Memory of Murder
by Earl Staggs
Quiet Storm Publishing
ISBN 0-977007030

SYNOPSIS

Psychic Investigator and former FBI agent Adam Kingston has a fondness for chocolate donuts, drinks too much coffee, and has a tendency to get involved in cases he should run from. A forty-four-year-old widower living along in Ocean City, Maryland, he keeps in shape by playing tennis when he can and working out on his treadmill every...well...almost every day.

Adam leads a fairly normal life in spite of his special gift. Like others with paranormal abilities, he uses psychic images to help track criminals and missing persons. In MEMORY OF A MURDER, he is drawn into the strangest, most puzzling case of his career. It begins when the remains of a young woman's body are uncovered beneath a basement floor. Three days later, a man's body is discovered in the trunk of a car in a Baltimore parking garage. The victim is wrapped in black plastic trash bags, tightly bound with duct tape.

Chip Weathers, a ragged homeless man, was found at the house where the young woman was buried sixteen years ago, injured, bleeding, and his memory lost in amnesia. After all this time, he now knows he was there when she died and thinks he may have killed her. Desperate to know who she was, what he did that day and why, he seeks the help of Adam Kingston. Adam listens to the desperate man's story but is reluctant to get involved. When Chip is gunned down and critically wounded practically on Adam's doorstep, Adam has no choice. Local police believe the shooting was accidental or random and without motive. Adam agrees...at first.

He locates the gunman's hotel room and trades shots with the fleeing man. He finds a prostitute's body under the hotel bed. Brutally beaten and strangled to death, she is wrapped in plastic bags and duct tape.

Adam then meets with a woman identifying herself as Chip's sister, Lisa. The same gunman appears and opens fire. Adam must move quickly to protect her, and while he is distracted, she disappears. The police now think a serial killer is on the loose. Adam suspects the gunman has another purpose -- that he was sent to kill Chip Weathers and his sister to cover up a sixteen-year-old murder.

His investigation becomes complicated with the arrival of an attractive homicide detective from Baltimore. Detective Brenda McCort has tracked the killer to Ocean City. She also has another case on her mind -- the unknown young woman murdered sixteen years ago and buried in a basement grave. She resents Adam being involved in both her cases. She also believes psychics are charlatans.

In an icy alliance, Adam and Brenda agree it appears someone sent the killer to Ocean City. Their suspicions center on Eric Richards, Chip's brother-in-law. Eric Richards cannot be located.

Adam also discovers Brenda McCort is not as hard and cold as he thought, and her attitude softens when she sees his psychic abilities are helpful in pursuing the case. Adam now has a new complication. His attraction to Brenda awakens a loneliness he did not know existed and challenges his devotion to his beloved wife's memory.

But he has little time to deal with that. After a high speed car chase, a footrace, and a fight in an alley, Adam captures Eric Richards and tricks him into revealing new information. Eric claims Lisa's death was accidental.

Adam believes otherwise. A pathology report and psychic images from other evidence reveal it was not an accident. Adam knows who committed murder sixteen years ago, but proving it will be next to impossible.

The gunman abducts Brenda McCort and uses her to lure Adam into a meeting. Adam knows he is walking into a trap, but he has no choice. A man who enjoys torturing and killing women has Brenda.

In a tense face-off, the gunman's identity and the reason for his killing spree are revealed. Adam uses everything at his disposal - his wits, his words, a borrowed car, and Brenda herself - to save her life and his own.

MEMORY OF A MURDER is a mystery novel with surprising twists, unique action scenes, and a story designed to keep Adam Kingston - - and readers -- guessing to the very end.

EXCERPT

Adam stepped off the elevator and turned right. Detective Wilson followed two steps behind.

The Endicott House was built before architects decided brightly colored and well-lit corridors were a safety feature. Dark walnut paneling covered the walls and ceiling above dark green carpeted floors. The doors were slightly lighter than the walls. Halfway between each door, small light bulbs behind round yellow plastic covers surrounded themselves with circles of soft light on the wall.

Ten feet from the fourth and last door, Adam stopped. The door of Suite 406 stood open. No light shone from inside the room.

Stuart halted beside him. "What's wrong?"

"A few minutes ago, someone was watching television in that room."

"Maybe they went to bed."

"And left the door wide open?"

Stuart reached to his waist and pulled out his service revolver. "Wait here," he said. "I'll check it out."

Adam obeyed. This was police business. He was retired.

Stuart stepped slowly to the door and stopped beside it with his back pressed against the wall. He swung his head quickly into the opening and out again. Adam watched the young detective take a deep breath, then rap his knuckles against the doorframe.

"This is the police," Stuart called. "Room 406. Anyone in there?"

The hallway was silent. Stuart rapped again.

"Police. Is anyone there?"

Silence.

With his back to the wall, Adam was surprised when a sudden image flashed across his mind. The shape was definite and unmistakable. A gun. Was he thinking about Detective Wilson's revolver? He couldn't be sure, but his instincts told him otherwise. More than once those instincts had kept him from turning the wrong corner . . . or entering the wrong door. He began inching along the wall to where Detective Wilson stood. If he followed his instincts and was wrong, he knew he would look very foolish afterward.

"This is the police," Stuart shouted. "I'm coming in."

When Stuart slid around the doorframe into the dark opening, Adam decided to go with his instincts, rusty or not. He took two long strides forward and hurled himself against Stuart Wilson's back just as he heard the first shot. Its sound, muffled, familiar. Hand gun. Silencer. He heard a painful groan from Stuart. He's hit!

The two of them landed on carpet inside the dark room. Another shot from the right. The sound of glass breaking and falling from the left.

Adam's eyes searched the darkness. A large shape, close ahead. Sofa. He dragged Stuart behind it.

Another shot, followed by a soft thud. Adam's foot bumped against something hard on the floor. He groped for it. Stuart's gun . He jerked it over the top of the sofa and fired. Once. Twice. The shots from the snub-nosed .38 were like cannon fire in the dark room. When their echo died, the silence became as thick as the darkness. Dim light from the corridor framed the open doorway, but inside the room, Adam could barely make out the sofa in front of him.

Stuart groaned again.

"How bad is it," Adam whispered, watching the darkness for any movement.

"My arm," Stuart said. "My head. What happened?"

Adam heard a shuffling sound across the room and saw something moving in the darkness, going for the door. A large silhouette darkened the open doorway. Adam fired. Splinters flew from the doorframe as the moving shape disappeared into the corridor.

Adam scrambled to his feet, took two steps, and tripped over Stuart's leg. The .38 fell from his hand. He found it, regained his feet, and ran to the door. Without hesitating, he held the gun in both hands, arms extended, and swung into the corridor.

Fifty feet down the corridor, a large man stood in front of the elevator, turned so he was facing and staring right at Adam. In one hand he held a travel bag. In the other, a large handgun.

Before Adam could say or do anything, three things happened—a small green light above the elevator door pinged and flashed on, the elevator door slid open, and the man raised his gun and fired.

Adam swung back into the room, saw the slug tear into the doorframe, then sprang out into the corridor again, ready to return fire. He caught himself in time.

An elderly woman with a cane stepped off the elevator in front of the man. Tiny and bent forward, she shuffled forward, intent on her steps and oblivious to the two armed men. Perspiration glistened on the man's head. His round, reddish face broadened into a sly, twisted smile. He held the smile on Adam and stepped into the elevator, safely shielded.

The door closed, and the old woman continued, one careful step at a time, toward the room opposite the elevator, aiming at it with the key in her hand.

From inside Suite 406, Adam heard Detective Wilson moan. There would be no chase. He had to see how badly Stuart was hurt.

Available July 2005 at Amazon.com, directly from the publisher at http://www.quietstormpublishing.com or other online outlets as well as most bookstores.

 

 

Cellfish Ways
by Courts Mroch

 

“No, I'm fine, Daddy. Everything's fine.”

Fine? Why was he asking that? Brenda finally looked at the clock, then she shot out of bed and snatched the phone away from Ryan.

“Darin?”

“Ms. Friendly called me when you didn't show up with Ryan this morning. She's been trying to call you, but your phone just keeps ringing. She was worried because she said you had a run in with someone in front of her house yesterday.”

“We did have a little trouble last night with some nut, but we're fine.”

“She said you hit him, then ran. Is that true?”

“It wasn't a hit and run. I did hit the guy, but he took off before we could exchange information. I don't think there was really a need to anyway. My fender was fine, so I can't imagine that I hit him all that hard.”

“You should have made sure, Brenda. These things have a way of coming back to haunt a person. And why isn't our son in school yet? Ryan said you're still in bed. I know we're having a hard time now, but you have to keep it together.”

“Listen, Darin, I appreciate the fact that Ms. Friendly called you to make sure everything was okay when I didn't bring Ryan to her this morning and that you cared enough to call, but if you're going to lecture me on how irresponsible I am just because I had a bad night and overslept the alarm—”

“Alarm nothing. How many bottles of wine did you polish off last night?”

Miffed almost to the exploding point, but aware of Ryan's eager ears soaking up every word of his parents' conversation, all she said in reply was, “We'll have to discuss this later. I have to get our son to school.” She hung up.

She didn't even shower. She laid out clothes for Ryan to change into while she ran to make his lunch. It was only as they were leaving that she remembered what Darin said about Ms. Friendly not being able to reach them at the house number. Brenda should have heard it ringing. For that matter, so should have Ryan. Like he'd done with the cell, he would've answered the phone.

Brenda went to the kitchen extension and picked up, but there was no dial tone. She frowned. She didn't have time for it now; she'd have to figure out the problem later. Ryan, dressed and ready to go, was already heading for the garage.

On her way to drop Ryan off at school Brenda made two calls. The first was to her employer, apologizing for her tardiness and assuring him she'd be in later that morning. The second was to Ms. Friendly, who was still concerned over the incident with the crazy driver from the night before. Brenda assured her that they were fine, apologized for not calling sooner, and explained about her broken house phone. She then told Ms. Friendly that she was taking Ryan directly to school instead of bringing him to her house, but could Ms. Friendly make sure to pick him up as usual? Ms. Friendly assured her that she would, and Brenda hung up and swung into the parking lot of Ryan's elementary school.

“Have a good day, honey,” Brenda said, bending down to kiss Ryan's cheek before he scurried out of the school's office and down the hall to his class. She'd gone in with him to clear up his tardiness with the front office.

Upon returning to her car, she noticed a slip of paper sticking out from under her wiper blade. Amazed that even school parking lots weren't safe from solicitations, she plucked it out, crumpled it up in disgust, then tossed it on the passenger seat, intending to throw it out when she got home.

She drove the short distance home, and immediately set about getting ready for work. Since she was already late, she didn't necessarily hurry, and instead took her time choosing her outfit and getting in the shower.

Once she was cleaned and dressed, she went to the kitchen and fixed herself a couple of slices of toast, slathering them with peanut butter, and then poured herself a glass of milk. She wasn't exactly hungry, but she knew she had to eat something, especially since she probably wouldn't have time for lunch today. The peanut butter toast would give her enough energy to make it to the afternoon. If things weren't too busy, she'd be able to sneak a quick vending machine snack. Not the healthiest regime, but ever since Darin had left her, so had her appetite. If nothing else, divorce was one hell of an effective diet.

In the garage again for the second time that morning, Brenda used her rearview to apply her lipstick while the garage door chugged open. The unexpected ringing of her cell phone caught her off guard and she jumped, thus coloring outside the lines of her lips. Miffed, and thinking it was Darin calling back to continue their fight from earlier, she said haughtily, “Make this quick. I'm late for work.”

“I see a night's rest didn't do you any good.”

Her skin broke out in a rash of goose bumps, as she immediately recognized the voice –the driver from night before. She studied the rearview, expecting to see the little blue car blocking her in, but her driveway, and what she could see of the street, was empty.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“An apology.”

“For what?” Brenda felt all the fear she'd felt moments earlier evaporate in the heat of her rage. “You were the one who followed and harassed me last night. If anything you owe me an apology.”

“You have no idea why I was mad, do you?”

“ You were mad? What the hell did you have to be mad about?”

“Let's see. First you stole my parking space, then you bumped into me and verbally assaulted me, let's not forget barging ahead and stealing the pizza that was mine, then almost hitting me as you carelessly backed out—”

“Excuse me. I'm already late for work, and I don't really have time for your bullshit. I don't know what you're talking about, but as I remember it, you bumped into me, and while I may have started backing out without looking, I did stop. The rest of it—”

“Did you get my note?”

“What?” The little patience she had left was completely gone now.

“Today. When you dropped your son off at school. Did you get my note?”

Brenda's stomach knotted and her skin went cold. He'd followed her to her son's school? Slowly, she turned her head and looked at the crumpled up piece of paper she'd removed from underneath her wiper blades. She tried to still her rapidly increasing heartbeat by telling herself that he was just trying to scare her, the piece of paper was just some flyer, nothing more. But until she looked at it, she wouldn't believe.

“You still there?”

“Yes,” Brenda answered, reaching out and picking up the piece of paper and carefully unfolding it to read:

“Be careful of your bitchy ways. Next time it might be your neck instead of the phone lines that gets sliced.”

Brenda did three things simultaneously: Screamed, pressed the garage door opener to shut the garage, and hung up on the caller. Then she immediately dialed 911.