramon Santo. Ramon yelled not to shoot. Our men lowered their weapons and a team of five SWAT members readied their shields. Ramon was pale, hardly breathing as he walked down the thirteen stone steps. As soon as he made the sidewalk, SWAT rushed forward to envelop him in shields and rush him away. Once the hostage was secured, I breathed deeply. 

They brought Ramon to our command tent. He handed me a note in Snevets’ barely legible scrawl. His mastery of the powers of language did not somehow extend to penmanship. The note demanded a car to the airport and a private jet to Havana. 

Before I responded I questioned Mr. Santo, I asked, is Snevets armed? He said no. Ramon said Snevets had somehow subdued them all by playing some music over the library PA. After that everyone was scared but just complied with whatever order Snevets gave them. It was curious. What kind of music was it? Ramon wasn’t sure. All he gave us was that it was a woman singing. Before I could ask anymore questions, I heard shouts from outside the tent. I ran to the flap. Other hostages had started coming out. The first few cautiously and after that the rest hurrying to the safety of the surrounding officers. The lawn in front of the library was a chaos of SWAT and hostages. I yelled at the men to maintain their perimeter for all the good it did. 

It took us a half an hour to account for all the hostages. What could Snevets be playing at? In another fifteen minutes, I organized the SWAT team to take the library. I told them not to shoot unless it was to save some hostage we weren’t aware of. We needed Snevets alive. I needed him alive–there were so many questions. I was tense. This was my moment, but I had been disappointed too many times to feel confident. In went the doors. The men rushed through. Within twenty minutes they’d cleared the whole building, ventilation shafts and all– no Snevets. 

We huddled at the circulation desk with the floor plans. There was no way to explain this. I knew better though. I ordered a BOLO of the surrounding area and forensics to go through the library. I didn’t have any real hope though. Snevets was gone. Walking back to pack up the operations tent, I contemplated a handwriting analysis of Snevets’ list of demands since his power was so tied up with language. That might actually tell us something useful. However, back in the tent, the desk was empty. No note. I asked around, nobody had touched it. A thought flashed through my head. I laughed and dismissed it. No way, that’s too much, even for Snevets.

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At some point in the investigation, years long now, it was clear–Snevets was himself pursuing something. What it was I couldn’t say. Originally I thought of each of his crimes as separate, but the Florida jobs, the jar in Tennessee, the Carolinas, and even Geneva were all building to something. The further Snevets went, each job needed the others more and more to make sense. If I could figure it out, I might be able to create the prison of mind I needed to catch him. Whatever the end game was for Snevets it obviously had existential import.

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It’s hard to tell how dangerous a man like Snevets was. He definitely committed crimes, at least by the book. But were they crimes in spirit, his miscellany of violation? I’m not sure? That is perhaps why we chased him so hard? Neither his intention nor effect was clear. He was no counterfeiter, no thief, his methods were otherworldly, but certainly no grift. We were left to imagine his crimes and attribute sinister intent. Why did we pursue him? It could be, in the end, his only crime was not giving us answers?

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I shot at Snevets once. He looked hurt. The bullet went ten feet over his head. It was only a warning. But that look back; I will never forget his face. He was disappointed in me. I don’t know why? Why did he think we carried guns? There was something deeply conservative about him for all his flaunting of the law. And yet, the power of that look was such, I never shot at him again.

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At some point, it occurred to me that I had been going about things all wrong. I’d been trying to capture Snevets the man, the body. And for years, I’d failed. The only thing that could hold Snevets was a prison of mind. This approach would be tough though. I knew police work, but I had a lot of studying to do to be interesting enough for Snevets to even sniff at me.

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How do you write this one? You wouldn’t guess it, but I spend about 90% of my time on paperwork. Case file after case file. Each and everyone seems impossible as you begin, for you know the crucible of boredom you must endure to complete one. The Snevets casefile was two levels of impossible beyond that. It required you to write the incredulous. For each entry, a believable lie wrestled in my mind to fill the space. The truth rang false, fanciful. The unit, my superior, the whole profession was anything but fanciful. Imagine trying to tell Sam Spade about the unicorn you’d seen yesterday. My mind goes blank. Could Snevets and his gift with words even write this? I stare at the objects on my desk for half an hour. A stapler, a picture, an elephant figurine. Nothing. I go for coffee, and will try again.

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