-Operation Forest of Thought was my attempt to create the prison of mind that I hoped would hold Snevets. I consulted English, philosophy, and art professors. I gave them intimate access to Snevets’ case files. Their job was to construct the bars of this prison from the information there within. I had never managed such a group before. The police community is very hierarchical. These men were not. They could argue and talk and seemingly never settle on anything. What I thought would take a week took a year. But, they finally had nine recommendations. 

1. Snevets was a francophile. Any space constructed to hold him must include objects from French thought and letters.
2. Color was important for Snevets. Many of his jobs turned on colors, their metaphoric properties, their relation, and their motion.
3. Fruit drew Snevets’ eye as much as anything. Knowing a high end green grocer to stock the space would definitely help hold Snevets.
4. Walking: The old man loved it. Giving him a park nearby or a large grounds surrounding the property would allow him to stretch his legs and mind.
5. As far as architecture, it needed to be comforting, suburban. They explained that Snevets lived a contradiction. He had the imagination of a libertine with the habits and routine of a middle class life. He needed the physical comfort of suburbia to access his profuse imagination.
6. Privacy: his imagination had a great need for privacy to exercise itself. It was inward facing, needing space from others to plumb its deepest levels. His reveries of mind were ultimately solitary.
7. A library of course. I didn’t need the professors to know this. But they helped me with stocking the library from classics to the literary journals of the day.
8. The fellowship of men, which is a nicer way to say drinking buddies. Snevets was no débauche but seemed to find relief in periodic nights of eating, drinking, smoking, gaming, and conversation. 
9. A study to work in. Preferably abutting the library. Containing the usual: a desk, a window, good lighting, a reading chair, prints on the walls, and a low coffee table. 

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The day my divorce papers came, I wondered if Snevets had a relationship? Which, in hindsight, was part of my problem. Obsession rarely leaves time for intimacy. I sat at my kitchen table in an empty house, staring at the papers wondering if there was a Mrs. Snevets or a Snevette. If so, I imagine she felt similarly ignored. Still it was hard to imagine a Snevets courtship. It was hard to imagine Snevets young for that matter. Had he ever lost it for someone–this very deliberate man? Youth does strange things to us all. Was he currently living down some passion, or perhaps its disappointment?

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I made this to accompany a reading at Craigardan this summer. The cover image is from an original Maltese Falcon cover.

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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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Once Snevets had to chase me. It was a strange inversion. I’d found his pen during one of our pursuits. He wanted it back. A pen? Why did it matter? I didn’t understand, but I knew it was connected with his power. He wasn’t full Snevets without it.

Things moved slowly. He knew he was being baited. I wanted him. He wanted his pen.  It was coquettish. Sometimes I would catch his crow eye as a reflection in the mirror in the morning, or the crest of his white hair behind a hedge. The whole thing was awkward really. Sort of high school prom. I didn’t know how to run. He didn’t know how to chase. 

Even though Snevets was physically imposing, I knew he was avoiding an encounter with me. Honestly, I had never seen him touch anyone. I talked the situation over with my superior. He said I needed to risk something. It was suggested I release the pen from my person to break the stalemate. We decided to stage a scene in my bedroom. The pen would be on my side table while I pretended to sleep. We’d have one man in my bathroom. And another monitoring the bedroom door from a hidden position in a hallway closet. Around the house would be a covert perimeter of five men. Snevets had to know it was a trap. I just hoped that the minimal security would entice him to take his chances. He probably wouldn’t even show. 

That night waiting, fully dressed under my sheets, I thought a lot. Why did Snevets do these things? And why did I spend so much time trying to catch him? Was it worth all this? My thoughts were interrupted by a slow heavy tread coming from the hall. The steps seemed to take forever. Snevets had taught me patience if nothing else. 

Once I was sure Snevets was in the room I shouted in my radio. The bathroom door flung open. The light was blinding for a second. The man from the closet showed up in the door to the hallway and I sprung out of bed. Snevets was surrounded. We all looked at each other. None of us could believe it was finally over. I spoke to Snevets.
“I’ve waited so long.”
 Snevets listened for a second and then repeated my words to me, “I’ve waited so long.” Only it was like he had slowed the words down in his saying them. I struggle to describe what really happened in that bedroom. It was one of his language games. Each of the words was struck and allowed to ring as if we were examining the resonance. The two officers and I started to move to apprehend him but could move no faster than the speed of his utterance. By the time the last word rung out, Snevets, seemingly immune to all this, pocketed his pen and made it into the hallway. My only hope was that the five-man perimeter would pick him up on his way out. In my heart, I knew they wouldn’t. 

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I found myself wondering, what would Snevets say? And this, seventeen years after my last encounter with the old man. I was at a dinner party. The conversation was only half interesting. Maybe that is why Snevets came to mind. He could always turn a half interesting question into something you would miss work to think about. I have to say as much as he vexed me, I missed him.

It shouldn’t be surprising, but most of the criminals we investigate are painfully boring. They wouldn’t even make it as TV level villains. I watch cop movies feeling jealous, knowing that the protagonist, for the two hours the film lasts, lives inside the one interesting case of his career. Win or lose, that means something. I watch, the investigator is scared, frustrated, dogged, but I want to whisper, “You’ve found your Snevets. Enjoy, just a little.” ‘Just a little’ because it is not really a joy at all to investigate your Snevets.

I wonder if Snevets remembers me? Is it the same for criminals? Did Snevets yawn through hordes of incompetent detectives looking for me. I am sad now and it is this thought. If Snevets is alive, I am too old to chase him.

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There was one time we caught wind that Snevets was haunting some old industrial complex out off Back road. We took three cars, twelve men in all. I warned them about Snevets and split them into teams. No use in trying to track solo. Snevets is not your ordinary hunt and detain, and besides not one of them had more than 4 years on the force. We’d be lucky if we even sighted him. Everyone was miked and told to radio in their position. I sent them through the complex in teams, as I said. I kept watch by the gate, coordinating. It was dusk and the light was failing. The hangars around the place looked like great shadows, and the sky was assuming a darker and darker blue. I saw nothing, but the silhouette of a chain and the outline of buildings. Snevets could be anywhere. Ten minutes had passed and no one had radioed in. I went to the car to get a thermos–Snevets! He was in the front seat, passenger side. I rushed towards the door, but heard the automatic locks engage. The keys were with one of the other agents. I spoke into my lapel. Snevets had the time it took the keys to return to effect his escape. The cabin overhead went on. I saw him comb through the elbow rest and glove compartment looking for paper, anything. He found the back of an unfinished report. My jaw tightened. His hand went into his sport coat and brought out a pen. I rested my body against one of the other cars. The keys would never make it back in time. All I could do was watch him write. I was too disappointed to yell anything through the window. By the time the man arrived with the keys, Snevets was no more than warm upholstery. I thought to myself, how can he do all that with only a pen? I got the men back in the cars and headed back to the agency, to the cracks that awaited. Was Snevets trying to humiliate me?

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Snevets went around the house. We followed close, but not conspicuous. He was looking for a window, no doubt. Something to make it into the house by. “Make it into by” pay attention to the phrase. Snevets was wicked with phrases. My team came around the corner in time to see his feet disappearing into the house. I said watch out, this is not like Snevets. Something must be up. At least we know he’s in the house. Spread out. Circle the place. You know the signal if he tries to break our perimeter. No mistakes on this one, we might not get this chance again. We waited for a long time. Snevets was going to make it hurt.

Dark came. I was circling, checking team’s endurance. It was failing. Desperate, I snuck on to the porch. The house was lit inside–nobody in the front room. I decided to scale the porch to look into the second story windows. I’m old and tired. I swore at Snevets under my breath. His name was perfect to curse, and its language took over making it hard to climb. Looking in the second story window, I saw Snevets standing over a desk in a study. Under him was a small girl, no more than thirteen, writing. I saw Snevets’ mouth move. He was dictating to her. The pencil looked enormous in her small hand. How long could they keep this up? We had been waiting for hours. What were they writing? Neither of them looked tired. Snevets hadn’t even loosened his tie. He spoke slowly, and was spelling some of the words. I could see him mouth them a letter at a time. Knowing Snevets, this could go on a while. I was going to have to relieve the men.

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A Snevets story: any story in which the point of view is an investigating officer, and the protagonist, Snevets, is committing sinister crimes of composition. Peculiar to these pursuer/pursued stories is that the investigating officer never catches Snevets. At each cornering Snevets manages to write his way out of trouble. Also Snevets’ crimes of language are never made concrete–the exact nature of each transgression remains mysterious.

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