by Lewis, Dan
2:00-ish P.M.: Facebook updates – LinkedIn.
4:30 P.M.: End-of-day update e-mail to management.
5:00 P.M.: Go home.
Curiously missing? Work. Apparently, Bob didn’t do any.
That didn’t match up with Bob’s performance reviews, though. As TheNextWeb reported, Bob “apparently received excellent performance reviews, even being hailed the best developer in the building: his code was clean, well-written, and submitted in a timely fashion.” He was, somehow, producing great work without actually working. Bob’s employer didn’t seem to notice that he wasn’t doing any work, because from the corporation’s vantage point, he was productive.
However, Bob’s employer did notice something else—weird traffic coming into the company’s servers through Bob’s remote login credentials. The traffic seemed to be coming from China. To make matters even stranger, the Chinese connection via Bob’s remote connection was active while Bob was sitting in the office. Baffled—why would Bob be logging in remotely from China while at his desk?—the company contacted Verizon, its telecom services provider.
The company assumed that some odd sort of malware had infected their systems, but that wasn’t the case. Verizon determined that the problem was Bob himself—and it explained how a guy with great performance reviews matched up with that schedule of cat videos and shopping on eBay.
Bob had outsourced his work to China.
Verizon later determined that Bob had probably been doing this for a few years, using about a quarter of his pay to buy the services of lower-cost overseas providers. Bob was fired, of course—beyond the obvious fraud he committed, the employer was working on developing software for the U.S. government. Outsourcing that to China wasn’t acceptable. But Bob probably laughed all the way to the bank. According to the Verizon security team, this wasn’t his only job—and it probably wasn’t the only job he had outsourced. Bob was making “several hundred thousand dollars a year,” according to Verizon, and “only had to pay the Chinese consulting firm about fifty grand annually.”
BONUS FACT
Give a customer service number a ring and there’s a good chance your phone call will be connected to a representative stationed outside the United States. However, there’s an increasingly decent chance you’ll find someone in the United States on the other end of the phone. The reason? Many companies have found a low-cost, domestic solution: prison inmates. According to CIO.com, prisoners earn about $1 an hour to provide level-one support to customers in need.
THE CHIMERA
THE WOMAN WITH THE WRONG DNA
Embezzlement and on-the-job scams are pretty common—especially when compared to surrogacy scams. Typically, a surrogacy scam occurs when a female fraudster promises to carry a couple’s fetus to term, but along the way pads the bill well beyond what one would have reasonably expected. Sometimes, it can get even worse.
And sometimes it’s just a cruel trick of science.
Jamie Townsend and Lydia Fairchild were an unmarried couple who separated in 2002. When they split, Fairchild was pregnant with Townsend’s child, and she requested government assistance in her home state of Washington. She claimed that she had two children, both from Townsend. Washington, to combat welfare fraud, required DNA tests from new applicants and their families—the state wanted to make sure that the children are actually those of the claimants—which Fairchild gladly agreed to provide.
But the DNA didn’t match. According to the tests, the children Fairchild had been claiming were not her own. The authorities believed they had a more insidious scheme in front of them. They believed that Fairchild wasn’t the children’s actual mother but rather a surrogate—one who kept children for herself in order to collect welfare payments.
Fairchild protested, offering pictures of her two previous pregnancies, photos from the delivery room, and even the testimony of the delivering obstetrician. But those, the government argued, didn’t matter. On the other hand, the DNA was dispositive. Fairchild, they concluded, was lying, which meant that the two children in her custody weren’t hers—and her pregnancy . . . who knows? Thoughts of surrogacy fraud entered the picture. To prove it, the court ordered that an observer be present when Fairchild gave birth and that a DNA test occur in the first moment of the new baby’s life.
Again, the DNA failed to match. Fairchild, it seemed, was somehow stealing eggs and, ultimately, children, all as part of some complicated con game. She was almost certain to spend untold years living in a prison cell—until her lawyers discovered the story of a Boston-area woman named Karen Keegan.
According to ABC News, Keegan needed a kidney transplant, and her family members—including her children—underwent tests to see if any of them could be a viable donor. Instead, doctors discovered that Keegan had different DNA than her children, a familiar story to Fairchild’s attorneys. Keegan’s doctors concluded that she had something called chimerism (from “chimera,” a part-lion, part-snake, part-goat from Greek mythology), a rarity to say the least. ABC News explained: “In human biology, a chimera is an organism with at least two genetically distinct types of cells—or, in other words, someone meant to be a twin. But while in the mother’s womb, two fertilized eggs fuse, becoming one fetus that carries two distinct genetic codes—two separate strands of DNA.” In Keegan’s case, a sample from a thyroid nodule contained the same DNA as her children, even though most of the rest of her did not.
There are only a few dozen documented cases of chimerism in humans worldwide, and it turns out that Fairchild was one of them. Doctors administered a pap test, discovering DNA that matched her children. Fairchild had two different sets of DNA, explaining the previous mismatches.
She was deemed innocent of all charges levied against her.
BONUS FACT
If you want to tell two identical twins apart, a DNA test won’t help, because they have the same DNA. What will help? Their belly buttons. Belly buttons are scars, as Wikipedia notes, and are not determined by genetics. (Fingerprints also work here—identical twins do not have identical fingerprints—but that’s not as much fun.)
TWO BOYS NAMED JIM
THE COINCIDENCE THAT MAY BE DESTINY
As of February 8, 1979, James Arthur Springer—Jim, as he went by—had been twice married. His first marriage, to a woman named Linda, ended in divorce. His second wife was named Betty. Jim Springer grew up in Ohio and once owned a dog named Toy. He had a son named James Allan (although perhaps with one L). He was a chain-smoker who liked beer. In his garage he had a woodworking bench. He drove a Chevy, suffered from high blood pressure and migraines, and once served as a sheriff’s deputy. His family lived on a quiet street—theirs was the only house on the block.
As of February 8, 1979, James Edward Lewis—Jim, as he went by—had been twice married. His first marriage, to a woman named Linda, ended in divorce. His second wife was named Betty. Jim Lewis grew up in Ohio and once owned a dog named Toy. He had a son named James Allan (although perhaps with one L). He was a chain-smoker who liked beer. In his garage he had a woodworking bench. He drove a Chevy, suffered from high blood pressure and migraines, and once served as a sheriff’s deputy. His family lived on a quiet street—theirs was the only house on the block.
As of February 8, 1979, Jim Springer and Jim Lewis had almost no knowledge of one another. They had met before, but only as infants. On February 9, 1979, the two met for the first time in nearly forty years.
They were identical twins, given up for adoption as one-month-olds, now reunited.
The shocking coincidence seems like that of myth, but it’s almost certainly not—shortly after the twins’ reunion, People magazine and Smithsonian magazine reported on the incredible confluence of genetically identical twins with anecdotally identical lives.
The two men piqued the curiosity of a researcher named Thomas J. Bouchard, a professor of psychology and the director of the Minnesota Center for Twin and Adoption Research at the University of Minnesota. Bouchard studied their lives
and similarities. Some of those parallel facts were purely coincidences—the two Jims’ adoptive parents, who didn’t share their DNA, named them both James. But Bouchard and his team concluded, as he stated in a research grant application, the evidence “continue[d] to suggest a very strong genetic influence on almost all medical and psychological traits.”
Bouchard was able to secure funding to investigate the link between twins further and, over the course of decades, was able to study many pairs of identical twins who were raised apart from one another. He discovered many examples of twins who, each having no knowledge of the other, nevertheless made strikingly similar decisions (although none were as well known as Jim Springer and Jim Lewis). All together, Bouchard concluded that “shyness, political conservatism, dedication to hard work, orderliness, intimacy, extroversion, conformity, and a host of other social traits are largely heritable.” That’s not to say that we’re slaves to our genetics—certainly not. However, they hold mysteries and relevancies that we are far from fully understanding.
BONUS FACT
Mark Twain wasn’t a twin, but he often would tell people otherwise. According to the book The Wit and Wisdom of Mark Twain, the author would recount the tragic—but fictional!—tale of his brother Bill, who drowned in a bathtub . . . maybe. Mark (really Samuel Clemens) and Bill were so similar, no one—not even their mother—could tell them apart. So no one was sure which of the two had died. A terrible story to make up? Yes, but Twain let listeners off the hook with his punch line: He’d say that he was the one who drowned.
RICHARD PARKER
THE WORST NAME TO HAVE IF YOU REALLY LIKE THE WATER
Famed writer Edgar Allan Poe wrote seventy poems and sixty-six short stories during his forty years on this planet, but he published only one novel. That book, titled The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket, is fiction, focusing on Pym’s misadventures as a stowaway on a whaling ship.
It also makes for a very interesting warning for those wishing to take to sea—if your name is Richard Parker, at least.
The novel, published in 1838, involves an attempted mutiny on the whaling ship. Pym and two others repel the mutineers, killing or throwing overboard all but one. The spared mutineer, named Richard Parker, is kept aboard in order to help operate the ship. This turns out to be inadequate, as the ship capsizes, leaving the quartet shipwrecked and without adequate food. Parker suggests that cannibalism is the only way out, and they draw straws to determine the victim. Parker loses and becomes dinner.
Again, that is fiction. But in 1846—just eight years after Poe published his novel—a real-life Richard Parker died in a shipwreck. He and twenty others were aboard the doomed Francis Spaight, which sank, killing all on board. This is, in and of itself, much ado about nothing; it is a mere coincidence and not a very good one at that, as it involves neither mutiny nor cannibalism.
But fast-forward a few decades to 1884, and the coincidence becomes downright creepy. A yacht named the Mignonette sank, and four people—just like in the story of Arthur Gordon Pym—made their way into a lifeboat. Just as in Pym’s tale, the four found themselves lacking food and grew desperate. They did not draw straws, however; rather, two of the remaining three simply killed the youngest, a cabin boy who had fallen into a coma. All three then dined on the now-deceased seventeen-year-old. The cabin boy’s name, of course, was Richard Parker.
As for mutiny, one needs to travel back in time to 1797, before Poe penned his novel—although there is little evidence that Poe had known about this incident. That year, another man named Richard Parker led a mutiny at the British naval base at Nore, commandeering a number of ships. As food began to run out, Parker ordered “his” fleet to head toward France. (Thankfully, there was no cannibalism this time.) The ship he was on followed this order but none of the other ships obeyed, and Parker was apprehended. He was hanged for treason.
This series of coincidences has not gone entirely unnoticed. In 2001, author Yann Martel published The Life of Pi, later made into a feature-length movie. It tells the story of a man who finds himself stranded on a lifeboat with a few animals, including a Bengal tiger. Martel paid homage to the shipwrecked men referred to previously by naming the tiger Richard Parker. While there is probably nothing to these coincidences, if your name is Richard Parker, you may want to stay away from boats.
BONUS FACT
The murder of Richard Parker on the Mignonette is famous for another reason—the later trial of Parker’s murderers became a leading precedent in criminal common law jurisprudence. In the case, Regina v. Dudley and Stephens, the defendants argued that they committed the murder out of necessity, but the court ruled that necessity is no defense to murder. The case is now widely taught in law schools throughout the United States, but, if experience is any guide, few professors make reference to the coincidence of the victim’s name.
THE TELLTALE TOASTER
THE MAN WHO KEPT COMING BACK
On October 3, 1849, a stranger found Edgar Allan Poe delirious (but, despite some reports, probably not drunk) and stumbling around the streets of Baltimore, Maryland. Poe—who was usually a very fashionable man—was wearing unkempt clothing, which fit poorly. His shoes were in dire need of a shine and repair, as the heels had been worn down significantly. Many believed he had been wearing someone else’s attire, as his outfit didn’t match his reputation. To make matters more interesting but even less clear, no one (publicly, at least) knew of Poe’s whereabouts for almost a week before his discovery on the 3rd.
Unfortunately, we’ll never know what happened. Poe died on October 7 and never recovered enough during the interim period to explain how he fell into such a state.
Yet, as strange as the circumstances around Poe’s death may be, what happened to him generations later is probably stranger. For decades, every year on the same day each year, a costumed man visited Edgar Allan Poe’s gravesite, leaving no explanation as to his motives or identity. Then, one year, he stopped, never to return.
The origins of the Poe Toaster, as the Baltimore press and community have dubbed him, are as mysterious as his motives. At some point in the 1930s—the exact year has been lost to history—the Poe Toaster arrived at the author’s original gravesite (it was moved in 1875) on January 19, Poe’s birthday. Every morning on that day, the Poe Toaster arrived wearing all black (including a wide-brimmed hat) except for a white scarf. A hood obscured the man’s face, and he carried with him a silver-tipped cane. He’d pay his respects to the famous man once buried at that site, decorating the grave with three roses and an unfinished bottle of cognac and, at times, leaving a note.
These notes referred to the greatness of Poe, at least in the Toaster’s eyes. But in 1993, the already strange gravesite ritual became downright cryptic; the note read, simply, “The torch will be passed.” By then, the Toaster—assuming it was the same person the whole time—had been carrying out that ritual for sixty years, and some assumed that he was looking to retire (or had come to terms with his own mortality). This line of speculation became stronger in 1999, when the note referred to the sons of the Toaster. Further, that year, Toaster-watchers noticed that the man in black appeared younger than in previous years.
Thereafter, the notes seemed increasingly out of character for the Toaster. In 2001, the note referenced the upcoming Super Bowl versus the New York Giants and the hometown Ravens, but was markedly pro–New York. In 2004, the Toaster came to the grave during a short but notable anti-French period in the United States, due to France’s unwillingness to join in military efforts in Iraq. (Remember “freedom fries”?) The Toaster’s note apparently reflected this undercurrent of American sentiment (with poor grammar included): “The sacred memory of Poe and his final resting place is no place for French cognac. With great reluctance but for respect for family tradition the cognac is placed. The memory of Poe shall live evermore!”
In 2009—the 150th anniversary of Edgar Allan Poe’s birth—the Poe Toaster made his final appearance. Through 2014, he
has not appeared again at Poe’s grave on January 19, although a handful of copycats (lacking the true Toaster’s telltale habits) have come in his place. Jeff Jerome, a former curator of the Poe House and Museum who has collected the Toaster’s notes over the years, declared in 2012 that the tradition had come to an end—with few remaining clues as to the Toaster’s true identity.
BONUS FACT
The Baltimore Ravens are nicknamed for Edgar Allan Poe’s famous poem, “The Raven.” From the team’s founding in 1996 through 2008, they had three mascots—all costumed performers dressed as ravens—named Edgar, Allan, and Poe. For the 2009 season, though, Edgar and Allan were retired and replaced with two live ravens named Rise and Conquer.
STICHTING DE EENZAME UITVAART
WHY YOU CAN’T DIE ALONE IN AMSTERDAM
Every year, countless numbers of people pass away alone, without family or friends to give them a proper funeral. In many places, the government and other organizations take care of the not-so-pleasant stuff like disposing of the person’s stuff, figuring out what to do with the body, etc. We won’t go into details, but let’s just say that they get the stuff done that has to get done—but in a bureaucratic way.
However, just because someone dies alone doesn’t mean that he or she should be buried unceremoniously. In Amsterdam, at least, such people aren’t.
About twenty times a year, someone in Amsterdam dies without next of kin or somebody to claim the deceased’s body. That might mean that these people would be buried without anyone noticing, but for roughly twenty-five years, a man named Ger Frits has made sure that doesn’t happen. As reported by Radio Netherlands Worldwide in 2010, with the blessing and assistance of Amsterdam’s city services Frits became a one-man funeral gathering. After the city agency notified him that someone had died leaving no one behind, Frits would go to the apartment of the recently deceased to get a feel for that person’s life, desires, and interests. Then, based on the information he gathered, he’d select some music to play at the funeral—a ceremony only he’d be attending. He’d also bring flowers to leave at the gravesite.