The KGB (Part 1)

Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopastnosti
(Committee of State Security)

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.” - A Tale Of Two Cities, Charles Dickens

The Cold War is like 9/11. You had to live through it if you want to know how passionately we misunderstood it. It was like A Tale of Two Cities. America was at its best. America was at its worst. We were holding back Communism - a menace more deadly than Nazism, with a stated aim of world revolution. We were conducting witch hunts for the “Communist under every rock” - trampling everything we believed in while doing it. I could go on; but I would be supported by half the people who lived through it, and damned for a liar by the other half. I’ve already said enough to incite violence at some college campuses.  

Most of this isn’t related to the fact that I joined the Army after I graduated from the University of Alabama in Huntsville in 1985. With a shiny new degree in English Literature that had been intended to get me into seminary, but was not likely to get me into anything else, I had some figuring to do. I had been married about a year, and needed to work somewhere other than the convenience store if I was going to support a wife. Seminary, I had decided, was for people who were much more certain about going into the ministry than I was. I knew I was going to need some time and space to think about my decision, and I was going to need money to pay for whatever schooling I needed to get the next degree - the hopefully employable one. 

So I joined the Army. They were willing to give me a reasonable paycheck, a signing bonus, Russian language training, and the GI College Bill in exchange for four years of my life. That sounded like just the ticket! I would have time to think things over, and I would have the next school paid for. It was just what I needed. 

I probably should have told Sandra first; but she was a good sport about it, as she has been about all my insanities.

Anyway, that’s how I ended up working in military intelligence with a Top Secret security clearance and a Russian language qualifier on my title: I needed a job and some space. A year in Monterey, California learning Russian did me no end of good. Working with the Soviet defectors and refugees gave me a clear idea of who we were dealing with. They all had stories, and none of them were good. Next time, I’ll tell one - the story of Elena Viktorovna Petrenko, my teacher. She was the sweetest, kindest grandmother you could ever meet. You would never guess that she had survived war, deportation, slavery, and genocide.

The Coffee Cups

Lining the top of the cabinets in my kitchen; or, rather, in Sandra’s kitchen, are dozens of coffee cups. There are some nice ones, some very cheap ones, one or two historic cups, and many pieces of tourist trap bait. They represent cities, countries, companies, geographic features, and government agencies. They are nothing to anyone except me; but they tell the story of my life, so I won’t give them up. Thankfully, though, she has never complained about them. 

Sometime after I left the Army, I decided that I would get a coffee cup whenever I worked at a company, or took a trip. That would be my keepsake and would help me remember that job, that business trip, that mission trip, or that vacation. I thought that a physical reminder would keep the memories in my brain, so I always bought a cup, was given one, or (in one case) retrieved it from the garbage can. 

Like life, of course, the collection strayed from purity. There’s a shot glass from Moscow, a beer stein from Vienna, a thermos from Kwajalein, a bomblet from a missile, a badge from a missile range, and a piece of an artillery shell from an explosives test. Because I was very fortunate, my experiences were too broad to fit into my plans; but, for the most part, the collection is coffee cups. The tops of my kitchen cabinets have long since been overwhelmed by the cups my life has created, much like the memories have overwhelmed my brain’s ability to hold them; so I am reduced to tucking them into cabinets or into a closet. Occasionally, I’ll see one that I had forgotten about and the memories will roar through my eyes, forcing themselves in on me as if I was still there in that moment. Sometimes I’ll see one and will stare blankly at it for awhile, hoping to remember where it’s from or why I spent my time on it.  Thirty years may not be long to live; but it’s a long time to collect coffee cups, and even my cup-assisted memory is starting to have holes in it. Before the holes grow any wider or deeper, I want to offer you the stories that the cups have to tell. Their stories are important and trivial. They are banal and original. Like the life they represent, they are whatever they are; but the stories belong to the cups and, when you look at all of them, they are my life. 

For some time to come, the blog will consist of a picture of a coffee cup and a story that goes with it. I was going to say “the story that goes with it”; but each cup is a window into a part of my life with a million stories that can never be told with the few words and years that we have at our disposal, so one story per cup will have to do. 

Andrew Pakhomov, Ph.D.

Some Murderers I Have Known

Andrew Pakhomov, Ph.D.

There’s no story here. I really didn’t know this guy; but Andrew Pakhomov was a UAH physics professor (department chair, I think) and I had a lab or two with him several years before the murder. I only include his story because some of you are wondering who the fourth murderer is - and also because this story is so incredibly lurid. 

In late May of 2006, Dr. Andrew Pakhomov murdered his wife, Elena Zakin, and threw her body in the Tennessee River. This case has everything: domestic violence, infidelity, a successful murder, and a botched coverup. It’s such a titillating story that Investigation Discovery used it in “Betrayed”, one of their true crime shows.  The episode is “Blinded By Betrayal”. So, if you’re the sort of person who obsessively watches murder documentaries (Meagan), here’s the link:

https://www.investigationdiscovery.com/tv-shows/betrayed/full-episodes/blinded-by-betrayal 

If you’re not the sort of person who watches murder documentaries; or, more likely, you can’t get access to the site because you don’t have the right internet service, here are a couple of links that will let you read the dishy details. 

https://www.inquisitr.com/3546019/yelena-zakin-andrew-pakhomov-ids-betrayed-missing-wife-found-dead-in-tennessee-river-killed-by-physics-professor/ 

http://www.decaturdaily.com/news/local/pakhomov-s-mistress-testifies/article_3275bca2-c15e-5501-9958-5a45583aed0d.html 

Aaaand here’s the guilty verdict:

http://www.waff.com/story/10949009/jury-hands-down-guilty-verdict-in-pakhomov-trial 

In my defense, he didn’t seem like a raving lunatic at the time. 

Also, I’m not sure why a physics professor can’t figure out how much weight you have to attach to a body to keep it from floating. Those of you who actually critique murders are wondering that, I'm sure. 

Steven Thompson, Part 3 - The Death Row Visit

Some Murderers I Have Known

Steven Thompson, Part 3 - The Death Row Visit

(WARNING: This post is a discussion of a visit to death row. If that’s likely to keep you from sleeping, you should go read Calvin and Hobbes or Pearls Before Swine and wait for next week’s post.)

After Steve and I had corresponded for awhile, I went to see him. His mother needed a ride, and Steve thought I’d be okay to meet. I’m not sure when this was. He was executed May 8, 1998, so it must have been before that; but not too much before. I’m sorry I don’t have a really coherent narrative this week; but the visit was just about 20 years ago, so I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending to remember most of what happened. Let me just jot down some of the memories that jump into my dreams from time to time. 

When we signed in with the guards, our belongings were inspected and we were checked for contraband. This didn’t make as much of an impression on me as it would have a normal human since I’ve been wandering in and out of secure buildings my entire professional life; but I could tell that a lot of the other people were feeling very put-upon by the process.

After I got there, I felt terrible for going. Steve had recently gotten the word that he would be transferred to Atmore for execution. I realized, too late, that every minute I spent with Steve was a precious minute stolen from his mother; and she had a very short time left to talk to her son. Strangely enough, that’s not how she viewed it. She was delighted that her son had a friend his own age who cared about him enough to visit him in prison. She encouraged us to spend as much time together as possible. I still felt bad, though. 

While I was there, I was really curious about how normal all the murderers looked. I expected them to be a particularly rough bunch of men; but the ones I saw weren’t. If they hadn’t been wearing prison clothes, none of them would have looked out of place at a hockey game on Saturday night or in church on Sunday morning. The visiting area was a cafeteria about the size of a basketball court. There were ladies behind the counter who would sell them food if their families were willing to buy it. Steve’s mother bought some candy bars and a coke for him, and he was careful to thank the ladies for taking care of him. It was exactly like a normal interaction in a normal lunchroom, except that he went on to tell them goodbye since he was on his way to be executed “down south” and wouldn’t see them again.

After he got his food, we sat together in a patch of sun and he raised his face to catch all of the sunlight that he could. He paused and luxuriated in the light that had so recently come from the free air outside the prison. Undoubtedly, sunlight was not a frequent visitor to his cell in the depths of the building. After a few moments he lowered  his face, looked at me, and continued with the visit as if nothing had happened.

I was struck by how digital his thinking was. Things were yes or no, right or wrong, black or white. There was no middle, and no gray. Death row doesn’t grant a man very many luxuries, but the opportunity not to have to deal with the subtleties of life was one of them. In all of his communications and in all of his thinking, he was driven to one extreme or the other. He had only a short time to make his soul right with God, make peace with others, and settle his affairs. Time was not on his side, and he had no patience with half measures. 

Unless he was a great actor, his conversion to Christianity was real. He talked at length, and with obvious knowledge, about the Lord and his hope of salvation. He apparently spent a great deal of time in his cell studying the Bible and talking to the prison chaplain. He was not worried about dying. For him, death was immeasurably preferable to living another forty or fifty years with no hope of being free. His life was a constant agony, and he wanted to be free from the pain one way or another. He wanted to either be with the Lord, or to have the hope of one day being a free man in society; but he could not deal with the dreaded Life Without Parole. He was worried about his mother and the rest of his family. He was afraid that his death would kill his mother, that the stigma of being related to an executed murderer would follow his family, and that they would all wrestle with guilt that it was somehow their fault. For himself, he had not one little concern. He was happy and upbeat the entire time I spoke with him. 

Steven Thompson, Part 2, How I Got Involved

Some Murderers I Have Known

Steven Thompson, Part 2 - How I Got Involved

So, one might reasonably ask, how did I get involved with such an infamous murderer? Or, indeed, with any murderer at all?

I blame my sister. 

Back in the ‘90s, my family attended Whitesburg Baptist Church here in Huntsville, AL. One day, a lady named Inez Thompson gave a testimony in church that moved me deeply. She and her family were living under the shadow cast by her brother’s crime and his sentence of death. I was so moved that I looked up her address in the church phone book and wrote her a note. 

Lo and behold, she worked with my sister Cathy. (Those of you who are familiar with my inability to remember names will not be surprised to learn that I was supposed to have known that already.) Cathy and I talked about it, then Inez and I talked about it. Inez said that he had converted to Christianity in jail, and had turned around his attitudes toward life and the Lord, so I wrote Steven a few letters to encourage him in prison.

He actually wrote me back, which he later told me was very unusual. There are apparently a lot of curiosity-seekers who try to create relationships with death row inmates, and he’d have thrown my letters away if I hadn’t known his sister. As it was, he answered them. 

After a few letters back and forth, we decided I would visit him in prison. His mother was due for a visit, and needed a ride to Bessemer where the prison was. So I agreed to take her down for a visit. 

I’ll get to the visit next time. This time, I’ll just reproduce his first letter to me, dated 16 September 1997. He was executed May 8, 1998, so this was about 8 months before the execution.

I was going to reflect on the letter a bit, but I’ll just let Steve speak for himself. 

“Jack, 

I received your letter last week and like yourself I’m a procrastinator but normally only when it comes to writing which I deplore. You’d think that after 14 years of incarceration with mail as my main source of communication that I’d have a better relationship with pen and paper but I don’t writing is still not my forte. 

I enjoyed reading your letter and I appreciate your taking the time to write a total stranger for the most part. I didn’t know that Inez was talking about me out there but I hope what you’ve heard is only good. Ha Ha! There’s certainly been a lot of bad things said about me in H’ville and rightly so I guess for the one who put himself in here to begin with but the way I see it now is that that child is now dead and now the born again man is suffering the penalty for his actions. In any case I and the Lord know who I am today and that’s all that matters. The world can say what it wants. 

I’ll be honest and tell you that I’m envious of you brother. Here you are at 35 and have a stable job and a wife and family which is what I truly long for and here I am 34 and in prison. Certainly God blesses me daily but in my heart you have what I’d like to have. A little word of wisdom, never take what you have for granted. I’m sure you don’t but there are a lot of guys out there our age who don’t know just how lucky they are. May God keep you and yours safe and well always. 

You mentioned that you work for a defense contractor as an engineer. Are you prior military? I was in the Navy up until my arrest in ’84 and had planned to go back to work for Raytheon upon my discharge. Dad worked forUncle Sam out on the Arsenal in ordinance until he retired so I’m very familiar with contractors and DoD. Even with the cutbacks in defense spending, it’s a good way to make a living. Do you work on the Arsenal?

I don’t know what Inez has told you about me so forgive me if I tell you something you already know. I really don’t know what to say to be honest. I don’t want to sit here and bore you with the goings on of prison life. It’s not something that I would wish on my worst enemy that’s for sure. I thank God that I’m not in a position where I could be facing the rest of my life in here. After much prayer I decided long ago that if I can’t ever be physically free (I’m already mentally and spiritually free) that I’d rather die and go to be with the Lord. I have too many hopes and dreams to spend the rest of my days knowing that they’ll never come to pass. It looks as if I may be going to be with the Lord in the coming year as my appeals run out but I have a peace from God that gives me comfort and so I have no fear of death. Still I’m not giving up. Only God knows my future and I’m confident that God’s perfect will will be done no matter what. I do have concern about my family though and how my death will affect them. I’m thankful for your prayers but I would be very appreciative if you would pray with me for them and their peace and comfort, and strength to face whatever the future may hold. Thank you brother. Thank you for caring about Inez to. As you know from meeting her she is one very special person who has the heart of love for everyone and I pray for her daily that God will not only use her to do His work but that He also brings happiness to her life and fulfill her hearts desires according to His will. I’m thankful that she has friends like you who care about her so much. May God bless you and yours always. 

Well I didn’t mean to get off into a sermon of sorts but you and I both know that we are nothing apart from Christ. Without Him I don’t know how I’d have made it this far and I know that He will be with me forever. 

I’ll close for now then. As I said I’m not much of a writer but I do try to answer all of my mail sooner or later if you want to write again I’d be happy to hear from you and I’ll do my best to reply. Til then take care and I will do the same. 

Your brother in Christ,

Steve”