Fargo – A Tale of Vengeance

Recently my work has taken me from Omaha to Red Lake, MN on a monthly basis. And at 600 plus miles, driving on my schedule still beats flying on someone else’s…but just barely.

It’s a nine hour drive plus pit stops and weather related slow-downs. And over the past eight months I’ve settled into two dominant routes. The Ames Route - Omaha, Des Moines, Ames, Minneapolis, Brainerd, Bemidji, Red Lake. And the Fargo Route - Omaha Sioux City, Sioux Falls, Brookings, Watertown, Fargo, Park Rapids, Bemidji, Red Lake.

The Fargo route is a bit shorter but the Ames route offers me the luxury of popping in on K at Iowa State. Other than this, neither possesses a greater or lesser degree of scenery or excitement. My January drive through Fargo however has proven to be the lone exception.

Whenever I hear the word “Fargo” I immediately think of three things…my neighbors who graduated from North Dakota State, a colleague from the office who moved from Fargo to Omaha several years ago, and of course last but not least the Academy Award winning 1996 Coen brothers movie “Fargo”.

By the way, through built up curiosity I purchased the DVD yesterday. And I suspect that my recent viewing of Fargo may have signaled the extinction of the last remaining person on the planet who had never seen this movie...really! In case you've forgotten it is supposedly based upon a true story in Minnesota and tells of a car salesman who meets a couple of ne'er-do-wells in Fargo and hires them to kidnap his wife to extort a ransom from his wealthy father-in-law. But his plans go terribly awry and several brutal murders ensue. The case is then investigated by a police chief from Brainerd who’s quite pregnant. And the bad guys drive a burnt umber (medium brown) Oldsmobile Cierra and live in a shack on a lake. The movie is rated R for language and graphic violence.

So anyway, I’ve stopped for sustinence on my way home from the northern Minnesota lands of Paul Bunyan. And as dusk settled over the snow packed roads of Fargo I round the back side of the fuel station building to better approach the highway. Seeing the lights of a car backing out of its parking stall I slowed and then stopped four or five stalls back and well away to allow him room to maneuver. After clearing his stall he continues inexplicably in his backward motion, accelerating and finally coming to rest as his back passenger side bumper collides into my driver side front bumper, pushing my previously stationary vehicle backwards about eight inches. Damn.

A minute later, and having both survived the ordeal, we stood together in the packed snow staring mournfully at the shattered remains of my bumper through the curling vapor of our exhausting breaths. Then this stranger, kind of a funny looking fella, in a general sort of way, in his mid fifties says with all the polite Norwiegen-ness of his thick Dakotan accent “Sorry, didn’t see yuh there. Yeah, my back window there is so dirty I can’t see out don’tcha know.” Intrigued I wanted to respond with a nice “Yeah, you betcha." But instead, I looked up and sure enough he’s driving this filthy mud splattered older model Pontiac or maybe an Oldsmobile. Beneath the mud it appears to be medium brown colored, kind of a burnt umber. I can’t help but notice that his passenger is giving us (probably just me) the evil eye through the dirt caked window. Having not yet seen the movie my defenses failed to spike. I should have been thinking "Whoa...a couple of ne'er-do-wells in Fargo driving a tan Olds. Yikes, Fargo!" But instead I just stood there unaware of any real or imagined danger.

Then this scraggly little stranger says “Whose fault ya reckon this to be?” I looked at him and said “My car wasn’t moving. Whose fault do you think it was?” Then he sighed, looked back at the splintered bumper and said, “Yeah, ya got dat right. No damage to my car though. Looks to be less than $1000 dollars here and I’d hate to bother my insurance over it. Let’s trade information and I’ll pay for the damage”. Being momentarily stupid, I agreed.

Using my pen he wrote his name, address and phone number down on a napkin and gave it to me. “Jack D***, Valley City, 701-84*-**23”. We talked for a minute and he returned to old Evil Eye and his dirty tan Olds. So many missed Fargoean clues. As they pulled onto the highway I made note of his license plate number on the napkin “North Dakota HFC**4” and stuffed it into my pocket.

Instinctively I grabbed my camera from inside the car and snapped off a few crime scene photos; the finest of which shows the drivers side rear wheel and bears evidence of my backward motion, and no forward skidding, clearly visible on the snow packed pavement. Then I entered the fuel station and asked the clerk if she had some packing tape with which I could temporarily secure my fractured bumper for my lengthy drive home. I was amused by her hearty “Yeah. You betcha. Yeah.”

A week later, armed with two body shop estimates I dialed Jack’s number. Each of three tries yielded the same recorded message…”You have reached a non-working number. Please check the number and try again.” …Doah!

Google: Jack D***, Valley City, ND. Nothing.
Yellowbook: Jack D***, North Dakota, Minnesota. Nothing.
Anywho: Jack D***. Nothing…Son-of-a!

Suddenly the betrayal crystalized before me and I realized that “Jack” or whatever his real name was had given me the slip. Had one of my kids fallen prey to this lawless deception I’d be lecturing endlessly on their obvious and foreseeable blunder. As I pondered my predicament I realized that I didn’t even know the name of the fuel station and the license number does me little good without a witness because I can’t place the perpetrators at the scene. I could have just copied down anyone’s license number, or worse...I could myself be portrayed as the perp having slid into the back end of their car. I began to sweat. I can't go to prison, I just can't!

Regaining my senses I reasoned that I had nothing but a broken bumper, bruised ego and an appetite to exact revenge…Aaargh. A classic tale of retribution quickly came to my mind. Sadly, I thought first of the 2002 movie and not the classic novel mastered by Alexandre Dumas in 1844. None-the-less, I love the story of the Count of Monte Cristo. And at that moment I thought to myself “Vengeance is mine Monsieur Jack”. And so I pressed on with little more than a license number, a vague vehicle description, a date and the approximate crime location.

Next I took a virtual drive westward down Highway 10 on Google Maps/Streetview. This was an amazing journey. Back-tracking my route I eventually happened upon the building and signs in my photo. The arrow cursor left of the fuel pumps in the picture above identifies the approximate point of impact. I now had the exact location but my Google Streetview image nor my crime scene photos showed the name of the station. And the “Tesoro” franchise name yielded no usable information toward finding a phone number. With a cooling trail I feared that the investigation would have to await my next trip through Fargo.

In desperation I called the Fargo Police and asked to speak to a detective. Expecting a dead end or at least a cold shoulder, I was pleased when a detective answered. In all the excitement I regret that I missed her name. For convenience though, let's call her “Friday”. “Friday” not because of any resemblance to Sgt. Joe Friday, my boyhood Dragnet hero, but because I had called her on a Friday. Friday listened eagerly to all the gritty details of the crime committed upon my bumper and the lies perpetrated upon my naivety. Friday listened as I read the fake name, address and phone but was most interested in the very real license plate number. Then Friday said “Let’s run the tags” and placed me on hold. “Yes…hang the bastard” I thought to myself. To my utter amazement Friday returned in less than a minute and rattled off the name and address of the vehicle’s registered Owner. Jan D***, Page, ND. Then Friday gave me a real phone number 701-66*-**81. Cha-Ching!

The first six or seven tries at various times of day yielded no answer. Finally on a Wednesday afternoon a familiar but sleepy voice answered “Yeah.”

Me: “Jan?”

Jan: “Yeah.”

Me: This is Mike West. You backed into my car in Fargo a couple of weeks ago. I sure have had a difficult time find...”

Jan: “You got the wrong guy!” Click.

Two weeks later, and wielding a heightened determination I traced my recollected route and returned to the scene of the crime. It proved to be a Stamart Convenience Store at 2903 Main Avenue in Fargo. Ironically I assumed Jan’s old parking place and calmly strolled in. As I waited in line I located two video surveillance cameras and attempted to visualize their respective views of the property. One faced the pumps in the wrong direction and the other faced the pumps toward where Jan had stopped his vehicle after the weapon had delivered its damaging blow. Two clerks stood behind the counter. The friendlier of the two said “How can I help you?” As I began to recount my tale, the friendly clerk said “I remember you. You had the blue Civic that was backed into right out here.” And she pointed to the side of the building. “I gave you a roll of tape”. Another break in the case. I took a mental note of both nametags. A*** - Shift Manager and S*** - Assistant Manager. A*** went on to explain that she had just helped the perp with a propane tank and was walking into the side door when she heard the crash. She turned and saw the carnage. Yes! Esquire West calls his first witness.

The video surveillance system records still images at one frame per second. It records data to a digital video recorder that is "safely defended" behind a door marked "Manager". The hollow wood door is secured from the inside with a bathroom latch. The means of fortification when the manager was outside of the office was not readily evident to me. I was told that the hard drive retains data until it is either retrieved for use or overwritten after about sixty days. Judging by the sight lines and the estimated angle of vision, I had earlier surmised that there was no way that the collision was recorded on video. However, our culprit had pulled forward and into the cameras view after his little transgression and before getting out to inspect the damage and crafting his wicked deceptions. And there it was, playing out frame by frame. Oh the humanity!

Twenty minutes later I walked into the Fargo Police Department and asked to speak with an officer to report an accident. Officer Todd Wa** took my information and began a police report. Then he pounded out a trace on the license number and began to smile. He said my perp was indeed Jan D***. He wrote down his actual address in Page, North Dakota and he wrote down his actual phone number. I concealed the fact that I already had obtained this information through my own sleuthy skills. I thought of myself “nice piece of work Sherlock!”

Then Officer Todd picked up the phone and dialed Jan’s number. After a few seconds he frowned, hung up the phone and pounded into his keyboard some more. He picked up the phone and dialed again. This number found its mark.

Officer Todd: “Jan D***?”

Officer Todd: “This is Officer Wa** with the Fargo Police Department.”

Officer Todd: “I have a Mr. Michael West here and he claims that you two had a little fender bender a few weeks ago. And I know why you have given him a false name, address and phone number.”

Me (to myself): “What...you do? What do you know?”

Officer Todd: “And he is here filling out an accident report. And I can imagine that you might not want him to do this."

Me (to myself): "What...you can? What can you imagine?"

Officer Todd: "You see Mr. D*** I see here that you are driving on a suspended license and now you’ve falsified information at the scene of an accident. These are serious offences Mr. D***.”

Me (to myself): “Ooh. Oooh! Release the hounds!”

Officer Todd: “No sir. We believe that you were the driver. We have the surveillance video from the station Mr. D***.”

Me (to myself): “Whohoho...Book ‘em Danno!!”

Officer Todd: “Good. I thought so. Is it alright if I give Mr. West this cell number then Mr. D***?”

Officer Todd: “Good. Will you be at this number for awhile Mr. D***?”

Officer Todd: “Good. He’ll call you in ten minutes then. You be sure and cooperate now. Otherwise we can just finish up this report. Do you understand Mr. D***?”

Officer Todd: “Good. Good day Mr. D***.”

Ten minutes later I was in my car and dialed Jan’s cell phone. Predictably he was motivated to oblige my suggestion to satisfy the cost of the damages. I indicated that I had two estimates and that I was more than happy to go with the lowest one. He said that he was to deliver a load to the local elevator on Friday and that he would send a check on Saturday. This sounded a bit fishy but then again everything in Jan's little thiefdom was probably fishy. Plus I had the law on my side now. Timidly I gave him my office address and told I'd be expecting a check. I figured that were he to come busting in guns a blazin’ I’d stand a better chance there than if he caught me at home in bed.

Ten days passed and no check. So I called Jan’s cell phone again. He said that the elevator was full on the day he was to deliver his load and that the weather was not yet cooperating for further deliveries. However, he was expecting a crop insurance check any day now. He would have a check mailed by the end of the week. I again smelled the deceptive fishiness of this yarn. I said "fine..." and for good measure I then threw in "I'll be in Fargo next week". What else could I do? If I show up at his woodsy little Fargoean shack he would still have plenty more excuses than checks. Plus, I was fearful of finding myself out back lodged in his chipper!

Ten more days passed and no check. So again I called Jan’s cell.

Me: "Jan? This in Mike West. You’ve lied to me four times now. This is the last time that we will speak. I leave for Fargo in a couple of days and my first stop is to see Officer Todd.”

Jan: "Oh now, don’t you be a doin dat. I’ve sent the check. I sent it yist'rdee."

Presuming that he had long since discarded my information I asked “What did you send and where did you send it?”

Jan: “$772...to that place you told me. Dodge Street!”

Me: “OK Jan. I won’t be calling you again.”

I hung up and sat there for a minute. I felt like such a thug. He sounded so scared. Damn.

Two days later a letter arrived from Page, North Dakota. It included a check in the amount of $772.00 from a Mr. Jan D***.

As I slipped the check back into the envelope I thought to myself “why is there no joy in this? Revenge, it seems, is at least as bitter as it is sweet." Then I thought “Yeah, you got dat right.”