In Memorial: My Grandfather, On Being A Ditch Digger

The summer I was seventeen, I received sage advice from my grandfather.  My grandfather was never much of a "talker".  He could, when called upon, "BS" with the best of them, but he preferred, more often than not, to be "doing something".

Usually, it was my grandmother who, with the patience of a saint, would sit and listen for hours to the constant chatter of the hoard that typically meandered through their house on any given day.  In between this chatter was the constant cooking of gigantic pots of food, coffee and tea.  Enough to feed the small army that was our family that routinely encamped at the kitchen table. 

My grandfather would be out in the garage or down in the basement fixing, building or planning the next thing he was going to fix or build.  When he did come in to refresh the endless cups of coffee he imbibed and take a moment at the table, he always had a paper napkin or scrap of paper at hand, scratching out some plan for the next thing he was going to build or fix. 

I would watch in fascination because I had seen more than once these crude drawings turn into actual working devices, furniture or expansions on their house.  Sometimes these items were less functionary than amusing or entertaining.  Like the time he used scrap wood & left over piping to build each of us grandchildren a "machine gun" so we could run through the barns and fields to play "war".  Accompanied by the strict admonishment from my grandmother that we were not to use them as clubs and to stay out of the field where Ida, a large and mean spirited Black Angus, would watch with one steely eye on us and the other on the clover she was munching.  I can't say we always followed either of those directives.

Even in the functional, my grandfather would often include the "whimsical".  Like the time he built a drinking fountain in the dining room next to the kitchen door.  He said it was to give my grandmother a break from having to jump up and get constant glasses of water for the twenty children running in and out of the house on any given summer's day. 

The drinking fountain was covered in tiny blue, red, yellow and green tiles.  The tiles created a mosaic that looked like red and yellow flowers floating in water.  The mosaic spilled from the fountain and across the adjacent walls appearing as if the "water" had trickled away.  I asked my grandfather where he had gotten the idea and he told me that he had seen it in a book about Moorish architecture.

A prolific book reader, I immediately went to the library and checked out ten books on the subject.  That led to other books that led to other books.  And, so it went.  I could eventually see the influences of historic architecture and art in the many things he built.  It made me realize that this oft times quiet man who preferred tinkering in his work shop had another side; unplumbed depths. 

My grandfather held a variety of jobs and owned a few businesses.  Not all of them successful.  His most successful venture was as a private contractor remodeling houses or doing piece work for new builds.  He could do anything necessary except the electrical or major plumbing. Even that he could "tinker with". He was in high demand, receiving calls from some of the better known firms in the city and many individuals who had heard of his work "word of mouth". 

It was a "right of passage" into young adulthood amongst his grandchildren to be asked to go help him on these many jobs.  I learned some very practical lessons on using a plumb line, T square, setting tiles, laying carpet, etc.  Most importantly, I learned the definition of "hard work" and the importance of "reputation". 

These things, my grandfather taught me, kept the work coming and the money flowing.  Money he invariably spent on my grandmother, his next "project" or helping out either close or extended family members and, sometimes, complete strangers.  Money, he told me, was good for getting what you need and sometimes what you want, but money wasn't everything.  It's best use was in making someone else happy or helping them along.  "Put your last dollar in a poor man's cup.  You'll get it back tenfold one day."   

It was an idea my younger self didn't quite comprehend as most of my "dreams" centered around the idea of doing something fantastic that would invariably lead to being fantastically wealthy.  I dreamed of traveling, staying in hotels, having a career that did not include back breaking work inside sweltering, unfinished houses carrying ten gallon buckets of mastic.  Even as exciting as it seemed to go to work with my grandfather, it was hard and dirty work. I wanted a career, complete with nice clothes and carrying a brief case, not a tool box.

The best parts of these excursions seemed to me the times we would finally sit down to drink a bottle of water and eat our bologna sandwiches.   Most often in the silence of exhaustion, but, sometimes, when grandpa would sit and talk to us, providing his take on the world and life in general.  Looking back, I'm not sure any of us actually recognized the lessons we were given so much as we enjoyed the prestige of being spoken to "like adults". 

The years went by and the hard work had taken a toll on my grandfather.  Arthritis in his knees and hands made it difficult to do the "big jobs".  He took a job as a night security man for Wells-Fargo, doing small side jobs on his days off to supplement his pay.  He would still take one or more of us on these jobs.  Teaching skills, he said, that we could use for ourselves to save money or, if times were hard, to fall back on.

The summer I was seventeen, I went for one of my regular visits to my grandparents' house.  My grandfather was on the front porch in his watchman's uniform eating barbecue out of a cardboard container and drinking a beer.  I distinctly recalled the beer because I could count on one hand the times I remembered him drinking anything other than coffee or water. On those occasions, my grandmother would give him one of her "looks" and he would brush it away, "Ah, hon', it's just one beer."

By then I had heard those little stories at family gatherings about my grandfather's younger days when he was considered a hard drinker and an even harder fighter. Even though there was usually laughter involved or a kind of awed shaking of the head over certain events, it was always with the understanding that those days were long gone.  I had never seen that man in those stories.

I was hard pressed to reconcile that younger man with the man I knew as "grandpa".  "Grandpa" rarely drank and had offered other sound advice on fighting, "If you can walk away from a fight, walk.  If you can talk your way out of a fight, talk.  If it looks like you're gonna fight anyway, throw the first punch.  Because, if the other guy hits you first, you might get your clock rang and it's hard to get up after that."

The only time I had dared to bring up one of these stories, my grandfather had gone quiet and then told me he gave up drinking a long time ago.  After the doctor told him if he didn't, it might kill him, one way or the other.  I was suspicious that the doctor had given him that advice on the occasion of sewing stitches in his head post violent introduction to an iron skillet.    

That was another one of those "family stories".  Apparently, my younger, cockier grandfather had arrived home one night, early in my grandparents' marriage, stinking drunk.  He sat down at the table and demanded to be served dinner.  My grandmother had quietly went about laying dinner on the table.  Taking a bite, the story goes, he proclaimed the food was cold and proceeded to throw it on the floor, demanding my grandmother "get in the kitchen, woman" and make him some "hot food."

My grandmother, as she later told me, went into the kitchen and stood staring at the stove for a moment, trying to decide what to do.  It wasn't the first time he had come home drunk.  She always claimed she didn't know what came over her.  The next minute, she had grabbed the cast iron skillet off the stove, came out of the kitchen and "gave him a good wack." 

A trip to the hospital and many stitches later, contrition on both parts, reconciliation and apparently a new view on the dangers of continuing to be a "hard drinker".  According to my grandmother, she had been very afraid that she had killed him when he fell unconscious to the floor.  My grandfather, on the one occasion he acknowledged that story, only nodded his head and said, "Yep, she damned near killed me."

It was that knowledge that had me glancing down at the beer by his chair on the porch and quickly checking the screen door lest grandma came out and gave him one of her "looks".  I took the other chair on the porch gingerly, one eye on the screen door.  He offered me some of his barbecue and a side of pickles.  We sat munching in comfortable silence until he asked me what I had been doing that day.

I told him I had been to the library.  He inquired on what I was reading.  I told him I had gotten several books on the Civil War, World War I and World War II.  We proceeded to talk awhile about history.  Even at seventeen I realized this was an important moment.  A moment in time when I was privileged to see the intelligent, astute man behind the usual coating of saw dust and adhesives.  It was wonderful because I had thought there was no one in my family who shared my passion for books and history.  There, in that moment, I shared a connection with my grandfather.  We talked as we never had before.

It seemed like an appropriate time to ask about the picture on the wall.  A black and white picture of my grandfather in dress navy blues looking like a boy playing dress up.  Everyone knew my grandfather had been in the navy in World War II.  We knew that he had been the "fly weight boxing champion" of the fleet.  That he had joined right after his seventeenth birthday. 

According to my grandmother, he went down to the recruiting station, got the paperwork and went home to demand his parents sign the release.  He wanted to "get in the war" before it ended and had told his parents he would run away and lie about his age to join if they didn't sign.  That was what his mother had relayed to my grandmother.  My grandfather rarely spoke of it.  Everything we knew was from other members of the family.

I asked what he did in the navy, what ship he was on, all the things I had wanted to ask, but never seemed the right moment. Largely because he rarely spoke of it and neither did anyone else.

Soon he was telling me stories about being on the ship, a destroyer, the USS Edwards.  Funny stories about crossing the equator and the "ceremony" for all the "turtles"; the newbies or "virgins" who had never crossed the equator before.  They had a big feast.  He had to dress up in a hula skirt and coconut brassier.  He said that the choices were to jump in the ocean or get thrown in.  He chose to jump.  I believed him because my grandfather was a natural in the water whether swimming, skiing or piloting a boat.

Then he proceeded to tell me how he had gotten his tattoo.  The one on his arm that was an anchor topped off by a scantily dressed beautiful woman in a hula skirt.  The ship had docked for supplies and the "local women" were lined up waiting for the sailors to disembark.

Right at that moment, my grandmother appeared, the screen door swinging open, "Lee-roy," she always dragged his name out when he was 'in trouble', "don't be telling her that story!"

My grandfather looked a little sheepish, but smiled, "Ah, hon', I wasn't gonna tell her nothin' bad!"

My grandmother continued to give us both "the eye".  I had to turn my head to hide my smile, slightly disappointed that I wasn't going to hear the rest of that story.  After a few more moments, my grandmother went back into the house, the screen door slapping closed behind her. 

My grandfather waited a heartbeat before picking up his bottle of beer and holding it out to me with a conspiratorial smile and one eye on the screen door, "You want a swig?"

The screen door slapped back open and my grandmother appeared a second later, blue eyes blazing, "Lee-roy!  Don't even think about giving her a beer!  She's under age and Larry will have a fit!"

Larry, my father, was Officer In Charge of the county's Juvenile Court system.  He did frown mightily on underage drinking and other nefarious activities that led to the numbers of disaffected youth parading through the system.  Of course, my father put it much more pithily, warning us on several occasions, if we ever got arrested, he'd come and get us, but then he would "whoop" our "asses from one end of the state to the other."

I endeavored to live my life by at least that one rule: never do anything that would make me have to call my father and ask for bail money.

That in constant mind, I had never even considered taking a drink of the proffered beer.  Not that my grandfather was serious.  I suspected even then that he knew my grandmother had been hovering just beyond the door, waiting to see if he was going to finish telling me the inappropriate story of the infamous tattoo.  That suspicion was confirmed when he gave me a wink and a smile saying, "Guess we better not."

My grandmother continued to give us both the evil eye until my grandfather assured her, "Ah, hon', I wasn't gonna give her nothin'.  I was just funnin' with you."

A minute or two of gimlet eyed scrutiny later, my grandmother assured we were not going to share a beer, she went back into the house, screen door slapping closed behind her once again.  The story sharing moment was broken, but it had created a much more important one with my grandfather.  We were now co-conspirators of wickedness and it was good.

We sat awhile longer in silence before I finally asked the other questions that were on my mind.  Specifically, what did my grandfather do in the war and was he in any battles.  He said he was a Gunner's Mate and that, after joining his ship, they had been assigned to convoy duty, escorting other ships to their destinations.  The last escort was to the battle of Okinawa.

I was very interested and listened avidly for the details, but his answers were beginning to slow, the sentences brief with little detail.  Once or twice he would expand on the subject, explaining once about being dived on by a kamikaze, all guns opening fire until it split apart and crashed a few hundred feet off the bow. 

He told me, after the first intense hours of bombardment on Okinawa, the firing had quieted down as "the Japs" had withdrew to their hidden bunkers in the hills.  Occasionally, one bunker would be identified and the guns would open up.  The thing he remembered early on was targeting a big "nobleman's house" up on the hill and watching it splinter into a thousand toothpicks.  He said he always wondered if the man and his family had gotten out before they opened fire.

Anyway, he went on, there wasn't much fighting for the ships left to protect the invasion after that so he volunteered to help pilot the flat bottom boats (LSTs) that were ferrying men and supplies back and forth.  Nothing much to tell about that, he said, except there were a lot of guys throwing up. 

I was some what disappointed as I had just been reading the history of the Battle of the Pacific.  There, right beside me, was a man who had lived through history.  I was eager to hear the first hand account of the last major battle in the Pacific.  Everything I had read had been about the intense fighting and heroic effort of these men against a terrible and determined foe.  My grandfather was making it sound like they had been on a deep sea fishing expedition accompanied by serious bouts of sea sickness.

I was sure he wasn't telling me everything.  Despite our earlier shared conspiracy, I wasn't sure how to ask the questions that were boiling in my mind.  I opted for a weak, "So...uh...you didn't see any of the fighting?"

He took a sip of his warm beer, the box of barbecue balancing on one knee, as he shook his head, "Not much.  There was this one guy...we were coming in to pick up some wounded to take back to the ships...I guess we missed him or he didn't get the message he was supposed to retreat.  I don't know, but the tide was coming in...these guys, some marines, they were stuck on the beach.  So this guy, this Jap, he opens up and was shootin' all around them.  Took a few shots at us.  The pilot wanted to turn back...but, we gunned it and ran right up on the beach in front of these guys.  The front dropped down," he gestured with his hand, "then we grabbed some guys and started dragging them in.  Some of those guys were in bad shape.  Bad shape."

I remember how he drifted off for a moment, staring out at the road, just holding his half empty, warmed over beer. I remained silent, not sure what I should say or if I should say anything at all.  It seemed I had intruded on a memory, one that he had preferred not to dwell on for many years.  I had an inkling in that moment that maybe there was a reason, back in the early days of my grandparents' marriage, why my grandfather had been known as a "hard drinker" and a "harder fighter".  Who, according to some accounts, would get knocked down just to come back swinging, again and again.  

"Leroy," one of his brothers would say, "would never stay down.  Even if it was for his own good."

That was a different man, not the man I knew as my grandfather. 

My grandfather shrugged, took a sip of his beer, "Anyway, I didn't do much.  A lot less than some other guys and we got back to the ship alright.  Went home after that.  Went to school.  Thought about being an architect.  Or, a lawyer.  Then I met your grandmother."

I knew that was the end of that.  I was not going to hear any more stories of war.  Another question did enter my head, "How come you didn't become an architect?"

It seemed fitting that a man who could build anything with his hands, could replicate historical architecture with some scrap wood and river stones, should have been an architect. 

"Well," he said, picking through the remains of barbecue, "I met your grandma.  We got married and had a couple of kids.  Had to get a job."

He held the box of barbecue out to me and I took the last piece of meat and slices of pickles.  He asked, "What are you gonna do when you graduate?"

"Well...," I proceeded to tell him all of my plans about going to college, the two or three career paths I was contemplating, wanting to travel and so on.  My dreams.  I was seventeen and the world was wide open, mine to conquer.  It was the first time I remembered actually talking to him about the subject.

My grandfather listened, occasionally nodding his head.  When I ran out of steam, he said, "Let me tell you something.  On the way to your dreams, you might end up doing something you don't want to do.  Like being a ditch digger.  Even if you gotta be a ditch digger, be the best damned ditch digger you can be."

I admit, at the moment, believing that I was humoring my grandfather by listening to his advice.  My seventeen year old ego could not imagine a time when I would ever be "digging ditches".   

Strange, I can remember that conversation almost word for word, but I can never remember how we parted.  My grandfather passed a way unexpectedly a few months later from an aneurism.  I recall sitting on the upstairs landing, holding the book I had been reading about medieval history as the paramedics strapped him to the gurney and carried him down the two flights of stairs in front of the house.  The book was opened to a page showing a stained glass window depicting the stages of knighthood.  A young knight stood, hands clasped as in prayer, as a monk strapped a belt and sword around his hips.  I can remember that like it was yesterday.

A few days later at the wake, the funeral home was overflowing.  There were over a hundred family members including second and third cousins.  Many whose names I could barely recall.  There were almost a hundred more, some seeming complete strangers, who had known my grandfather over the years and, having read his obituary, made sometimes long and difficult journeys to pay their respects. 

I had taken up my station next to my grandmother, fetching tissues or a drink or someone she recognized that she wanted to speak to.  The lines of people kept coming, each approaching my grandmother with condolences, a little story about how they knew my grandfather.  All around, people gathered in small clutches, laughing, sharing stories.  Each of them recalling something my grandfather had said or did.

A stranger approached my grandmother, his long hair pulled back into a pony tail, his beard freshly trimmed and wearing a new suit.  He introduced himself, but my grandmother couldn't recall how they had met.  He explained that my grandfather had once given him a job at the gas station he owned up on 7th street.  He was a drifter, just returned from Vietnam at the time and his life was a mess. 

He said my grandfather had caught him stealing a hundred dollars from the till.  Instead of calling the police, my grandfather had given the man another hundred dollars and sent him on his way.  I remembered that story because it was a point of contention in our family and, every time it came up, my grandfather would simply say that the man obviously needed the money more than he did. 

The stranger took my grandmother's hand and kissed it, holding on as if he was reluctant to let go.  He told her that he had used that money to buy a bus ticket home.  He had gotten his life back together, got married, had a family.  He had never forgotten my grandfather.  He said, if my grandfather hadn't given him the money, he didn't know what would have happened to him.  He might have ended up dead. 

It was only by happenstance that he was talking to a friend from our town who remembered the story and mentioned my grandfather's obituary.  He had driven all night to reach the funeral home in time.  His one regret was never showing his gratitude while my grandfather was alive. 

He thanked my grandmother repeatedly for having shared her life with such a great man.  In that moment, our sadness was lifted.   Yet, at the same time, we were made aware of what we had lost.

The man had never forgotten. 

Years later, I stood at my grandmother's graveside and read the small inscription on the bronze plaque provided by the Veterans Administration for my grandfather who lay at rest in the next plot.  It was a simple marker with only my grandfathers name, rank (S2), United States Navy, WWII, date of birth and date of death.  I remembered that I had never been able to ask all of the questions I had wanted to on that long ago summer's day. 
Later, I asked my uncle, a Vietnam Vet, if he had ever written to request my grandfather's service records.  He showed me a brief typed form that had been returned with his request.  A short listing of my grandfather's induction, training station, ranks and only berth on the USS Edwards.  That my grandfather had received a commendation for "repeatedly" risking his life and boat to rescue men on shore at the Battle of Okinawa. 

That was all.  It was all that was necessary.

Dear Grandpa,

I've been down in the ditches a time or two. 

Thank you.

In memory of my grandfather, Leroy C. Henry, S2, USN, WWII, USS Edwards, Battle of Okinawa.

Tsarnaev, Todashev & Waltham 3 Murders

Because this all seems to be going down the rabbit hole, I decided to put together a few notes on the murder that seems to have precipitated the Boston Marathon attacks.  Yes, some may be construed as "speculation".  Largely, attempting to place information and motives in order because the wide range of information suggests "rabbit hole" where nothing is exactly as it seems.

This post will be regularly updated and corrected.

Notes on Tsarnaev, Todashev & Victims' relationship:

1) Met at or introduced through Martial Arts Gym
2) Tamerlan introduces Brendan Mess as "best friend"
3) Both Tsarnaev brothers are known to hang around with Mess, Teken & Weissman
4) Todashev also apparently introduced to 3 victims via Tamerlan @ gym or in relationship to martial arts
5) Mess, Teken, & Weissman are suspected or known drug dealers (largely marijuana; update: Weissman also Rx pills, oxycotin)
6) Both Tsarnaev brothers known to smoke marijuana & party until Tamerlan finds religion, then allegedly only Dzhokhar (who tweets several times about getting "cooked" all the way through to bombing)
7) Also suggested that Dzhokhar Tsarnaev at least might have been small time dealer on side for extra cash.  Probably mostly to friends or known associates at school.  Also possible other under the table or criminal activities supporting his habits including skimming from off-record car repairs.
8) Sister Bella Tsarnaev was later arrested on similar charges Dec 2011 for attempt to distribute marijuana
9) Eric Weissman arrested for distribution 2008; neighbors of Teken suggest he was drug dealer; & Mess was known user, possible dealer, arrested 2010 for assault
10) Todashev also arrested for assault February 2010 "road rage" (of note; he was driving a "food delivery van" at time of event; Tamerlan also reportedly worked as food delivery short time after boxing career ended; related?)
11) Eric Weissman also allegedly founded company that sold glass bongs; may have had relations with larger drug distribution organization (where did he get his drugs?)

In short, the Tsarnaevs and just about everyone they associated with had relationship to martial arts, drugs and generally nefarious activities.  Even mother & wife Katherine had been arrested at separate times for shop lifting.

A few notes on time line and events surrounding or leading to murders re: drug busts and "Caucasus":

1) Feb 2011 FSB contacts FBI & suggests that Tamerlan Tsarnaev is looking to contact &  join "underground groups"

2) We later learn that part of FSB investigation includes wire tapping of individuals on that side of the ocean.  Zubeidadt Tsarnaev is recorded speaking to son & two individuals. Son & one possible relative in vague terms re: Jihad.  Another unnamed suspect "in Caucasus region" who, according to reports, was already under FBI investigation supposedly unrelated to terrorism. (Organized Crime?  See following)

3) May 2011 Major drug bust in Watertown and Waltham stemming from federal investigation of "international drug trafficking organization" that began February 2010, led to local individuals.  Wire tapping from August 2010 to April 2011 provided information on contacts and organization.  The suspects appear to be Armenian organized crime.  Reported to distribute prescription pills (oxycodone) and marijuana, operating out of several warehouses.  $700k cash, gold bars, weapons, vehicles and 80lbs marijuana.  Previous raids against ring netted up to $2.7 mil in drugs and assets in Newtown & Bedford. 

3) September 11, 2011, Mess, Weissman & Teken murdered Waltham, MA.  "Sharp force trauma to necks".  Later reported as "nearly decapitated". $5k in money left in apartment, appx 7lbs marijuana strewn over bodies. Men were tied and bound in separate rooms of apartment where they were killed.  Investigators suggest drugs or drug deal gone wrong reason for murders.  Re: three victims relationship to drugs & dealing.  Investigators also suggest at least two men/assailants in apartment at time of murder. Known to victims.  No forced entry.  Apparent victims, in good shape, martial arts, did not initially resist being bound and gagged (update: apparently was "resisitance" after attack began, continue reading for other updates; however, the door was opened by one of the victims to whomever was outside, not forced open).

4) September 2011, FSB makes second contact with CIA, same request.  FBI tagged, case closed, no follow up from any agency. (Question: which came first? Murder or request?)

5) October 2011, another major bust in Waltham related to ongoing FBI & local investigation of drug trafficking ring. $2mil worth of pot, local former councilman & several others, not immediately identified w/ international drug trafficking, but similar use of product, warehouses, etc.

Post Murders

Tamerlan Tsarnaev drops old friends and haunts, desperately trying to make contact with terrorist organizations, trying to arrange travel to Dagestan.  He has to borrow money from father (update: this particularly interesting as further info from girlfriend of victim insists there was more than $5k in the apartment prior to murder).  Dzhokhar immediately drops friends and doesn't have much contact with anyone until Dec. 2011 where friends express surprise at hearing from him again.  Friends he does make or begin to hang with are all from Caucasus region.

Somewhere in this time frame, Tamerlan makes contact with another Chechen, former "resistance", Musa Kadjimurodov who lives in New Hampshire (where Tsarnaev obtained black powder & fireworks for bombs later).  Said that Tsarnaev and his wife had come to make a "social visit" a month prior to attacks and he only knew Tsarnaev socially over last few years (2010/2011?).

Todashev goes to Florida where he lives a mostly quiet unassuming life accept for being arrested May 4 for assault.  Again. Update: of note, Todashev married shortly within this time frame and may have spent time in Georgia with his wife who, like Tsarnaev's wife, was in healthcare.  Specifically, a nurse.  Also of note, the residence that Todashev occupied with his "roommate" was in a middle class neighborhood, well kept.  Appears outside of his financial capabilities as a sometimes employed trainer?

Skipping forward over plans for attack, attack and shootout.  Tamerlan is dead, Dzhokhar immediately confesses and insists he and his brother acted alone.  Various interviews with people who knew brothers presents startling info on Tsarnaev and Mess' relationship.  DNA confirms that at least Tamerlan involved in murders. (Update: possible connection with a weapon, Ruger .22, may have been taken from murder scene and was one of several weapons collected from Tsarnaev brothers post Watertown shoot out)

Investigation of anyone who knew brothers or had contact produces Kadjimurodov, "former" Chechen resistance fighter, and Ibrigm Todashev, both in Tamerlan's phone contacts and both recently contacted prior to attacks.  FBI took Kadjimurodov's DNA and hard drives. No further details available.

The FBI interviews both men.  Each insist that their contact with Tamerlan Tsarnaev was only social.  Even though it is reported that Tamerlan Tsarnaev had become anti-social since his conversion to Salafi Islam and post murders.  After three interviews with FBI, Todashev allegedly confesses to Waltham murders as related to "drug ripoff" (what authorities have been repeating, media reporting and frankly sounds like repeating lead from FBI questions). 

Authorities suggest that Todashev was going to sign a confession.  In his apartment. (Without a lawyer or Miranda rights?)  He allegedly attacks agents and is shot dead. At about midnight. The day before he was planning to leave for Russia.

Aside from where this confession was about to take place, major issue with Todashev's confession is that he was, in fact, repeating an already suggested reason for the murders.  He read it or it was suggested during investigation. 

Second, obvious reason agent would ask it to be repeated so it could be written down is that the agent suspected Todashev was lying.  The tactic of having a suspect repeat a story is common as most who are lying can't remember all details of their lies so they make mistakes.  Suspect what "set him off" was Todashev knew he was probably caught in the lie and probably understood purpose of this tactic. 

Third, suggests that on one of FBI's previous visits, DNA had been collected along with fingerprints already on file from criminal arrests that put him at scene of murder or was suggested to him that would be the case.  Why Todashev may have felt pressured to make some kind of confession.

Fourth, the problem with his confession, that Tamerlan told him there were drugs at murder site and that they would have to kill the men because they could finger Tamerlan. 

Toldashev's Confession

First problem: drugs and money were not taken from scene of murder ie no rip off(update: girlfriend suggested more than $5k in apartment; no proof at this time; see comment re: Tamerlan had to borrow money from father for trip; if there was money, Tsarnaev was not apparently a beneficiary). 

Second, manner of death highly personal.  One or both men did not just "slash" the victims' throats, but "nearly decapitated" them, suggested with an ice pick or other slim, pointed, sharp object.  That takes time and effort.  (update: Weissman killed at door entryway within minutes; Teken found in kitchen may also have been killed almost immediately or grievously wounded & "coup de grace" delivered later)

In fact, suggests victims did not die quickly, that the murderers, doing it to more than one victim, enjoyed the process and power of act as much as the murder. (update: at least one died "quickly"; Weissman at doorway). Also suggests one weapon used on all three victims meaning each was killed separately, consecutively, not simultaneously by two to three assailants.  That does not mean only one assailant did the acts, but only one weapon.  Others may have taken turns. 

More detailed knowledge of autopsies would provide better understanding of participant involvement in actual acts.  Including angle of wounds (height, position and left or right handed), DNA on victims (possible blood from assailants as multiple stabbing or other activities sometimes results in wounds to assailant's hands) and effort (one assailant killing all three would have possible signs of diminishing effort, inability or loss of rage/desire to complete act results in lesser or less wounds; more than one might show different strength or similar effort across victims).

Third problem: If this is a drug deal gone wrong, easier to do quick murder, grab money and drugs and go. Not take half hour or more, murdering men, hang out in apartment staging elaborate scene, tracking blood, fingerprints, foot prints and DNA through scene. 

The last part should be repeated: staging elaborate scene.  Everything about the murders is about staging.  The date: September 11.  The manner of death: slicing throat or decapitation.  Drugs on bodies, money left behind. 

Equally important is the planning that would have to go into the initial phase.  More than one accomplice to subdue multiple men.  (update: not all of the men were "subdued" ie bound and gagged; the first victim, Weissman, was found in entry way of apartment, suggesting he was killed almost immediately upon opening the door or within minutes; possibly a "blitz" attack; still makes it a planned attack, not consequence of other crime).

Weapons: one is sharp, taken to and/or from the scene as investigation does not indicate weapon found at scene. The autopsies suggest the murder weapon is "one" not several different kinds.  A pistol or more to hold victims off while they are restrained.
 
Rope, zip ties or other materials to subdue men.  Unlikely this selection occurred on scene as delaying confining men would mean escalating possibility of resistance or escape.  In fact, very narrow time line from possible first contact (relative said last text from victim appx 8:15p 9/11) to possible outside window for murders (Italian food delivery 8:54p, no answer, apt is quiet) suggests preparation, not spur of the moment decision to murder victims for fear of identification.

Update:  this section and one above remains, but additional information suggests slightly different scenario to be addressed below. 

Orignal analysis: Other aspect, men were taken to separate rooms before murder.  Easier to control.  They would have no idea what was happening to others, therefore, no reason to put up resistance.  This also seems planned ahead.  See narrow timeline for murders. Also, perpetrators knew layout of apartment, planned ahead how to subdue and control victims. (Not somebody's first multiple murder?)

Update: Parts of above remain true, but additional details indicate that the men were not "taken" to separate parts of the apartment as much as they were found there by their attackers or retreated to separate rooms. 

1) Weissman was killed in a blitz attack within moments of opening the door.  His body was found in the entry way.  He did apparently open the door to someone he knew and trusted.  Earlier reports suggested the "men" were bound and gagged.  Reports by neighbors that they had not heard anything like a struggle seemed to support that report.  However, it seems unlikely Weissman was "bound" if he was killed immediately upon opening the door.  Unless he did not die immediately and the attackers came back to finish the job.  However, the disposition of the other victims suggests that the attack occured quickly and consecutively throughout the apartment.

2) Teken was found in the kitchen.  Without knowledge of the apartment layout, it is difficult to determine if he simply was the next person the assailants came upon or if he had retreated to this room.  Based on info regarding the three victims planned activity for the night(watching football), it is probable that Teken was simply in the kitchen when the assailants found him & that the kitchen was the next room/area approached from the entry way.

3) Mess was found in the back bedroom.  His girlfriend indicated that he kept drugs, money and a weapon in this room.  While each of the men are described as having multiple wounds to their necks, Mess appears to be the one that sustained additional wounds over other areas of his body.  Without the actual autopsy, it would be difficult to ascertain the nature of these wounds.  These wounds could have been defensive or they could have been the result of torture to gain information. 

Based on his girlfriend's info on a possible weapon or more and the indicators that this room was beyond the kitchen and living room, it suggests that Mess retreated to this room in order to defend himself with a weapon.  Further, additional information suggests that furniture in the apartment had been moved or overturned.  Possibly during flight or a struggle.

It also suggests that if not Weissman, Teken may have shouted or otherwise alerted Mess to the attack.  Mess was apparently quickly confronted in the bedroom before he could reach his weapon.  It is also apparent none of the men had any time to consider using their mobile phones.  This continues to suggest a very quick (blitz) attack. 

Mess' wounds may indicate that he did, in fact, resist.  However, if there were two assailants or more, he may have been quickly over powered. 

In regards to reports of being "bound and gagged", it is possible that after the initial attacks, the assailants did bind and gag the men.  Unless the knife wounds hit vital organs or arteries, a stabbing victim could still live for several minutes or longer.  In which case, Todashev's "confession" regarding reason for killing the men to "prevent identification" may not be a complete lie. 

If some or all of the men were still alive or thought to be alive, the assailants may have, bound and gagged the men, considered their options and determined that it was better to insure there were no witnesses remaining.  This may explain "multiple wounds" to the neck as well as "near decapitated". 

Finally, back to motive, if this was going to be a simple rip off, it would have been easier to wait or establish only one, possibly two in the apartment instead of risking approaching three healthy men, two with self defense training and possible weapons.  That is exceedingly high risk for an effort that appears to have netted zero take based on drugs and money at the scene. 

Knowledge of the men's activities, including Tsarnaev brothers having met them a few days before and possibly shared info on planned activities, along with ability to phone or text to establish the victims' where abouts means Tsarnaev would have had means to determine a more optimum, less risky time for a drug rip off.

Instead, he and the other assailant(s) waited until all three men were known to be at home and likely established that fact before hand.  This suggests the primary objective was not the drugs and money, but the murder of the three men.

Possibility of Drugs as Motive

There is still possibility that drugs or drug dealing is the motive.  I noted two of the larger drug busts in the area.  Both appear to be related to a major FBI investigation into an organized international drug trafficking ring.  Each successive bust led to more information and connections. 

Noting the apparent origins of the men (Armenian; Caucasus) who were busted in May 2011.  These came from several wire tapping operations that extended from August 2010 to April 2011.  This seemed interesting as FSB indicated one of Zubedeidt Tsarnaev's contacts was a man "from Caucasus region" already under investigation by FBI for non terror related activities.  Suggests the drug ring that was being rolled up?

A question that comes to mind is, regardless of whether FSB provided additional information, how did this contact slip by the FBI?  Different units investigating?  Wire tapping on other end by FSB not FBI, not shared?  Laws that limit reverse of investigation into US citizen on US soil requires additional request for wire tapping, insufficient information? 

It is a tenuous connection, but difficult to dismiss considering other relations within the case including apparent family orientation to drug dealing and subsequent major busts that effected area supply.

The elimination of a trusted source for product may have led to shortage of supply.  Lack of money or product may have encouraged raiding Mess, et al.  Still, money and drugs left at the scene.  Does not support suggested/confessed motive.

Possibly suggests retaliation.  Money and drugs at scene could be message to others poaching on territory or those who may have "narced" on sources.  Todashev and Tsarnaev may have been involved in ring, but then why wouldn't they have been rolled up with the rest?  Further, why did both men immediately leave the area if it was a matter of control of territory? 

Update: additional report with comment from Wessiman's attorney who said that his client had worked out or was in process of working out a favorable deal after he was busted for distribution.  That distribution included a list of drugs that mirrored the larger operation busted in  Watertown.  However, Weissman's attorney also insisted that this deal did not include giving evidence against any others.  This was said very emphatically even though his client was then dead and no longer subject to attorney/client privileges. He would, presumably, have no reason to protect his client's reputation. 

Except for fear of retaliation against himself or in regards to the details of any agreement which may have prevented the attorney from releasing any info regarding an on going investigation (stay tuned for review of possible on going operations).

Drugs as Motive=Decoy?

It simply appears that drugs might have had a relationship to the murders, but was not the sole motivator.  Elaborate staging of murders does not suggest simple "rip off".

Todashev may have shared Tsarnaev's contempt for men.  That is "message" of murder, whatever the motive.  Todashev "confessed Islam" per his father, suggesting another relationship with Tsarnaev beyond martial arts, regional references (Todashev was from Grozny, Chechnya; brothers seemed to focus on that relationship; Dzhokhar tweeted "ChechenPower" 3/22/12; most of brothers' social contacts appear to be people from "Caucasus Region") and possibly drugs.

The fact that he was lying about motive of murder seems evident by his reaction when asked to repeat his confession. His stories didn't match. Todashev knew "the gig was up". 

It was reported that Todashev had a plane ticket back to Russia for for the next day.  He had to know his escape was no longer possible.  He had nothing to lose but his life when he attacked the agents and that may only have had value in losing it.  Being a martyr.  Or, as one suggested "suicide by cop" taking as many with him as he could if he managed to take one officer's weapon.  A tactic that has been long taught via hands on training, forums and other jihad media.  It has been used before in Afghanistan, Iraq and other conflict areas.  This same tactic has been used by many criminals of the common stripe against law enforcement. 

If he was involved with a dangerous international narco-trafficking ring, being taken in may have seemed like a death warrant.  These organizations often maintain links within the prison system.  Prison would not appear to be a safe place to end.

This would be the moment to remember that Tamerlan Tsarnaev approached Officer Collier at MIT, chatted a few moments and then drew his weapon, shooting Officer Collier in cold blood.  He attempted to take Officer Collier's weapon, but it was in a triple lock holster. 

He and his brother then went on to have a rolling fire fight with officers that included throwing bombs. At the end of that, he rushed officers, shooting until his weapon was empty, attempting to throw another explosive before he was subdued.  Dzhokhar Tsarnaev may have attempted to ram and kill the officers in the process.

Tamerlan Tsarnaev was quite ready to kill as many officers as possible and die in the process.  This knowledge was very likely on the officers' and agents' minds while interviewing Todashev, realizing he was lying and then being attacked.  By a man with a history of violence including the cold blooded murders of three men and purported to have martial arts training. 

By a man who may have shared Tsarnaev's ideology. 

*As a reminder, this is not a professional analysis or verified report. This is simply an attempt to place disparate information in line with what has been reported and keep track of thoughts on subject.  Everything written here should be taken with a proverbial grain of salt until otherwise verified by official investigations and reports.

**"Lone Wolf" declarations by officials seem premature.  Not because other connections are known, but because they are not and law enforcement is still investigating all leads. 

***It seems apparent that law enforcement and investigations are all around the suspects and their connections, yet they are repeatedly missed.  Some suggest this is the luck of criminals.  Could be plausible as there are a number of infamous criminals who have repeated contact with the law without interdiction over long periods of time.  The first to come to mind is the Green River Killer.  Conversely, even in review of those cases, law enforcement was able to improve education across agencies regarding identification and investigation of those crimes.  That is what we should be looking at here.  What issues, lack of coordination or information may have prevented intervention and interdiction of these men and subsequent attacks? 

Socrates and Common Sense

"You know what the problem is with this world?  A lot of people with book learnin' and not a lick of common sense!"  Grandmother's Words of Wisdom

It may seem paradoxical that the same woman who said these words encouraged me to do a great deal of "book learnin'".  Her lament was less about books and more about how people viewed this education as the seeming sole basis for decision making.  As if the ability to regurgitate lessons learned at Socrates' knee negated the very useful lessons of life: common sense.  The things we learn after leaving Socrates' knee.

Those who have had the luxury of "book learning" often lament the lack of education in others.  The subconscious, sometimes conscious, bigotry against the "common sense" of the masses rarely appears to shake the certainty that only they are the inheritors of Socrates' great wisdom and the best guides for the future of humanity.

At the same time, amongst the less educated and experienced masses is the great yearning to be the teacher, to use these life lessons as the basis of a more pertinent education: life.  To be, in fact, what they behold and sometimes disdain: Socrates. 

Some where in the middle then, resides those who comprehend there is a great deal to be learned from Socrates, but, at the same time, there is more to the genius of humanity than what is learned staring at the great scholar's knobbly knees.

As many have stated before me, one of the greatest levelers of this great divide in the statically higher educated and the masses is the internet.  It is, to this author's mind, the greatest free university on the planet. 

Not only can we read the thoughts of the greatest (or worst) philosophers, political thinkers, scientists and artists of history, we can communicate, discuss and digest these ideas across thousands of miles, national, linguistic and cultural barriers while sipping coffee at the local cafe or watching re-runs of "How I Met Your Mother". 

Often times, if we wish it, we can, in fact, discuss and interact with noted scholars and experts in various fields.  For all the disdain that is sometimes shown for this manner of "education", there are a great number of said scholars and experts, the inheritors of Socrates, willing to expound into this wide open, experimental university.

All of this interaction is increasing the "genius of humanity".   Do not disdain those who may be watching sit coms while surfing the net.  That very simple example of human ability to multi-task is, quintessentially, the genius of humanity.  Nor should we lament the pages upon pages of personal sites dedicated to Justin Beiber, puppies or the day to day angst of living life out loud on the internet.

When I read or hear these laments, I often imagine the first caveman who, in the fight for his life against a saber tooth tiger, picked up the first weapon at hand and discovered that a sharp edged stone had distinct advantages over his blunt and broken club.  Having discovered this effect, the caveman gathers up some of this unique material and takes it back to his cave where he sets about trying to reproduce this advantage.

I believe we can imagine the other cavemen sitting around the campfire, grunting disdainfully at this waste of precious time when he could be out clubbing something for dinner or guarding the patch of berry laden bushes.  A year later, one of the first great advances in human technology begins the great expansion and migration of humanity through the distribution and cooperative use of this tool.

I believe we can apply that scenario to enumerable moments in pre-historic advancement from bear skins to basket weaving to cave wall painting.   There were likely a number of nay saying grunters shaking their heads in disparagement over these silly and useless activities. 

If that analogy is lost on the reader, I am suggesting that, in the whole scheme of this interconnected information highway, we are but cavemen attempting to form this material to our needs.  That everywhere we look, from the the smallest act to the greatest, we are advancing the genius of humanity and it's greater "common sense".  That knowledge has gained wings and is no longer bound to Socrates' knee. 

I write this in optimistic hope that this great, democratic university, conveyor and aggregate of human knowledge, will be the tool that saves humanity from it's own self destructive tendencies and possible extinction.  More so, that it is indeed the tool that will expand humanity beyond this earth bound horizon and into the universe.

Into this tsunami of human knowledge, I drop this little blog.  If I feel free to write on various subjects both weighty and small or have discourse with the inheritors of Socrates, let me quote Descartes:  "I think, therefore I am."

Somewhere in the great loop of time, a student asks Socrates, "Why?"

Socrates replies, "Why do you ask why?"

About the Author

The author of this blog is unauthorized, unofficial and unaffiliated. Neither former or currently employed nor volunteered with any government or non government agency, academia or policy analysis organization. All views are expressly those of the author based on general analysis of open source information.

In short, the reader's mileage may vary.