CHAPTER TWELVE

June 11, 1992

     Shapes flickered on the walls of the darkened room as commercials did likewise across the twenty-one inch screen of Fred Franheur's television set.  For his part, Fred sat in the dark and watched sullenly as the commercials subsided allowing the news broadcast to continue. 

    "So the weekend's looking pretty good then, Archie?" the brunette at the anchor's desk said.

    The jovial Archie Lummond smiled and nodded.  "Yes, Barbara, that's my forecast.  We can expect sunny skies and hot temperatures through mid next week."

    "That sounds like last Thursday's weekend forecast," she scolded through her plastic smile.  "And we know what happened then, right?"

    Archie looked a bit flustered.  "Well, it did rain some on Monday, despite what we had predicted last week.  But I think its safe to say now that the bad weather is behind us for a while."

    "That's good," Barbara beamed.  "Well, that about wraps it up for our seven o'clock report.  I'm Barbara Carvel hoping you all have a safe evening."

    As the credits began to role over the picture of the smiling, happy television personalities, Fred snatched up the remote control and quickly changed the channel.  The credits of a competing station were now on the screen so he flipped channels until he reached the Cable Sports Network, which was showing women's roller-derby.  Presently the phone began to ring. 

    Let it ring, he thought.  If his wife had been there she would have answered it and might actually have told whoever it was that he was not at home, as he had instructed.  Or, failing that, she might have politely told them that he did not wish to be disturbed at the moment or that he could not come to the phone.  She had a million ways to keep them off his back, when she felt like it, which was usually when Fred had seen fit not to antagonize her.  Unfortunately she was spending a few days with her sister. 

    The phone continued to ring. 

    It was probably his agent with Nasten's offer for him to return to work.  At a raise in pay, of course.  This Carvel woman was fine for co-anchor, but she just couldn't carry a newscast by herself.  They needed him back.  On the other hand, his agent could be calling with an offer from another station—one that could appreciate a talent of his caliber.

    A third ring.

    It really didn't matter who it was.  Fred didn't want to speak to anyone right now.  They could call back if it was so important.  Let the machine get it.  He certainly wasn't going to.

    Fred picked up the receiver.

    "Hello?"

    "Um, Mr. Franheur?" the voice from the receiver said.  It was not a voice Fred recognized.

    "Speaking."

    "My name is Lieutenant Jim Tomlinson with the Huntington, Connecticut, police department."

    "The police?"

    "Yes, sir.  I'm sorry to bother you at home, but this is the number your producer gave me."

    "She's bringing me up on charges?" 

    "No.  Not that I'm aware of, at least."

    "Wait.  You say you're from Connecticut?  What's this about?  I've never even been to Connecticut."

    There was a pause on the phone.  "You are the same Fred Franheur who used to write for the Meager Mercury, aren't you ?"

    Fred was briefly silent.  "I did.  But that was thirty years ago."

    "I'm making an inquiry about a story you wrote in 1961."

    Fred breathed out a labored sigh.  "Look, if this is about that Scorpion crap, you can just hang it up!  It was a guess, okay?"

    There was a brief pause.  "I don't think this is the same story, Mr. Franheur."  Tomlinson could be heard shuffling papers.  "Do you remember anything about the Calhoun killings, Mr. Franheur?"

    Fred Franheur's eyes blinked twice as the words finally registered.... 
 

    The rain had been coming down for over three days now.  It fell to earth in large drops that struck the thin metal awning that jutted from above the garage entrance of the famed Meags Building with a patter that almost drowned out the grumbling of those reporters who were lucky enough to be huddled underneath it and which added to the ire of those who were not.
 

    Reporter Fred Franheur arrived upon the scene and sighed out a deep lung-full of the moist air.  It was bitterly cold for this early in the Autumn and Fred could see his breath dancing before his face. 

    The other reporters there were packed closely together, their umbrellas extended to the sky.  Damp cigarettes were smoked and congested lungs freely coughed from under the field of parasols.  Fred went and stood next to an older man whose shabby gray overcoat and doffed floppy fedora seemed to have been thrown onto him rather than simply worn.  He too was smoking a cigarette and flipping through a small pocket notebook.

    The rain was pouring in streams from the sides of Fred's own umbrella and would from time to time collect in its tattered folds and spill out in a gush, drenching those nearby—not that anyone in the little crowd was particularly dry in the first place, even the ones under the awning.   There were more reporters here today than he was used to seeing on sunny days.  He only recognized a few of them as the usual crowd.  The gent beside him wearing the fedora, for instance, was a new, if not especially young face to him.  No one was speaking very much.  Fred would have liked to think that it was because no one wants to speak when they're on shit detail.  But he knew this wasn't so.  These dinks were lapping this stuff up—waiting around for some unwashed vigilante to beat the hell out of someone just so they could rush to the press conference, gobble up the details and rush back in time to make the evening edition.  Where was the challenge, the thrill of reporting that?  To Fred super-duty was simply a nasty job and he loathed every second of it.  For Fred Franheur, super-heroes existed to draw attention to themselves and he refused to be the one to fuel their exhibitions.  Well, refused was a strong word.  Fred had never actually refused to write anything.  After all, you don't refuse to do ninety percent of the stories your editor assigns to you and remain secure in your job.  His editor, a rotund gentleman by the name of Mort Honiwell, was fond of saying things like  "Hey Fred, go on down to Meags and get me a quote on this Chess attack."  Or better still,  "Fred, the `Buckler's called a press conference down at Meags.  Get the gristle!"  But his absolute favorite, a little ditty Fred had heard two months ago, went along the lines of "By the way Fred, the boys upstairs liked your romance angle on that Green Scorpion/Lady Blade story a lot.  A damn lot!  Sold a few papers, they say.  So you've been promoted to super-duty full time.  Congratulations, kid!  You're going places."  Yes, sir, that had been the real killer.  The icing on the cake, so to speak.  His head ached every time he considered the irony of it all. 

    Here he was, a young, ambitious reporter working at New Auckland's most successful newspaper, The Meager Mercury—a paper which, to further the irony, had begun its existence in 1881 based in the Meags Building itself—and during his four month career Fred had strove desperately to get noticed for his well-written, stylistic stories in the slim hope that he would be promoted into a higher class of reporter than his title of "floater" suggested.  He longed to see the backside of the city-council/gardening beat as it stumbled, mortally wounded, into the sunset.  And what do you suppose happened as a result of his dedication and skill?  That's right!  Nothing.  He was still stuck penning mindless drivel pieces while reporters like Eaves Bruning lapped at glory from the other side of a martini glass. 

    Well, nothing was not exactly true, either, when he came to consider it.  He'd penned one terrifically good story about a serial killer who had been plaguing the cities on and off for the past four years.  It was called "When will He Strike Again!"  It had the potential to have become a lengthy series of articles detailing the potential mind-set of a killer.  Real Pulitzer material.  He might even have even gotten a book out of it had his progress not been halted two months ago.  And whose fault had it been?  A super-hero's.  Two of them, in fact. 

    It began as a joke, really.  Fred had begun laughing from the moment of its inception.  Mort needed filler for the Merc's page-five Super-Section.  He told Fred to supply something.  Fred grudgingly skulked down to Meags to cover the press-conference there and had written most of his assigned story when a pure gem of an idea floated into his head.  What, he postulated, if there was something funny going on down Avatar way?  What if some sort of romantic entanglement was discovered to be going on between two of Avatar's members?  For instance, say, between Lady Blade and the Green Scorpion?  And the answer that immediately came to Fred's mind was that the public would go absolutely ape-shit.  They always loved juicy gossip about celebrities, and what bigger celebrities could be found in New Auckland than the supers?  Taking his little scenario one step further, Fred wrote up a little speculatory piece that he thought would be fun to drop by Shirley Darvins at the Locals Desk.  Boy, they'd have a good laugh.  She would giggle lightly and tell him that he was simply terrible.  Then he'd ask her to dinner and she'd agree and things would progress from there.  He'd throw his little speculation piece in the trash and forget all about it.  Perfect, no?  Only instead of the waste bin, his little joke piece wound up in front of good ol' Mort Honiwell in place of the press-conference story he had intended to submit.  And rather than hurling it into oblivion himself, Mort had accepted it readily and happily.  So what if it was pure speculation?  Blurb it on page one and you'd have an extra 200 in sales.  After all, the Merc' was no stranger to Mother Goose tactics.  A little sensationalism never hurt anyone, especially in a news slump.   Little did Fred Franheur know—and this was the truly ironic bit—that his little joke story would turn out to be the greatest success of his career so far for the simple reason that it was completely true.

    Two days after the story ran, Green Scorpion himself called a conference to clear up the matter.  He acknowledged its truth, admitting that he and Lady Blade had been in a relationship for the last several months and would likely be married sometime in the near future.  And Fred had been there to cover the press-conference.  He'd been given no choice.  It was his breakthrough story, after all.   Following the conference, the Green Scorpion had approached him to ask how he had managed to figure it out.  Fred had simply shrugged and said, "A good reporter learns to spot these things." 

    His bosses had agreed.   Put him on the supers desk, they had probably said.  He's got an eye for the heroes.  Fred had been given the keys to his own personal hell and no one was going to show him the exit.  Or so he thought.
 

    "Hey kid!  You're dripping on my notebook again."  It was the man with the floppy fedora standing next to him.

    "Sorry," said Fred, casting a quick squinty glance at the man.  He didn't like being called kid.  Unfortunately that was how most of his peers referred to him.  After a moment he noticed that the man seemed to be staring at him.

    "Say, you're that Franheur kid from the Merc', aren't you?" the man finally asked.

    Fred squinted at him again, then nodded.  He wasn't sure if he was about to be ridiculed or congratulated.

    The man smiled.  "That was some kind of scoop you got, kid!  You're gonna go places."

    "That's what they say," Fred dryly replied  An awkward, post-praise, silence fell.

    The man held out his hand.  "Tom Picket, Wellington Gazette." 

    A very surprised Fred Franheur took his hand and shook it firmly.  Tom Picket was a name known to most anyone in New Auckland papers.  He was one of the old brigade of local reporters.  Most of that breed were washed up sots who had lead glorious, fame-filled youths and had then either died off or fell into editorships at any paper that would have them.  Not Picket though.  He was, as always, sharp-eyed and firm-minded. 

    "Y... You're Tom Picket?" Fred said in amazement.  "I don't mean to speak poorly, but what the hell are you doing out here in the rain with us dregs?"

    Tom laughed heartily.  "Same reason you're here, m'boy."

    "Your Ed is lording you too?"

    "No," Picket said with a chuckle.  "I'm here for the story." 

    "But...  but you're the Tom Picket.  You shouldn't have to stand in the rain." 

    "Yeah, I'm the Tom Picket just like that man over there is the Howard Gibson and that man over there is the Polk Steven Sturbing.  This is big stuff, kid.  We're all out here."

    Fred quickly looked at the men Picket had pointed out.  Polk Steven Sturbing, news anchor for WLAB, was indeed here, standing under the awning, chatting with a lovely young woman from Channel 5 while his camera crew hunched shivering under a tarp.  And there were more familiar faces—some of them nationally known faces.  Fred realized then that the industry's big guns were out in full force.  Something big must be up if the gods of the news game had descended on a day like today. 

    "What's going on?" Fred said in a low voice.

    Picket gave another laugh and bopped Fred's shoulder lightly in cooperative jest.  When he saw Fred's expression of seriousness he realized that the kid hadn't been joking. 

    "You really don't know do you?" 

    "Know what?"

    Tom Picket took one final drag of his cigarette, dropped it to the pavement and ground it out with his foot, more out of habit than actual necessity considering the weather. 

    "Kid if you don't know what's happened then you might want to look into getting some new sources."

    "What?  What is it?"

    "Someone upstairs," continued Picket, "got wind that Avatar here managed to capture the killer." 

    Fred blinked.  The full realization hit him shortly thereafter. 

    "The killer?  Calhoun?" 

    "One and the same," Picket said. 

    "Well it's about time!" Fred said, realizing how embarrassed he should probably be feeling.

    "No one knows anything for sure, mind you.  I've heard a few different things.  Some say they captured him.  Some say they killed him.  Hell, some say he's still out there somewhere, waiting.  No one knows anything definite but the police and Avatar, and the cops aren't talking yet.  I know.  That's where I spent my morning."

    "Hey!  Here he comes!" someone near the front shouted. 

    There was a loud growling sound as an enormous, customized, gray Harley approached the building from the south.  Fred saw it pull into the parking lot and roll toward them.  Its rider was a man wearing a black and white rain-suit with the Avatar "A" symbol on the breast pocket.  His helmet was gray with a black band around it and a white plume feather painted on one side.  The face plate was tinted dark.  Other than that he looked like a man riding an incredibly impressive motorcycle.

    The Harley rolled to a halt in front of the throng of reporters, its engine roaring, rain glowing in beads as it fell past the single headlight.  The rider gestured with his arm for the reporters to get out of the way but only a few of them took any notice of this.  Again the rider gestured but his request was met only with questions.  Nearly every reporter burst into verbal activity at that point.  None of them seemed at all certain what it was they were meant to be finding out but they were certainly going to give it the old college try.  Is it true you've captured the killer?  Is it true there's a new group-member?  Was Stone killed in battle?  Was there a battle?  Is Lady blade having Green Scorpion's baby?  Is Calhoun finally dead?  Who was he?

    The man on the cycle flipped a switch near the throttle of his Harley.  There was an audible click of a loud speaker hidden somewhere on the cycle's frame.

    "Avatar has no comment at this time," the Swashbuckler said.  "Please move aside."

    The reporters weren't budging.  They continued to scream their queries and wave their pencils.

    "Swashbuckler, are you seeing anyone romantically?" someone in the back said.  Fred looked around to see who it was.  Looked like that hack Filby from the Post. 

    "Please..." came the voice over the cycle's speaker.  "Move away from the door.  We are not issuing a statement at this time.  Please move aside."  The man's pleas were in vain.  Camera tripods were being spread, film-loaded and front page photos taken.  Questions were being hurled at him and the man seemed helpless to do anything.  Then, over the din of the crowd came a clear strong voice, forming a single question.  

    "You killed him, didn't you?" Fred Franheur found himself shouting.

    Those people directly around Fred became almost reverently quiet, and those just beyond them too became quiet, if only to find out why everyone was being so quiet. 

    The Swashbuckler activated his microphone again.  "Who said that?"

    "I did," Fred said.  "Fred Franheur, Meager Mercury."  All eyes were on him.  All ears were tuned, awaiting the Swashbuckler's response.

    "No, Mr. Franheur.  We did not kill him."

    "But he is dead, though?"

    The Swashbuckler seemed to think on this for a moment.  The only sounds that could be heard were the low rumble of the cycle's engines and that of the rain pouring down on them all.  Each of them awaited the response. 

    "The man who committed the murders is dead."

    A rush of relief went up through the crowd of reporters.  Camera-lights flared and pencils carved trenches into wet note-book pages as the words the man had spoken were recorded in a wide variety of forms and interpretations. 

    Over the noise and commotion, Fred was watching the Swashbuckler.  The hero cut the engines of his cycle, clipped his swords onto his belt, lowered the kick-stand and swung his leg over the seat.  From a side-compartment he pulled a wide-brimmed hat which he placed on his head above his domino masked eyes after first removing his helmet.  His lips formed words which went unheard over the roar of follow-up questions being hurled at him.  But Fred saw them.  He had been practicing his lip-reading for the past three years, and he saw exactly what the man had said.  Only the words didn't make any sense.  

    The Swashbuckler began swiftly walking toward the front of the building pursued by the collective of reporters.  Before they could catch him he had rounded the corner and was up the marble steps.  The building sealed itself after his entrance preventing further pursuit.  The reporters sulked and swore and stood there with frustrated expressions.  In the end, though, they were forced to shake the water from their umbrellas, climb into their respective vehicles and leave.

    Fred Franheur did not watch them leave.  He was busy scribbling on the soggy pages of his notebook with the stub of a broken pencil.  Tom Picket also remained.  He walked over to where Fred was standing, near the motorcycle, and stopped.  He waited patiently for Fred to finish, admiring the cycle as he did.  

    "Might make an interesting piece for the Sunday autos edition sometime," Picket said.  

    Fred was already several steps ahead of him.  The headline The Equipment of Avatar had formed in his mind when the Swashbuckler had arrived five minutes ago.  God, he hated his job.

    Tom Picket walked over to him and frowned.  "You don't want to be here, do you kid?"

    "No."

    "Didn't think so."  He retrieved his cigarette case from an inner pocket and opened its lid.  "I've seen your kind before, kid.  Seen dozens of `em.  You're not happy in the papers."

    "I like newspaper work, all right.  I just don't like what I'm doing in it at the moment."

    "You hate the supers, don't you?"

    "Can't stand them."

    Tom nodded.  "Understandable.  Doesn't matter, though.  You'd be miserable even if they weren't around."

    "I'd be glad to give it a try."

    Tom Picket studied Fred for a few seconds, then said, "Try your hand at TV kid.  It's the future of the news game.  And you've got the mug for it."

    "Television?!" Fred exclaimed in disbelief.  He wanted to laugh.  He wanted to laugh long and hard but it wouldn't be a very respectful thing to do in front of Tom Picket.  The very idea of working in television was even more absurd than that of Polk Steven Sturbing braving the elements to be balked at by some costumed idiot.  Sure, it had been widely publicized that there were 85 million television sets in homes across the country at the turn of the decade and that number was growing by the day, but still—television?  If newspapers were giving the supers too much coverage there would be twice as much on television.  It would be like taking refuge from the rain in the ocean.  Battles covered live from Regency Park.  Heroes hosting state dinners.  It would be a cold day in hell before he worked in television.

    Tom Picket pulled the flaps of his coat up around his ears and shouldered his umbrella against the rain.  "Seen dozens of em, kid.  You'll go.  You'll see."  He trailed a plume of cigarette smoke toward his car.

    Television, thought Fred.  Absurd.
 

    Two hours later Fred found himself walking into the press-room of the New Auckland Police Department.  The noise-level was deafening.  Reporters huddled together, comparing rumors or spreading intentionally false rumors to those they disliked.  They stood in front of their cameras, preparing to record the images which they would rush back to their home stations for broadcast in an attempt to be the first with the story.  He watched his comrades glibly and then took the opportunity to sit in one of their vacant front-row seats.  He took out his note pad and stared at its contents.  A single page had been written upon.  The writing was smudged and the page damp but it could still be read: `God help us, may he stay there.'   What did that mean?

    The clamor from the press rose substantially as Police Chief Martin Drexle entered the room.  He was a large man, built like a bear, with a midriff that was only beginning to show the heavyset condition often found on men approaching their mid-forties.  His red mustache was neatly combed, and his receding, reddish-brown hair was slicked back on his head.  He carried with him a file-folder.  Following him into the room was Special Agent Simon Adler, the head agent in the FBI's investigations into the Calhoun murders.  Adler looked far less than happy.  Following behind Adler, at a short distance, was a third man, a tall American Indian with wearing a smart-looking suit.  The reporters scurried for seats, pausing their verbal flow only for breath.  They shouted questions until Chief Drexle adjusted his microphone and signaled that he was about to begin. 

    "Good morning," he said, though his voice did not reflect the pleasantness of the words.  "I understand that many of you have been waiting here for quite some time now.  For that, I apologize.  It is police policy to issue statements to the press as soon as all the possible information has been gathered and it has taken us longer to do this than we would have liked."  Flash-bulbs around the room came to life as he paused his speech. 

    "I also understand that some of you may have been waiting at the Meags Building for a statement.  It should be said now, that Avatar has informed me that they are not planning to release any statements at this time.  All necessary information concerning the matter will be issued to you strictly by us."  More flashbulbs and a bevy of questions erupted. 

    "If you will be patient, I will try to answer most of your questions here.  But I will only answer them after I have finished this statement.  So, if you will please be quiet we can get on with this."  As the noise continued around the room, Chief Drexle opened his file and cleared his throat.

    "Last night, September 6, 1961, at approximately 8:45 p.m., due to a joint effort between Avatar, the Federal Bureau of Investigations and this department, we were able to locate and identify the serial killer known as Calhoun.  He was found hiding in an abandoned building located at 228 Lancashire Boulevard in New Auckland.  At approximately 9:15 police forces and members of the New Auckland S.W.A.T. Team surrounded the building.  Members of Avatar accompanied by FBI Special Agent Shiloah Soaring Dove," he turned and indicated the tall Indian behind him, "and another associate then entered the building in an attempt to capture the man suspected of being Calhoun.  At approximately 9:37, the suspect in question was shot by one of our officers as he attempted to flee the building."

    The room came alive with flashbulbs popping and screamed questions clashing in the air.  Chief Drexle held up one of his large hands.

    "I am not finished.  Please be quiet."  His words were polite but his tone suggested a potential threat to those not obeying.  The room quieted somewhat.

    "Calhoun's identity has been confirmed as that of local surgeon Dr. Abraham Strommond, of New Auckland's Mercy General Hospital.  His prints match those found on the murder weapons we've been able to recover so far.  We found more such weapons in the building on Lancashire as well as personal items from each of the twenty-six victims from the past four years.  Nine other such items, we have not yet been able to trace to sources, were also found there."  

    Again the reporters came alive with questions.  Fred found himself joining them this time.  His question was much different from those flickering into the minds of the other reporters. 

    "Why isn't Avatar making any statements?" he screamed, but his words were lost over the rest of the crowd. 

    "If you'll wait just a moment," Drexle said in a loud, strong voice.  He turned and said something to the tall Indian in the smart suit.  The Indian shook his head, his expression never wavering from rigid seriousness.  Fred thought that if he were to cross his arms they could have stood him in the corner of a tobacconist's and he would have looked right at home. 
 

    Franheur rolled his eyes in irritation and took a deep breath before speaking into the mouthpiece again.  He had just spent the better part of fifteen minutes telling his story to this New England cop, it seemed to no avail.  This Tomlinson fellow wasn't interested in the injustices that had been inflicted upon him by his editor.  He only wanted to know about Calhoun.  But this was not bad either.  After all, Fred considered himself to be somewhat of an authority on the subject.  He had, after all, been the one to cover the police beat angle of it since it had involved Avatar to some degree.  Why this Tomlinson character wanted to know about dead murderers was anyone's guess.

    "Of course he's dead.  That was the whole point of the press conference.  That Calhoun was dead."

    "I'm just trying to rule out any possibility that he may have survived."

    "Look, Strommond was dead.  The coroner said so.  The police investigators said so.  Special Agent Floating Dove said so..."

    "What?  I'm sorry.  What was that name again?"

    "Whose name?"

    "You said Special Agent...  You said his name.  What was it?"

    "Something Dove.  Floating... flying... soaring.  Soaring!  His name was Soaring Dove." 

    "You're sure that was his name?" said Tomlinson urgently.

    "That's what I said, isn't it?"

    "How old was he?"

    "I don't know.  Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, I guess.  This was just before he joined up with them."

    "Before he joined up with who?"

    "Avatar."

    A pause. 

    "He joined Avatar?  He was a member?" 

    "What kind of drugs were you doing back then?  He worked with them on this Calhoun thing and stayed with them until they split in `72.  That was big news!  A group of supers operating with a federal agent on the team?  Where were you?"

    "Look, I realize you folks in New Auckland have the vigilantes growing in your colons but we don't get that around here.  When I worked in Massachussetts, I was on speaking terms with the Human Spring.  But they locked him away.  I don't make it a point to follow their adventures or keep a score card of who belongs to what little club.  However, when it comes to unsolved homicides, I do tend to keep my ears perked.  And in the late fifties and early sixties east coast law enforcement was paying a great deal of attention to the Calhoun killings.  They had everyone involved baffled for the better part of three years.  And when Strommond was finally killed I remember reading your article about it.  It was syndicated in every paper along the east coast.  That's why I'm talking to you now.  Thank you for your time, Mr. Franheur.  Goodbye."

    "Wait a second!  Hold on!" said Fred.  "What do you know about all this?  You know something, don't you?  Why are you asking all these questions?  What's going on here?"

    "I'm starting to wonder myself, Mr. Franheur."

    There was a click from the receiver.

    Fred looked at it for a moment before putting it back on the hook.
 
 

    Lieutenant Tomlinson did not sleep well that evening.  His dreams were filled with images of dead faces he had seen throughout his career.  At four O'clock the next morning he gave up all hope of slumber and simply lay there, staring up at the ceiling until it was time leave for work.

    When he arrived at the station found his friend Marcie Tavers, from dispatching waiting for him at his desk.  He nearly had a `Good morning' out of his mouth before he saw her expression. 

    "Has it made the news yet?" she asked

    "Has what?"

    "You haven't heard then?"

    "Heard what?"

    "We got an APB this morning for a Manuel Stilson."

    "Should I know of him?"

    "I don't suppose so.  He was Fenella Olsen's literary agent."

    "I recognize her name, but I'm not sure from where," he said. 

    "She wrote the Lover's Leap series."

    "Those romance novels you're always reading?"

    "Yeah.  Those," she said, sniffing.

    Tomlinson could see that she had been crying.

    "Marcie.  What's wrong?"

    "Fenella Olsen was murdered in her home last night.  They suspect Stilson."

    Tomlinson didn't know what to say.  He wasn't much of a reader himself, but he knew how much Marcie had liked Olsen's books.  She had been a best selling author for nearly two decades.

    "I'm sorry," he offered.  Something occurred to him.  "Why did we get an APB on this Stilson?  Did she live in Connecticut?"

    "New York state."

    "Oh."  He mulled this over briefly.  "Do you know where, exactly?"

    "Oneida."

    Tomlinson went pale.  "Oh, shit."