dennis rodman: On Russia, Investigations, Photography,...and Hanging on to Yourself:

As an insurance investigator, I’ve dealt with a lot of edgy people. Especially when I performed Special Investigations.

I was never great at S.I.U. stuff, partly because I just didn’t care enough and partly because I didn’t fit into the culture of the unit (which may have been why I didn’t care). S.I.U. Departments are loaded with Criminal Justice majors and District Attorney’s clerks. I have nothing against any of those groups per se; but extended, personal conversation could become strained pretty fast.

What’d you do this weekend Lodo?

What’d I do? Oh, uh,...I mean. ...You know,...just the regular things that normal people do.

Uh, okay. Us too.

When I say S.I.U. investigations in an insurance sense, I mean investigations of claims in which a certain number of red flags have been triggered. Maybe the insured can’t produce any receipts for expensive items; or perhaps there’s no sign of forced entry to their apartment despite an alleged break-in. Whatever the case, if there’s enough red flags an insurance company will perform an investigation.

I was never a great investigator; but my success rate at documenting fraudulent claims was 88%. This was because there were already so many red flags before I even got a claim that it was just a matter of connecting the dots: A + B + C = What you talkin’ ‘bout Willis?! For all I know, 88% may have been a low success rate (I’m not sure--they never shared statistics with us where I worked).

The reasons why a person (or people) might attempt an insurance scam are varied, but some form of desperation is usually at the root: impending bankruptcy; a required medical procedure; a serious drug problem. That was a biggie.

I dealt with a lot of meth-heads in the early 90’s. When I’d visit their house (or trailer); invariably--male or female, I’d find their eyes darting ‘round in their head like that weasel from Ice Age. Fidgety fuckers with no attention span. Like Zab Judah in a prize fight, they’d breakdown halfway thru the recorded interview simply from the mental exhaustion of having to focus on my questions. Perhaps they’d been up for days. Formulating answers. Wringing their hands. Counting the money they already saw going up their nose.

Some could keep it together a little longer; until you touched on a certain inconsistency or oversight to which they hadn’t anticipated. Then a change would appear in their countenance. A slight flush of the face accompanied by rapid machinations behind the eyes. A specific expression indicative of unwanted exposure. Of their documented loss of self-control that could sometimes dissolve into near panic or even full-blown nervous breakdown if I didn’t handle myself correctly.

“...Tell you what, why don’t I just shut this tape recorder off and we can really talk.”

When you’re a real detective--like for the F.B.I. or a police force; they train you to study body language to help gauge honesty. How to analyze handwriting. How to inspect photographs for clues and to determine relationships.

I never received that training, but I’m a bit of a psychology enthusiast. Particularly body language and animal behavior. In photographs of two or more people I ask myself: Who’s initiating the contact? What are the facial expressions of the subjects? What are the circumstances of the photo? What’s the relationship of the photographer to the subjects?

I don’t know who took this picture of me in St. Petersburg (below), but my expression isn't that far removed from the subjects I'd see on one of my S.I.U. investigations. If you were across the table from me I might advise you to turn off the recorder. The rigid body position. The tightness behind the eyes and mouth. I’d been drunk on vodka for (2) weeks straight--we all were! 20 hours of Russian sunshine a day. The same (3) shirts I always wore. None of us got along. And of course that first night and Coburn's injury, about which we all swore ourselves to secrecy. Like the Dallas Beauty Queen said, “just so tired.”

You can sort of see some of that same expression in this picture of Rules at The Hermitage (below). Not as far gone as the meth-heads yet. Still together. But something distant behind the eyes. Detached. Not dreamy so much as...foggy. Another week at this pace and she’ll be ready to be re-programmed by The Moonies.

Anyway, for what its worth, here’s a few more pics from Russia* (*double-click on 'em for full view). Doubt they need or deserve the kind of analysis discussed above; but in these days of my long intermission, I’ve got plenty of time to indulge myself.

at Tsarko Selo: