The Autobiography of FBI Special Agent Dale Cooper

by Mark Frost

  December 26, 4 P.M.

  Am standing outside Don and Jim's Body Shop, where I am to meet Ted, the former tape-recorder thief. Little has changed from the way I remember this area as a child. Time seems to have had no effect. The stores are the same, the shopkeepers. I find it interesting that so much has happened to me in the intervening years. Is it possible that some people live an entire life without ever experiencing change?

  Believe I see Ted walking in my direction.

  December 26, 6 P.M.

  In my arrogance I assumed that geography was necessary for lives to travel many paths. How wrong I was. Ted has spent many of the last seven years confined to a prison cell the size of a small bedroom. Yet in all my so-called experience, never have I been forced to face the brutality of truth the way he has.

  In prison at sixteen on a manslaughter conviction, he was raped, brutalized, stabbed. He is now married, holds two jobs, and is studying to become an accountant. I asked if there was one defining moment that helped to turn his life around. He recalled watching a snowstorm during his first year in prison.

  "They were those big snowflakes," he said. "The kind kids catch on their tongues."

  He had been raped three times earlier on that same day. Will look up another member of the gang tomorrow.

  December 27, 8 A.M.

  It is cold and gray. Am to meet the other member on the corner where I now stand. There's a big . . . wait . . . I think I've made a big mistake . . . Damn.

  December 27, 11 P.M.

  The second member of the gang is apparently still quite active in it. I am speaking from a hospital bed, where I am now resting comfortably from a blow to the head. The doctors say I will be fine but want to keep me overnight for observation. The events of the day as best I can remember them went like this. At approximately 8 A.M. the subject of my inquiry showed up in a late-model sedan accompanied by two of his fellow travelers. Sensing that I might have made a severe lapse in judgment, I attempted to leave the scene via an alley but was cut off and invited to join them in their car for a tour of the city. It was at that moment that I received the first blow to my head.

  Many of the events after that are sketches at best. I remember a woman of Latin origin singing and swinging a small bell. I distinctly remember being struck several more times. The smell of lemons. A bottle being broken. And the word fuck being used regularly.

  How I managed to escape is still not entirely clear either. I think a struggle erupted between two members of the gang that involved knives. I seem to remember someone yelling "cut him" and another yelling "clean." At that point the Latin woman took me into another room, where she started dancing in a circle and kicking me with a gold high-heel shoe.

  While I firmly believe that striking a woman is not ethical conduct, exceptions have to be made. I think I laid her out with one to the jaw. At that point, another gang member stepped into the room, holding a rag to a knife wound on his cheek, and I hit him on the ear with a very large round object which I cannot identify. It is strange the way life works, but at the exact moment my second abductor was collapsing to the floor, I realized how rewarding a career in law enforcement might be. Not wanting to spoil a good thing, however, I jumped out of a window and ran like hell.

  How exactly I got to the hospital I do not know, though the image of a very bright light and the sound of the wind seem to be strong in my mind. My ears ring and I am very tired.

  December 28, 11 P.M.

  Dad brought me home and surprised me by making a fruitcake for me. Tried to call Special Agent Earle to ask him to send application papers, but he has gone back into the field and I was unable to reach him. Am quite certain I am now headed in the right direction. Head feeling much better.

  January 1, 1976, 1:30 A.M.

  Dad is bankrupt. Toyed with the idea of printing his own money but I managed to talk him out of it. The creditors gave him the choice of giving up the print shop or giving up the house. He told me after the second bottle of champagne that he has decided the house was the one to go.

  I find my emotions very confused at the moment. The sense of loss is as real as what I experienced when Mom died. Dad apparently will move into a small apartment above the print shop. Has asked me to go through my things and decide what I would like to keep and what will have to be let go.

  January 1, 3 P.M.

  Have made the following decisions on the disposition of my worldly goods. Will keep the following: hammer, screwdriver set, picture and letter from J. Edgar Hoover, picture of Efrem Zimbalist, a pack, folding knife, boots, several small round rocks, picture of Mom and Dad, scout manual, waterproof matches, baseball card of Duke Snyder, compass, milk bottle, duct tape, my suits, various articles of clothing for changing weather conditions, world map, copy of Moby-Dick, small photo of Marie, and a warm hat.

  Don't think I've left anything out. These items should pretty well cover any contingencies I may encounter in the future, both emotional and physical.

  January 30, 1 P.M.

  Have moved Dad into the apartment above the print shop. He took one of the aluminum awnings off the front of the house and hung it above his bed. The bank has taken everything else. Feel as if I've headed out to sea without a port to return to. . . . In an odd way this may be very liberating.

  February 10, 2 A.M.

  Am completing final tests for early graduation. The application papers for the Bureau are ready to go as soon as I get the sheepskin. Feel myself totally focused. Find that sex is entering my thoughts only three or four times a day instead of the normal hourly preoccupation.

  * * *

  One year short of the eligibility age for acceptance into the Bureau, Dale made only two recordings over the next year. His exact whereabouts during this time are unknown.

  * * *

  August

  I am not sure of the day. Wish I had brought along a pair of rubber shoes.

  February 1977

  Evil does have a face.

  * * *

  Part 4

  Chapter 1

  June 10, 1977, 7 P.M.

  Philadelphia. Tomorrow I will take the written test for acceptance into the Bureau.

  June 11, 4 P.M.

  Completed written test in record time according to the people at the Bureau. The next step is an interview by two special agents and a background check.

  June 20, 5 P.M.

  Interview completed. Discussion centered on both the factual and philosophical. Both agents seemed very impressed with my autographed picture of Mr. Hoover.

  July 10, 7 P.M.

  All systems go. Report to the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, the first of September. Will use the intervening time to go into the Poconos to prepare myself in body and spirit.

  July 20, 1 A.M.

  Spent the evening listening to a very bad Jewish comedian to toughen myself mentally for the tests ahead. Tomorrow will head into the wilderness with two matches, a knife, a length of string, and a paper clip.

  July 30, 9 P.M.

  The stars are as bright as I can ever remember seeing them. Had a fine dinner of wild mushrooms, greens, and a trout caught on the paper clip. A blanket of pine needles will keep me warm through the night. I now am beginning to understand that my life and all its seemingly random events have been pointing me in the direction I am now heading. I must not, and will not, accept anything less than complete success on the mission I am about to embark on. For the next twenty-four hours I will fast, and after that the journey will begin.

  August 1, 9 P.M.

  Would very much like a large piece of pie.

  August 15, 3 P.M.

  Spending a few days with Dad before heading off to Virginia. The business seems to be on the rebound since he sold the remaining stock of moon maps to the National Geographic. Received a letter from my brother, Emmet. He called me a tool of the establishment and said that I would rot in hell. . . . It was good to hear from him.

  September 1, 10 P.M.

  Quanti
co, Virginia. Was sworn in with the rest of the class upon arrival. Will begin instruction in legal procedures, physical fitness, and firearms use in the morning.

  A word on the campus. A more serene, orderly setting could not be imagined for the purpose of battling evil than the Virginia countryside. My roommate for the next fourteen weeks is John Lewis, a Kentuckian, and, I suspect, a fine shot. Imagine he will be among the top contenders for class honors.

  September 10, 11 P.M.

  Was right about John's marksmanship abilities. He and the instructor almost outpointed me with the pistol in the standing combat position until I realized the weapon I was using had a defect in the way the bullet rotated in the barrel. Adjustments were made and I completed the round with six straight bull's-eyes.

  September 12, 9 P.M.

  Crime can be broken down into three simple categories: crimes of passion, crimes for gain, and crimes of insanity. The first step of solving a crime is determining which of these categories the offense falls within. Crimes of passion and gain are the simplest to identify. The motives are clear. The crime that is a result of insanity is another matter entirely. It can, and often does, manifest itself as either of the other two. There is no more focused mind than the one that has created its own reality. And for that reason, it is the insane criminal who is to be feared more than any other. There is no gray area in madness. It is an absolute form of twisted truth.

  September 14, 11:30 P.M.

  Investigated our first simulated crime scene, which I will try to reconstruct here.

  The scene, a motel room where a kidnap suspect was thought to be held. Upon entering, no individuals were found inside. The bed appeared to have been slept in by one person, a man with short brown hair. Fibers found on the carpet suggested to me that the victim had been tied to a chair, where she had been fed french fries . . . the presence of which I detected by the lingering odor of animal fat, and several spots of grease on the carpet where the fries must have rested. It was, I believe, the last meal she ever ate. An opinion not shared by any of the other students. The evidence for murder, I believe, can be found on the pillow and the bed. Aside from the short brown hairs of the kidnapper, several small holes were found on the pillow that could have been made only by the teeth of someone who was being smothered. Lab tests, I believe, will also show traces of saliva on the pillowcase, and traces of urine on the bedcover, where the victim lost control of her bladder as she was being attacked.

  The results of our analysis, and their accuracy, will be revealed in the morning.

  September 15, 9 A.M.

  Right on the button.

  September 20, 9 P.M.

  The firing of a machine gun is a sobering experience.

  September 22, 10 P.M.

  Studied the case history of Eugene L. Motts, an extortionist who would have made off with three million dollars except for one mistake. He bought his wife flowers. An event she found so out of character that she became suspicious that he was having an affair and hired a private detective to follow him. The detective found no woman, just a bus station locker full of money. The moral of the story is that no change in behavior, no matter how small, can ever be overlooked when investigating a crime.

  September 25, 7 P.M.

  Spent the afternoon in Defensive Tactics and Physical Training class. Am getting quite good at being thrown against the wall by the drill instructor.

  September 25, 11 P.M.

  There is one woman in the class. A person of great drive, beauty, and excellent marksmanship. She is to be my partner in a simulated raid during a hostage situation tomorrow.

  September 26, 11 A.M.

  The events of the past hour force me to examine whether I have made the correct decision in entering the academy. Nothing can be as grave a matter as the loss of your partner's life in law enforcement. If this had not been simulation, Agent Robin would now be dead, and I responsible.

  September 27, 12 A.M.

  Have gone over the events of this morning time and time again and have come up with the same results every time. My attraction for Robin clouded my judgment and events spun out of control, resulting in what would have been a fatal shooting of my partner. Never again can I allow my guard to be lowered because of personal weakness on my part.

  Spent several hours sitting alone in the hall of honor, where agents who have been killed in action are memorialized. As I was preparing to leave, I found that I was not alone. Robin was also there. The attraction I feel for her is a mutual one. But given the present situation, we both realize that no action can be taken on either of our parts. It just isn't the right time, or place.

  * * *

  Dale made only one more tape during his training at the academy.

  * * *

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  November 25, 1 A.M.

  Had a turkey dinner of what I think was gravy, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and a green thing the best minds of the FBI could not identify. The pumpkin pie was a particular disappointment.

  December 11, 3 P.M.

  This is Special Agent Dale Cooper of the FBI speaking. Feel as proud and fulfilled as any moment I've experienced in my life. Am speaking into a new pocket-size recorder that Dad brought down and gave to me as a graduation present.

  Lost valedictorian honors to Robin, who is the first woman agent ever to achieve that distinction. She nudged me out with her masterful use of the machine gun. Will find out tomorrow where I am going to be assigned.

  December 12, 10 A.M.

  Have received my assignment. In one week I report to the field office in Pittsburgh, assigned to the violent crimes task force. Have said good-bye to the many new friends I've made. Robin is headed out to San Francisco to work in drug interdiction. We went for a long walk on the gun range, firing several rounds each; a draw was called. Another time, another moment, things might have been different. For now, one very memorable kiss and six short rounds from our service revolvers is all that we will have to remember. I hope she will be safe, and that our paths will cross again another time.

  December 18, 8 P.M.

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Have rented a small apartment over a bakery. Nothing like the smell of freshly baked doughnuts as you wake up. Report to the field office tomorrow. Gun clean, badge polished, suit pressed.

  * * *

  Part 5

  Chapter 1

  "I remember meeting Cooper for the first time because he had the cleanest gun I've ever seen."

  Aldo Smith

  FBI Special Agent

  December 19, 1977, 9 P.M.

  Never realized crime generated so much paperwork. Spent my first day on the job behind a desk, sifting through mountains of waste left over by the last agent in my position. Disappointed that I was not able to bring anyone to justice on my first day. I have been assigned a secretary. Her name is Diane. Believe her experience will be of great help. She seems an interesting cross between a saint and a cabaret singer.

  * * *

  Selected tapes throughout Agent Cooper's FBI career have been subject to censoring for reasons of security.

  * * *

  January 10, 1978, 11 A.M.

  Have just received word of a kidnapping in the town of Perrysville. I think this one's for real, my first case.

  January 10, 1 P.M.

  Diane, I'm looking down at a small yellow blanket with elephants on it. It lies on the ground outside the window from which little Chris Roe, eight years old, was taken from her home. No messages for ransom have as yet been received. And no one in the house remembers hearing anything out of the ordinary last night.

  Two sets of footprints were found in the snow outside the window. One a pair of workboots with a rippled sole, the other a pair of inexpensive loafers. The trail led a quarter of a mile down the road to where they met the tracks of a car with well-worn tires. There are no fingerprints; the only physical evidence of the abductors is the butt of a cigarette that was smoked when they reached the car.

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