How to Read: with Mike Bevel

Bob Perez was a police lieutenant in Wenatchee, Washington, when he was made head of the sex crimes unit in 1994.

Perez had no experience in sex crimes (giving/receiving), and even said that his appointment to this role was a mystery. (Not, like, a clandestine mystery, or something a cabal set in motion. Most likely Perez was just the right-shaped piece for that particular administrative hole.)

I’m going to jump a little in time, up to 2013, and Bob Perez’s obituary:

“Bob served on the Police Guild Board as Treasurer and, for several years, headed up the Foster Children’s Christmas Party. He spent hours fulfilling the kids’ wish lists, ‘testing out the toys’ to insure they were “fun” enough for the kids, and then wrapping them with the assistance of his police K-9, Blade, who ended up wrapped in ribbons, bows and a Santa hat in the process. If you knew Bob, you know how hysterical this could be! A huge pizza party would be held for the foster kids and their parents, while case workers, officers and Santa gave out toys and candy in a festive and joy-filled event. Bob looked forward to this each year as a wonderful way to celebrate the season and give to children most in need.”

I think Bob Perez was a good man — or, I guess, he doesn’t need to have been a bad man for what happened to have happened.

In 1995, not even a full year into his new role as head of sex crimes in Wenatchee (pop. 22,000), Perez was certain he had uncovered a sex-crime-ring. It started when a 15-year-old tried to poison her foster father with iodine. When she was taken into custody, she claimed that he had raped her. Later, the 15-year-old, through her social worker, recanted the rape story entirely. But Perez doubled-down, and arrested the social worker for witness tampering.

It all sort of unspools quickly and wildly from there.

At one point, Perez became convinced that his own foster child was a victim of the sex-crime-ring he had uncovered. He drove her around Wenatchee, asking her to point to any house that looked like a place where she might have been abused. (During this Very Weird Tour of Wenatchee, the foster daughter also revealed that she had been abused by: a taxi driver, a delivery man, and, eventually, and roughly, fortysomething other citizens.)

Ultimately, Perez’s investigation filed over 29 ::thousand:: counts of child sex abuse. Eighteen people were convicted. And, by the end of the ’90s, almost all of those would be overturned.

2013: “Bob retired from the Police Department and, in 1998, he moved to the ‘Ranch’ in Waterville to care for his ailing friend, Virgil, eventually buying the ranch, filling it with horses, dogs, cats and chickens and creating a peaceful environment for he and his son, Bobby, while continuing the fight for justice and truth.”

Meet Mandane.

First, her father, Astyages, dreamt that she “[made] water so greatly that she filled all his city,” drowning everyone, and eventually drowning all of Asia. (“Is she still pissing in the river now? Heard she’s gone, moved into a trailer park.”)

(I’m quoting a version of Herodotus because I’m Very Handsome and Very Smart.)

(Well, I’m quoting Herodotus AND also Tori Amos because I’m also Very Too Much.)

(This whole essay got away from me.)

Second, he dreamt that a giant vine grew out of Mandane’s “privy parts,” entangling the city of Media, in what is now northwestern Iran. (Ear-rahn, is how you should say the name of that country, not Eye-ran, by the way. Christiane Amanpour taught me that in a series of CNN advertisements where Lou Dobbs was funny.)

The magi whom Astyages consulted to get a handle on these dreams told him the meaning was simple: his daughter was going to give birth to a man who would take the kingdom away from Astyages. This son would destroy Astyages’ empire.

And in the way fairy tales and fables work, Astyages sent a huntsman, in the form of his general, a man named Harpagus, to kill his daughter’s child. And in the way of fairy tales and fables, Harpagus couldn’t. Like most widow’s sons, luck was with him, and he found a shepherd named Mithridates whose son was still-born and a swap was made because one baby looks like any other in that they all look like tiny sweet Abe Vigodas.

Years pass as years do and Astyages meets, one day, the swapped son of a shepherd, notes the family resemblance, sorts the whole jig out, and asks Harpagus to explain what happened. Astyages nodded, put on his best “I’m listening compassionately” face, mild-eyeing Harpagus the whole time he explained how impossible it was to kill a baby. “Of course how awful for you,” Astyages said. “Maybe I asked too much, went too far,” he said. “Maybe, to show how bygones are bygones and how little necessity we need pay the words of a king what if I host a dinner, tonight, for you, and you have a son, no? Is that something I know correctly? I’m sure it is and he’s invited, too. Send him early. He can help with the set-up.”

And Harpagus did. Sent his son as easily as one sends a casserole to a funeral. And Astyages did. Slaughtered Harpagus’ son as meat for the feast. Astyages had the boy carved into beautiful cuts, but saved the hands, and the feet, and the boy’s head, put them in a basket, a different kind of Moses.

While the other guests at table ate mutton, Harpagus, unknowingly, ate his son, gladly and accidentally because it was unknowingly, right up until Astyages said, “But what could be in this basket?”

(Once upon a time later, and to revenge himself, Harpagus joined with Astyages’ grandson, Cyrus, against the wicked king, sending a message to Cyrus in the belly of a hare.)