My middle son, Duane Robert Owens, is a 28 year veteran of the FBI. I’m most proud of him for many, many reasons. His sense of humor is renown, a treat for all of us since he was a wee lad and burst forth with spontaneous jokes, impersonations, and hilarious stories. If he had so desired, I’m confident that Duane would have landed on the writing staff of Saturday Night Live. He is the most loving, selfless, and giving person I know, a gentle Teddy Bear adored by his wife, two daughters, extensive family, colleagues and friends. I marvel that I have such a son.
Duane has served in three FBI field offices. He exudes a smiling self confidence with a bubbly, endearing personality, and thoroughly enjoys the night action in the Bureau, the vigils of manning the communication centers in a field office, the radio traffic from agents out in FBI vehicles, and the many and varied telephone calls, many of which regularly come from the same persons who feel the need to reach out to the FBI at night with, at times, bizarre stories. Duane has compassion for these apparently lonely people and knows their voices.
One night, early in Duane’s Bureau career, he had an idea. When a regular called in, followed immediately by another regular, Duane “patched” the two calls together and let them talk to each other alone. They talked and talked while Duane handled other business. After the patched lines went dark, one of them called back. “Who was that guy I was talking to?” he asked Duane. “He’s crazier than hell.”