 
### FATAL PHILOSOPHY

A MURDER MYSTERY WITH A PHILOSOPHIC TWIST

DAVID S. ALKEK, M.D.
Copyright © 2011 David. S. Alkek, MD

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1463646216

ISBN 13: 9781463646219

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011916562

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

# Dedication

To my sister, Jan, whose ideas and encouragement made this possible.

# Chapter 1

The man sat in his silent car awaiting his victim. An unexpected November norther had brought teeth-chattering winds that chased the students and most of the faculty from the campus.

It would be easy. The professor worked late and went home about seven o'clock; he wouldn't be expecting anything. The killer had planned every detail, chosen his victim, time, place, and method.

He checked his watch, then got out of his car and pulled the collar of his trench coat up against the penetrating wind. He walked to the path that he knew the professor would take to his car and settled himself behind a massive oak.

Alone in the Southern Methodist University philosophy department, Professor Nicholas Patagos worked late after his last class. After finishing reading some of his students' papers, he stuffed the manuscript of the book he was writing into his brown leather briefcase. He shrugged into his habit-worn jacket and locked his office, then walked through the echoing corridors.

Across the quadrangle his old Volvo was waiting. He stepped out of the wind by an imposing oak tree to relight his pipe. Dead leaves swirled around his feet. He put down his briefcase and turned his back against the tree. He was reaching for his lighter when he was surprised by a stranger who stepped from behind the tree with a cigarette dangling from his lips.

"Do you have a light, Professor?"

"Of course," Patagos replied. He was retrieving the lighter from his vest pocket, when the man pulled out a silenced automatic and shot him in the forehead. The academic's head jerked back, as his body crumpled at the man's feet.

The killer looked dispassionately at the body, noting blood and tissue oozing from the back of the ruined head. He put away his gun. Assured that his victim was dead, the assailant bent and picked up the spent cartridge. Satisfied that he had left no evidence, he walked to his car.

The killer drove off into the cloaking night, while his mind raced over the first murder he had ever committed. Emotions rushed through him like a swirling kaleidoscope. It had worked without a flaw. Why this murder? It had fit into his plan, a plan for a person with a strong will and a purpose. Did it matter if he deserved to die? All men must eventually die. It was better that his death served a purpose, his purpose. What he had done was right because it would help him create good out of it. The ends justified the means.

One could use philosophy to rationalize a flawed argument. It could darken the mind from its higher values. Now he was trapped in darkness.

# Chapter 2

Senior Detective Jason Colbert sat at his desk in the central office of the Dallas Police Department, sipping his second cup of morning coffee, oblivious that it had gone cold. He was reading the report of the murder of Professor Patagos for the third time.

At about ten o'clock last night, Mark Davis had called him from the SMU campus, informing him that a professor had been murdered.

Mark was Jason's partner, and had been for over seven years. He was younger than Jason, bright, energetic, and dedicated to his work. He worked well with his older partner, although he didn't always agree with his methods.

Jason drove onto the campus. Patrolmen had cordoned off the area to keep the sprinkling of curious students away. The crime scene response crew was taking pictures and examining the area around the body.

"Who called it in?" Jason asked Mark.

"A graduate student working late, about eight o'clock. He said he had been working in the chemistry lab with another grad student. He left the lab at about seven -thirty and discovered the body on the way to his car. It checked out and we let him leave. I got his number and gave him my card. I told him we'd call him if we had any more questions."

Jason went over to the body. He scratched his scalp under the short-cropped brown hair beginning to thin on top. The victim was fiftyish, graying with a short goatee. His clothes were not disarranged or torn, so there apparently hadn't been a struggle. He appeared to be just resting under the tree, except for the neat hole in his forehead and the surprise that still showed on his glazed, staring eyes.

"Anything missing that you could tell?" Jason asked.

"His pockets contained his wallet, keys, and about seventy dollars. His briefcase had only papers and looked like it hadn't been opened. He had a gold wedding band and an old European style watch. Robbery wasn't the motive."

Jason pressed his lips thinner. His greenish-brown eyes carefully followed his flashlight over the victim. The gun obviously had been fired close to the face, leaving a scattering of powder burns around the wound. The ground showed no signs of a scuffle.

Jason tried to visualize the action. Coming from his office in the early evening, the victim may have stopped here to light his pipe that lay close to his hand. The lighter was still in his hand. The murderer approached him without alarm. Did he ask for directions or a light? Was he a stranger or someone the victim knew? He was surprised when the killer shot him, for the shock registered on his face. He never had a chance to turn or hold up a hand, but died instantly.

Back in his office, Jason laid down the report. They had not found a shell casing, fingerprints, usable shoe marks, or cigarette butts. Nothing of help.

He enjoyed working homicide because of its challenges. He had carefully developed the skill of seeing the crime through the killer's eyes, then trying to think and feel like him. It wasn't easy and it took its emotional toll, but it got results. That was all Jason cared about.

Results solved crimes. They were all that mattered, weren't they? Jason hadn't always done things by the book. Even though he probably hadn't broken any laws, he certainly had bent a few, and would again if he thought necessary. He felt justified in going around the law to catch a criminal. After all, he was on the side of justice, and he had to do everything possible to outwit today's bad guys. They were ruthless, had powerful weapons, and advanced technology. He had to use all of his skill to put them behind bars. As long as he did that, what difference did it make if he did a few things under the table? It had paid off, hadn't it? He was a senior detective.

Jason looked up and focused as Mark Davis approached his desk. "Pretty mystifying isn't it?" Mark said, pointing to the report. "Not much to go on. I just came from the crime scene lab." Taller than Jason, Mark had thick, unruly brown hair. Warm, active eyes in a handsome, clean-shaven face topped his thin frame.

"What do they have?"

"Not much. They're waiting for the post."

"What about ballistics?"

"The bullet was from a 9 millimeter. Ballistics will check to see if it matches anything in our computer. As careful and clean as this murder is, I doubt if they'll find a match."

"Don't be discouraged by the lack of evidence," Jason said. "We've had less than this and solved crimes before. We've just got to start digging."

"You're always so damned sure of yourself, Jason; you make me sick sometimes. A professor shot on the campus with no witnesses, no motive, no nothing."

"You get discouraged too easily, Mark. All we have to do is our jobs and we'll get the killer. Here are a few thoughts that came to me as I examined the body. There was no struggle, no attempt to flee, not even a raised hand. That means, the professor might have known his assailant. At the least, he didn't see him as a threat."

Mark replied, "Yeah, I thought it might even be a student."

"But would the student have intercepted him outside and not in his office?"

"He would if he wanted to kill him where no one could see or hear."

"That's possible," Jason agreed. "That brings up the subject of motive. If it was a student, would it be because he hated his professor, because he had failed his course? Unlikely. But that can easily be followed up by interviewing his students."

"What if it wasn't a student?" asked Mark.

"Then it was either someone the professor knew, or a stranger. In either case, what was the motive?"

"We agreed that it wasn't robbery," Mark said.

"That's what makes this crime unique," Jason emphasized, looking Mark in the eyes. "There is no apparent motive for a cold-blooded, apparently planned murder. We'll find out what it is, and we'll get our man."

Mark looked a little skeptical.

"Look Jason, we've been partners for what, almost eight years? We work well together. We have an understanding. I don't always agree with your tricks, but I go along with them, because we get the job done."

"So let's just get to work on this murder," Jason said.

"Where do you want to start?"

"Let's schedule interviews with the victim's colleagues, students, and widow. Have someone look into his personal and financial life. Was he in debt, did he gamble, take drugs? You know, the usual."

"Yeah, I'll get our team to start putting the pieces together."

After Mark left, Jason picked up the report again. Putting the pieces together, he repeated Mark's final words. Isn't that what life was really about, putting the pieces of our life together to make sense out of it? Jason had tried to keep his personal life, his family and friends, his career, and his psychological well-being compartmentalized, but they were balanced precariously. More and more lately, he felt unsatisfied, unfulfilled, trapped in a blind alley with no exit. Exit to where? Where did he want to go?

Jason literally shook that idea out of his mind. Focus on the pressing issues, on the here and now. Solve this murder.

# Chapter 3

Geneva Caldwell arrived early at the Dallas Museum of Art. The museum was hosting its annual fundraising gala, and she was the chairperson of the event. The cream of Dallas society had been invited and she wanted to make sure that everything was ready. The beautiful young widow with dark blue eyes straightened some flower arrangements and checked with the caterers.

She was a major contributor to the museum and served on its board of directors. She regarded this party as if it was her own private affair. Noticing that the first guests were beginning to arrive, she smoothed the sides of her silk eye-matching evening dress in an unconscious reflex.

She had stopped to catch her breath before greeting some of the guests, and found herself in front of a classic Greek statue. She looked up at the nude female figure that stared out into the hall with an expression of eternal serenity. She admired the flawless proportion of its white marble. It seemed as if the statue could step down and hand someone the laurel branch in its hand.

Geneva smiled at the statue with a sense of pride, for she had helped acquire this beautiful piece of art for the museum. All of the meetings, trips to Europe and arm-twisting of the board had been worth it.

A voice behind her brought her back to the party.

"What a beautiful statue, Geneva. You seemed to be lost in your thoughts."

"Oh, hello, Brock. I was daydreaming about this statue."

"It's remarkable. She seems to own this part of the hall. Did you have something to do with it?"

"Well, I did help the museum acquire it. We had to bid against some of the European museums, and it put quite a dent in our budget. We hope you and some of our other guests tonight might help us repair it."

"I'll certainly do everything I can to help. You've been such a dynamic force in making our museum one of the best." The owner of Gillis TeleCom flashed his eyes and a wide grin at this woman who exhibited her wealth with an air of easy grace.

Geneva wondered why this rich and handsome bachelor had never married. "You flatter me," she said as she touched the outstanding diamond drop around her neck with an instinctive gesture. She was aware that this man with a full head of dark hair was flirting with her.

Grady Jenkins had walked up behind the two, had overheard Brock's last comment, and broke in. "It's true what Brock said about you and the museum, but he's prone to flirt with any beautiful, wealthy woman. How are you tonight, Geneva?" His gray eyes fixed on hers.

"Hi, Grady." She smiled at the man with the athletic build. "We were admiring this new statue."

Grady had worked in his capacity as a real estate attorney with Geneva's husband, Whitfield, before he died in an automobile accident. He had met her through his ex-wife and had done the legal work on the museum's acquisition of some property for expansion. He was developing a strong interest in this young widow, and could plainly see that Brock was also. The two men greeted each other and shook hands.

"I think this statue is a perfect example of what Plato would call universal beauty," Brock said.

Both of the others turned to him. Geneva opened her mouth to reply, but Grady beat her to it. "What in the world do you know about Plato, or art for that matter?" He sensed that Brock wanted to impress Geneva at his expense. He rose to the challenge.

"You really don't know much about me, do you, Grady? Not only do I appreciate fine art, but I have a collection to show it. I'll invite you to my home someday to see it.

"As for Plato, I'm familiar with the old guy. I took a couple of philosophy courses in college. He said that beauty is one of those ideal forms, like the perfect triangle. They reside in an eternal realm."

"What eternal realm? Like heaven? I don't think beauty resides in a heavenly realm. I believe it's right here where we can see it. This stone statue is an idealization. Real beauty is in the lovely woman next to it."

"You're right about that," Brock smiled. "What Plato meant is that the concept of 'man', for example, is more universal, more eternal than individual men who grow old and die."

"I don't agree with that either," Grady shook his head. "The idea of man is only a useful concept. Only real living men exist, even with all their faults."

"Like yours," Brock shot back.

Grady threw an angry look at Brock, squinting his resentment at this jab in front of Geneva. Brock smiled at him, a smug look that said, gotcha that time.

Geneva raised her eyebrows. She could see the tension between the two. Were there some old hard feelings, or just plain male competition? A couple who had been standing close by admiring the statue used the pause to break in. "Good evening, Geneva," the woman said brightly. "What a magnificent statue."

"Hi, Barb." She introduced Barbara and Dick Karlson to Brock and Grady. "We were just talking about this classical beauty."

"We overheard some of the conversation," Dick replied. "I tend to agree with Grady. This is a beautiful example of classical Greek art, but it's too perfect. No one looks like that. Real life is imperfect, wrinkles and scars, dirty and cruel. This is just cold marble, not like the alive and beautiful women next to us." He smiled and winked his green eyes at Barbara.

"Thank you, Dick," Geneva said.

Barbara turned and hugged the slightly overweight man in the trim Armani tuxedo. She placed her hand on his sandy hair, starting to gray at the temples. She gave him a sweet peck on the cheek. He squeezed her in return.

"I think the appreciation of beauty is universal," Geneva said. "In art it certainly is."

"The beautiful face or body stirs us sexually," Dick said. "It gets the hormones churning. The appreciation of beauty is in our genes, the ones we inherited and the ones we wear." Everyone laughed.

"I think you're right," Brock said. "The Greeks and Romans had a lot of beautiful nude statues around. All of that nudity would surely stimulate the hormones."

"And the Romans were notoriously open about it," Grady added. "They had pornography painted all over the walls in ancient Pompeii."

The group warmed to more discussion of sex and beauty. The men discovered that they had some common interests. They talked about investments, particularly real estate in the Dallas area.

Geneva excused herself and moved to mingle with other guests. The group also drifted apart, admiring the art, sampling the food and drinks, visiting with friends, and making new acquaintances. As the evening was drawing on and the party was thinning, the small group found themselves congregating again around Geneva.

"This has been a great party, Geneva," Barbara said.

"Thanks. I really hate to see it end."

"We all seemed to enjoy ourselves, especially our discussion on beauty and sex," Brock said. They all chuckled.

"Why don't we all get together again?" Grady said. "I'd like to invite all of you to my place for cocktails and conversation. What about next Thursday night?"

"That's a good idea. I'd like that," Geneva said.

"I do, too. Can I pick you up?" Brock said to Geneva before she nodded.

"Our calendar is open, I believe," Dick said. "Can we bring anything?"

"Just bring yourselves. I've got everything covered."

"We can explore more about sex and beauty," Dick said grinning.

"Why don't I put some ideas together on what our philosopher Plato had to say?" Grady said.

"That's an idea," said Barbara. She grinned and winked "It sounds like we all share some interest in those areas."

All agreed and said their good-byes, then melted away into the night, not realizing that when they continued their discussion one of the topics would be murder.

# Chapter 4

Jason and Mark drove over to the SMU campus where they had appointments to talk with the dean and the chairman of the philosophy department. Other members of their team would talk to other faculty and students of Professor Patagos.

First Jason and Mark met with Charles Atkinson, dean of the university. "Dr. Patagos was a distinguished addition to our campus," he told them. "Ever since he came to us from Yale, he was active in teaching and publishing. We were fortunate to have him as part of our faculty, and he will surely be missed." He went on to add that he didn't know Patagos very well personally, but was aware of his academic activities and publications. The dean didn't have much else to add, giving the impression of a typical administrator of a large organization.

The chairman of the philosophy department, Dr. Sigmund Steinmetz, was more informative. Professor Steinmetz was short with a generous belly covered by a vest and topped with a bowtie. His appearance and demeanor were that of the essential European professor. " _Ja_ , Professor Patagos was an excellent member of our department. He gave lectures, spoke at meetings, and wrote profusely. He was an expert on Plato, you know."

"Would you say his students liked him, Professor?" Jason asked.

"Professor Patagos and I were both from Europe. _Naturlich_ , we are both disciplinarians as far as our students are concerned. Professor Patagos liked to assign a lot of reading and required his students to write several papers. Some students who expected an easy philosophy class were suddenly aware that they had to do a lot of work and dropped out. Many complained to me that the professor was too demanding and inflexible in his grading. They did not get much sympathy from me, however. I approved of his methods."

"Do you think, Professor, that any of his students might be angry enough to kill him?" Jason said.

" _Nein_ , I do not think so. Some of the students who came to me were very angry, it is true. However, in my opinion, I do not think anyone was upset with Professor Patagos enough to murder him. But anything is possible, _ja_?"

"Thank you, Professor. You've been very helpful." Jason rose, shook hands with the chairman and left the campus with Mark. They then drove over to the nearby neighborhood, where many of the faculty lived, to talk with Mrs. Patagos, who was expecting them.

The unimposing brick, three-bedroom bungalow was set in a quiet, shaded neighborhood of homes built in the '40s and early '50s, some of which were being bought, torn down, and rebuilt into larger two-story homes by younger couples with children. Mrs. Patagos lived alone now in the modestly furnished house, with evidence of her Greek heritage on the bookshelves, in religious icons on the walls, and in the faint smell of Greek food.

Jason and Mark sat across from the widow, who was dressed in black with no makeup, her hair pulled back in a tight bun. Mrs. Patagos dabbed her eyes and blew her nose many times, as Jason asked about their family, friends, and acquaintances. Their oldest, a son Peter, lived in Chicago where he had a restaurant. Their daughter, Mary, was married to a home builder in Houston. The Patagos' had some friends in the university, but mostly they got together with Greek families at church or on the holidays.

Prof. Patagos read and wrote a lot. When he went to meetings, she didn't go with him. She didn't know of any enemies that her husband spoke about. No, he didn't drink much, or gamble, or have any girlfriends that she knew of. Her husband was a quiet, studious professor, interested in his philosophy.

"I don't know anyone who would want to do this to such a wonderful man," she broke down and sobbed, the tears flowing down her cheeks.

"Has your husband ever received any threats? Did he have any enemies that you know of?" asked Mark, "Maybe at the university, or students, or your Greek friends."

"I don't know of any enemies. But I guess my husband was too demanding of his students, because occasionally we would get a note stuck in our mail, usually from an angry student. Last week, someone threw a stone through our front window. We had it repaired, but it did frighten me."

"What did your husband do?" Mark said.

"He kept the stone and called the police. They said they couldn't do anything. He was very angry and cursed them and his students in Greek."

"That's all?" Mark asked.

"He never mentioned it again. I know he was angry but he didn't talk much to me. He was quiet, a real scholar. I don't know why anyone would kill him." She started to cry again.

Jason handed her a tissue. "We're so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Patagos. You can rest assured that we're doing everything we can to find his killer, and we will. I'm sorry we had to bother you with all these questions, but you've been a lot of help."

Mark also thanked her and handed her his card, in case she thought of anything that they should know.

After Jason drove away with Mark, he nodded his head slowly and mumbled, "Well, we have an old-fashioned, strict teacher and husband. Maybe students didn't like him, but would one murder him? Do you think maybe the murderer threw that rock through their window? Was it a student, or meant to look like it was done by a student?"

"I don't think a student killed him," said Mark," even if he was hard-hearted. He sounds like he was a strict bastard. I feel sorry for his wife."

Jason agreed, "You know, after all my years of investigating murders, I still have a soft place in my heart for the victims' families. They're the really innocent ones."

"It's the part of you that's human," Mark said. "I hope that it'll never go away."

# Chapter 5

The next Thursday around 7pm, the members of the new discussion group made their way into Grady Jenkins' midrise condo in the trendy uptown area. The interior design was lean and modern, accented by fine pieces of contemporary art. He had spread out food and drinks on the granite bar separating the kitchen from the large open room.

"Help yourselves to coffee or wine," Grady said. "I hope you don't mind that I've invited the Goodmans to join us."

Grady introduced Herb Goodman, a research geneticist at the University of Texas Southwestern Medical School at Dallas, and Doris Goodman, a clinical psychologist in private practice. She was a slight-built woman with intelligent brown eyes and warm delicate hands that seemed to merge with ones that clasped them.

"How do you two know Grady?" Geneva asked. She smiled and looked up at Grady, wrapping her hands around his arm. Grady looked surprised and put his hand over hers.

Doris smiled and looked at Grady, forcing him to answer Geneva's question.

"Doris was my therapist during my divorce," Grady said. "She was extremely kind and helpful. We've remained good friends since then."

"Thank you, Grady," Doris replied. "This is a very attractive home. Did you do the decorating yourself?"

"The art pieces are mine, although I did work with a decorator."

The other guests were chatting with the Goodmans when a young man came to the door. Grady let him in.

"I'm Stuart Langford. I'm a friend of your son, Marcus."

"How are you, Stuart? Come in."

"I'm in the same philosophy class as Marcus, Dr. Patagos' class."

"I was really sorry to hear about Dr. Patagos," Grady said. "What a tragedy."

"Yeah, it was a shock. Everyone in the class was completely freaked out. Marcus said that you invited anyone in the class who was interested to come to your discussion."

"You're certainly welcome, Stuart. Is Marcus coming?"

"He told me to tell you that he was sorry, but he couldn't come."

Grady was disappointed, but knew that he probably wouldn't. Marcus didn't share his father's interest in philosophy. Grady had coerced him into taking Dr. Patagos' philosophy class because he himself had enjoyed philosophy when he was a student at SMU. Grady took the young man over to introduce him to the other guests.

Herb Goodman was talking to Dick and Barb Karlson,"....but history is my real love," he was saying. "I would have majored in it in college, but what can you do with that except teach? Instead I went into science as a career and kept history as my hobby."

Grady introduced the fair-skinned student. Stuart's pale blue eyes widened when he was speaking or excited, as he was then.

"Where are you from, Stuart?" asked Dick.

"I was born in Dallas," Stuart replied "My ancestors came from Tennessee after the Civil War. My great-great-grandfather was a colonel in the Confederate Army."

"You know something about his exploits during the war?" Herb asked, interested.

"Yeah, we have a copy of his journals and letters."

"What a treasure. I'd love to read them sometime," said Herb.

"My parents have them, but I'll tell them you're interested."

"What are you majoring in?" asked Barb.

"I'm a political science major, and plan to go to law school."

"What kind of law? Do you know?" asked Grady.

"Oh, I don't plan to practice. I want to go into politics. Some of my family have been in the state legislature and even in Congress. I have some ideas, and I think I could make a difference."

"Well, Stuart, you sound like you're already running for Congress," Grady said. "I wish you luck. I'm sorry that Marcus can't be here, but thank him for sending you. Welcome and feel free to add to the discussion or ask any questions."

Brock came over and guided Geneva away from Grady and sat next to her. Grady watched Brock put his hand around her waist. His lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval. After the group settled down, Grady said, "I thought we might continue our discussion of Plato, which we started around that beautiful Greek statue at the museum gala."

All were already familiar with Plato's teaching that the perfect forms existed in an eternal realm and therefore were more real than the ones we see and feel. The material ones were imperfect and decayed or died.

Herb added to the discussion, "The early Christians liked Plato's ideas. They said that a person has a body and a spirit. The body is imperfect and will age and die, while the spirit is the perfect part that will return to the eternal realm."

"Dr. Goodman," said Stuart, "I don't believe in a dual nature of the physical and the spiritual, of body and mind. The mind can't exist without the physical brain. I think there is only the physical universe that we can experience. There isn't a spiritual world that can't be proven."

"I agree with you, Stuart," said Dick. "I really don't think there's a soul that separates from the body at death. To me, what's called the soul is what animates life; it's our personality; it's our intellect; it's our emotions."

"What about a baby that dies or a mentally retarded or insane person? What about their souls?" Grady asked.

"They're stunted or lost. They leave no lasting imprint," said Brock.

"What if a person is making a large imprint and his life is suddenly ended by a senseless murder?" asked Grady.

"That would be tragic," Doris said.

"Yes, it was tragic ," said Grady. "Last week Dr. Nick Patagos was murdered. He was a philosophy professor at SMU, and my son was in his class. He was a brilliant academic and excellent teacher. We've lost Professor Patagos' mind, his contribution to society, and his training of inquiring minds. To me, that was his soul."

"I agree that Dr. P's soul died with his body," Stuart said. "But I really didn't think he was as wonderful as you say. He loved philosophy, it's true, but he didn't love his students. He was pedantic, inflexible and dictatorial. He was demanding in his grading of our papers and devastating if anyone disagreed with him. Many in our class disliked him, especially your own son, Marcus."

"What do you mean, Stuart?" asked Grady.

"Marcus had a huge argument last week with Dr. P about a paper that he had handed in. Dr. P. had given him an F on it and was tearing it apart in class. Marcus started arguing, called him some pretty bad names, said he hated his class and stormed out."

"I knew Marcus didn't like his class," Grady said. "He and I had a discussion about it." It was more than a discussion, Grady remembered. He told his son that he would have to finish the class and get a passing grade.

"Well Grady, maybe your son got so angry with you that he killed his professor," Brock said and laughed. Geneva punched his arm to show her disapproval of his sick humor.

"Anyway," Brock continued, "we'll probably never know about the professor's soul. He did touch others, some positively, some negatively. We have to gain what lessons we can from his death and go on with our lives. He is dead; we are alive."

"Let's leave it at that," said Doris, sensing that the discussion was depressing everyone. "We can discuss the meaning of life some other time. If it's all right with Grady, I'd like to call it an evening."

"Sure, Doris. Everyone is probably tired. Most of us have to work tomorrow." Grady smiled at Dick.

Geneva looked at Grady. "You did a great job tonight. Thank you for inviting the Goodmans. I think they'll be a very positive addition to our little group. And welcome to Stuart. The murder of Prof. Patagos did seem to throw a wet blanket on our discussion. I don't think Brock was serious about your son's being a murderer." She tossed an eye at Brock.

Grady knew it was Brock's way of throwing another jab at him.

Doris spoke up, "Herb and I would like to invite you to meet at our house next Thursday. We'll e-mail you directions."

"I think we should have a name for our group," said Geneva. "We can't just call it our discussion group. Any ideas?"

"What about the Filosophs?"

"The Roundtable."

"The Searchers."

"Inquiring Minds."

"What about simply, the Philosophy Club?" Geneva suggested.

They all agreed, and so the Philosophy Club was born.

# Chapter 6

Dr. Morris Abrams had just finished visiting his private patients in the medical school's University Hospital. It was after seven and he was tired. Mr. Williams was recovering from a stroke and would have to start physical rehab soon. Mrs. Saferstein's lymphoma was out of remission. She required another round of chemotherapy, and maybe a bone marrow transplant. Mr. Jamieson was having a flare of his multiple sclerosis and needed some home care after he left the hospital.

Dr. Abrams worked on stem cell research that might help these and other patients. Two of his research fellows were putting together papers that he would co-author. They should be ready for publication soon. He had met with his senior fellow today and helped him with an application for a research grant for a new line of investigation. He hoped that his research would provide a breakthrough soon. If it did, he would be assured of grants for the rest of his career.

It had been a long day. It took a lot of energy to teach the residents and medical students on early rounds, then go to his lab and meet with his research fellows. He had had a faculty meeting at lunch and then treated his private patients in his clinic all afternoon.

Back in his office, he took off his white smock and exchanged it on the hanger for his blue blazer. His wife had helped pick it out, as well as the regimental striped tie that complimented it. He knew that Susan, his wife of thirty years, would have a glass of wine and a hot dinner waiting for him when he returned home.

He ran his fingers through his thick, iron-gray hair as his dark brown eyes roamed the room. Had he forgotten anything? He frowned absently; lines in his face made him look older. They reflected the care and concern he lavished on his patients, students, and research.

He carefully closed and locked his door then strode down the halls to the elevator to the parking garage. What about that lump he found in Doris Goodman's breast last week? He had called Dr. Paul Frankel and arranged for a PET scan for her tomorrow. He was concerned about Doris. She had been his patient for many years and he was friends with her husband. Herb and he had a friendly competition in their research; at times, it wasn't quite so friendly. He was deep in thought when he approached his car in the dark parking garage. Behind him, distant steps echoed closer. He was only vaguely aware of them as he put his hand into his pocket for his keys. Probably another doctor working late.

The killer marched toward him as the doctor placed his hand on the door handle.

"Dr. Abrams?" he called.

As the doctor turned to see who it was, the bullet smashed through his temple. Its momentum hurled him into his car before he slid to the ground. The assailant reached down and felt for a pulse in his neck. He looked around and saw no one, then picked up the spent cartridge and went directly to his car. No one paid any attention to the dark sedan as it sped off into the quiet night.

The murderer entered his silent house and turned on the light in his bar. Adding a few cubes of ice to a glass, he poured himself a double. He took his drink to a recliner, leaned back, and looked out his window. He held out his hand. It wasn't shaking as much as it had been after the first murder. The adrenaline rush after that one kept him awake all night. The drink tonight was as much a celebration as it was to calm him down.

He idly thought about what motivated him to murder, as he sipped at his drink. Was it the desire for money, for power, for status? Was he driven by internal or external forces that he could only partially control? Were his decisions already determined for him? He doubted it. He was certain that he had determined that his motives objectively, and had decided clearly on his actions. He knew with conviction that his destiny was in his own hands, and that what he was doing was going to fulfill it.

He smiled to himself with a twisted grin and took another long sip. Other murders would follow. He would succeed because he felt assured, because he was more intelligent, more determined, and more superior than anyone who would oppose him.

It was certainly a philosophy with a purpose----a philosophy that fed his purpose.

# Chapter 7

Jason had finished his early morning workout in the police gym and stepped out of his invigorating shower. DeWayne James had called him last night. He had the night duty and had investigated the Abrams murder scene. Jason dried off and quickly dressed. Another murder, and a doctor. He straightened his tie, put on his dark sport coat, and checked himself in the mirror. Not bad, no flab on his six-three frame. He poked fun at some of the other officers who had developed doughnut guts.

Back at his desk, he sipped at his fresh cup of coffee and went over the report. Another murder with no clues and no motive, this one a professor at the medical school. Another professor. Was there a connection?

Mark Davis walked up to his desk, interrupting his thoughts. "I just heard from ballistics. The bullets from Patagos and Abrams came from the same gun."

"I don't know if that's good news or bad," said Jason. "That means the same murderer for the two victims."

"These were both well-respected men. We have our work cut out for us."

Jason's phone rang and he quickly picked it up. It was one of the office intercom lines. "Colbert," he answered. "I'll be right there," he replied to the caller. He hung up. "Chief Stroud wants to see me," he told Mark. He shrugged his jacket over his gun.

"Is it about these murders?" asked Mark.

"I don't know, but I'll bet it is. I'll let you know when I get back."

Jason walked over to the corner office with its view onto Lamar Street. Deputy Chief James Stroud, who was in charge of the crimes against persons division (CAPERS) usually didn't get involved in the early investigations of homicides. So why was he wanting to talk to Jason? Was there something special about these two murders?

Jason stepped into the outer office and Karen motioned him to go on in. "The Chief's expecting you."

Jason walked in and the chief motioned him to a chair.

Stroud finished reading a couple of pages and set them aside. He was crowding sixty, bald with a collar of white hair. His light blue eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses transfixed Jason. He was waiting for Jason to say something first, obviously making him feel uncomfortable.

"What's up, Chief?" asked Jason.

"I called you here to talk about these two murders, the SMU professor and the medical school doctor. They're all over the TV and papers. Dallas is in turmoil and the public is clamoring to know what or who is behind this. You know I don't usually interfere with you this early in your investigations, but this time it's different."

Stroud removed his glasses and rubbed the side of his nose. His fingers and thumb found the indentations there. He paused, focused somewhere in the distance, suddenly blinked, and refocused on Jason. He put his glasses back on and assumed a stern air.

"Listen, Colbert, these murders may or may not be related. They may be the result of a crazy philosophy student and an angry patient. The DA called me. He says he's getting pressure about college professors and medical school doctors getting murdered in our city. Between you and me, he's a bit over-reacting this early. You've got to come up with something. Figure out what's behind this. Get to work and get me some answers. I want a personal report from you in two days."

"I have to tell you chief, ballistics said that the bullets from both murders were from the same gun."

"He may kill again, Colbert."

"My team and I will find him, chief."

"Well, you all better get busy. I want some progress soon, do you understand?"

"Yes, chief, you can count on us."

Jason left and, after closing the door behind him, started rubbing his temples. He was getting a headache. He felt a tremendous weight had been placed on his back . The murders that he was used to investigating were jealous boyfriends or husbands, alcohol or drug-fueled fights, or murders for money. There was usually an obvious motive, which led to suspects, which were narrowed down to the killer.

Members of his team were talking to the students and faculty at the university. He would get their reports in a few days. Mark and he would go over to the medical school tomorrow. Someone was bound to know something that could help them.

These murderers were different. Jason knew that they would take everything he had---and more.

# Chapter 8

At 5 a.m. Jason's alarm jerked him from the depths of a dreamless sleep. He reached over and reflexively shut it off, so Teri could sleep a little longer. Jason put on his sweats and jogging shoes in the bathroom, softly closed the door, and stepped into the brisk pre-dawn. After stretching, he jogged through their quiet suburban neighborhood to the small park about half a mile away, around the park on a jogging trail, and back home for a total of three miles. It was hard to get going on chilly mornings like this, but Jason knew that he felt better, looked better, and would live longer because of it. After a hot shower and breakfast, Jason took his second cup of coffee in the car to the office, his thoughts focusing on the two murders.

What could the murders possibly have in common? He had to find a common thread, something that the murders shared. It was there, but Jason couldn't see it.

Jason and Mark drove over to Parkland Hospital and the huge medical school complex crowded with buildings, clinics, hospitals, and people. They finally found Dr. Abrams' office on the eighth floor of the Sprague Building in the internal medicine department.

His secretary, Ashley Allen, was young, very attractive with auburn-red hair, and fair Irish skin to match. She had been with Dr. Abrams for five years and knew all of his habits and acquaintances at the medical school. "Everyone in the department liked Dr. Abrams," she said, choking up. "He was a very dedicated doctor and gentlemen. He never got cross or raised his voice with me, like some of the faculty did with their staff. The chairman liked him and was especially proud of his research. Dr. Abrams received a lot of grant money, which really helped the department."

"Did any of the faculty or research fellows or residents or students dislike Dr. Abrams?" Jason asked.

"Not that I know of. I told you he was liked and admired by everyone."

"What about his personal life?" Mark asked.

"As far as I know he was happily married with two grown kids. The youngest one just graduated from college. I don't know about their friends, except Dr. Herb Goodman, in the genetics department. They were friends socially, I think."

"Can we talk to his research fellows and the chairman of the department?" asked Jason.

"Sure. I'll take you down to his lab where the fellows probably are. I'll call the chief resident to meet you there, if he isn't busy with a patient."

Jason walked with her over to Dr. Abrams lab in the next building. "Thank you, Ashley. We'll come back to see you after we talk with these doctors and then we can go to the chairman's office from there."

Jason and Mark talked with the two research fellows and with the chief resident. They all agreed that Dr. Abrams was a conscientious and hard-working physician, teacher, and researcher. They described a portrait of a dedicated doctor, who kept up with all the latest literature, so he could be a good instructor for the students and residents.

"He was a tireless teacher," the chief resident said, "always pushing and stimulating those who really wanted to learn. The students were awed by him, but they and all the residents really respected him."

One of the fellows said, "Dr. Abrams' research was really first class. It was envied by most of the medicine department. We were very fortunate to be his fellows."

The other fellow added, "The chairman of the department was particularly happy with our research. He thought that it might have earned Dr. Abrams a Nobel Prize."

"A Nobel Prize!" Mark said. "I'm really impressed."

Jason said, "Do any of you know of anyone who may have disliked Dr. Abrams---disliked him enough to kill him?"

"There's always professional jealousy around the medical school," the chief resident said. "You know, competition for grant money and promotions. But no one that I know of hated him enough to kill him. We all loved Dr. Abrams. His absence will be hard to bear." The two fellows agreed, nodding their heads and mumbling their sadness.

Jason and Mark thanked them and walked back to Dr. Abrams's office, agreeing what a loss his death was.

Ashley looked up from her desk as they walked in, "Oh, you're back. The chairman is out at a department heads meeting with the dean. I did think of something that you might find interesting though," she said. She looked around to see if anyone else was listening. "About a month ago, Dr. Abrams had a huge argument with Dr. Goodman in his office about their respective research."

"You mentioned Dr. Goodman," Jason said. "Who is he?"

"A geneticist who mostly does research. He's also working with stem cells, and his investigation overlaps with Dr. Abrams' in some areas."

"Are they in competition?" Mark said.

"Well, they often produced papers and spoke at the same meetings. I heard some talk that Dr. Goodman's research might also get him a Nobel Prize. They liked to argue over some aspects of stem cell research, but it was usually good-natured. They really were more like friends. Mrs. Goodman had been a patient of Dr. Abrams for many years."

"What happened a month ago?" asked Jason.

"Well, I couldn't hear all of it because they had the door closed, but their voices got pretty loud. Dr. Goodman said that Dr. Abrams' fellow was pumping Dr. Goodman's research assistant about some of his latest results. He accused him of stealing some of his data. Dr. Abrams denied it. Dr. Goodman yelled that he was a liar, that he didn't trust him, that their friendship was over, and that he wasn't going to speak with him again. He then slammed the door behind him and left in a steaming huff, his face all red."

"How angry was he?" Mark asked.

"I never saw him so angry; he even kicked my desk and pounded his fist on the door as he left. But do you mean was he angry enough to kill him? No, I don't think he would kill Dr. Abrams over their research. But, I just thought you'd want to know."

"Thanks Ashley, we'll follow up on it," Jason said. "You've been a lot of help. We're really sorry about Dr. Abrams. I hope your next boss is as nice."

They left her and decided what to do next. Mark would stay at Parkland and talk with some of Dr. Abrams's nurses and the chairman after his meeting. Jason would go and talk with Mrs. Abrams.

Mark said, "You don't have to come back for me. I can get a ride back to headquarters with one of the cops that are always around Parkland."

On his way to see Mrs. Abrams, Jason's mind turned over the implications of what Ashley Allen had told him about Abrams and Goodman. This Dr. Goodman might not have murdered Dr. Abrams himself, but there was certainly motive---jealousy, competition for money, fame, and of course anger. This certainly demanded more scrutiny.

Jason drove over to the quiet neighborhood with many stately old homes. The Abrams' house was large, but not imposing. It sat behind a generous front lawn with two enormous live oak trees.

Susan Abrams opened the door and welcomed Jason into a comfortable family room overlooking the backyard and swimming pool. She offered him coffee or a cold drink, which he politely refused.

"What a beautiful yard and swimming pool," Jason remarked.

"Morrie liked to swim every morning that the weather permitted, but the pool won't get much use without him now. It's going to be awfully quiet in this big house."

"I'm so sorry about your husband," Jason said, sympathy thickening his voice.

"I still have my children, thank God. They've really taken this hard. He was such a loving father."

"From my visit over at the medical school, I learned that he was well-liked and respected."

"I think that everyone Morrie was around liked him."

"Do you mind if I ask you a few personal questions about your husband?"

"No, I've prepared myself. I knew you weren't here for a social visit, detective."

"First of all, how long had you and Dr. Abrams been married, and how many children do you have? How old are they?"

"Morrie and I will have been married thirty-one years next month. We married his senior year in med school, then waited a few years to have Mason, who is twenty-five now and Dylan is twenty-three."

"Do you know of anyone who disliked Dr. Abrams or would want to harm him?"

"No."

"Do you know a Dr. Herb Goodman?" Jason asked.

"Herb and Morrie have been colleagues a long time. We get together with the Goodmans socially and Herb's wife, Doris, is Morrie's patient, or was," she corrected herself.

"I know it's hard to put things in past tense. You must feel like your husband isn't really gone."

"It seems like he's just at one of his scientific meetings and will come back home." She wiped her eyes and nose.

"Has Dr. Abrams had an argument or disagreement with anyone lately?" Jason was thinking about what Ashley had told him.

"Now that you mention it, something did come between Morrie and Herb. About a month ago he told me that he had an argument with Herb about some research. I knew their research overlapped, but I don't know the details. The Goodmans haven't called or asked to get together since then, but Morrie said it would probably blow over, and I agreed. I don't think Herb would do anything physical to Morrie, though."

"Anything's possible, Mrs. Abrams. But I'll have a talk with Dr. Goodman. Do you know if Dr. Abrams had any vices? Did he ever have an affair, drink heavily, take drugs, or gamble?"

"He played poker with some of his friends occasionally, if they needed someone to fill in. His hours were so long and hectic that he never could play regularly, though he enjoyed it. He drank scotch occasionally on weekends and socially, but limited it to two in an evening. He said he liked his mind to be clear, so he wouldn't take drugs. And he never, ever had an affair. I would know if he did, because Morrie couldn't lie to me. He always had an open, honest face. I really loved him and he loved me." She broke down and started sobbing. "I'm sorry, detective. This is really hard."

"I know it is, Mrs. Abrams, and I'm truly sorry that my job requires me to ask these questions at this terribly painful time. I won't bother you anymore. You've been very helpful." Jason rose, held Mrs. Abrams' hand in both of his, thanked her again, and left.

Driving back to the office, Jason reflected how sad it was to lose two men who were such contributors to society. They were both good, honest, well-loved citizens. Were these crimes committed for gain? He couldn't see what that could possibly be. For revenge? But why? There had to be a connection. Jason had to unweave the rope back to its beginning.

# Chapter 9

The following Thursday night the Philosophy Club met at the Goodmans'. They lived in an established neighborhood with mature elms and oaks shading the quiet streets. The two-story brick and stone homes were set back on trimmed lawns framed by tailored shrubs and trees.

Herb answered the door for his guests. He had a disarming and open manner, but an incisive and organized mind that could cut straight to the heart of an argument or problem. This earned him his reputation as an excellent researcher at the medical school. He had published over fifty papers and was past president of the American Genetics Society.

"Hi, Herb." The Karlsons arrived first, followed by Grady. Stuart followed shortly thereafter.

As they were talking with Herb at the front door, Brock escorted Geneva up the walk. Grady looked at them, jealousy coloring his face. Had they been seeing each other, he wondered. He didn't know that Brock had not succeeded in getting Geneva to go out with him. She had only agreed to let him give her a ride to the Philosophy Club. Grady decided to make a greater effort with Geneva.

They ambled into the large kitchen where Doris greeted them. She had received her Ph.D. in psychology at the University of Chicago, where she met Herb. She had a busy practice because she had developed a reputation as an insightful and warm therapist.

After gathering in the large kitchen around the desserts and coffee, the chattering group moved into a comfortable room, filled with stuffed chairs and couches of muted colors and tasteful accents. Lights from scattered lamps created a warm glow that seemed to welcome the guests as they settled around the burning fireplace.

Grady started chatting with Geneva, inserting himself between her and Brock. When they went into the room for the discussion, Grady continued to talk with Geneva and guided her to a love seat, where they sat. Brock noticed the maneuver and fumed.

Discussion reignited on Plato and Aristotle, Brock defending Plato's idea of universals. Grady picked up the argument. "You know that people who think philosophically tend to favor either Plato or Aristotle. You're all probably familiar with the wonderful painting by Raphael in the Vatican. It shows Plato and Aristotle conversing in the center, Plato pointing upward to the heavens, while Aristotle's hand is outstretched with the palm down. He's indicating that what is important is of this world, what we can see and feel and describe. Aristotle was a scientist and his philosophy tended to be very practical."

"Yes it did," said Dick. "Aristotle disagreed with Plato's ideas. He said that there was no such thing as 'man'. It's merely a name we give to a class. Men exist, but 'man' in general is only a concept. It exists only in our minds, not as a real thing in some realm of ideas."

Barbara Karlson put down her coffee cup and added, "Aristotle had a very logical, scientific mind. You may know that his father was a physician. It was probably from his father that he got his love for science."

"Doris, what's wrong?" Geneva asked. You've been subdued all evening and haven't said much. What's bothering you?"

Doris was sobbing into a napkin. Herb was hugging her as Geneva brought her another napkin for her tears. "It's about Dr. Abrams,"cried Doris. "Morrie was murdered this week. He had been our doctor and friend for a long time. I guess hearing about Aristotle's physician father brought it home to me."

The others had, of course, heard and read about the murder. They all seemed to comment at the same time.

"What a senseless crime."

"What a waste of a brilliant life."

"He was so well-liked."

"Who would want to kill a doctor?"

"How absolutely absurd."

"Why?"

"What makes it doubly hard is that I just visited him two weeks ago," Doris said. "He found a lump in my breast, and a PET scan yesterday showed that it's cancer," Doris broke down again, as people tried to comfort her. "I don't know if I'm crying more because I'm sad about Morrie's death or scared because of my cancer."

"Oh, Doris, I'm so sorry," Barbara said. "We had no idea. No wonder you were so preoccupied. It seems so unfair. Why do people have to suffer so?" She came over and held Doris's hand in both of hers.

Dick sympathized, "It seems unfair that good people like you and Dr. Abrams should be victimized. There seems to be no reason for it. It makes you wonder if there is a God who cares."

"If there is an omnipotent God, he wouldn't allow evil," said Stuart. "Either he can't or won't stop bad things."

Doris dried her eyes and tried to get a hold of her emotions. "I don't think God has anything to do with cancers or evil in this world. We bring that on ourselves."

Herb agreed with Doris, "I don't think God or any supernatural power is involved with our daily lives. There may be an ultimate purpose for us, but we are all partially responsible for it."

"I'm truly sorry for your pain, Doris," said Brock, "but you're a psychologist, who certainly has helped others with similar pain. I don't have to tell you that life is full of it. Maybe we're all trapped in an endless cycle of pain and suffering, unless we can control our feelings and escape to a higher plane."

"Where are you going to escape to, Brock, Nirvana?" Grady said, impatient with Brock's lack of sympathy. "I think we have to find purpose and happiness in this life. We don't know if there is another."

Brock gave Grady a look that said, you don't know what you're talking about.

"It seems to me," said Stuart, "that the whole universe and our lives, in particular, are purely physical phenomena with no ultimate purpose. We are the products of chemicals and genes and environmental factors. We don't even have much, if any, free will."

Herb patted his wife's hand and joined the discussion. "I agree that we're influenced by genes and environment, but I disagree that we have no free will or purpose. I certainly had the free will to decide what to have for breakfast and what to wear today. I can decide now what words to speak or to shut up and come over and hit you." They all laughed, anxious to warm the chill that had come into the discussion.

"So, do you think we all have an end or purpose?" Brock said.

"That's what Aristotle thought," replied Herb. He combed his fingers through his dark brown hair that tended to curl if it got too long. "The purpose for everything, including the whole universe, is ingrained within it. Like DNA, that pushes an embryo to become a mature organism, the universe is imbued with a purpose that is pushing it to some ultimate goal."

"And what is that ultimate goal?" asked Brock.

"That's a subject for a whole book," Geneva said. "Doris is tired, and it's getting late. Why don't we call it a night? We can meet at my house in two weeks."

"Why don't we move on to other philosophers? I've had enough of Plato and Aristotle," Dick said. "Why don't we discuss Spinoza next time? Barb and I will lead the discussion."

Brock put his coffee cup on the table. "Why don't we make a list of philosophers that we want to discuss?"

They quickly came up with a list of philosophers that they all agreed would make good subjects for discussion. In order after Spinoza, they were: René Descartes, Niccolo Machiavelli, David Hume, Immanuel Kant, Frederick Nietzsche and Jean-Paul Sartre. "That ought to keep us busy for a while," said Dick. "We can always add some more later. Now let's go home so Doris can get some rest."

Some of the women helped Doris take the cups and dishes to the kitchen and clean up, while the men talked more about the murders. Stuart excused himself, stating that he had to study.

"Do you think there's any connection?" Brock wondered. "They were both doctors or teachers of sorts."

"I don't see a connection, but there might be," said Grady. "There may even be more murders."

"How can you say that?" said Dick. "Dallas is a very civilized city that isn't used to murders like these."

"Not as civilized as you might think," said Brock.

"Let's go home, everyone," Barbara called out as she stepped from the kitchen. "Doris is tired and so am I. We'll see you at Geneva's house next week."

# Chapter 10

When Teri became pregnant with their first child, Jason was a young cop, just assigned to homicide. He would come home after long days and longer nights trying to solve horrendous murders and find depraved killers. She never complained. Jason knew that she realized his job was dangerous and stressful, and that he was dedicated to the profession that he had chosen.

Some nights, Jason came home looking completely beaten, and without eating would collapse on the sofa, falling into a deep sleep. Sometimes at dinner, Jason would eat mechanically, not tasting his food, his eyes focused in the distance. Teri must have known he was thinking about his case, but said nothing. At other times, he would hug Teri tightly and bury his head in her neck, as if clinging to a savior.

Teri would ask him gently what was bothering him, but either he couldn't or wouldn't unburden his traumatic day on her. She just let him softly sob into her hair while she caressed his neck.

"I want to earn promotions as fast as I can," he confessed to her once. "I want to be a senior detective. After the baby comes we'll need a bigger apartment or even a house. I want you to have everything you want."

She told him that she didn't need or want much.

Teri worked as a secretary for one of the professors at SMU. They lived nearby in a walk-up apartment, all they could afford on a patrolman's salary. She made Jason's breakfast and gave him a lunch to carry to work. She knew how to spend their money carefully and was aware that Jason appreciated it. She tried not to put more financial pressure on him than he already placed on himself.

Sex became difficult later in the pregnancy, but Jason still showed his love with tender kisses and caressing. They took walks to the nearby park, where she noticed that Jason liked to talk and play with some of the kids. She laughed when he tried to catch a frisbee and fell down. He will be a good father, she whispered to her unborn, as she patted her swollen abdomen.

Jason dedicated himself in those early years to long hours and hard work. He did everything he could to solve the crimes he was assigned to. Some of the murders involved drugs. He was never tempted to dirty himself with any of the product or money that they confiscated. He knew that some of the other officers did. Some detectives had taken money under the table and had been fired. He never wanted to do that.

However, he used other ways to aid his job and promote his career. He found that he could push his cop credentials and intimidate some people along the way. He rationalized that nothing and nobody should get in his way to solve crimes, and in the process earn his promotions. He wanted to make detective as fast as possible.

Not long after their first baby was born, Jason was working on a homicide in the Hispanic section of town with his partner, Charlie Briggs, under Lieutenant Stroud. Jim Stroud was a talented detective. He could unravel complicated motives, clues, and suspects. Jason and Charlie were glad to follow his leads and advice.

Stroud saw a lot of himself in Jason Colbert. The young officer was intelligent, full of energy, and willing to put in extra hours or fill in for another cop if necessary. If anything, he was a little bit too eager, too ambitious. He was glad to share his own experience with Colbert and explain some finer points of detective work with him. He treated him as a teacher would a bright student. He was fair, giving compliments where they were deserved, but handing out criticisms and reprimands where necessary.

That morning, Stroud called Jason and Charlie into his office. "Colbert and Briggs, I know you've been working this murder in Little Mexico. What do you have?"

Charlie Briggs was a twenty-eight-year-old African-American, who had played linebacker for Texas A&M. At 6-foot-4 inches and 240 pounds, no one was going to push him around. He wore his size easily and moved with an athletic rhythm honed by years of hard football. He had a keen sense of humor and liked to collect jokes, which he shared with Jason to ease the tension in their struggle against the lowest dregs of society.

"Well Lieutenant, Charlie and I think this young woman, Dolores Garza, was killed by her jealous ex-boyfriend. She apparently broke up with him about a month ago and was seeing a new guy, Homer Sanchez. We can't find the old boyfriend, a Claudio Gonzalez. We think he may have gone to Mexico."

"Sounds like a straightforward case of the jealous boyfriend," Stroud said. "Have you talked to this Homer Sanchez?"

Briggs explained, "We talked with him after he came home from his job. He was working as a dishwasher. He said he couldn't speak good English and had a cousin translate for him. He came from Mexico about a year ago and found this job after doing yard work for a while. He knew Gonzalez, because they lived in the same apartments. He met Dolores through him."

"What was he like, Colbert?" Stroud asked.

"He seemed to be jittery Lieutenant, like he had something to hide. I knew he was illegal and that these guys are afraid of the police. That's because that it's part of their experience in Mexico where police are often corrupt. Down there, a suspect is hauled off to jail and then has to convince the police that he's innocent. I can't say for certain, but I think he isn't telling the whole truth. When we told him that the coroner said that Dolores was two months pregnant, he looked nervous. He said he didn't know she was. But he insisted that it was probably Claudio's. He wasn't convincing to me."

Stroud looked at Briggs and back to Colbert. He cocked his head to the side and touched his balding scalp. "The story doesn't feel right. It's too easy to put the blame for the pregnancy and the murder on someone who's missing. He's not there to deny it. It sounds to me that Sanchez may be hiding something. Go find Claudio and see what he says, then lean on Sanchez harder. I think you'll find something."

"Okay, Lieutenant, Charlie and I'll check it out," Jason said. They would look for Claudio Gonzalez first.

They picked up one of Claudio's friends, Pedro Huerta, as he came out of the warehouse where he worked . Claudio had had a few _cervezas_ with him..

"Are you Pedro Huerta?" Briggs flashed his ID.

"Si."

"We'd like to talk to you. It's hot out here. Why don't we go into our air-conditioned car." It was one of those August days in Dallas when heat radiated back from the streets and buildings.

Huerta blanched. "I do nothing wrong," he whined.

"You're not under arrest; we just want to ask a few questions. Get in the car," Jason told him. They cuffed him and put him in the back seat.

Briggs drove while Jason asked Huerta questions from the front seat. "Tell me where I can find Claudio Gonzalez."

"I don't know. I only work with him."

"That's one lie, Pedro. We already know that you drink beer with him. You probably knew his girlfriend Dolores, too, didn't you? You lie to me again and I'll haul you to jail."

"I'll bet he's illegal," said Briggs. "Aren't you?"

Huerta said nothing. All of a sudden, he didn't understand English.

"Gonna play that game, are you? Well, two can play. Let's go to the 7-Eleven for a cold drink, Charlie. I'm thirsty. It's really a scorcher today."

"Yeah," said Briggs, pointing to the car's thermometer. "It says the temperature is 102 outside."

They parked in the sun in the back of the 7-Eleven, turned off the car and left, leaving the windows up and doors locked with Huerta inside. It wouldn't take long until the inside of the patrol car was like an oven.

"Let's give him ten minutes," Jason said as he pulled open the door to the store for Briggs. The cool air that hit them in the face was refreshing. "We don't want him to get a heat stroke."

When they went back to the car, Jason carried a super-size iced Coke. Briggs opened all four doors and uncuffed Huerta, who was drenched with sweat. "How would you like this big cold Coke?" Jason taunted.

Huerta reached out his hand. "First, you tell me where we can find Claudio." Huerta told him everything he wanted to know.

They found Claudio, who was hiding out with Huerta's cousin. He was surprised the police found him and was scared out of his wits.

"I no kill Dolores," he pleaded. "Homer Sanchez did it."

"Why are you hiding, then?" Briggs said.

"I afraid the police would blame me. But I more afraid of Homer."

"Why?" asked Briggs.

"He's a very dangerous hombre. He worked for drug dealers in Mexico. He has killed many men. I afraid he kill me, too."

"We'll check that out. Meanwhile, why don't we take you in for your own safety," Jason said.

"Why? I do nothing wrong."

"Well, for one thing you had information about a crime and were hiding it from the police. For another, I'll bet you're illegal, and we could deport you."

Claudio looked shocked and hung his head in silence. Briggs cuffed him, and marched him to their waiting car.

They found Sanchez at his apartment. "What you want?" he asked as he opened the door a crack. He wore dirty jeans and nothing else. He took a slug of beer as he waited for an answer.

"We want to talk to you," said Briggs. He flashed his badge and ID.

" _No intendo_. Go away."

"Let us come in," said Jason.

"You have a warrant?"

"All of a sudden he speaks English and knows about warrants," Jason said. "We don't need one." He suddenly pushed the door into Sanchez' face, giving him a bloody nose. The beer can went flying as he fell backwards into the room.

Jason and Briggs drew their guns and stepped into the cluttered apartment. Jason held his gun on Sanchez as Briggs put on cuffs and sat him down on the sofa. Blood dripped from his nose, down his chin ,and onto his beer belly.

"Well Sanchez, tell us about Dolores Garza's murder," Briggs said.

Sanchez kept his eyes down and his mouth shut.

Jason and Briggs had gone over their scenario and Briggs confronted Sanchez directly. "I think you were screwing Dolores behind Claudio's back," he said, "then she got pregnant. She was pressuring you to marry her. You were afraid that Gonzalez would find out and come after you. So you killed her and blamed Gonzalez." Still silence from Sanchez. "I oughta kick your ass," Briggs stuck his face in Sanchez', who stared back, unintimidated.

Jason had holstered his gun and moved behind Sanchez to the back side of the sofa. He took out another gun from his back pocket. He bent over and looked behind the sofa, and picked up the gun with a pencil in the barrel. "Well, look what I found, a .38 snub-nosed revolver. I'll bet if we checked this out with our ballistics file, we'd find it's been involved in murder. You won't need to say anything, Sanchez. The gun will convict you." Jason had used this gambit several times before.

Sanchez raised his head, his eyes wide with terror. "Is not my gun. I no know it."

"It doesn't matter if you deny it. We found it in your apartment." Jason read him his rights. "If you come clean and tell us about Dolores, maybe I can forget about checking out this gun."

Briggs had been searching through the apartment while Jason was threatening Sanchez. He came back from the bedroom. "Look what I found," he said, carrying a long switchblade knife in his handkerchief. "Well, well, well, could this be the murder weapon?" Silence from Sanchez.

They looked closer at the knife under the light. "I see some blood down in the grooves. Looks like you couldn't wash it all out. I'll bet it's Dolores's. What do you think, Jason?"

"I think you better start telling the truth before it's too late," Jason threatened Sanchez, showing him the.38 special.

"Okay, but I want a lawyer," Sanchez said.

"That's all we need, Charlie. Let's take him in."

Lieutenant Stroud congratulated Jason on the case and put up his name for a promotion.

He knew that Teri suspected him of doing things under the law and that she disapproved of it. It had been the subject of several arguments, and one in particular stuck in Jason's conscience. Each person had his own reasons for his opinion.

Teri said that it was morally wrong for a person who is pledged to uphold the law to break it. Jason countered that he was not breaking the law, but merely going around it to capture criminals. It was the end product that was important, if it didn't actually cause harm in achieving it.

Teri said, "Are you doing the wrong things for the right reason, or the right things for the wrong reason? Which is it, Jason?" He saw she was angry with her arms wrapped around her chest.

Jason shook his head, "I don't know." He turned silently and left the room.

# Chapter 11

The killer relaxed in his favorite chair with a glass of wine. So far so good. The plan was working, and the murders had gotten results. The cops were so completely predictable, like puppets, easily manipulated. They were running in circles, trying to figure out what was behind these murders. He smiled to himself. They wouldn't find out before he had attained his purpose.

But he can't make it too difficult for them. If they have nothing to go on, they might give up. Then there would be no sport, no game, no fun. He had to keep the game moving, give the cops a little hint, a little bait to keep them moving. It was time to take the next step in the plan.

The next morning, members of the investigative team sauntered into the conference room. They talked about the cases as they gathered around the large table. Most of the men had worked together for several months or years. They ranged from Senior Cpl. DeWayne James, with over fifteen years in homicide, to patrolman Kelly Campbell, who had just graduated two years before from the police academy.

After he saw that everyone was settled, Jason rose from his seat and was greeted with silence. "First of all, I don't have a lot new to tell you. Detective Davis has the reports from the crime scene people and you already know about the ballistics results. So far we have no witnesses, no usable clues, and most importantly, no motives."

He and Mark told them about their interviews, about the possibility of an angry student, and about Dr. Goodman's argument with Dr. Abrams. "We have possible motives there, but kind of weak," admitted Jason.

DeWayne James reported that they didn't have any leads from Dr. Patagos' students or the other faculty.

"What I want to do today is more like a pep talk. We need some direction, some energy, some strategy in our plan. I know I'm your leader, but feel more like a coach and you're my team.

"One of the most important points that I learned from Chief Stroud, when I was a rookie and he was my lieutenant, was that things weren't always what they seemed to be. The factual points that you gather at the scene of a murder are always preceded by a chain of causality. Many factors led up to and converged before the actual crime. Motive, choice of victim, place, and weapon....many things went into the planning. Each murder leaves a message, whether it is intended or not. These murders have spoken volumes, but they are in code. We must find the key to the code and translate the message.

"If we have gaps in our knowledge, we have to listen to those gaps as they speak to us. They must tell us about the hidden meanings among the pieces.

"That's your philosophy lesson for the day, guys. We'll do more interviews tomorrow. Detective Davis will take over and give you your assignments. Now go out and look for hidden messages behind the clues. If another of these murders falls on our heads, we may have the Feds all over us. Understand?"

They filed out into the real world of uncertainties, to search for a message behind the murders.

# Chapter 12

Jason walked slowly from the conference room to his desk, looking at the institutional gray carpet, but seeing only murdered men, and a faceless murderer with a smoking gun in his hand. He found on his desk the official ballistics report that the same gun had killed Patagos and Abrams. He picked up the report and took it to the department secretary.

"Peggy, please make copies of this report and send them to Chief Stroud and the D.A.'s office."

"Okay, Detective Colbert. While you're here, you might as well take the report of the Abrams murder with you. I just finished typing it up."

"Thanks." He glanced over it while he walked back to his desk and set it down absently.

He noticed a sealed letter that had apparently been under the ballistics report. He picked up the plain white envelope and read his name and address in hand-written block capital letters. There was no return address. He turned it over, curious. He tore into it with his letter opener and pulled out the single sheet of paper to find a note written in the same style as the address. It read:

PLATE TO CLEAR ISN'T A GRASPING OF SAND. ESCAPE

THE MACHINES. A CHUM EATS TACK. AN THEN CAN

NIETHER SEES ARTIST FOR MURDERS TEN.

What the hell, he thought. Jason's eyes dilated and his mind focused as he re-read the note slowly. What could it mean? Was it from the murderer he was looking for? What else could it be?

He put it down, closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples. What if it was from a crank, someone trying to play games with the cops? He had to make sure. Whoever sent it, he was using cryptic words and symbolic garbage to taunt us, playing games, showing how smart he was. Jason decided to test him.

He made a copy of the message, being careful to handle it with tweezers. He took the original down to the lab, where he talked with the chief technician. "Take this note. I think it may be from the murderer of that professor and that doctor. See if there are any prints. Check the ink, the paper and where it might have come from. If he licked the stamp or envelope, check for DNA. Let me know what you find as soon as possible."

"Okay, detective," the technician replied. "I'll let you know when I have it."

Jason was excited. He went back to his desk, thinking that now they had something concrete, something directly from the killer. The lab was bound to find something.

He sat down at his desk with the note, determined to find some meaning in it. _Plate to clear it isn't a grasping of sand_. Clearing the plate may refer to solving the crimes. It's not a grasping of sand. There are definite things to get a hold of. _Escape the machines_. What machines? Lab technology? The machines of justice? _A chum eats tack_. What's a chum, a friend? What's tack? Sounds like a snack. _An then can niether sees artist for murders ten_. Now that's fairly obvious. He's saying that no one can see him, the artist in these murders. Ten? Is he really planning to kill ten people?

Well, whoever sent this note, it was meant to tell them about murders. He or she must know about the murders that Jason was investigating. It could be a prank, but Jason had to assume that this was from the murderer himself.

Frustrated, Jason pounded his fist on the note. There had to be more meaning behind those words. He realized he was going to need some help on this. He made several copies of it, gave one to Mark and sent one over to the department's computer expert to look at it. He kept a few for himself to share with others he might think could offer some insight.

His adrenalin was still flowing. The murderer had made the next step and revealed more of his plan. Was he going to kill again? In any case he was playing a deadly game and had certainly challenged Jason as his opponent.

He picked up his phone and called to see if Chief Stroud was free. Finding out that the chief would see him, Jason immediately left his desk. He dropped off a copy of the note with his lieutenant, then literally ran over to the chief's office. Handing Chief Stroud a copy of the note, breathless with excitement, Jason said, "This just came in the mail. I think it's from the killer."

Stroud quickly read over the message, put it down on his desk and said, "What does it mean?"

"I'm not sure, chief. I tried to make some sense out of it but gave up. I think this means we have a serial killer on our hands and he's playing games with us. There may be a clue here, and it may mean that there are going to be other murders. Look at that last line."

"I see it. Two murders don't make a serial, but this implies there'll be more. This really bothers me."

"Yeah, you and me both. This is getting very serious."

"You don't have to tell me it's serious, Colbert. The media have already done that. But now you have a note, a cryptic one. You have to make sure this is from the killer. I think it will tell you when you decode it. What are you and your team doing?"

"I sent the original letter and the envelope to the lab to see what they can come up with, and sent a copy to our police computer expert to see what he could get out of it. Our team is investigating all the contacts of the murder victims. I think we have it under control, chief. The message ought to help us when we interpret it."

Chief Stroud nodded. "Why don't we let the FBI know what's happening and send them the message to see if they can decode it? They've got a lot of experience in those matters. I'll handle that from my office. I know you don't want the Feds interfering with us any more than I do, so I won't ask for them to come in yet"

"Right, chief. I don't look forward to the Feds stepping on our feet, but this case is getting deeper by the minute."

"Keep me informed, Colbert," Stroud told Jason as he left the room.

Even though Jason was thankful that they had the note, it meant the killer was complicating the case. He had raised the ante. Jason hoped someone could translate the note; that was the next step. If the chief called in the FBI, they would completely take over his case. He would be defeated, and in this case the stakes were too high to lose.

# Chapter 13

Doris Goodman was in the university hospital for surgery, after having been admitted on the Monday following her visit to Dr. Lance Crew. She had been referred to him by the doctor who had taken over Dr. Abrams' patients.

Now as she lay in her hospital bed, Dr. Crew explained what he planned to do. "You have a type of breast cancer that's rather aggressive. Because of that, I'll have to remove both breasts and do a lymph node dissection on the side with the cancer."

That meant that he would remove the lymph nodes in her armpit, he explained. Sometimes that caused a painful swelling in the arm because of the interruption in the lymph drainage. "That doesn't always happen, but if it does we can treat it," he added. He smiled to reassure her and ran his hand over his wiry light brown hair.

Doris was comforted by his easy-going manner and confident way of explaining things. He had a knack for putting his patients at ease and gaining their trust.

But no amount of reassuring bedside manner, even by the most sympathetic physician, could allay all the anxiety unleashed in Doris by that frightening word, cancer. All of her training as a psychologist couldn't protect her from this fear. Visions of surgery, pain, lingering illness, and impending death haunted her.

She submitted to the usual ministrations of pre-op preparation with a passive stoicism. As she was wheeled into the operating room, she was in a daze and felt as if all of this were happening to a third person, whom she was watching with detachment. The anesthesiologist told her that he was giving her some medicine in her IV, that would put her to sleep, and then she slipped into unconsciousness.

The operation took several hours, but to Doris it was a blank of course, until at last she slowly became aware that she was in the recovery room, the IV still dripping away. She felt as if her body was immersed in a vat of thick syrup, difficult to move. All her awareness was dominated by the pain. The nurses and anesthesiologist checked on her and gave her an injection for pain that let her go back to sleep. After she awoke fully the second time, they wheeled her to her room. Herb was waiting for her. He gently kissed her and held her hand.

"I hurt," was all she said.

The nurse kept the IV going and gave her more pain medication to keep her comfortable.

Doris dozed off and on until lunch the next day, when they brought her a tray of the usual hospital post-op diet. She ate about half, for, even though she had not eaten since the day before, she had no appetite. Herb helped her eat and cleaned her face afterward. "I'll eat downstairs later," he said. "How're you feeling now?"

"I still hurt," Doris whimpered, a tear rolling down her cheek. "I like Dr. Crew, but I really miss Morrie. I know he would be here by my side right now."

"I know, sweetheart, I'm sorry he's not here, too. I miss him a lot. You know, I've thought many times about that argument I had with him and really feel guilty about it. I regret the bad feelings that caused, because I know it was awkward for you and Susan. I later found out from my lab assistant that Morrie's fellow didn't really pry into my research. He was only asking her some general questions and for some help with a technique he was trying. What a mess I made. I yelled at Morrie, and I'm sure his secretary heard me. I meant to go back and apologize but kept putting it off because I was embarrassed. I really feel bad because I didn't do it before he died. Now I'll never have the chance."

"That's okay, Herbie. I'm sure Morrie forgave you. He knew that you would still be friends even though you were professional rivals. You don't have to feel guilty anymore."

"Thanks sweetheart, I knew you'd understand. Now why don't you just rest?" She closed her eyes.

That evening, Dr. Crew came to see Doris, checked her dressings, looked at her chart to make sure she didn't have any fever, and noted how much pain medication she had needed. "You're doing very well, Doris, in spite of a rough surgery. Only two of the twelve lymph nodes showed any tumor in the frozen sections, but we'll have to wait for the permanent slides for a full report. I feel good that we got it all and that you'll be all right. When you come see me in the office in a couple of weeks, we'll talk about plastic reconstruction."

"I really haven't thought about that, Dr. Crew. I guess we can talk about my options at that time. How long will I have this pain?"

"It'll be better tomorrow, and you probably won't need much more pain medication by the time you go home in a few days. I'll check on you every day though. Sorry I missed Herb. Tell him hello."

The next day after Herb helped Doris with her dinner, he said, "By the way, a Detective Colbert called me at the lab and asked to set up an appointment to talk to me. He said he wanted to ask me a few questions about Dr. Abrams. I told him that I would be tied up with your hospitalization a few days, and asked if he could put it off until you came home. He said fine, that he wouldn't mind if you were present also. He's coming the day after you get out. Is that all right?"

"Yes, that's fine. I can always help you in awkward situations like that."

Doris recovered over the next two days, gradually gaining her strength and appetite, while decreasing her need for pain medication. She missed Morrie Abrams and had a lot of time to think about him. They had met him at a faculty reception for Herb when he joined the medical school. He took Herb under his wing and the Abrams helped them find a house, choose schools for the kids, and join the temple.

The evening before Doris was to go home, Dr. Crew came to check on her and leave discharge orders for the next morning. After ascertaining that Doris was feeling better and in much less pain, he said, "I got back the pathology report on the lymph nodes we took out. I'm afraid that six of the twelve nodes were positive for cancer cells."

"That's bad isn't it?" Doris said. Herb was by her side and squeezed her hand.

"I'm afraid so," the doctor replied. "That means I'll have to send you to an oncologist for chemotherapy."

"Will she be all right?" Herb asked, expecting the worst.

"I told you that this is an aggressive type of cancer, but the oncologist has all kinds of poisons in his cabinet. He'll have to give you a more accurate prognosis. Anyway, you're healing nicely from your surgery. I'll see you in my office in two weeks and take out your stitches."

"You've been wonderful to me, Dr. Crew. Thanks for everything."

"Oh, you haven't gotten rid of me that easily. I'll be seeing you regularly. Now you two rest and go home tomorrow. My office will call you to make all the arrangements."

He left after hugging Doris and shaking hands with Herb, giving them both an extra squeeze.

Doris stared through the wall as if in a trance, her mind churning through scenarios of death. Herb leaned over the bed and kissed her. He gently stroked her cheek. "We'll get through this. We'll beat it."

"We'll do the best we can," Doris said. "We'll get the best doctors, and they'll do the best they can. After that, all we can do is hope and pray."

# Chapter 14

Jason's desk phone rang. "Colbert," he answered.

"This is Donaldson in the lab. I have some details on that note you gave me."

"What'd you find?" Jason said with anticipation. He was hoping that something would show up that could help him.

"The paper and envelope were common, inexpensive stuff, probably from Office Depot or something like that. The ink was from a throwaway ball point. The stamp and envelope were moistened with water, not licked. The only fingerprints on the letter were yours. There were too many smudged ones on the envelope to be any good. It was probably mailed from the airport."

"What're your thoughts?"

"This guy is smart. He knew what he was doing. He didn't use a computer or printer. He covered all his bases."

"Thanks, Donaldson," he hung up. Jason was deflated. He had hoped for some clue to help him with the source of the note. As Jason thought more about it, he realized that all the negative information could lead to a positive conclusion. If the note was from a crank, why would he have been so careful? He doubted a crank would go to that much trouble. He would just send a coded message, that wouldn't have been too hard to understand. No, Jason was convinced more than ever, that this was from the murderer. If he could only tell what it said.

Hoping for help in another sector, he called the police computer expert to see if he had any answers. He told Jason, "I don't have too much for you, except for some possible word associations from the computer. 'Chum' is a word that fishermen use for scrap bait that they throw out to attract fish. That could be a referral to bait that's sent to you in the form of clues. 'Tack' is also a nautical term for a turn that a boat takes into a wind or tide. That could also refer to your investigative turns. There are also a couple of misspellings. He used 'an' when it should be 'and' and misspelled 'neither'. Other than that, I'm having the computer check for word and letter substitutions and other routine codes. We're really not set up for decoding like the FBI or CIA. They're really your best bet."

Jason thanked him and called his friend at the local FBI office. Yes, they had received the note and sent it on to Washington. No, he hadn't heard anything yet. It usually takes a while, since they have a lot of programs that they can submit the note to. The case had been assigned locally to Special Agent Frank Hendrix, who would be contacting Jason. Any breakthrough in the message would be handled through him. Jason thanked his friend and hung up, looked at the note again, shook his head, and absently folded it and stuck it in his pocket.

Dead ends, but he wasn't going to give up. His head may be bloody from butting into a wall, but he wouldn't let this killer beat him.

He walked over to Mark's desk to see if he had anything for him, but he wasn't there. Disappointed, he walked aimlessly to the restroom. He cleaned his hands of it trying to wash the dirt from the note down the sink. He looked at his face in the mirror. The person that looked back appeared tired, older, defeated. "No, I'm not," he said aloud as he threw the paper towel into the receptacle.

He remembered that he had an appointment to talk with the Goodmans, so he picked up his jacket at his desk and left the office. While he drove, he kept trying to make sense out of the note. Maybe the words meant something else. Maybe they were jumbled and had to be re-arranged. His mind was still churning possibilities when he pulled up in front of the house and parked under the giant oaks that spread their shading arms over the quiet street.

Dr. Herb Goodman answered the door, greeted the detective and walked him into the family room, where his wife was sitting in a recliner, her legs covered with an afghan.

"Excuse me for not getting up, detective, but I'm recovering from some major surgery."

"I know, Dr. Goodman, your husband told me. I hope you're feeling a little stronger, but if you get tired, feel free to excuse yourself or tell me to come back another time."

Doris said, "Thank you, I certainly will. By the way, I know it will be awkward for you to refer to us both as Dr. Goodman, so why don't you just call us Herb and Doris?"

"That'll suit me fine, if you're comfortable with it. And you can call me Jason." Jason asked Herb about his professional connection with Dr. Abrams, about their personal relationship with the Abrams' family, and finally about the argument that he had with Morris Abrams a few weeks prior to his death.

"I knew you would come to that," Herb said. He had dreaded this. "Yes, I was upset and went to see Morrie in his office."

"Dr. Abrams's secretary told me that she couldn't help hearing some of your conversation. Apparently you were speaking pretty loudly."

"I suppose I was. I was very angry and used some strong language. However, I later found out that my accusation was false. I had some wrong information." He described the details. "I meant to go back and apologize, but I kept putting it off. I guess I was too embarrassed. Then it was too late."

"That's true, Jason ," Doris said. "Herb told me that a few days ago. He was really distraught about it and felt depressed because he had not apologized to his old friend."

"Thank you both. That's put my mind at ease about that argument. I really didn't have a feeling you were angry enough over professional jealousy to murder your colleague. You've really been a lot of help, both of you. I know we'll find Dr. Abrams's killer. Ballistics showed the same weapon was used to kill both Dr. Patagos and Dr. Abrams. I believe we're dealing with a particularly dangerous murderer. What I'm really afraid of is that he may kill again. Please call me if you think of anything else. Here's my card."

Jason reached into his coat pocket for his card and felt the note. He wondered if he should show it to the Goodmans. They weren't police or computer experts that he was aware of. Oh well, it couldn't hurt. They were smart people. Maybe they could help.

"I received this note. It may be from a crank, but we believe that it may be from the murderer." He handed it to Herb. "I have some people working on it, but we can't make anything out of it. It's in some kind of code. Maybe you can put your heads together and come up with some ideas. I'll leave it with you. Call me if you think of anything."

Herb read it and showed it to Doris. "Looks very cryptic, all right," he said. "We'll call you, if we have any ideas. Good luck in your investigation. We want you to find Morrie Abrams' murderer as much as you do."

After Jason left, Doris picked up the note. It didn't make much sense, but she was going to try to get at its meaning. "Did the detective say that the same person killed both men?"

"He said the bullets came from the same gun. I guess you can deduce from that fact that one killer used the same gun to kill that philosophy professor and Morrie," Herb said.

"When you said the word philosophy, something clicked in my mind," Doris said as if thinking out loud.

"What?" Herb said.

"That word keeps coming up.....philosophy."

"You're just thinking about the murdered philosophy professor."

"That's only part of it. Just listen for a minute. Didn't you tell me that Morrie liked philosophy? He took you to some of the Philosophers' Forum meetings."

"Yeah, he liked Aristotle."

"Grady invited us to the philosophy discussion, because he and I had philosophical discussions during his therapy," she added. "Then we found out that Grady's son was in that professor's philosophy class."

"So what?" Herb had trouble seeing where she was leading.

"I don't know, but the word philosophy keeps whirling around in my head. There may be some relationship, some common thread there."

Herb shook his head. "Sounds kind of nebulous to me. There are no hard facts, only your loose associations. What would be the common motive?"

"You're too much the scientist," she said. "You only want cold, hard facts and logical reasoning. Right-brained people like me tend to think more creatively, because we're not bound by logic."

"I know, sweetheart, but now why don't you put your creative mind to rest. It's been a long day and I'm sure you're tired."

They went to bed, but after Herb turned out the light, Doris continued to stare up into the dark. Thoughts of the Philosophy Club and the murders circled around her. She had a feeling that the note may bring more of it together, as she drifted off into a troubled sleep.

Jason got into his car outside the Goodmans' and sat for a while before driving off. The interviews of the past couple of days reverberated through his mind like a recording playing at fast speed, repeating snatches here and there. Emotions arose out of the pieces of conversation and invaded his consciousness. First there was sympathy and sorrow for the victims and their families. Then there was anger at the killer and frustration in trying to solve the murders. Finally, these were displaced by a firm commitment to keep looking and find the murderer.

He drove slowly back to the office. What good was determination, if he didn't know where to turn next, with all his trails seeming to have come to dead-ends?

# Chapter 15

It was Tuesday night, and Rabbi Jacob Silverman was getting ready to go home. He had spent his usually busy week, marrying and burying, celebrating bar mitzvahs, and conducting services on Friday evening and Saturday morning.

He remembered his sermon last Friday night with some pride. The sanctuary was packed because people had come to hear a new musical composition by Simon Sobel, their music director. It was entitled "Jeremiah" and the rabbi's sermon was also about the great prophet. Jeremiah had warned the Jews about their sins, and the destruction of Jerusalem at the hands of the Babylonians.

"We Americans have lost our moral way," the rabbi had said. "We think that because we have wealth and military might, we don't need God anymore. Science and money and our army and navy can solve all of our problems. We can happily go on our way, burning gasoline in our big SUVs, using 40 percent of the world's resources, and stuffing our overweight bellies. To hell with global warming, overpopulation, AIDS, racial cleansing, and illegal immigration. Who cares? Let the rest of the world take care of itself. As long as we have our homes and cars that are too big for us, more food than we can eat, and our health taken care of by the government, we'll enjoy our lives, and let our grandchildren inherit the whirlwind." He did finish on an up note, that the Jews of Jeremiah's time returned from exile and rebuilt the Temple. His lesson was that Americans can also return from a moral exile and rebuild their own lives and the moral life of their country.

This afternoon, he had visited three area hospitals and looked in on his congregants. Back in his office he worked on his sermons, and it was dark outside before he finished. Tired and hungry, he was looking forward to having dinner and a quiet evening at home with Rachel and his teenage son and daughter. He collected his notes and put them in a folder, then closed and stacked the books he had used for research. He pushed his chair back from the desk and was about to stand up, when he heard a subdued knock, almost a tapping, on his door. "Come in," the rabbi said.

The man stepped into the room and said, "Good evening, rabbi."

"Good evening. Can I help you?"

"I have a question. Do you have a minute?" the man politely asked.

Rabbi Silverman sighed, and even though he was tired, he couldn't say no. After all, a rabbi was a man of God and was supposed to help his fellow men and women, whenever he could. He sat back and placed his folded hands on the desk. "Of course. How can I help you?"

"I have a note here." The man reached inside his coat as if to retrieve something. What he pulled out was a gun. He aimed and fired. The rabbi grabbed at his chest. With his mouth and eyes open in shock, he slumped forward. Another bullet tore through the top of his head. The killer turned, flipped off the light, and closed the door to the office. No one was in the dark and silent temple, and the murderer left as quietly as he had come.

The killer drove into his garage still reveling in the feeling that a dangerous act brings. He was beginning to like this emotion. It gave him a high, like a hit of cocaine. These killings made him feel powerful, even omnipotent. He held the power of life and death in his hands. There were no pangs of conscience in the killing of a man of God. In the killer's mind, he was a god, the bringer of death.

The emotional thrill of murder had given him an appetite. He went to the kitchen and took out some leftover chicken salad and a bottle of Chardonnay that he hadn't finished. While satisfying his physical needs, his mind turned philosophical.

Were his acts morally good or bad? How does a person really know? He recalled that Spinoza agreed with Socrates. They said that only a mature mind can judge what is right and what is wrong. Intelligent minds can also know when love should rule and when power should rule. Therefore, it is intelligence that is the main virtue of man.

He was completely satisfied that his superior intellect provided him with the moral basis for his actions. To be true to his nature was to act morally, and his nature was to use his power to fulfill his purpose. It was his destiny. It was an inevitable and justifiable conclusion.

He cleaned up the dishes and carried another glass of wine to his bedroom. There, he wrapped himself in a comfortable cloak of self-justifying philosophy, a philosophy of death.

# Chapter 16

" **Serial Murderer in Dallas"** , screamed the headline of the Dallas Morning News. The subheading read, "High profile deaths terrify city". Jason was still reading about the killing when Mark Davis called.

"Yeah, I know about it," Jason told him. "Why don't you get a copy of the police report? I'll pick you up, and we'll go to the temple at ten o'clock. We'll talk to some of the people there."

He hung up. Here we go again, he thought. Jason wasn't sure that this murder was related to the others. The newspapers had only made the connection that the murders were of prominent citizens. What if they were related? He had dreaded this, but had also been more than half expecting it. Dammit, he thought, this murderer surely targeted high-profile members of our community. What in the world was he trying to do? Whatever it was, had really stirred up a hornet's nest in Dallas.

One of the paper's editorials conjectured about the motives behind the murders. One theory was that it was a foreign terrorist, another was that it was a person from the Middle East who targeted Greeks and Jews, but the most disturbing idea was that this was the work of an emotionally disturbed person who murdered people at random.

Jason thought these theories weren't plausible, but admitted to himself that he was still at a loss to discern a motive.

Before going to the temple, Jason got a call from ballistics. The bullet from the rabbi matched the ones from the other two murders.

He met Mark in the parking lot of the temple. He told him about the ballistics as they walked together to the rabbi's office. They found out from the secretary that the only other person there who could answer some questions was Brooks Davidson, who was the head of education at the temple. Jason asked directions to his office and said he would talk with him, while Mark questioned the secretary.

Brooks Davidson, about forty-five, had been a member of the temple all his life. He was assistant head of education when Rabbi Silverman came there and had been named the chief coordinator only last year. He was actually the number two man under the rabbi in the running of the temple and knew just about everyone and everything that went on.

"Hello, detective, please come in and have a seat." After shaking Davidson's hand, Jason began to ask the usual questions.

"No," said Davidson, "I know of no one in the temple who harbored ill feelings for the rabbi. There was none of the political wrangling between the rabbi and the board of directors or any professional jealousy from the junior rabbi. Rabbi Silverman was a respected scholar, teacher, pastor, and friend. He was truly a good man."

"Do you know of anyone or any group outside the temple who disliked him or the temple or the Jewish community that he represented?"

"You know full well, detective, that there are always bigots, anti-Semites and crazies out there that would do violent things. Last month, someone threw a chair through a window and painted a swastika on the wall. But I don't know of any threat that the temple or the rabbi received recently. This murder seemed to be a random act of violence."

"It may be random or not, Mr. Davidson. Tell me something about the rabbi's background and interests," pressed Jason.

"Rabbi Silverman came to us ten years ago from the Hebrew Union College where he taught philosophy. After our last Chief Rabbi Katz retired, we wanted someone of intellectual stature. We were not disappointed. Rabbi Silverman was not only a good Jewish and philosophy scholar but a warm pastor. He gave good sermons, sprinkling them with humor and stories as well as the deep moral and philosophical lessons we all need. He was an excellent chief rabbi when he stepped into Rabbi Katz's shoes."

Jason wanted to see where this might lead. "What kind of philosophy was the rabbi most interested in?"

Davidson told him that Rabbi Silverman was familiar with all philosophical matters but was especially interested in Jewish philosophy. "But I think that the philosopher that the rabbi liked the most was Spinoza."

Although Jason was not really interested in philosophy, he felt deep down that it may lead somewhere. He had been taught never to discount anything from people he interviewed about murders. "Why do you think the rabbi was interested in him? What did you say his name was?"

"Baruch Spinoza was a 17th-century member of the Jewish Portuguese community of Amsterdam. He was a very bright scholar who began to question some of the literal interpretation of the Bible. His philosophy basically said that God represented the entire universe and embodied the laws of nature. Nothing was outside of God. God is everything and everything is part of God. However, God is also the essence of everything. He is the whole plus the sum of the parts. If I may quote two sayings of Spinoza that I have here, you might understand."

"Go ahead," said Jason.

Davidson reached for a book on the shelf behind this desk. He opened it to a page he had bookmarked. "Spinoza said and I quote, 'The mind of God is all the mentality that is scattered over space and time, the diffused consciousness that animates the world.'" He turned to another marked page. "Here's another, 'We are parts of a Being greater than ourselves and endless, while we die. Our bodies are cells in the body of the race, our race an incident in the drama of life; our minds are the fitful flashes of an eternal light.'"

"That's beautiful," Jason said.

"I think Rabbi Silverman saw himself as a part of God's eternal light, helping to spread it to others. I have heard him say that he thought there is a powerful force, a reality permeating all existence, which is growing to its ultimate potential. We are part of it and are compelled to help it. It is our nature and our purpose."

"That's really interesting. It'll give me something to think about." Jason realized he would have to think about it several times, before he could really wrap his mind around it. He reached for his card to give to Davidson when he remembered the note. He might as well ask him to look at it, too.

"Before I go, I want to show you this note. It's a copy of one we think the murderer sent to me. I wonder if you might look at it and see what you think."

"Hmm," Davidson pursed his lips, concentrating on the note. "If clearing your plate isn't a grasping of sand, then you apparently will have a great impact by solving this case. He says you have to escape the ordinary machinery of your technology and even the way you think. \I don't see anything in 'chum eats tack'. He misspelled 'and' and 'neither'. He tells you that he is an artist that will show you ten murders. If that's true, you really have your job cut out for you and I don't envy you the pressure I'm sure that you're under."

Jason thanked him for his help and the philosophy lesson and left.

"What a brutal and senseless murder," said Mark after they drove off from the temple.

"Yeah, they all are. All prominent men, too."

"How have things gotten so bad?" said Mark. "We're used to murder for money or drugs or out of anger or revenge, but these seem to be in another world."

"The world seems to be getting crazier and crazier," Jason agreed. "But we still have to make sense of it to solve these murders."

Jason let Mark off at the station and after explaining that he had other things to check out, drove off to think things over by himself.

There was no such thing as meaningless violence, as senseless aggression, he admitted to himself. Every violent act had a meaning, a history behind it, for the person perpetrating it. Only when people dare to accept this truth, Jason thought, can we hope to turn society toward a less violent direction. Jason thought he had tried to do that all of his professional life, hoping that he had made a difference.

These murders were shocking, and a puzzle to Jason, so far. He felt as though he was groping through a fog, trying to catch an elusive shadow. But he would get through it; he wouldn't let it defeat him.

# Chapter 17

Jason found a note on his desk to call Chief Stroud. He knew what the chief wanted to talk to him about and picked up the phone to call him with apprehension. Karen answered and warned him that the chief was in a foul mood before connecting his call.

Chief Stroud answered his phone, "Colbert, your tail is in a crack and so is mine. My ear is still hot from the calls I got from the D.A. and the mayor this morning. The mayor is really steamed over this murder of Rabbi Silverman. He said it has made national news and people are talking about anti-Semitism in Dallas. The convention bureau has gotten calls from organizations putting their meetings on hold. Businessmen are complaining, people are scared, and the local media is screaming for some action. The D.A. is very angry, too. He wants to see some results, and he wants them now. He told me that he wants to see you in his office today at 2 p.m. You had better have some answers for him, new leads, suspects, something, dammit . You understand?"

"Yes, chief."

"You better, Colbert. Now get busy and let's see some results." Stroud hung up before waiting for a reply.

After Jason hung up the phone, he tried to finish some paperwork. Finding it impossible to focus, he finally gave up and walked out the building down the street a few blocks, thinking about the case. Thoughts of Patagos, Abrams, and Silverman went through his mind: a 9 millimeter gun, probably with a silencer, a coded note, and prominent men. Why? What was the motive? What was the connection? What did the note mean?

Swirling emotions like a vegetable stew boiled within him. But there was nothing in that mélange that gave him the impression of substance. The facts around the murders didn't congeal, didn't form anything to get his teeth into. There was nothing random about what was behind these murders. Everything had been carefully planned and executed. The killer even sent a message. Jason paused at the thought. The message must be a signpost, directing him somewhere, but where?

He went out for lunch, thinking that food would help him think. He ate two bites of his sandwich before pushing it away, realizing he had to have some answers before he faced District Attorney Andrew Phillips.

Phillips usually didn't take this much interest in the day-to-day running of his department's affairs. He left the everyday cases and the details to his assistants. He ran his office as the busy administrator that he was, and reserved only high-profile, politically charged cases for his personal prosecution. But he seemed to have particular interest in these murders, probably because of social pressure.

Phillips had always seemed politically savvy. He continuously manipulated the people around him and engaged in any social and political activity in the city that he could to enhance his influence and power. It was obvious to most people that he wasted no love for Mayor Robert Thornberg. The two of them had clashed over several issues. Phillips was aware that Thornberg's popularity had waned since the mayor had not supported the city's share of a new football stadium. Phillips was ambitious and might even have an eye on the mayor's seat.

# Chapter 18

Jason was a patrolman when a younger Andrew Phillips was a senior assistant D.A. Phillips saw the early TV news about the robbery and murder of Melissa Cranston. He read more of the details in the newspaper. Mrs. Cranston was married to Dr. George Cranston, a prominent plastic surgeon. Melissa was wealthy in her own right, having been the only child of a banker and real estate investor. She was prominent in social circles and charities and sat on the board of the Dallas Symphony Orchestra. Her husband, Dr. Cranston, had the cream of Dallas society as his patients.

The police had picked up the yard man, Arturo Hernandez, and found some of Mrs. Cranston's jewelry in his house. They charged him with murder.

Phillips looked deeper into the case. He wasn't satisfied. It was too simple. There were too many unanswered questions. How did the murderer enter the house without breaking in? Did he have a key? How did he know how to disarm the burglar alarm? The doctor was out of town at a meeting and the children were spending the weekend with friends. It looked too planned. Mrs. Cranston had inherited wealth. There was also a five million dollar insurance policy on her life, and Dr. Cranston was the beneficiary.

Phillips had already convinced the D.A. to let him try the case. He told his boss that he thought there was more to the case than a simple burglary and murder. He asked for a team of investigators to dig further. The DA granted it to him, and in the course of the next few months, Andrew Philips had his case.

Hernandez confessed to the murder but swore that Dr. Cranston had hired him to do it. He said it was supposed to look like a robbery and that he could keep all that he took. He probably would have gotten away with it, but he failed to hide all of the jewelry.

Phillips saw his opening and he offered to plea-bargain with Hernandez.

"We have your signed confession," he said to Hernandez, "and the jewelry we found in your house. Your fingerprints are all over the house and we found the knife that you used to stab Mrs. Cranston. We can send you to prison for the rest of your life and I might even ask for the death penalty." Hernandez blanched and started to sweat.

"However, we have no evidence on Dr. Cranston. If you will testify against him, perhaps I can try you for a lesser charge and even get you a prison term instead of the death penalty."

Hernandez and his defense lawyer jumped at the deal. They agreed that if he cooperated, Phillips would ask for twenty-five years, and Hernandez might be out on parole in fifteen.

Andrew Phillips was brilliant in court. Hernandez gave testimony that Dr. Cranston had given him the key and told him about the burglar alarm. He said that he and the kids would be away from the house. The doctor told him that he could keep whatever he stole. There was at least ten thousand dollars in Mrs. Cranston's desk that he could have as his payment.

Dr. Cranston denied that he had anything to do with it. He said that he had loved his wife and had no reason to kill her. He maintained throughout the trial that he was innocent and that he was being set up.

In his summation to the jury, Phillips painted the picture of a self-interested plastic surgeon, who married into wealth and social position. He detailed how the doctor planned with the gardener to kill his wife, so he could inherit her wealth and the insurance money.

The jury didn't believe Dr. Cranston. They found him guilty and he was sentenced to life in prison. When the verdict was read, he shook his head and buried his face in his hands. He was led out of the courtroom a broken man.

Andrew Phillips' reputation skyrocketed. The case had made national news, and he appeared on several news talk shows. He was immensely popular in the city. The DA had long before let it be known that he would not stand for reelection. Phillips ran for his office and was easily elected. He was the new district attorney of Dallas.

That was seven years ago. Andrew Phillips had enjoyed the power and prerogatives of his office ever since. Perhaps he was ready for more.

# Chapter 19

Jason was ushered into Phillips' office with dread. He knew that he didn't have any hard evidence other than the ballistics tests that showed the same gun was used in all three murders. He had the note, presumably from the murderer, that he couldn't decipher. He was hesitant to even show it to Phillips.

"Sit down, detective. You know why I called you here. You know how these murders have completely disrupted this city. They're in the national news. The mayor and even the governor are breathing down my neck. My reputation is on the line here to solve these crimes and put the murderer away. I've publicly promised to do just that, but I need your help. I want to know everything you have on this case."

Jason told him about the ballistics results and about interviews with all three victims' families and colleagues. He reviewed his suspicion of Dr. Goodman's professional jealousy of Dr. Abrams, but realized that his suspicion was unfounded after interviewing the Goodmans. Jason admitted that he could find no connection between Dr. Abrams, Dr. Patagos, or Rabbi Silverman, or any possible motive for their murders.

"Is that all you have?" Phillips asked. "I know you have something else, some ideas, some other clues. Tell me what they are. Tell me what you're thinking. Tell me everything."

"There is something else." Jason pulled the note from his pocket.

"What is it?" Phillips extended his hand.

"It's a note that we assume to be from the murderer. It doesn't make much sense. It's in some kind of code. I've sent it to our computer expert in the department and to the FBI."

Phillips looked at the note. "This could really be important. I'm going to keep this copy. I assume you have others. Now let me tell you something, Colbert. My reputation is on the line about this case, but your career is also. I have reviewed your file, and it's impressive. You rose rapidly to detective and have an outstanding record. But I can tell you this, your reputation and further promotion may be in jeopardy. I don't have to tell you what that means financially. Not only that, you will leave a mark on an otherwise unblemished career with the police department. Do I make myself clear, detective?"

"Yes, sir, completely clear. I won't disappoint you."

"By the way," Phillips said, "I don't want the FBI brought into this case unless absolutely necessary."

"I'll do my level best to keep them out, sir."

"Good then...," the phone rang. "Yes." Phillips answered. "Who? All right. Hello. Listen, I'm with the detective working on these murders. I'll talk to you tonight. And don't call me at the office." He hung up abruptly. "I want results, and I want them soon." He pointed a warning finger at the cowed detective. Jason left, feeling like a kid who had just come from the principal's office. He was wondering what steps to take next, when he got to his desk and found a note to call Chief Stroud. The chief told Jason an FBI Special Agent Hendrix wanted to speak with him.

At first Jason dreaded the fact that the FBI was here and wanted to talk with him. He hung up the phone and made a decision. He walked with determination over to Stroud's office, telling himself on the way that he wasn't going to be intimidated by some FBI agent. After all, he had been a police detective many years, and this was his city, his department, and his case. He would appreciate all the help that the Feds could give him, but he was still in charge of the investigation.

In his office, Chief Stroud introduced Jason to the FBI agent.

"I told him that you were heading up the investigation into these murders and filled him in with what I knew," the chief said. "He already had a copy of the murderer's note, but he wanted to meet you and ask a few questions. Why don't you both have a seat? Agent Hendrix?"

"Nice to meet you, detective." Hendrix said. "I've read your official reports of the investigation so far. I went over your interviews, ballistics, and everything that crime scene investigation had. I want to know what your thoughts and impressions are."

"Agent Hendrix, I've thought long and hard about these murders. The murderer is apparently targeting high-profile, socially prominent men. They are carefully planned, and he leaves us few clues. As Crime Scene Response probably told you, there are no fingerprints, no shoe marks, and no cigarette butts. He picks up his spent cartridges. No one has been able to give a description. He's smart, methodical, and thorough. Most puzzling of all is lack of motive." An idea suddenly struck Jason. "Or on second thought, is there?"

"What do you mean?" Hendrix asked.

"His victims' prominence and vocations are his motive. He's talking to us, taunting us to put together the connection behind the killings."

"Have you been able to make a connection among the victims?"

"Not yet."

"Do you have any leads?"

"None to speak of."

"What do you have, other than his note?"

"Not a lot."

Hendrix said, "That's where the FBI can help if you want us to. We know that you local guys don't like the Feds elbowing in. I assure you we don't like to come in unless we have to. However, we have at our disposal enormous technology; we have the FBI database on all serial killers; we have funds and manpower. Can we help you in any way?"

"Thanks for your offer, Agent Hendrix. I may ask for your help eventually, but not now. Have your people made any progress with that note?" asked Jason.

"They're still working on it. I'll let you know of any progress. Anything else I can do?"

"No thanks," said Stroud. "We'll call if we need you."

"Thank you for coming over," said Jason with relief.

Agent Hendrix left the office. Stroud noticed that Jason had breathed out a sigh and put words to his thoughts. "We'll keep the FBI out as long as we can, but that puts more pressure on you, Colbert. I know you'll do a good job. You've never failed me yet."

When he reached his office, Jason felt the need for some solitude. He took the phone off the receiver, pushed aside his messages and papers, stretched back and put his feet up on the desk. He tried to clear his mind to concentrate on the possibilities.

For one thing, he was not going to quit this case. The pressure and warnings from Chief Stroud, the DA, and the FBI only strengthened his will to succeed. He wouldn't let a murderer with a twisted mind get the best of him. The killer would eventually make a mistake or leave a clue, and when he did, Jason would destroy him.

# Chapter 20

The Philosophy Club met on a beautiful late fall night in Dallas. With the red, yellow, and brown leaves of the red oaks, cottonwoods, and pecans beginning to fall, it was still pleasant enough for a light sweater or sport coat. Geneva Caldwell's imposing house allowed all the guests to park their cars in the spacious curved driveway and under the port-cochére. After coming through the double front door, the members entered a spacious entry hall, accented with antique Chinese vases and bronze figures. A stairway with a marble balustrade curved from it to the second floor. They wandered back to the dining room, where Geneva's housekeeper had laid out snacks and drinks on the table, a spray of mums in fall colors filling the center.

Geneva had inherited wealth from her family. Her husband, Whitfield, had been very successful in investments and real estate, and left her another fortune when he died suddenly. The police said he was probably going over 100 miles per hour when he lost control of his Porsche.

As the guests arrived, they congregated around the table and asked Doris how she was feeling, sympathizing with her about her nausea from her chemotherapy. She said her hair was starting to fall out. "We're philosophers," Doris smiled, "so I'm going to be philosophical about it, just accept it and buy a wig."

Everyone ambled into the large sitting room with down-filled couches, wing-back chairs, Queen Anne loveseats and enough art and collectibles to fill their own room at the museum. Stuart had been touring the artwork and furnishings, shaking his head and mumbling to himself. Barbara and Dick Karlson were leading the discussion and started handing out a short biography of Spinoza, the subject for the evening.

Barbara Karlson was a lawyer who had practiced in Dallas DA' s office for a few years. She had an incisive mind and shared her husband's interest in philosophy. Dick was a brilliant investor with an organized and competitive mind. He had an outline and prepared notes for the discussion. The other members of the group always paid attention to his comments, because they knew he always did his homework and was prepared before each meeting.

Barbara opened the discussion with some background on the Jewish philosopher, then she and Dick gave an outline of his philosophy. Dick said, "Spinoza explained that there are not two separate powers, God and nature. They are one and the same. God set up the natural law, and it was part of His own nature. He would never act against it, as miracles would suggest. It would be like acting against Himself."

Barbara continued, "Many of Spinoza's critics called him an atheist, which was incorrect. To him God was not a separate being out there somewhere but was in all things. God is in everything and everything is God. He is not just the sum of all existence; He is the essence of existence. This is called pantheism."

"Sadly, Spinoza died young, at forty-five," Dick said. "He wrote about virtue and greatness, 'Minds are conquered not by arms but by greatness of soul. To be great is not to be placed above humanity, ruling others; but to stand above the partialities and futilities of uninformed desire and to rule one's self.' "

Barbara picked up the thread, "He thought that personal memory and personality could not exist beyond the death of the living brain, nor did he believe in reward or punishment after death. He said that serving the greatest good was virtue enough to ensure happiness. He said, 'Immortality is not the reward of clear thinking, it is clear thought itself. Such thought is immortal, because every truth is a permanent creation, part of the eternal acquisition of man, influencing him endlessly.'"

"That was very good," said Brock. "Since Spinoza's concept of God includes all of existence, it also includes all truth. So, I guess you could say that by gaining more of the truth, we include more of God and in fact become more god-like."

"I don't think you'll ever become more god-like, Brock," Grady laughed.

Stuart spoke up, "I don't know about Mr. Gillis, but I agree that we can feel an identity with a supreme power. Demonstrations have shown that when people are in a deep meditation, they have a loss of their ego boundary. They feel like they are one with all of existence, as with a supreme power. I've had that experience."

Herb said, "A book by some scientists showed that our minds are wired in a way to be aware of a reality beyond our own self. Your experience is like many others who practice deep meditation. Those authors stated that is why God won't go away."

"I'm not a religious person, Dr. Goodman," Stuart said, "but I am spiritual, if I can use that term. I believe that we are here for a purpose. I believe that we should be moral, and act ethically, to help those less fortunate and leave this a better world than we found it."

"Those are very good values, my young friend," said Herb.

Grady returned to Spinoza, "I see the concept of God and the laws of nature being one and the same and that everything including ourselves is part of God. But hasn't pantheism sort of become old hat in recent years?"

"Actually, it's grown into a larger concept," said Herb. "In Spinoza's time, the physics of Newton defined a rigid and static universe. We now understand that the universe is expanding, stars are growing and dying, and life and societies are evolving. The whole universe is growing more complex. So you might say that God is growing and developing also."

Dick added, "We have scientific evidence all around us of an emerging universe. What I mean, is that it has become more and more complex since the Big Bang. Some thinkers have put forth the idea that there must be a plan built into the fabric of the universe. That blueprint has nothing to do with God, though. It's like DNA, pushing the universe, making it more complex, more complete."

"Do you think God had anything to do with the creation of the universe?" Stuart threw out.

The discussion continued about the possible role of God in the universe, until Doris said, "We're not going to change anyone's personal feelings about a supreme being's role in the universe. I'm getting kind of tired. But before we go, I want to ask that we all have a moment of silence for our friend and spiritual leader, Rabbi Jacob Silverman, who was viciously murdered this week." Doris dabbed her eyes and said, "Herb and I are members of Rabbi Silverman's congregation. He was a warm and brilliant person and was loved by everyone. It's such a tragedy. His family and the whole congregation are devastated."

"I took a course he taught on Jewish philosophers," Herb added. "He also had fondness for Spinoza, whom he characterized as the gentle philosopher. I would also refer to Rabbi Silverman as the gentle Rabbi." With that Herb choked up and couldn't continue.

The others agreed that the rabbi had been a significant leader in the community and that his death was a great loss.

Geneva noticed that Doris was getting tired and Herb nudged her to end the discussion. " I think everyone is getting tired. Who would like to lead the discussion next time?" Geneva asked.

"I'll have it at my place," said Brock, "but I don't want to lead it. I just want to listen and argue."

"Good," said Grady, "I'll lead the discussion on Descartes. He was my kind of philosopher. He doubted everything."

"You sure do doubt everything," said Brock. "Maybe you'll find something in Descartes that you can agree with."

"I agree with most people, Brock, just not with you. I like to argue with you because it gives me sport." He smiled, but behind the smile was anger.

Geneva raised her eyebrows and intercepted any retort like a referee, "We'll continue that argument next time," she said, and shot a disapproving glance at Grady, then at Brock.

On the way home, Doris wondered about the fact that Rabbi Silverman had an interest in the philosopher Spinoza and was killed in the same week as the Philosophy Club's subject for discussion of the same person. Was it a coincidence or not?

# Chapter 21

The next morning Doris had a difficult time awakening from a night of abdominal cramps, aching joints, and nightmares of falling into a deep dark pit without hope of escape. Slowly emerging from the fog of sleep, she began to feel her arms and legs, flexing her feet and opening and closing stiff fingers. It was like trying to start an old car on a cold morning.

She realized she would have to quit seeing her patients while she was fighting her cancer. She hoped that it would be temporary, but she had to call someone to take over her practice. Dr. Kelly Lynacre was a younger therapist that Doris knew well and respected.

Doris had developed a well-deserved reputation as an insightful and caring therapist. She had a special talent for probing carefully into the emotional history of her patients, who rarely had trouble exposing their innermost problems for her to treat.

When Kelly Lynacre entered practice about ten years previously, she had asked Doris for advice. Doris suggested that Kelly meet with her weekly to discuss patients. She taught her how to observe nuances of expressions, mannerisms, and speech patterns to gain insight into patients' thoughts. Kelly's skill in therapy improved greatly with Doris's therapeutic suggestions, until they no longer met on a regular basis. She called Doris occasionally for a second opinion when she had a particularly complicated case.

Doris waited for the proper time to call, hoping that Kelly would be between patients and pick up the phone. She was right.

Kelly knew about Doris's illness. "Hi Doris. How are you feeling?"

"This chemotherapy has really knocked the energy out of me. I hardly have enough to do ordinary things. I'm afraid I won't be able to see my patients any more, until I get over this anyway. I'm going to need someone to take them over."

"Doris, I'll be glad to help. I'll do anything I can for you. I'm sure I can fit them into my schedule and will be glad to lengthen my hours if necessary."

"I think it'll only be temporary, but I appreciate it very much."

"You've taught me to be a better therapist and I'm eternally grateful for that. I hope I can deserve your trust."

"You flatter me. You're every bit as good a therapist as I am. That's why I trust my patients with you."

"Thank you, Doris. You know that you're always in my thoughts and prayers."

After hanging up, Doris took out a tissue to wipe her eyes and nose as she gazed out her window at the wind blowing around the dead leaves. Dead leaves. They were all that were left of the bright potential of spring and the full growth of summer. Will our lives be blown away and forgotten like dead leaves? No. The dead leaves decay and serve as food for new buds that will take their place. The old must go to make room for the new. So it is with us.

Doris then sauntered into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of apple juice, and took out some fresh fruit she had cut up. While eating her snack, her mind wandered over the discussion the night before on immortality. It would be tempting to think that after death we would somehow retain our individuality and recognize our deceased loved ones, but she could not imagine such a place. After all, noboby has ever come back after death and told us what it's like, she thought. Her Jewish tradition was silent about an afterlife. It placed emphasis on creating a better life and world for the living. Her thoughts inevitably shifted to the death of Rabbi Silverman. What a tragedy.

The emotional losses of her spiritual leader and her personal doctor confirmed a decision that had been fermenting in Doris's mind. She decided to get involved actively in trying to solve their deaths, and would call the detective and tell him that she wanted to help find the murderer. With her resolve in mind, she began thinking about the note he left with them.

She laid her glass and bowl in the sink, made herself some tea, and carried it to the study to have a look at that note. She put down her cup on the desk and picked up the coded message.

PLATE TO CLEAR ISN'T A GRASPING OF SAND. ESCAPE THE MACHINES. A CHUM EATS TACK. AN THEN CAN NIETHER SEES ARTIST FOR MURDERS TEN.

She knew that whoever sent the note wanted to play a game. The next step in the game was solving the riddle, so there must be a solution. She searched her background for literary allusions and tricks for a translation. She gave up trying to make sense of the words and tried simple letter substitutions. She tried the alphabet backwards, "a" for "z", "b" for "y", etc. That was too simple and failed. "Ten". Maybe that had some significance. She substituted the letters for every tenth letter in the alphabet, no help. Backwards, no help. She tried the sentences as an anagram, tried to rearrange letters to make new words, tried these in new combinations. Nothing.

Her mind went around and around. She decided to just let it rest and ask Herb when he came home. Maybe his math background would help. After all, two heads were always better than one numb one. After she fixed herself a cup of soup for lunch, Doris laid down for a nap. Words, phrases, and letters flooded through her unconscious mind. She awoke and paced through the house without purpose, finally turning on the early evening news, waiting for Herb to come home. As she sat in her recliner, the glow from the setting sun filtered through her window, its dusty-rose twilight bathing her in its red and pink tones.

Herb brought home some take-out Chinese food for dinner. They chatted while they ate, Doris picking at her food.

"You know, Doris, the government strictures on stem cell research are driving all of us serious researchers crazy", Herb told her. "Don't they realize that they're just driving good scientists overseas to do their research? Singapore has developed and financed a huge complex for it and welcomes any good scientist."

"I know it must be frustrating for you," she said.

"It's frustrating whenever politics interferes with scientific research. We're used to the government being involved in research," he said. "After all, most of our research money comes from them. What really makes me angry is that the decision on stem cells is made on religious grounds."

Doris nodded, "It's always dangerous when politicians use religious pretexts to make decisions."

"Especially with scientific ones," Herb fumed. "Religion and science is a dangerous mixture. One shouldn't have anything to do with the other."

"Maybe the government will change its attitude," Doris surmised. "Maybe level minds will prevail, so that religious views won't interfere with scientific progress."

"I hope so," Herb said. "You just can't stop science."

"You know," she said, "I was thinking today about our discussion last night about Spinoza and the murder of Rabbi Silverman. My mind started dancing and I picked up that note from the supposed killer the detective left with us. I went around and around with it but couldn't make any sense out of it. It's got to say something. Maybe you could help me. Would you have a look at it after dinner?"

Herb said he would, cleaned up the dishes, and went to the study where Doris had pulled up an extra chair to the desk.

Doris showed Herb the note and her figuring. "You can see from my notes that I tried some letter substitutions, anagrams, letter and word rearrangements, everything I could think of. There must be something else, maybe some mathematical key that I'm not aware of. What do you think?"

"There is only one number in this, 'TEN.' Maybe it's a hint, a clue to the solution. I don't think it refers to ten murders."

"I didn't think so either. That's why I used it to substitute letters."

"I don't think it's that simple, yet it does have significance. He doesn't want to make it so difficult that we can't solve it. He just wants to tease us. Let's try some math gymnastics first." Herb used some formulas based on the number ten. The desk was covered with combinations and computations. The wastebasket was filling up. After two hours, Herb threw up his hands in frustration. "I'm getting tired. I can't think anymore. I always do my best thinking in the mornings. Let me sleep on this and I'll try it again tomorrow."

# Chapter 22

After dinner the next night, Herb and Doris again went into the study to work on the note. "I've been thinking about that note all day," said Herb. "I remembered something in my history about Julius Caesar sending coded notes. I did some searching with my computer while I had some free time. Caesar used a code to send messages from Gaul to his political allies in Rome. He knew that his enemies had spies that read his letters, so he wrote out a letter in plain Latin, saying things about his campaign. But, his friends knew to rearrange the words to read his true meaning."

"I had a feeling that your knowledge of history might help. How did Caesar's code work?" asked Doris.

"The letters were to be arranged in a block according to a prearranged number. Then the words were read down or across in the block. In our case, there is not a prearranged number, but the message contains its own key, the number ten. Let's see how this works. Let's arrange the letters and spaces in rows of ten. I'll leave the spaces between the sentences.

He wrote out the message in columns:

"That doesn't look right. The words make no sense and the block doesn't come out symmetrical. Let's see. There are one hundred letters in the text, not counting the punctuation. That's an even number of ten rows of ten letters. Let's try again, leaving out the spaces for punctuation."

He rewrote it as follows:

"What does it mean, Herb? I don't see anything."

"Try to read it down and up, forward and backward," Herb said.

Doris scrutinized the block of letters, trying to tease out some words. "I see a couple of names at the beginning of the line. I see HUME in line six and KANT in the next line."

"They're philosophers, right?" Herb said.

"If he put two philosophers in there, then maybe there are others. Those have four letters each."

"Look at the first four letters of each line," Herb said.

Doris was excited. "I see PLAT for Plato, ARIS for Aristotle, SPIN for Spinoza, and DESC for Descartes."

"What could MACH and NIET be?" asked Herb.

"MACH could be Machiavelli and NIET could be Nietzsche. That's why 'neither' is misspelled."

"Then SART could be Sartre of course. You got it, Doris. But all we have is a list of philosophers. What possible connection could that have with the murders?"

"Remember, I told you that the word philosophy kept coming up with Professor Patagos, Morrie Abrams and the Rabbi."

"What do you mean? He's just giving us a list of philosophers."

"They're a clue. He's leading us somewhere. But where?" she asked. Doris was considering the possibilities, when Herb interrupted her thoughts.

"I think we should tell the police what we've found. Where is that card the detective left?" asked Herb. "What was his name?"

Doris was glad that Herb was going to call him, because she knew that now she was definitely involved. "Jason," said Doris. "Jason Colbert."

# Chapter 23

The next day, Jason went by the forensics lab, called the code expert at the FBI, and read the reports of his team. Was he doing enough? His mind turned to many of his colleagues, he knew, had given in to the violence they were hired to stop. They reacted with violence themselves, shooting too reflexively at suspects, using excessive force to arrest someone, or being too aggressive. Most were good, honest, dedicated cops, but some were not too different from the criminals they chased---only they had on a badge. The one thing that Jason and some of his like-minded officers agreed on was that police work ultimately had to do with being able to interpret the social trends. They agreed that they must train the younger generation of officers to be better equipped to deal with modern society. He shook his head and returned to the problem at hand.

Jason called his team together for a conference. Everyone reported on their interviews, and Jason told them about his meeting with the FBI agent. They were all relieved that the feds would not be interfering. There were no ideas about the note.

Going back to his desk, Jason discovered that Doris Goodman, the psychologist, had called. He wondered what she wanted as he dialed her number.

"Hello detective, thank you for returning my call. I think I may have some information that can help you in those murders you're investigating."

"How is that, Dr. Goodman? Do you or your husband have anything else on Dr. Abrams or the rabbi?"

"No, it's more than that. And please call me Doris. Remember the copy of that note from the supposed killer that you left with us? I think Herb and I solved it."

Jason had forgotten that he had left a copy of the note with the Goodmans, although he had shown it to every person who might be able to help him. "That's great, Doris. What is it that you made out of it?" Jason was skeptical that these two amateurs, intelligent as they were, could solve a coded message that experts couldn't.

Doris patiently recounted the steps that she and Herb used to get at the solution She told him about Caesar's code, about the number ten, and finally about constructing the square of letters. "The square spelled out several words when constructed according to the key of ten."

"What did it say?" Jason was excited. "Does it contain a motive, a clue to his identity, perhaps the next victim?"

"Well, not exactly," Doris admitted. "If you read the first four letters of each line, they're the names of philosophers."

"Philosophers! You mean to tell me that all it contains is a list of philosophers? You must be joking. There's got to be more in it than that."

"That's all we can figure out at this time, but I agree with you there is more to it. I think he's leading us somewhere."

"What did your husband think?"

"He agreed with me about the list of philosophers and told me to call you. Why don't you come to our house tonight, about seven? Herb will be home then. We can all put our heads together." Doris wanted to insinuate herself into the investigation with the detective. Having him come to their house to work on the note would be a good way.

"I'll see you then," said Jason. "You both did good work. Keep working at it."

As Doris hung up, she congratulated herself.

Jason put down the phone, thinking that at last they had a breakthrough... maybe. And who were these people that were helping him?

# Chapter 24

Herb came home from the medical school that evening excited. "I've been thinking about the philosophers in that note all day. I think I see another relationship in it. The philosophers' names that you found are Plato, Aristotle, Spinoza, Descartes, Machiavelli, Hume, Kant, Nietzsche, and Sartre, right?"

"I think that's right," said Doris.

"Then they're in chronological order."

"What do you mean?"

"They're listed historically."

"What does it mean?"

"I'm not sure. Let's eat first. I'm starved and your casserole smells wonderful."

"It's only frozen lasagna. I don't have the energy to do much cooking."

"Let's go into the study where we can work on this," Herb said after they cleaned up.

"Let me see the list of philosophers that you have," Doris said.

Herb handed her the list that he had written down from the coded message.

"They're mostly in historical order, but I think Descartes actually was born before Spinoza. Let's look them up in Google," she said.

"You're right, Doris," Herb said after looking up their biographies. "Descartes lived from 1596 to 1650, and Spinoza from 1632 to 1677. Their lives actually overlapped."

"Something just occurred to me," Doris said. "We're discussing philosophers in our philosophy club in historical order also. We have discussed Plato, Aristotle, and Spinoza so far, and they correspond to the first three on your list."

Herb asked, "Where is the list that we're discussing in the club?"

"I have it in a folder on the desk." She found it and retrieved the list. "Here it is. After Spinoza are listed Descartes, Machiavelli, Hume, Kant, Nietzsche and Sartre. Look, we made the same mistake of putting Spinoza before Descartes."

Herb was excited, "They correspond exactly. What can possibly be the connection?"

"I don't think it's a coincidence. The person who sent this note also has a list of the philosophers we're discussing in our club. Of all the philosophers in history, it's more than a coincidence. To me, it's clear," said Doris.

"You may be right," admitted Herb. "But how could someone have gotten a copy of that list? Could the murderer be a member of our club?"

# Chapter 25

Doris and Herb were still discussing possibilities, when the doorbell chimed. "That's probably the detective," said Herb as he rose to let him in.

Jason came into study. "Would you like some coffee, detective?" Herb offered.

"No, don't trouble yourself," Jason said.

"It's no trouble. Doris made a fresh pot, knowing that you were coming."

"In that case, I would like a cup. I take mine black."

As they settled down with their coffees, Jason asked, "Have you come up with anything else?"

"Herb realized that the philosophers in the note were almost in chronological order, and I found that they correspond to the list that we had put together to discuss in our Philosophy Club."

She showed him how the nine names in the note exactly matched their discussion list. "Herb and I don't think the word 'murders' belongs to a philosopher," she concluded.

"So you're implying that the person who sent this note has a list of the names you're discussing in your group. What's it called?"

"The Philosophy Club. We formed this group of individuals who liked to discuss philosophy and made a list of the philosophers we plan to discuss. We take turns leading the discussion and hosting it at our homes. The first murder preceded our discussion of Plato, the second before Aristotle, and the third before Spinoza. There was always a new murder before each meeting."

"You mentioned Spinoza," said Jason. "Was he the last one you discussed?"

"Yes, he was," said Herb.

"Was Rabbi Silverman's death before that?"

"Yes, it was."

"As I recall from my discussion with Mr. Davidson, wasn't Rabbi Silverman also interested in Spinoza?"

"He was his favorite philosopher," said Herb. "Is there a connection?"

"I don't know yet. What's the rest of your schedule look like?" Doris showed him the list. "There are nine names on this list, including the first three that you say correspond to the first three murders. If what you say is true, then he plans six more. Who are the members of your group?"

Doris gave him a list and a brief background of each. "It's difficult for me to believe that any one of them could be a murderer, but in my experience a person is capable of almost anything."

"You're right about that, Doris, and I'll look into all of them." Can I keep a copy of that list?" Doris nodded. Jason saw that they were listed in a column. To the right of that list, he wrote the names of the victims, Nicolas Patagos, Morris Abrams, and Jacob Silverman.

"Wait a minute, Jason," Doris said. "Look at the last name of each murder victim with the philosopher next to it."

"Yeah, the first initial of each victim is the same as that of the first three philosophers. That's more than a coincidence. Let's see if we can figure out what else there is in common among these first three."

"Well, Dr. Patagos was obviously Greek, like Plato," said Doris. "What did he teach?"

"Philosophy," said Jason, raising his eyebrows.

"There you have the first connection. Plato was a Greek who taught philosophy. He founded the famous Academy in Athens," explained Doris.

"Aristotle was also interested in science, especially biology," said Herb. "He probably got that from his father, who was a physician. So there is the connection to Morris Abrams, a medical doctor and scientist."

Jason excitedly picked up the thread. "And Spinoza was a Jewish philosopher. Rabbi Silverman was a Jewish scholar also interested in Spinoza. Wow! It all makes sense, connecting them in this way. But it has to mean something more. Who is the next philosopher on the list?"

"Descartes," said Doris.

"Tell me about him."

"He was a French philosopher, who said that you have to question everything except what is absolutely certain, and then work your way up logically."

"When is the next Philosophy Club meeting?"

"It's next Thursday night. Maybe you could come and observe it."

"I don't want to be too obvious at this point. If the murderer is a member, it might spook him. Let me do some poking around with these names first."

Doris placed her hand on Jason's arm. "I have an emotional attachment to the murders of Morrie Abrams and Rabbi Silverman. I want to help you find the killer. Please let me."

"Thank you, Dr. G... Doris, I could use all the help you can give me. Well, I had better get to work if we're going to prevent another murder." Jason thanked the Goodmans for their help and drove off into the night. Questions without answers flew around like startled pigeons inside his mind....lists of philosophers, initials of victims, murders without motives.

Now he had a connection, a tenuous one. He had to admit to himself that Doris and Herb had really cracked the message, and given him the names of the Philosophy Club members. He was impressed, especially with Doris's insight. It was a start, no it was a hurdle that she had helped him jump over.

Was he doing everything he could? He was feeling a little guilty that he wasn't doing enough. Had he stretched the law too much in his past? Where did these pangs of conscience stem from....God, society, his own inbred biology?

He began to examine himself and his relationships to his family and friends. He decided not to think of his relationships in a negative way, but to grab hold of them and to possess them. He realized that he had to live them authentically and that doing his job was part of that.

# Chapter 26

Because Jason was in charge of the investigation into these high profile murders, Lieutenant Miles had excused him from the rotation and on-call roster, which meant that he no longer had the risk of being called in the middle of the night or on weekends for a new homicide. He could sleep a little longer in the mornings, could finish his morning jog, and could still have time for breakfast with Teri and the kids before they went to school. He and Teri had bought a nice four-bedroom house in the northern suburbs near good schools and that was convenient to Teri's job as administrative assistant to the chairman of the English department at the University of Texas at Dallas.

Jason knew in his gut that there was still something in the murders that he was missing, something there he hadn't discovered, something there the killer was trying to tell him. This whole case was something beyond the limits of this world ,and therefore not only alien, but sinister.

Instead of going to headquarters, he went to the public library a few blocks away, where he could work undisturbed. He could get a cubicle with a computer and do some research on his own, away from the police department. He drove slowly through the crisp, bright, early winter's day. There was hardly any traffic. The regular downtown workers were already at their jobs, and Jason used the quiet drive to think.

He saw how neat and clean the streets were, which reminded him of Teri's neat and nicely decorated home. His thoughts led to Teri's work at the university, and how she really enjoyed working for Dr. Whitman, the department head. That thought led to another professor, Dr. Patagos, then to Dr. Abrams, and of course to Rabbi Silverman.

They had to be connected in some way other than what he had determined so far. He found a parking place and, like an automaton, walked to the library entrance still thinking about the murders.

He was lost in thought when he almost tripped over a homeless man asleep on the library steps. The library was a favorite place for the homeless, where they could escape the cold or heat by going inside and reading magazines. Of course, the library didn't allow them to bring in food or drink or doze in the padded chairs. The city recently built a facility where the homeless could sleep and get a decent meal, but it was inadequate. Jason wondered if the city would ever have a solution for these unfortunates. Some were helpless and maybe mentally retarded; others were hopeless alcoholics or drug addicts. They all preyed on pedestrians for handouts, a real nuisance in the downtown area.

He entered the library and found his way to the little cubicles where people could use the computers. As he settled down, he took out a legal pad and wrote the names of Dick Karlson, Grady Jenkins, Brock Gillis, and Stuart Langford at the top of four separate pages. His intuition told him that the murderer was a man, so he eliminated the women in the philosophy club. He looked up each person and combined the information with what his team had found from other sources.

Dick Karlson was born in Chicago fifty-five years ago, the son of an economics teacher. After receiving a degree in accounting and finance from the University of Chicago, he went to work for Merrill Lynch in Atlanta. He was successful as a broker and investing his own money and left to form a partnership with a Robert Mason, managing accounts of five million dollars or more. Karlson and his partner developed their own fund and then took it public, making enough money that Karlson was able to retire before he was fifty.

He moved to Dallas with his wife, Barbara, who joined the district attorney's office. Jason made a note to check that out. In Dallas, Karlson invested in real estate, among other things, making another fortune. He had interests in several office buildings and shopping centers, doing most of his investing through the Shelstone Real Estate and Investment Group. Jason noted down to talk with Shelstone about Dick Karlson's investments.

Jason remembered Barbara Karlson as an idealistic, honest prosecutor who had a special interest in DWI's. He knew from talk around the police department that her crusade stemmed from the death of her father at the hands of a drunken driver. He also recalled that she had quit after only three years, purportedly because she wanted to be at home with her teenagers.

In his mind, Barbara Karlson was not a suspect. However, her connection with Phillips deserved further investigation. Besides that, her husband was still a suspect, and perhaps she was part of his design.

Grady Jenkins was a forty-two-year-old divorced father. He was an alumnus of SMU, having received his undergraduate and law degrees from there. He made good grades but was not exceptional. Majoring in government, he took philosophy and history courses. Jason noted that one of Grady's professors in an introductory philosophy course was Nicolas Patagos.

He was a partner in one of the largest and most prestigious law firms in Dallas, his expertise in real estate law making millions for the firm and propelling him to the head of that section. Jenkins sometimes received a small percentage of a real estate transaction as part or full payment for his legal fees, resulting in interests in office buildings, shopping centers and raw land around the Dallas-Fort Worth area.

His only child, Marcus, was a twenty-year-old sophomore at SMU. Jason looked up his classes and found that he had also taken a course with Dr. Patagos. He had made poor grades in it. What an interesting coincidence, Jason thought.

Brock Gillis was a forty-five-year-old bachelor who had never married. Born in St. Louis, he received a scholarship to Washington University, where he got a degree in business. He then got his MBA from SMU and settled in Dallas. In the 1980's, he took advantage of the telecommunications boom, developing Gillis TeleCom and buying several buildings in the Richardson telecom corridor. Foreseeing the bursting of the bubble, he sold his interests in the buildings at a very nice profit and bought some undeveloped land further north, where the growth was bound to continue. Gillis TeleCom diversified, becoming a conglomerate of telephone, cable, internet service, radio, and television stations. Gillis made astute investments, becoming a majority partner in a land development company called the Texcom Group, which invested in raw land, improved it, broke it up, and sold it to developers. He was also a generous political contributor to candidates for local, state, and national offices. These political connections no doubt helped his telecommunications business. Jason also noted that he had run for election to the Dallas City Council but had been unsuccessful.

There wasn't much on Stuart Langford, a twenty-year-old SMU student who was born in Dallas and went to St. Mark's prep school. He was also a student in Dr. Patagos' philosophy class.

Jason looked back over his notes before leaving the library. He noted that the three older men had interests in real estate. Maybe this was where real wealth was made, and these were smart investors. Like attracts like.

Having closed down the computer, Jason gathered up his materials and notes and thanked the librarian. He noticed as he left the library that the same homeless man had moved over to lie in the sun. This time, Jason looked him over more closely, noticing that he wore an out-dated summer-weight plaid sport coat over a dark wool sweater and corduroy pants. The clothes appeared old and a bit worn but clean, like the man himself. He looked to be about seventy. Jason thought he didn't have the appearance of a drunk or addict. In fact, he looked like he had been rather middle-class, a retired businessman perhaps, who had a run of bad luck, lost his business, and had no family or friends to turn to. My god, thought Jason, he could be anyone's father. He could be a helpless victim of fate, illustrating how a person's life could turn on the whims of fortune.

As Jason walked to his car and drove over to headquarters, his thoughts wandered from the fate that had been dealt to the homeless man to the more tragic one of the murders he was investigating, of the senseless deaths of three good men who served the community.

Those three lives were caught up in a fate that was not of their doing, perhaps like the homeless man, who in spite of healthy living and obeying society's rules, had been dealt an unjust blow. Any one of us may be run into by a drunk driver, or shot as a bystander in an armed robbery, or murdered by a burglar, or killed in any number of ways. Such senseless acts could not be willed by a providential God. They just happen and are beyond our power to prevent them.

Even though some things were beyond our control, Jason thought, we can still do the best we can with what we've got, to live a good life and make this a better world. He decided that doing his best was to find out who was behind these horrendous murders.

# Chapter 27

It was Tuesday, and Professor James Danton was finishing grading exam papers from a pop test he had given his class on Monday. An economics and math teacher at the University of Texas, Dallas campus, Danton was a handsome man with an athletic build that he maintained by playing tennis with his friends three times a week.

In his office on the third floor of the math building, Danton put down the test papers he had finished and picked up an economics journal that he had been reading earlier. Time seemed to pass so seamlessly, that he was surprised it was dark when he finished his third article. It's dark so early now, he thought absently. Sure that his wife, Maureen, was wondering where he was, he picked up the phone, called her, and explained that he had lost track of time and was on his way home. He packed his briefcase and walked briskly to his car.

The man in a hat and overcoat had been sitting in his dark car for over an hour, almost dozing, while waiting for Danton. Looking up, he saw him getting into his car and quickly got out and ran towards him, his hand in his coat pocket.

Danton saw the man through his rearview mirror and thought it odd that he was running toward him. He backed out and turned, putting the car in forward gear. Curious, he glanced at the man and saw him pull something from his pocket. Instinct told Danton to jam the accelerator and lean away from the window just as a shot crashed through it. The bullet went through the fleshy outer part of Danton's left shoulder, his deltoid, and struck the car's dash. Grabbing his arm, he drove to the Richardson Hospital emergency room, which was only a couple of miles away. He had the ER clerk call Maureen and tell her where he was and that he would be late for dinner. She didn't think that was funny and rushed to the hospital.

Maureen ran into the ER breathless, her heart pounding in anticipation. She found her husband in one of the cubicles, his left arm covered with a bulky red-stained bandage and cradled in his right hand.

"What in the world happened?" she asked. "Who shot you? Why?"

"Wait a minute," he said. "Calm down. If I knew who shot me or why, I'd go after him tomorrow. I have no earthly idea."

"Are you all right? Are you in pain?"

"They gave me an injection for pain and anesthetized the wound before they cleaned it."

"Is it serious? Anything broken?"

He tried to allay her anxiety more.. "Sit down, sweetheart. They've taken x-rays and nothing is broken. The bullet went right through the muscle."

"What are they going to do?" She asked.

"I'm waiting for the doctor. They said he'll examine it and sew me up. You know, emergency rooms, though. Probably here for a long night."

About an hour later, Richardson police officers arrived to take a statement. Danton told them how he had worked late at the university and was pulling out of his parking space when he saw a figure in his rear view mirror running toward him.

"I thought it sort of odd that he would be running so hard toward me. Then he reached into his coat and pulled out something. At first I wasn't sure. Then I saw him aim it at me."

"Then what did you do?"

"The car was already in drive, so I floored it. I guess I reflexively leaned to my right, and I felt a stinging pain in my left arm. As I pulled out of the lot and drove toward the street, I realized I was bleeding all down my side. It was then that the real pain hit me."

"Did you get a good look at the shooter? Could you give us a description? You referred to him as 'he.'"

"Well, it was dark and he was running, but I'm sure it was a man. He had on a dark baseball cap, was about six feet tall and of medium build. His collar was turned up. He may have been wearing a mask or scarf on his lower face."

"What else do you remember?"

"He ran fast, like he was used to it. He was in good shape. So I don't think he was very old. I would say mid-forties. Of course, I'm forty-seven, and I can run like that, but I'm in good shape."

"Do you know of anyone who would want to kill you?"

"Officer, I'm completely baffled. I have no idea why anyone would want to kill me. If I come up with anyone, I'll certainly let you know."

"We looked at your car and saw a bullet hole in the front dash. Crime Scene Response will get it out and send it to ballistics. How serious is your wound?"

Danton patted his bandage. "They say that nothing serious was damaged. I can move my arm all right, though I'm sure it'll hurt like hell later."

"I'm sure it will, professor. That's all I need. A detective may call on you later in the week. Thanks for your cooperation," the officer said and left.

Danton dozed off before the doctor came in about 2a.m. to sew him up.

* * *

Failure. He wasn't used to failure. He knew he hadn't killed the man. He wasn't close enough for an accurate shot and he saw him drive off. He couldn't follow but had to swallow his defeat and slink home like a whipped dog. After pouring himself a stiff drink, he sank into his chair in a slump of despair.

The optimistic elation after the previous successes was replaced by a gray fog of uncertainty, a zone of emptiness. Doubt filled his mind. He began to question not only the planning of this failed attempt, but his whole scheme and strategy. Was he doing this right? Was he careful enough? Was it even the correct thing to do? What if he had been deceived, seduced into this by someone else's motives?

He had to doubt everything except what he felt in his inner-most being to be right. No one was putting thoughts into his mind. His mind was his own. His thoughts were his being. He was alive because of them. He would prevail. Satisfied with his reasoning, he put his temporary setback behind him and started planning his next murder.

# Chapter 28

Two days later on Thursday night, the Philosophy Club met at Brock Gillis's house, which sat on ten acres in a far northern suburb. With fifteen thousand square feet of living space, a guest house, a swimming pool, tennis court, and a putting green, it was far too big for one man. However, Brock had many business and political acquaintances and filled it frequently with parties and houseguests from all over the world. He employed a Mexican couple who lived above the garage---Margarita, who cooked and took care of the house, and her husband, Jose, who took care of the yard, pool and cars.

Margarita opened the door for the guests, bringing them into a large common room with an open bar. Sipping eighteen-year-old McCallan single-malt scotch, Brock said, "I'm going to relax with my scotch tonight since I'm not leading the discussion; after all, it's my house."

Brock's large common room was approximately seventy-five by fifty feet with three separate seating areas, a game table, a large bar with barstools, and a fireplace. There were separate study and entertainment rooms. On the tables and shelves were several art pieces, the walls displaying original oils, prints and mixed media.

The guests snacked and visited. Some sauntered around the room, remarking on the art, estimating to themselves how much objects cost. Stuart looked silently at all the furnishings and art objects with a scowl, not hiding his obvious disgust.

After everyone settled down, Grady began, "Our subject is René Descartes tonight. He was born in 1596 in France. In Descartes' day the conflict between Protestantism and Catholicism racked Europe. Religious thinkers on each side tried to undermine the arguments of the other. He was afraid that the skepticism that was generated would spread from religion to knowledge in general. Descartes was a mathematician, so he sought a philosophical basis for a bedrock principle that was unaffected by doubt."

Herb asked, "Didn't he say to doubt everything?"

"That's right," said Grady. "He felt that reason, like mathematics, was a true basis for knowledge, instead of relying on what some ancient writer said."

"But let me explain how he set about it. Descartes used two examples of why we must develop a solid basis for what is true. The first example is the dream. We all have dreams in which we are frightened, fighting, escaping, or loving. We have feelings and emotions during the dream as if they're real. Some people have hallucinations, some of which they insist are actually happening. What's to distinguish the reality of a dream or hallucination from the real world? What if we're all trapped in an imaginary world? How would we know?"

Barbara interjected, "I think most of us are familiar with the movie, _The Matrix_. The characters are in an imaginary world that feels exactly like a real one."

"That's right, Barb," continued Grady. "The characters are trapped in the computer-generated world, and are not even aware that it isn't real."

"The other example that Descartes used was a psychological supposition. He asked, what if our minds were taken over by a 'demon-deceiver', who was capable of undermining all our thoughts? We wouldn't know if what we perceived in the world or even our logical thoughts were our own or were put there by the demon. The demon-deceiver would put ideas in our mind that he wanted us to believe."

"This is not so far-fetched", said Dick. "Around that time in Europe, there were many witch burnings. A priest was accused of infecting a group of nuns with demons and was put to death. In the famous Salem witch trials, a group of girls accused several people of afflicting them by witchcraft."

"So how did Descartes solve this problem?" Grady asked. "He set up three criteria. First, accept nothing as true except something that has overwhelming clarity or vividness. Second, work up from the smallest steps to the general conclusion. Third, test the general conclusion with vigor and persistence. Then Descartes proceeded to doubt everything, as though a demon was trying to deceive him. He finally came down to the only fact that he could not deny. That was the fact that he himself was thinking this. Descartes then in a flash of insight said, 'Cogito ergo sum.' This is his famous statement, 'I think therefore I am.' In other words, I must be real, because I am doing this thinking."

Herb added, "Descartes was also a mathematician. He developed the Cartesian coordinates, the x-y graph that all high school math students are familiar with and that's named after him. He believed that philosophy and religion should be based on solid reasoning, just like mathematics."

"That's true," said Brock. "The Catholic Church of his time really didn't like his philosophy. Even though he remained a staunch Catholic and even wrote a 'proof' of the existence of God, the church was not convinced. His philosophy helped destroy the old medieval worldview and replaced it with rationality. I really don't see anything wrong with that. The civilized world needs to get away from religious myth that can lead to fanaticism."

"That's right to an extent," said Geneva. "But sometimes pure reason and logic can be cold. We still need such irrational things as love, beauty, charity, unselfish sacrifice, and yes, even religious faith."

Grady picked up the argument. "This is a problem that Descartes saw, that we should use reason to doubt old myth and authority. But too much skepticism can destroy our emotional life and of course our belief in God. We are humans with a mind, but we should use it to think rationally and to keep our religious faith."

Stuart blurted out, "I think Descartes was full of bull. He was a mathematician but no philosopher. His use of dreams or a demon-deceiver is just a contrivance to deny what we see and feel. We know we don't live in the matrix and that the world around us is real. As far as his 'proof' of God, it was based on the assumption that there was a Supreme Being to begin with. You can't prove God exists with a mathematical theorem.

"I'd also like to say a few things about this display of wealth I've seen at these meetings. It's vulgar and ostentatious. How dare you people inherit or make wealth out of nothing and force it down the throats of hard-working people. Why don't you put your ill-gotten gains to good use by endowing scholarships or lectureships, or giving to medical research, instead of stroking your own egos with philosophic discussion like mental masturbation? I've had enough of your pedantic ramblings. I'm leaving."

Stuart stormed out followed by gaping mouths and wide eyes that stared in disbelief. Comments about Stuart and his criticism circulated the room. Herb supported Stuart's view about the use of wealth for the good of the community, while Brock said that making wealth helps society in general.

After viewpoints pro and con flew around the room, and the discussion hit an impasse, Barbara said, "We can certainly schedule the philosophic discussion of the proper use of wealth for the future. I believe the next philosopher on our list is Machiavelli. Who would like to lead that discussion and where shall we meet?"

Before anybody could answer, Doris Goodman spoke up, "Has anyone noticed that we haven't discussed a murder tonight?"

"There are always murders," said Brock. "I heard about the mother who drowned her daughter in Houston and the man who killed his wife and two kids then himself. But that was in Memphis. I haven't heard about a notable murder in Dallas since Rabbi Silverman."

"You know, it seems that we did talk about a new murder each time that we met," admitted Geneva. "I thought it was more than a coincidence but dismissed it."

Doris replied, "I was almost certain that there would be another murder on Tuesday night. There seemed to be a pattern."

"A pattern?" said Grady. "I guess the media and cops have decided that these murders were committed by the same person, but what's the pattern?"

"Doris has a theory," Herb said.

"There seems to be a pattern," Doris continued, "of a murder of a prominent person, all men so far, on the Tuesday before each of our philosophy meetings on Thursday."

"What? That's preposterous," exclaimed Dick.

"Don't you think that could be coincidental?" asked Geneva.

"I don't think so, and the reason we didn't hear of one tonight is that there wasn't a murder, but a near-murder, a shooting of a UTD professor on Tuesday night. I heard about it from a friend of mine who teaches there."

"Again, it could be a coincidence. People are being shot at every day," Grady insisted.

"It seems to me to be more than coincidental," Doris explained. "You might call it a hunch or a woman's intuition, but I see a pattern. Bear with me. The first prominent murder was of a philosophy professor. That was before we discussed Plato. Then Dr. Abrams was killed, and he was a physician, which related him to Aristotle. Then there was the rabbi and Jewish scholar who was killed before we discussed Spinoza."

"That still sounds far-fetched, Doris," said Barbara. "I think your imagination is working overtime."

"I agree," said Dick. "Those associations are very tenuous."

"I don't know," said Grady. "Doris could be onto something. What did you say about a professor at UTD that was shot? How does that fit into your theory? Is he related to Descartes somehow?"

"If my theory is right, he should be, but I don't know how right now." She looked at Herb, indicating to him that she was intentionally leaving out the association of the first initial of the philosophers and the victims.

Comments and discussions broke out all around the room.

Geneva decided to end the discourse that had transitioned from philosophy to murder. She asked again who would like to lead the next discussion.

"I will," said Brock. "I read _The Prince_ in college in a political science class, and I think poor Machiavelli has gotten a bad rap by history."

"Good, Brock. Then Dick and I will have the meeting at our house," said Barbara Karlson.

They all said their good-byes and scattered into the night, again wondering about the murders that seem to invade their discussions.

# Chapter 29

"We've gotten help on that coded message," Jason told his team, "but that still doesn't solve these murders. We still have questions to answer such as: why is he doing it, how does he pick his victim, and of course, who will be next? We must find the key to the riddle."

He told them about his meeting with the Goodmans and working out a connection with their Philosophy Club. "That doesn't mean one of them is the murderer, but I did some background search of their members." He told them what he had found on Jenkins, Brock, and the Karlsons, and also brief information on Jenkins' son, Marcus and Stuart Langford.

Kevin Sharpe reported on his findings, "I talked to the students in Dr. Patagos' class, especially Stuart Langford, who has joined the Philosophy Club that Jenkins, Karlson and Brock belong to. He is an interesting young man. His ancestor was a Confederate colonel, whom Stuart is very proud of. He has a large Confederate flag in his room, and although I didn't see any other neo-Nazi or white supremacy paraphernalia, Stuart definitely has racial prejudice. He dislikes blacks and Hispanics, thinking they are undermining American culture. I don't think he dislikes Jews, though."

"What did he say about Dr. Patagos?" Mark asked.

"He didn't like him at all. He thought that he was a very hard and demanding teacher."

"Do you think he disliked him enough to kill him?" Jason asked.

"I don't know. He has strong ideas about things and is probably capable of violence. He's also very bright and could have concocted that note."

"Why would he kill the others?" DeWayne James asked.

Sharpe suggested, "It's possible that he picked Abrams and Silverman because they're Jewish."

"That may be stretching it, Kevin," said Jason. "What did the other students say?"

"Most all of them agreed that Dr. P. was a hard instructor, who criticized his students' papers and discussions if he thought they didn't come up to his standard,which was very high. They all knew Stuart frequently made comments in class and was not hesitant to confront Dr. P. Two or three said that they knew Stuart fairly well outside of class, describing him as zealous about social justice and other liberal ideas. However, it was unanimous with everyone I talked to that he was incapable of these murders. He's an angry young man, they agreed, but much too temperamental to keep the murders a secret."

"That's very good, Kevin. Why don't you keep an eye on him? Did you also get to talk with Marcus Jenkins? He's the son of Grady Jenkins, one of the members of the Philosophy Club."

"Yes I did. He said that he was sorry afterward for that outburst in class, and he apologized to Prof. Patagos the next day. He said he is satisfied with his new professor, and plans to make a B in the class."

"In your estimation, do you think he's a suspect in Dr.P's death? " asked Jason.

"No, I really don't think we need to go in that direction."

Jason then told them that he might attend a meeting of the Philosophy Club to observe the members' interactions. Some disagreed with that, thinking they should investigate them without the suspects being aware of it. "I'll think that over," Jason said, and soon ended the meeting.

Jason then returned to his desk, where Lieutenant Miles came in with a report in his hand.

"I thought this might interest you, Colbert. It's a report of a gunshot from the Richardson Medical Center emergency room. The Richardson PD sent it to us."

"Why do you think I would be interested in a shooting? And in Richardson? Was it a homicide?"

"No, the shooter was apparently trying to kill him but failed. It might or might not be related to the murders your team's investigating."

Jason's interest was piqued. "Tell me about it."

The lieutenant told him about the shooting of the UTD professor. "To me, the method seems similar to the murders of the SMU professor and the medical school doctor. I thought you might be interested."

"Thanks Lieutenant," Jason took the report, "I'll look into it." James Danton, forty-seven, taught math and economics at UTD. Jason took out his notes from Doris. He looked at the list of philosophers she had given him. Now, what was the subject of last night's discussion? Descartes. Well the first initial of his name was the same. Could be coincidence, or could be something. Jason thought he had better check it out, so he called the UTD math department and made an appointment to talk with Professor Danton. Informed that the professor was out but would be back the next day, Jason made an appointment for the following day at 1 p.m. Then he picked up the phone and called Doris Goodman.

"Hi Doris, this is Jason Colbert. I have in front of me the list of philosophers that you said your philosophy club was discussing. Did you discuss Descartes last night?"

"Yes, we did. Was there another murder?"

"Well, there was an attempted murder, a professor at UTD. It was on Tuesday night. Wasn't that what you had expected, the Tuesday before your philosophy club meeting?"

"Yes, that's right. I had heard from a friend of mine at UTD that one of the professors was shot."

"We have a report from the Richardson PD of a Professor James Danton who was shot in a UTD parking lot. His name starts with the same initial as Descartes. Doesn't that fit into your hypothesis?"

"That part fits. What did you say he taught?"

"I didn't. I think he teaches math and economics."

"Descartes was also a mathematician, in fact, a famous one. He invented those Cartesian coordinates that you used in high school. Is this professor French?"

"I don't know, but the other things fit. I'll go visit him and see if I can find out more. By the way, I forgot to ask you how you're feeling."

"Not too bad, thanks. The chemo is taking its toll. I'm really tired a lot lately and I've lost my hair, but I have a very nice wig."

"You have a wonderful attitude. I don't know if I would, if I were going through that. You've really been a help to me in this case. I was so overwhelmed that I almost gave up. I've been under tremendous pressure."

"I'm sure you have, Jason. But you're a professional. You're good at your job or you wouldn't be a detective. Don't let the pressure from the public or your superiors distract you. Just keep focused."

"I'm trying, but sometimes the gaps in our information start to overcome me."

"Listen, Jason. I sometimes tell my patients, you can't see the trees for the forest."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you only see a massive forest blocking your way, a huge problem looming in front of you. But as you approach the forest, you see it's made of individual trees. You can find a way around them. You must focus on the individual problems one at a time and you'll realize that there is a path through the forest. You can maneuver between the individual barriers. Do you see what I mean?"

"Yeah, I think I do, Doris Thanks a lot. If you have any more thoughts about this case, please call me."

They hung up, both realizing a partnership had been formed.

# Chapter 30

Jason decided to get a sandwich before driving out to north Richardson to the UTD campus. He arrived a little early so he could ask Danton's secretary a few questions. "Good afternoon," he said to the secretary. "I'm Detective Jason Colbert of the Dallas PD. I have an appointment with Professor Danton."

"Have a seat Detective. Dr. Danton is still out to lunch. I believe your appointment is at 1 p.m. I'm Lara Lane, his secretary and assistant. If I can help you in any way, let me know."

"As a matter of fact, you can, Ms. Lane. I'd like to ask you a few questions about the professor. Did he have any enemies or people that disliked him, such as students he had flunked? Did he ever get threatening letters or phone calls as far as you know? "

"Dr. Danton doesn't have any enemies or threats or angry students as far as I know. He is an even-tempered man, although pretty intense in his work. He keeps up with all the journals, goes to conferences, writes, lectures, serves as a consultant to private companies and still finds time to play tennis three times a week. As a matter of fact, he's a pretty good player and proud of it. It really keeps him in good shape."

"Do you know anything about Dr. Danton's private life?"

"I know that he's still married to his first wife, Maureen, and that they have two kids, a boy and a girl, both graduated from college. I don't know much about their social life other than the faculty gatherings that he's invited to. I've never seen any suspicion of an affair, if that's what you're getting at. Dr. Danton is just not that kind of man. From what I can hear and see, he loves and is faithful to his wife."

"Thanks Lara, I think you've answered all the questions I have for you."

A little while later, Dr. James Danton walked into the office. "Sorry I'm a little late, detective."

"Jason Colbert. Glad to meet you, Professor."

"Come on in to my office, detective."

Jason followed Dr. Danton who had his bandaged left arm in a sling. He walked directly to his desk and sat down. "I suppose you're here about the shooting the other night. I don't know what I can add that I haven't told the other officers. It's really a mystery to me that someone would want to try and kill me. I really think he mistook me for someone else."

"From what I understand from forensics, he was probably waiting for you for some time out in the parking lot. At that time of night, not very many of the faculty are leaving. No, I think he was after you. I'd like to find out why. What do you teach, Professor?"

"Math and economics."

"I understand you go to conferences. Do you travel a lot?"

"I go to two conferences a year. That's what the university pays for. One is for mathematics professors and the other is an economics society."

"What other professional activities do you engage in outside of the university?"

"I have consulted for several companies in the past. These are usually short-term arrangements, when they have a particular question they consult me about. I have only one company that I consult for now, for the past eight or nine months."

"What company is that?"

"International Investment Advisors. They advise institutions and wealthy individuals in investing very large sums of money. They are completely diversified and invest money from banks, mutual funds, and individuals into large holdings such as buildings, hotels, shopping centers, public offerings of stocks and bonds, venture-capital opportunities, and even international currencies."

"What matter of work do you do for them?"

"Without getting too technical, I help them work out the calculations on their investments and contracts so that they're economically sound. After all, we have to take into account the present and future effect of the local, national and world economies on today's investments."

"I see." Jason didn't really but showed a convincing face. "Does this company have a lot of clients in this area?"

"I'm not sure. But as you know, Dallas has always been a banking and insurance center. Right now real estate is stale, but there's money to be made in picking up stressed properties."

"Do you think there could be any connection with your work for International Investment Advisors and the shooting?"

"Not unless someone didn't like the report I'm working on. It has to do with future development in the North Texas corridor, north of Dallas-Fort Worth. I think the near-term may be soft, but for the next few years it will be very strong."

"I see, but of course I'm not one of your big investors, so it won't impact me." Jason chuckled. He jotted down a note about International Investment Advisors and the report. "Tell me about your personal background, Dr. Danton."

"My great-grandfather was Jacques Danton. He was born in Rouen, France and came to the US before World War I. He was a Catholic and had six children. One of them, my grandfather, had seven children, including my father, who had my sister and me. I have two children, a boy Jack, who graduated from Tulane, and a girl Angelique, who graduated from Rice University in Houston. And there you have my family tree that is in the States."

"Tell me a little about your French background."

"Oh yes, I have a famous individual in my family. Do you remember the infamous Robespierre that sent so many to the guillotine during the French Revolution? Well, he's not of my family. My ancestor was George-Jacques Danton. He was one of the charismatic leaders of the revolution before he had a falling out with Robespierre, who had him guillotined."

"That's really interesting," Jason said. "I've just met someone who's related to the French Revolution. I'm sorry that I don't have more time to discuss history with you, Dr. Danton, but thanks for the information and the history lesson. You have been very helpful."

They said their good-byes and Jason walked down the same halls and walkways to the same parking lot that James Danton had been shot in a few nights before. As he got into his car and pulled onto Campbell Road, he wondered if the professor realized how helpful his information really was.

# Chapter 31

The next morning Jason had an appointment with the president of International Investment Advisors, on the twenty-seventh floor of the Chase building downtown. Realizing as he got off the elevator that I I A occupied half the floor, Jason was surprised that he had never heard of this company with so many employees. He wondered how many of these financial institutions worked quietly under the radar, manipulating real estate markets, stocks and bonds, and other investments. Probably more than he wanted to know.

"Can I help you?" the receptionist asked politely.

"I have an appointment to see Mr. Lewis. I'm Detective Jason Colbert of the Dallas Police Department."

"Mr. Lewis is expecting you. I'll take you down to his office."

Jason estimated Charles Lewis to be about fifty, although his distinguished bearing, gray hair, and receding hairline gave the impression of a man five years older. A muted silver and blue silk tie complemented the custom-made shirt with monogrammed cuff that played peek-a-boo with a platinum and diamond Rolex. Flanking walls of glass afforded a panoramic view of the Arts District and uptown area, with many construction cranes sprouting like huge weeds over the landscape. Yes, thought Jason, there was money being made in real estate development in Dallas.

"Good morning, detective. What can I do for you?" Lewis asked, extending his hand. "Please have a seat."

"Thank you, Mr. Lewis. The reason I'm here is to gather some information for an investigation I'm doing into some recent murders in Dallas. You've no doubt heard about the deaths of Professor Patagos, Dr. Abrams, and Rabbi Silverman. We also believe there was an attempted murder of a Professor Danton at UTD that may be related."

Lewis nodded and said he had heard of the first three. "Tragic for our city as well as for their families. How can I be of help?"

"Dr. Danton told me that he has been doing some consulting for your company. Is that true?" Lewis assented and Jason continued. "I know your company must have a lot of projects and investors, both individual and institutional. Briefly, can you tell me what projects Dr. Danton has been helping you with over the past six to eight months?"

Lewis did not hesitate. His computer-like brain immediately gave Jason the information he needed. "Dr. Danton is a brilliant mathematician and economist. We have consulted him on several projects in the past; however, the work he is involved with now has to do with land that is going to be developed north of Dallas."

"Can you be more specific?" Jason asked.

"You're familiar with the Dallas North Tollway, and I'm sure you're aware of the rapid and extensive development that has followed it. The Tollway Authority is negotiating to acquire land for expansion of the system. Dr. Danton is helping us with feasibility studies for large acquisitions of land and developments in the area. Of course we don't know if there will be an expansion since the Dallas City Council and mayor are against it."

"I see," Jason said. "Yes, I'm familiar with growth along the tollway. Can you tell me if you know any of these men? Grady Jenkins, Brock Gillis, or Dick Karlson?"

"Yes, I know them all quite well. We have our own in-house attorneys, but Grady Jenkins has represented numerous of our clients and investors, both as buyers and sellers. Brock Gillis is a very successful businessman and CEO of Gillis TeleCom. He has been an investor in some of our projects. I don't believe I am revealing privileged information by saying that he is a very wealthy man, well over two hundred million. Dick Karlson is another successful businessman. He made his wealth in Atlanta and moved to Dallas where he has increased it. I handled some investments for him at the time when I was with Credit Suisse-First Boston, where I managed only accounts over ten million. He's been very successful with his investments, especially with real estate and land development. I believe he's also interested in the tollway expansion and is one of our potential partners in any development there."

"What are your personal opinions of these three gentlemen, if you have any?"

"Well, I know Grady Jenkins only by reputation, and what I've heard. He's a very good real estate attorney, who has helped his clients realize handsome profits. His talent and genius in that respect have greatly enhanced his reputation. Not only is he a senior partner in his firm but commands large fees and even an interest in the transactions that he counsels on. He's a savy negotiator with a sharp mind.

"Brock Gillis is an intelligent businessman who has energetically made his conglomerate very successful. He not only has a keen sense about future trends and opportunities, but he also has the wealth and power to create those opportunities. He's been a noteworthy contributor to political candidates that support his business interests. He was unsuccessful in his run for the city council, but he's very active in the Republican Party."

"What do you know about his campaign for the Dallas City Council?"

"He ran against an incumbent member. He ran a very slick, intensive campaign and must have spent several million of his own money. It was a close election, and Gillis lost by only a few votes. He was very bitter at the time but seemed to have shrugged it off. That was eight or ten years ago.

"Dick Karlson is perhaps the shrewdest man of the three. He made his wealth in a few years and retired after selling his company. Retired isn't the right word. He merely works for himself now, buying and selling anything that makes a profit. He knows how to trade stocks, bonds, commodities and even foreign currencies. He handles his own account and trades online. We've helped him with some large transactions, and believe me when I say he is an extremely knowledgeable investor. He does his own in-depth research before we do. He usually works out the details of a contract and knows how to negotiate it before our lawyers even get to look at it. Karlson works alone and keeps his own counsel, telling no one what he's thinking before he decides to do something. I'm glad we've always been on his side in any deal, because he's a very sharp businessman. I don't know much about their personal lives."

"Thank you, Mr. Lewis, but the insight you've given me about these men's professional lives has been very enlightening. If that's all you have to tell me, I'll be going and let you get back to work. Thanks for your time."

"Not at all," Lewis said as he rose, shook hands with Jason, and ushered him to the door. "Anything I can do for the Dallas PD just let me know."

This case is getting thicker, the more information I add to the stew, thought Jason as he drove to the police station. He decided to call the Shelstone Group and see what Mr. Shelstone could add to the mixture.

# Chapter 32

Jason paid a visit the next day to the founder and CEO of The Shelstone Group, Mr. Sean Shelstone, who got his start as a broker in commercial real estate, specializing in shopping centers. These grew from strip and drive-up centers to hundred–million-dollar megaplexes with shops, offices, hotels and condos. After completing three of these large deals and retaining a small interest in each, he went off on his own, forming the Shelstone Group seven years ago.

Sean Shelstone himself was a thirty-eight-year-old graduate of the University of Texas at Austin. He was married, the father of two children, David and Charmaine, and lived in Highland Park, the expensive enclave in the center of Dallas.

The company owned its own ten-story building in uptown Dallas. Mr. Shelstone's office overlooked the Oak Lawn area facing north, so the sun never came directly into its windows. The view was of large oaks and elms interspersed between low to mid-rise office buildings and old homes, which had been converted into offices or small businesses. The office itself was furnished expensively but tastefully. There was no clutter on the expanse of the cherry wood desk, just a computer with a large-screen monitor occupying one side and pictures of his family on the other.

"Good morning, detective, I'm Sean Shelstone. How can I help you?" Mr. Shelstone's bright brown eyes and smiling face belonged to a handsome man who looked younger than his age. A high forehead was crowned with honey-colored hair that tended to curl but was tamed with a very stylish haircut. He wore a custom-made shirt with no tie and gold cufflinks. His watch had no gold or diamonds but looked expensive. The whole appearance was of a self-assured and obviously successful young man.

"I know that you're busy Mr. Shelstone, so I'll be brief. I'm here as part of an investigation into the recent murders of some prominent Dallas men and an attempt on the life of another. One or several of the people I'm investigating may have done business with your company, and I'm wondering if you can help me."

"I'll do anything in my power while still protecting my clients' privacy. And please call me Sean. Mr. Shelstone sounds like I'm an old man."

"Okay, Sean it is. What do you know about the personal or professional backgrounds of Grady Jenkins, Brock Gillis, and Dick Karlson?"

"Well, first of all I know Grady Jenkins by reputation and in business dealings with him and his firm. I don't know anything about him personally. He's represented several clients who've used our company in real estate transactions. He or his associates have worked with our own attorneys in a very seamless fashion. He has retained interests in several deals and remains a part owner in several projects that we own, lease, or manage. I've nothing but respect for Mr. Jenkins' expertise as an intelligent real estate attorney.

"Mr. Brock Gillis, I know as an extremely successful businessman. He has developed Gillis TeleCom into a huge conglomerate. He's done business with us, especially when he was acquiring the land for his business campus in the Richardson-Plano corridor. We've also helped him build and lease some retail and apartment complexes in that area. He hasn't been our client recently, but I'm sure he's still a very active investor in the area north of Dallas. Brock Gillis is shrewd, aggressive, and single-minded. He undoubtedly enjoys his wealth and the political and social power it gives him.

"Mr. Dick Karlson has been a very good client of ours. After he arrived here from Atlanta he immediately started investing in land in the Plano area, which then exploded in value. He sold some and became partners in apartments, shopping centers, and office buildings. He used our company after a bad experience with another real estate firm, and we have enjoyed success and growth along with him. He seems to have an uncanny sense of foreseeing where the next growth spurt or investment opportunity will be. He anticipates it and makes the proper moves, months before anyone else has a clue. That's why he's been so successful. I don't know if he has inside information sometimes or just has intelligent guesses. I don't even ask. I just go along and share in the rewards."

"Do you know anything about his personal life?"

"His wife worked for the DA for a few years and I believe Mr. Karlson knows him personally."

"You mean Andrew Phillips?"

"Yes. The Karlsons and Phillips have been social acquaintances. I believe that Mrs. Karlson and Mrs. Phillips were friends before the Karlsons moved to Dallas. That was the connection that got her in to the DA' s office."

"You know why she quit?" asked Jason.

"It's rumored that she didn't agree with Phillips' philosophy. She may have thought he was too aggressive in his prosecutions. She never said anything publicly, the couples have remained friends.

"The Karlsons are very active in society and charity events, especially the art museum. They've given quite a bit of money for the development of the Arts District. It's well known in the business community that he owns some of the properties around there, so he does have a vested interest in his charitable contributions." Shelstone smiled knowingly.

"Do you know what area of investing he's interested in now?"

"I only know about his real estate interests and, as I told you, he keeps his thoughts to himself until he's ready to act. He's been interested in land along a tollway expansion that Dallas is thinking of building, but that's just speculation. I personally don't think it will get off the drawing board, because the mayor and several key members of the city council are against it."

"Well, Sean, I think you've given me enough information to mull over for a while. Thanks for taking your time to talk to me."

"Not at all, detective."

While Jason took the elevator down, walked to his car and drove to the police headquarters, his mind was chewing over the bites he was given the last two days. Back in his office area, he rounded up the team members he could find and in the conference room went over the information he had gathered from I I A and Shelstone.

After the meeting, Jason remained alone in the conference room, thinking about what they had. A pattern of murders and one step ahead of them, a shadow, a murderer, who leaves no clues except a message, the names of dead philosophers written in blood. The scenario was like a fiction in which fantasy and reality merged, but the plot had to be dissected until image and reality separated.

# Chapter 33

Brock Gillis picked up his phone and punched in Geneva's number that he had pre-programmed when they started the Philosophy Club. He had known Geneva before her husband died, rubbing shoulders with her at cultural fundraisers, but only during the past few weeks since the Art Museum gala did he really begin to take a personal interest in her. Not only was she smart, well-dressed, and possessed of a sparkling wit, she was beautiful and independently wealthy. Brock didn't have to fear that she would be after his money if things got serious, and if things worked out---he knew that Geneva had plenty of money to invest.

Brock hadn't asked Geneva for a date, but had enjoyed flirting with her at the Philosophy Club meetings. He could see that Grady Jenkins was jealous of that and he liked to irritate Grady by egging him on. He wasn't sure about Geneva's feelings toward Grady, but he was going to be more aggressive in pursuing her.

While waiting for the phone to be answered, he day-dreamed about buying land and developing it in the Frisco and Celina areas where the toll road may be expanded. He was imagining the profits that could be realized from developing a bigger office and industrial complex around his TeleCom campus when Geneva answered the phone.

"Hello," she said.

"Hi, Geneva, this is Brock. How've you been? Have you heard any more about how Doris is doing?"

"I'm fine, and no, I haven't heard any more about Doris, although she didn't look very good the other night." Geneva knew that Brock must have another reason for calling her. If he was worried about Doris, he could have called Herb.

"I called to ask if you wanted to go to dinner with me this Saturday. Some friends told me about a restaurant that just opened in the uptown area off of Cedar Springs called Beirut. It's seafood with a Mediterranean flair. They said it was excellent. Would you like to go with me?"

"Why Brock, I'd love to. I'm flattered you asked me. I've heard of it also, and I understand it's really wonderful. Unfortunately, though, I already have plans for this weekend. A friend of mine is having a tenth anniversary party, so a few of us girls are going to lunch and shopping on Friday, then Saturday night they're having a party. Can we make it some other time?"

"I'm disappointed that you can't make it this Saturday, because I was looking forward to being with you. I've really enjoyed our conversations at the Philosophy Club meetings and I'd like to get to know you better." Brock thought to himself how Geneva fascinated him. He was completely taken with her smile, her personality, her mind, even her clothes. She was a class act without a doubt. He thought if she gave him half a chance she would find that there is more to him that she might enjoy getting to know. "I would really like to get together with you. What about next week?"

Geneva remembered the ways that Brock had flirted with her at the meetings and thought it might be interesting to go out with him. "I have an idea. Why don't we have an early dinner before the next Philosophy Club meeting?"

"That sounds like a good idea. I can arrange my schedule so that I can get away from the office earlier."

"Here's a thought. I'll come by your office and pick you up at five, go to Steve's Steak and Lobster in Plano, where we can eat a light dinner while we listen to the piano in the bar, then go over to the Karlson's for the meeting. They live in that area near the country club."

"That sounds great, Geneva. It's a date. I can't wait to see you again. Take care of yourself until then."

"You too, Brock. Good-bye."

After she hung up, Geneva started wondering about Brock Gillis of Gillis TeleCom. A definitely handsome and eligible bachelor, yet he has never been married. Maybe he's been too busy building his empire to settle down and start a family. Maybe he's been so involved in his investments that he hasn't allowed himself to expose his emotional side. Maybe he's been afraid to let down his defenses and become vulnerable, especially to women.

Realizing she didn't know enough about Brock to attempt those answers, her intuition nevertheless told her that he was undoubtedly a complicated individual, no one-dimensional computer nerd or money freak, a sparkling conversationalist, knowledgeable about art, wine, and good food, and his home definitely exemplified good taste. She considered that it probably wouldn't be a waste of time going out with him. What could it hurt, at worst just the loss of a couple of hours before the next philosophy meeting. At best, it might develop into something interesting. Being very wealthy and knowing how to use money to make money, he might help her with investments since the stock market was going through such a rocky period.

So, let's just see what Mr. Brock Gillis is all about, thought Geneva. Let's just see.

# Chapter 34

There were always fires to put out, thought Anthony Manzoni after talking to the manager of one of his apartment complexes near the old Farmer's Market. As a landlord he was accustomed to problems. He had learned this at his father's side, who had owned several apartments and duplexes in Dallas. Now Tony owned several properties and wondered how proud his papa would be if he knew how many.

Joe Manzoni, Tony's father, came to Dallas in the '20s. Dallas was a thriving, wide-open young city with oil money pouring in from east Texas. Bootlegging, gambling and prostitution thrived in spite of active, Bible-belt preachers. Although Joe was friendly with the Dallas Mafia and he sold liquor during Prohibition, all his businesses were legitimate. Starting out with the other side of his duplex, which he won in a poker game, he parlayed his properties into houses, duplexes, and apartments, becoming a millionaire by the time he died in his late 50s. If he had not liked to smoke and drink so much he could have lived longer and made a lot more money. He would be proud that his son was a member of the Dallas City Council.

Driving his black Lexus slowly through downtown, he appreciated the number of people moving into renovated, long vacant buildings. How unfortunate that there weren't more retail stores, restaurants, or new hotels downtown. He felt certain that they would follow the influx of people. Tony voted with the council to build a hotel near the convention center, which would really give downtown nightlife a needed shot in the arm.

He was glad when Dallas approved the convention hotel. He was especially keen on developing a vibrant downtown, with people walking around day and night like in other rejuvenated cities. He also favored the Town Lake concept, and other parks that would make Dallas a first-class convention destination. These would also help increase the property values in and around downtown, including his.

That was why he was against the expansion of that damn tollway. Why do we want people moving further and further away in suburban sprawl? In the '70s, Richardson was the growing suburb, but now it was showing its age. Then further to the north Plano in the '80s and '90s, then Allen, Frisco, and Denton. What's next, Oklahoma? He hoped that people would get tired of paying all that money on tolls and gasoline and start moving into the inner-city. Tony knew that his wife, Virginia, enjoyed their large house near White Rock Lake but would consider moving downtown. He wouldn't mind living in a luxury high-rise with all the amenities, but he wanted to wait until there was more life there, maybe in a few years.

Tony continued to think as he drove. At least the mayor saw things the way he did, agreeing that they shouldn't encourage more growth away from the city, no tax abatements for toll roads, no condemning of houses for right-of-way, no more megabucks in the pockets of land speculators. Let the money go into revitalizing downtown and uptown Dallas. Tony hoped the mayor would run for reelection next year, because he would certainly support him.

As he was driving into the parking lot of the Central Market on Greenville Ave., he thought about picking up a bottle of wine and some Italian salami and cheese for his poker night. He had played with a group of guys on Monday nights for over twenty years, choosing Monday night because they could watch football or whatever sport was in season while they played. In his imagination, Tony could taste the new cheeses and olives that Central Market had, as he looked for a parking place. He liked to park his new car in a spot so that other drivers wouldn't ding his car opening their doors, so he chose a space away from the other cars in an unlighted area. He was unaware of the dark sedan that had been following at a distance ever since he left the Farmers' Market. The sedan pulled next to the left side of his car. As Tony opened his door to get out, a man stepped against it, blocking his exit.

"Hello Tony," he said.

"What do you want? I've got to get home with some food and Virginia will be waiting. I'm late as it is."

"Oh it's nothing Tony, other than your vote on the City Council."

"What about it? We need to support the convention hotel."

"It's not the hotel I'm interested in. I'm concerned that you're against the proposed expansion of the toll road."

"You bet I am. We need more people moving downtown and more retail and restaurants, not businesses moving farther and farther away. I know you probably have your eye on investing out there, but I'll tell you this, I will use every influence I have on every vote against any tollway expansion. And that's that."

"That's too bad, Tony," the man said, as he pulled a silenced automatic from his pocket and put two rounds into Tony Manzoni's head. He quickly pushed him over, closed the door, got into his own car, and drove off into the cold, dark night.

On his way home, the killer thought about Tony Manzoni. He was in the way. That one deserved to die. Does anyone deserve to die? Does anyone have the right to take the life of another? Voltaire said that killing is wrong and a sin, except in large numbers and to the sound of drums. Isn't it all right to kill in self-defense or to protect your family? Isn't it all right to kill in war and for society to protect itself from criminals and terrorists? If it's morally right for society or a person to kill in order to create a greater good, then it was right to kill Manzoni.

Manzoni was a democrat by nature, even though he claimed to be a Republican. He was for equal votes and equal representation in city government. What a joke. That had only produced deadlock. If everyone is equal, then there is no leader. No decisions can be made and no progress can take place. Society wants a strong leader, who will give stability and make decisions that may be unpopular with the masses. This can't happen in the mediocrity promoted by liberals. The world should be run by those able to handle power, not by those swayed by weak emotions such as love and pity.

Arriving home, he poured himself a congratulatory drink and toasted himself. To a job well done, he thought, to another success in the project, to a further step toward the ultimate goal, steps guided by a devious philosophy.

# Chapter 35

Geneva drove as fast as she could to the Gillis TeleCom building. She had given herself an extra half an hour because of the traffic, but she was still late. Brock had been waiting for her in the lobby and walked out as he saw her come up the circular drive. He came down the steps with an eager smile and let himself into the front seat of Geneva's Mercedes. "Sorry I'm late," she said.

"That's all right. I was reading over my notes on Machiavelli for tonight."

"I know you're leading the discussion, but I promise we'll get there in plenty of time. When I called to make a reservation, I talked to Steve and told him that we had to get out of there by six-thirty. He said that it wouldn't be a problem, that he would give us his best waiter. I think he has some of the best steak and lobster in Dallas."

"Good, I'm hungry. What did you do today?" he asked, trying to make light conversation.

"Well, this morning I gave a book review at an English class at Hockaday School, and this afternoon I met with the board of the Dallas Museum of Art."

"You gave a lecture at Hockaday? I didn't know you did that kind of thing. How often do you do that?"

"Oh, I guess about six times a year. I give talks on current books at some of the private schools. I belong to two book clubs, and we discuss a variety of the important new releases. I can tell you that it takes a lot of my time to prepare."

"I bet it does. Do you enjoy doing it?"

"Oh yes. I really like talking to those bright kids. It keeps me on my toes. I have to read critically and be prepared for their questions."

They arrived at the restaurant, let the valet park the car and were welcomed by Steve, who led them to a table. He assured them that there shouldn't be any trouble about getting out on time, since they were not too busy this early on a Wednesday night.

Between courses, Geneva asked Brock about his day. "Pretty boring really," he replied. "I worked on a possible partnership with a phone company in Costa Rica. I want to buy controlling interest in their stock, but they don't want to give up control. We're still talking."

"I know that you're pretty busy with all your companies," she said. "Do you ever have time for something lighter? What do you do to relax?"

"Oh, I like to read and watch some sports on TV. Occasionally, I'll go with a business client to a game."

"What do you like to read?"

"I like history, especially military history or biographies of military figures. I just finished a book set in ancient Greece. It follows the political intrigue around Philip of Macedon and his son, Alexander the Great."

"Sounds interesting"

"It was written as a novel and the main character is a philosopher who knows Plato and Aristotle. He accompanies Aristotle to the court of Philip, where he becomes enmeshed in the politics and assassination of the king. He then follows Alexander on his conquests. I think you'd like it. I'll loan you my copy."

" How did you get interested in philosophy, or was it just to be with me?" she grinned.

"Well, I admit that I did join the group to get to know you better. But I took philosophy in college. I especially liked Machiavelli and Nietzsche."

"Why them?"

"They wrote about will and power. They discussed how a person, if he is to be successful, should have a strong will. Machiavelli gave practical advice on being a good ruler, but I'm going to talk more about that tonight."

Brock finished the rest of his steak and sipped at his wine while he waited for Geneva to finish her lobster. "What do you think about these murders in Dallas? Doris has brought up some interesting points."

"I don't know," Geneva, mumbled between bites. "It seems far-fetched that they would be related to our philosophy group."

"It's very interesting, though", said Brock. "There are a lot of coincidences, especially if you factor in the relationships of some of our members with the murders."

"What do you mean?"

"Well for one, Grady knew that SMU professor and his son was in his class. He also knew that UTD professor professionally."

"I didn't know that he had any dealings with Dr. Danton."

"Yes he did, and so did Dick Karlson. Dick is a very wealthy man, who is quiet about his dealings. He seems to have a special sense about opportunity, almost as if he has spies in boardrooms and committees."

"What could possibly be their motive?"

"Money. It always is. Of the two, Dick would probably have the most to gain."

"In what way?"

"I can't see any connection right now, but I bet there is one."

"What about Stuart? He said that he didn't like Professor Patagos."

"Stuart's very emotional, but it's probably just his age. He's bright and has strong opinions, and he could even be violent, but I really don't know him that well."

Brock decided to push the envelope. He wanted to explore Geneva's feelings more fully."Geneva, I'd like to change the subject if you don't mind. Have you ever thought about remarrying?"

Completely taken by surprise with such a question, she was speechless. Taking a breath and wiping her mouth with her napkin to gain time for an answer, she simply said, "What brought on that question?"

"I was just thinking to myself as I enjoyed this evening with a beautiful woman, that you would be a wonderful partner for anyone."

"What you mean, Brock, a partner?"

"I don't mean a business partner. I mean an emotional one, a marriage. But what's important is that I can take care of you, give you male companionship, and you know what goes with it."

She laughed with embarrassment. "Look, I'm flattered by your interest. I really haven't thought too much about marriage since Whitfield died."

She put down her napkin and finished her wine. "I think we'd better skip coffee and dessert. Barbara will have some, and I know you probably want to get settled and go over your notes. Excuse me while I go powder my nose." She was embarrassed by Brock's forwardness and wanted to end the discussion about marriage. After all, she really didn't know this man emotionally.

Brock rose and helped Geneva out of her chair. "Give me the valet ticket and I'll get the check and the car. I'll meet you at the front door."

# Chapter 36

They arrived at the Karlsons', an impressive home on beautiful grounds near the Bent Tree Country Club, about fifteen minutes before the meeting time. Geneva helped Barbara put out the coffee cups and dessert plates, while Brock went into the family room to look over his notes. Dick was still dressing and came out just as some of the other guests arrived to welcome them to their home.

The guests were getting settled and preparing for the discussion. Stuart ambled into the large family room a little late, obviously frowning and shaking his head at the Karlsons' house and furnishings. He flopped down in a huff, allowing his books and papers to fall on the floor, completing his dramatic entrance.

Conversations stopped while Stuart put on his display, and Doris decided it was time to make a statement to the person who had made a statement. "Stuart, we would like to welcome you back to our group. You've made some interesting comments and intelligent contributions to our discussions. However, there is really no place for angry outbursts about the homes, artistic taste, or wealth of your hosts. Most of us, like you, began as students with little money but a lot of potential. We used our brains and hard work to get where we are. Yes, we have good taste and like to spend money on it. However, I don't believe it's an ostentatious show to enjoy it for its own sake. You will continue to be a welcome member of our group if you behave as the intelligent and sensitive person that I know you are. Will you do that?"

"Yes, Dr. Goodman," Stuart said. He flushed and looked down, realizing that he had behaved badly. "I will."

"Brock is going to lead tonight's discussion on Machiavelli," said Dick. "We're all familiar with the Renaissance Italian who gave his name to a political philosophy. Machiavellian became a term that meant practical, if cynical, ways to obtain and maintain political power. To Machiavelli, the ends justify the means, and might makes right. In his book, _The Prince_ , he asked if it was better for a political leader to be loved or feared. His answer was that it was better for him to be feared. Those are the types of statements that have given Machiavelli his reputation as a cold and cynical political philosopher. What do you think, Brock?"

"Was Machiavelli Machiavellian?" asked Brock. "For example, he never used the phrase, 'the ends justify the means.' You may argue that it is his reasoning, but he never said that. I think that Machiavelli has been misinterpreted and misunderstood.

"He was a product of the complicated politics of Renaissance Italy, in which each powerful group, including the Pope, was vying with the others for power. He saw how hypocritical men could be. They lied to, betrayed, and even murdered one another, then went to church and confessed their sins, feigning religious faith and loyalty to the Church. He saw that public morality and personal morality were two different things."

Herb interjected. "I'd like to contrast that with what the ancient Roman , Cicero, thought. He wrote that a political ruler should exemplify the same virtues as a good father of his household. He believed that a man should be just and firm, yet loved by the people he governed as he would be by his own family. I think Machiavelli disagreed with this."

"Yes he certainly did," Brock continued. "He thought that a ruler's personal morality should not interfere with his public one. In other words, to be a good ruler, a person has to use a different form of conduct or a different morality than he does in his personal life. He saw that in many instances, the personality traits that are laudable in a person's private life can make for a disastrous leader."

"That's right," said Doris. "You can see that in some of our presidents. Jimmy Carter was a born-again Christian who believed that other rulers would have the sincerity and integrity that he had. His foreign policy reflected that, choosing to talk or negotiate rather than to use force or flex his muscle. However, his presidency was disastrous. Iran held our embassy hostage, and we lost face throughout the world. On the other hand, Reagan realized that the USSR only understood strength and determination. He faced them down until they blinked, and down came the Evil Empire."

"I'd like to explain something," said Geneva. "Machiavelli didn't say that a ruler shouldn't have any morality or that a ruler could do anything he wanted. He stressed that a ruler had to bring order and stability. I don't think he was in favor of a cruel dictator like Hitler. I think he said, in order for society or a state to be safe, for its citizens to feel secure and to prosper, that certain things had to be done. The ruler must be respected, the laws must be obeyed, and violators must be punished. If a ruler had to put aside his personal morals in order to rule effectively, then that's the way it had to be. The people just had to accept it, and they would be better off if they did."

"That's exactly right," Brock said. "Machiavelli favored a strong ruler but with a republican form of government under him. For example, he favored a citizen army of free men, instead of the mercenaries that were often hired during that time. His ideal society wasn't much different from ours. He believed that to live in a free society, which was secure from enemies within and without, was the greatest way for humanity to flourish. So I would say that Machiavelli was not truly Machiavellian. He wasn't as cynical and amoral as history has made him out to be."

There was more discussion as to how moral a leader should be. It was generally agreed that morals or lack of them in a leader were usually looked on as an example for the people they governed. "Your discussion was very good, Brock," said Barbara. "I always thought of Machiavelli as writing the practical guide for the unethical power-hungry politician, but you have really enlightened me. I believe our next philosopher is David Hume. Who would like to lead our discussion?"

Geneva immediately replied, "I haven't led one yet. Since Hume was a skeptic like me, I'd like to lead the discussion."

"Good," said Grady. "Then I'll host it at my place."

Barbara said, "Then that's settled. Now, everyone please have some more fruit and cookies. I don't want any leftovers."

Before the guests started moving, Doris mentioned the latest murder. "I'm sure you all heard about the murder of Tony Manzoni. He was certainly a well-respected member of the Dallas City Council and was very active in promoting development in the downtown. I wonder if any of you related his death to the other high-profile murders the past few months."

"I don't know Doris," said Barbara. "I can't imagine that he's in any way related to Professor Patagos or the others." Comments started to fly around the room.

"Listen, everyone," Doris started to explain. "There are a lot of pieces to these murders, and some of them are beginning to fit." She had connected Manzoni's name and Italian background with Machiavelli's.

"What do you mean?" asked Grady.

Herb replied for Doris, "She's been working on some ideas and has talked them over with the detective in charge of the investigation."

"What kind of ideas?" asked Dick.

"I can't say right now," Doris said. "It may be nothing. Let's leave it at that."

Curiosity electrified the air while animated talk filled the room. Geneva spoke above the din. "I think we've finished our discussion. Why don't we call it an evening and go to Grady's for the next meeting? I'll be talking about Hume."

Grady walked over to Geneva and chatted with her as they all made the way to their cars. He gave her a warm hug, before he opened her car door for her. Brock watched the scene.

# Chapter 37

Jason was floating weightlessly in a wind-tossed raft on a black ocean, blanketed by dark clouds in a sunless sky. The oppressive charcoal heaven opened itself, revealing a pale oyster-gray beyond. He had no oars and no motor, drifting aimlessly on endless, featureless water. Looking over the edge of the raft, he saw bleached faces under the surface, staring back at him with baleful eyes, disembodied masks of the murder victims, the ghostly-gray images mouthing soundless words. Jason could hear them in his head. "Why?" they asked. He then found himself in the cold, dark sea, the faces floating listlessly around him. He began to slide downward, unable to retrieve himself, helplessly sinking....down....down....down.

His alarm clock sounded out by his head, rescuing him. He stumbled into the shower, dressed and made his coffee as if still possessed by the images of the dream.

He flipped on the TV in the kitchen to catch the early morning news. The man was saying, "These murders of important citizens has Dallas in the vice-grip of terror. The latest murder of City Councilman Tony Manzoni is particularly disturbing. Who will be next? What are the police doing? We go to Andrea Croft at police headquarters."

"Troy, I talked with Chief James Stroud yesterday. He said that the detectives in charge of the investigation had new evidence, so they have narrowed down the suspects. I asked what that evidence was and who the suspects were. He declined to answer, saying that this could hinder their investigations."

"Did he say when they expected an arrest?" Troy asked.

"No he didn't."

"Did he say that they expected there to be more murders?"

"He said that he couldn't answer that, but was very fearful that there might be."

"Thanks, Andrea. Let's go to Olan Bean. Olan, did you speak with the DA yesterday?"

"Troy, DA Phillips was very concerned about these murders."

The scene shifted to Phillip's office, and he was talking to the reporter. "I am as disturbed by these murders, as everyone in Dallas. I have talked with the mayor and even the governor about them. I assured them that we are doing everything possible to bring this vicious murderer to justice."

"Do you have any suspects?" the reporter asked.

"I can't answer that. I can say that we have excellent detectives working on the case. I expect a breakthrough anytime, and I will certainly let the media know when we do. "

"Thank you, Mr. Phillips. Back to you, Troy."

The news changed items to a holdup at a convenience store and Jason turned it off.

He drove to his office with images of the news flickering in his mind. Another murder, thought Jason. What is happening? Where is this going? His head was spinning with possible motives and suspects.

On his way into the police headquarters building, he was intercepted by a TV reporter and her cameraman. Jason groaned to himself that he was not prepared for this. He took a deep breath and screwed up his courage for the interview. He was drained afterward. He hardly remembered what he had said and hoped that it made sense.

He stumbled to his office and found himself shuffling through reports on his desk, eventually becoming fully conscious of what he was doing. His phone rang.

"Jason, this is Pat Howard in the DA's office. Mr. Phillips would like to see you in his office at one o'clock."

"Okay, I'll be there."

As he hung up, he thought, now what? Jason picked up his file on the murders and went through all the possibilities. He had narrowed it down to Grady Jenkins, Dick Karlson, Brock Gillis, and Stuart Langford. But what were the motives? Where was the murder weapon? They had solved the coded message, and it had led them to the Philosophy Club. And now a city councilman. What relationship did he have with them?

He knocked on Andrew Phillips' door.

"Come in," Phillips said loudly. "Have a seat, detective. I guess you know why I called you here. Now we have a city councilman dead, for God's sake. These murders have got to stop. You know what the national media is doing with this? We're front page news, that's what. I'm coming under direct fire from the mayor, from the governor, all the way from Washington. What the hell are you doing about it?

Jason didn't tell him that he had seen his interview on the news, or that a TV reporter caught him outside headquarters this morning. He briefly outlined what he and his team had learned. "I've narrowed it down to four suspects."

"When can I expect an arrest? It better be soon."

"As you know, Mr. Phillips, I can't make an arrest without showing due cause. I need some concrete evidence. I expect a break any time now. The murderer has got to make a mistake."

"I can't wait for the murderer to make a mistake," Phillips exploded. "I want you twenty-four seven on this case. Assign more men. Do anything you have to get an arrest. I want to see you in my office a week from today with an arrest, or you will leave here without your badge. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir."

"Now get out of here."

As soon as Jason left, Phillips told his secretary to call the TV and newspaper reporters. "Tell them that I'm going to make an announcement tomorrow at 2 p.m. Tell them only that it's very important, and that I'm going to give them some surprising news." He knew it would be the lead story on the six o'clock newscast.

"Yes, Mr. Phillips. Anything else?"

"Yes, set up an appointment for me with my barber in the morning about nine."

"Yes sir."

Jason left feeling like a whipped child. Why was the DA so emotional about this case? He's got to feel the pressure on him, but he's surely making me feel it more.

He knew that Phillips couldn't fire him but he could probably have him demoted and put such pressure on him that he would resign, and lose the majority of his pension.

He went to his desk and tried to go through the file on the murders, which was growing like a bad weed. There had to be something here, he thought, something he was missing. The more questions that surfaced, the more he felt Phillips' threats, like slaps across the face. Finally he gave up in disgust, slammed the file closed, and pounded it with his fist.

He grabbed his jacket, slipped it on over his gun, and huffed to his car, hardly seeing anyone in his path through the red blur of anger. He took some of it out by cursing and honking impatiently at slower drivers on his way home.

# Chapter 38

Jason let himself into his house through the kitchen, realizing that Teri wasn't home yet, maybe shopping for dinner. The kids were probably upstairs studying. He threw off his coat, tie and gun, kicked off his shoes and poured himself a Jack Daniels with some ice. It was unusual for Jason to drink like this. He usually had a drink or a glass of wine with Teri before dinner, but today he needed to release the tension. Falling into his recliner and pulling deeply at his drink, he turned on the evening news. His mind went through his progress, or lack of it, dwelling on the threats from DA Phillips. He slugged down his drink, hardly tasting it, and poured himself another.

The TV showed the reporter outside of the Dallas police headquarters. The voice of the news anchor was saying, "Andrea Croft has some comments from the detective in charge of these murders."

"Troy, I have Detective Jason Colbert, who is investigating these horrendous murders that have Dallas in a nightmare grip."

Jason watched the interview, sipping at his drink. He looked nervous. He wasn't used to being on TV. He remembered the big camera aiming at him over the pretty reporter' s shoulder. He either didn't know or couldn't answer most of the reporter' s questions. He looked like a bumbling idiot. Finally, he found the camera. "I want to say this to the murderer. If you're watching, I want to tell you that we will catch you. Your time is getting short."

The camera went to the reporter. "Detective Colbert said the murderer's time is getting short. But will it be short enough to prevent another murder of an important person in Dallas?"

"Thanks, Andrea," the anchorman said. "Weather and sports are next after these messages."

Jason turned it off in disgust. He hated the way the media could make someone look like an idiot, by cutting and pasting whatever they wanted out of interview. He remembered that they had talked for a good five minutes, and only about a half of a minute ended up in the news.

He sipped thoughtfully at his whiskey as he considered the murder victims with no apparent motive for their murders. Doubts began to crowd his thinking. Stop it and get ahold of yourself he thought. He was a professional. This time was different, though; this time, Phillips was intimately involved; this time Jason's career was on the line.

Jason was halfway through his second drink when Teri came into the kitchen with bags in her arms. "Will you help get the groceries out of the car?" she asked.

"Sure." Jason put down his drink and went to the garage.

As they brought in the sacks, Teri chatted about her frustrating day, and the increasing costs of food and gasoline. Jason said nothing until he started pulling items out for Teri to put away. He started asking why she had bought so much of this or that. Why didn't she buy the store brand? Why so much meat? Why two bottles of ketchup?

"What is this all about, Jason? You never argued about what I buy. I try to buy what's on special or what we need. I watch our money. And the kids eat a lot of ketchup." She was beginning to raise her voice.

Jason yelled back, "Do you think I'm made of money? I haven't even bought any new clothes since my birthday. We haven't had a vacation in over a year, and the kids are costing a fortune with all their sports and activities. We may have to sell our house and move out further where housing is cheaper."

"What are you talking about? You're crazy. We're all perfectly happy in this house. You and I make enough to pay for all our needs. We're not starving, and you're being difficult."

"I'm not being difficult, only practical. I just can't believe that I work all day, and you just spend our money."

"I work, too. I may not put away criminals, but my job is just as important. I'm a person, too, Jason."

The volume got louder as the argument became less about facts and more about feelings.

"Jason, watch your language. The kids are upstairs," she yelled over him.

Jason slammed down a package of baloney he was holding and stormed into the den, flopping down and taking a large slug of his drink. He shook his head and closed his eyes. His opaque fog of anger slowly dissipated until he realized that he was way out of line taking out his frustrations on Teri.

She let him lose some steam before easing into the den. "What's really bothering you, Jason? I know it's not the groceries."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'm under a lot of pressure, and I guess I took it out on you. I should know how to deal with stress from my job by now, but the DA really raked me over the coals today." He told her of their conversation. If I have to retire early, I don't know what we'll do."

"Take it easy. You won't have to retire early. You'll solve the murders; you always do. Even if you do retire, you can get another job and we'll be fine. Now why don't you just put Mr. Phillips out of your mind and relax? Just sit and enjoy your drink while I get dinner ready."

Jason went over the options in his mind. He had narrowed it down and was leaning toward Karlson, but how could he prove it. If Karlson was guilty, he wouldn't just give him any information. He would have to search his office and find it. He couldn't ask for a search warrant without showing the judge a justifiable reason for it. He didn't have enough evidence for that, but maybe he could find some in Karlson's office.

He would have to do it his way. Illegal? Maybe, but it might turn up something important in this terrible case. If he did find a clue or a lead, he could ask for a warrant and then get it legally, so that it could be used in court.

Jason knew that Teri was aware of his semi-illegal tactics. She disagreed with him about it, but turned a blind eye. He continued doing his dirty work, rationalizing that it was fine, as long as he caught criminals. Breaking into Karlson's office wouldn't be like burglary, he thought. He wouldn't take anything. It would just be a fact-finding mission.

# Chapter 39

The meeting room used for press conferences in City Hall was filled with reporters, all talking at once, conjecturing about the subject of the conference the DA had called. Was it about the murders in Dallas? Did they have a suspect?

Andrew Phillips and his assistant suddenly entered the door near the front of the auditorium. The reporters took their seats and the cameras started to roll.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please be seated," the assistant said. "I present to you District Attorney Andrew Phillips."

"Good afternoon, everyone. I'm sure you're wondering why I called this news conference. You are probably thinking that it is about the murders in Dallas, and you're partially right. The local and national media have made this page one news, and rightly so. These murders have cast a blindingly white light on our city, on its police force, and on me. I want to assure you that the murderer will be apprehended...and soon. We have narrowed the list of suspects down and expect an arrest shortly. I know you're going to ask for names and a more specific time table, but I cannot tell you more than I already have. We have our top detectives working on this, and I've given it my own priority attention. I will personally take charge of the prosecution, and I can assure you I will get a conviction.

"The main reason I've asked you to come here is for another purpose. I am hereby making an official announcement of my intention to run for mayor of Dallas." Shuffling and comments erupted among reporters. "Quiet, please. This must be no shock to some. I have thought long and hard about this decision. The city of Dallas needs new leadership, the present mayor and the majority of the City Council having failed our city. They have allowed major businesses to leave Dallas for the suburbs and have failed to bring in new business. We have the state's longest commute for its citizens, the highest taxes and the worst schools. Even the new football stadium was built outside the city. All this administration does is talk. The City Council is divided, with each member taking care of his own district without loyalty to Dallas as a whole. We need a new mayor and a new City Council that are interested in Dallas. If Dallas develops a reputation as a safe city, friendly to business, enjoyable to live in, and a delight to visit...then we all profit.

"For example, the expansion of the tollway is now being opposed by the present mayor and certain council members. They say there is too much extension north, that we don't need any more tollways, that we need to concentrate on growth in the inner city and downtown. I say they are wrong. As Dallas County grows and the suburbs and surrounding counties grow in population and business, people will need easy access to more banking, offices, restaurants and arts downtown.

"Elect me as your next mayor and you will see even more progress for our great city. My office will issue a statement tomorrow and my assistant will answer any questions. Thank you all for coming." With that, he turned and left the auditorium. The reporters were struck silent for a few seconds, then burst out with questions for the defenseless assistant.

Back in his office, Phillips was smug with the feeling of accomplishment and decision. He took out a legal pad and started to outline his speeches to the attorneys' association and the Chamber of Commerce. He was still working on them when his cell phone rang. Thinking it must be his wife, he said, "Hello."

"Congratulations, Andrew. I just saw on the early news that you announced for mayor. No surprise to me, of course. I wonder if these murders will help or hinder your candidacy."

Philips knew who the caller was by his voice. "Thanks for the congratulations, but you shouldn't be associated with my running for mayor yet. We need to stop these murders. We need a suspect that we can nail down. You can help us. Now get busy." He hung up without another word.

# Chapter 40

She was swimming in dark, viscous liquid that dragged her down into its depths. Trying to reach up toward the watery sunlight above, she knew she had to fight to pull herself from the abyss. The cold water held her down in the ocean of sleep, as she fought with all her ebbing strength to rise. Finally breaking the surface, Doris found herself thrashing in her covers, her face dampened with the sweat of exhaustion.

The uncertain darkness of the night begrudgingly gave way before the glow of the approaching sun. She finally collected enough energy to get out of bed after nine. Herb had brought her a cup of hot tea and some toast to eat before he left, so she could have something in her stomach when she took her morning medications. What a painful, thoughtless ritual, she admitted while taking each of the pills. Usually rituals give meaning to our daily lives, she remembered someone saying. Even the simple ones, like shaking hands and saying _hello, how are you_ , reciprocated trust and friendship.

Doris had always been a morning person, arising like the sun to meet the day with promise. She had always gotten Herb and the kids going with a good breakfast before leaving for her own office, where she looked forward to treating her patients. Now getting up was a chore, taking all those medications a torture and enduring aches and pains a drain. It was all a tax on her energy and her will. She had to fight it, though. She was always a fighter, like a quarterback whose team was behind in the fourth quarter. She wouldn't give up. She wouldn't let her illness define the boundaries of her world.

She had been watching the local news about the murders, and noticed how they made Detective Colbert looked like an incompetent cop. Why would they do that when the city needed confidence in their police force? She felt even more that Jason Colbert needed her help.

After watching some of CNN, she put a stocking cap on her bald head and padded into the kitchen where she had a glass of orange juice. She made herself a cup of hot tea and took this into the study where she had some notes about the Philosophy Club and the murders.

The philosopher, David Hume, was the next topic for discussion. She recalled that Geneva was supposed to lead the discussion at Grady's house. She hoped that she would feel well enough to go, because she would love to hear the discussion about the skeptic, who thought that even a person's own reason couldn't be trusted.

Her mind refocused on the murders. Why in the world would the murderer involve the Philosophy Club? What is he trying to say? The next philosopher, David Hume, was Scottish, which according to her theory meant that the intended victim would be of Scottish descent and have a last name beginning with "H." The murders had all occurred just a few days before each of the meetings, and the next one was Thursday of next week. Today was Friday. She had a feeling that the next attempted murder would be Monday or Tuesday.

She knew that Jason Colbert's investigation had probably already revealed the business and financial activities of Grady, Brock, and Dick, all of them interrelated in some way. Stuart was of a different generation and was indeed the odd-colored egg in the nest. She searched her feelings about their personalities, trying to use her experience as a psychologist to glean insight into their motives.

From her therapy with Grady during his divorce, she had learned that he was a gambler and not very good at managing his finances. Even though he made a good income, he always seemed to owe a lot of money. She suspected a lot of it was gambling debts. In her mind he didn't have the persona of a murderer, but the pressure of debts can lead a person to do desperate things, including murder.

She had observed that Brock had a type A personality---self-centered, and single-minded about his own best interests, which were money and political influence. She had noticed his not-too-subtle interest in Geneva. His attraction to her was probably influenced by her wealth, Doris suspected. She had also watched Grady's eyes flash whenever Brock flirted with Geneva. Competition and jealousy colored the sharp comments between the two men.

Dick was the thinker and planner, the most inscrutable and probably the brightest of the three. He was certainly intelligent enough to devise the coded message. Although very personable, and an affable conversationalist, inside was an incisive mind, always thinking, planning and devising.

All three would have the same basic motive for crime...money.

Stuart was the intense, bright student, never inhibited about expressing his strong thoughts and feelings. Typically liberal, he had opinions about wealth and privilege, but would probably settle down as he got older. Was he capable of murder to punctuate his ideals? Doris thought not.

Her intuition at this point was to suspect Dick Karlson. He reminded her of a professional poker player, whose face doesn't reveal what cards he's holding.

She picked up the phone to call Jason Colbert, and tell him her thoughts. He would just say it was her woman's intuition. Well, sometimes intuitions pay off.

"Jason, do you have time to talk, I have a few ideas that I'd like to share with you."

"Sure, Doris. Your ideas have been a big help to me. What's on your mind?"

"I've watched all the members of our little Philosophy Club, ever since Herb and I solved that coded message. Here are some of my thoughts.

"Grady Jenkins had a relationship with Prof. Patagos through his son. He manages money badly, and always seems to be in debt. I think it's because of his gambling. Grady also has strong feelings for Geneva Caldwell. I don't think Grady is our man. He doesn't seem to be hiding something, but anything is possible.

"Is it possible that Grady Jenkins is a good actor, who could put on the air of involved lover? Could this be a cover for a clever killer?" Jason asked.

"I repeat, anything is possible. Let me tell you my thoughts on Brock Gillis. He's obsessed with success. He's extremely ambitious and loves the power that his money and political influence give him. He can be a real charmer, and also has an interest in Geneva. My feeling is that Brock is not capable of a warm, loving, and giving relationship. He tends to see people as means to ends, manipulating relationships to his own profit. He may marry, but it will be to a trophy wife who is beautiful and rich. He and Grady don't share any friendship. They are openly competing for Geneva.. I don't know yet, which one Geneva favors. I've painted a rather dark picture of Brock, which doesn't necessarily make him a murderer. My gut feeling is that Brock is suspicious, though.

"As open as Grady is, Dick Karlson seems like a closed book. There is a lot in there, but you have to read every page carefully. He is a self-made man of great wealth, and is single-minded in his business dealings. He's very widely read and well-prepared for philosophy discussions. I don't think he would play around on his wife. He needs a secure home life so that he can focus his energy on his investments.

"His wife, Barbara, used to work in the DA's office, and Dick obviously has a relationship to Phillips through their wives. He also knows the mayor and some of the members of the City Council, and I wouldn't be surprised if he had dealings with Tony Manzoni. He has motive, and it probably has to do with money. But how, where, and why, I don't know."

"Thanks, Doris. Your sensitive insight into people's character really is a help. I'm glad we're partners."

"That's what partners are for. Now get to work."

# Chapter 41

After talking with Doris, Jason reviewed his notes about Dick Karlson. He had done business with International Investment Advisors, which linked him to Dr. James Danton, and with Shelstone's firm, which linked him to Jenkins and Gillis. He found out the location of Karlson's office in a building that he owned. Karlson was out of town for a couple of days, and his only employee, an executive secretary and assistant, usually left the office at 5 p.m.

Just before 2 a.m. ,Jason parked his car in the lot of a building next to Karlson's. He kept in the shadows until he got to a back door and let himself in. A glimpse of the building's directory confirmed his assumption that Karlson's office was on the top floor. Indeed, it was the only office on that level. He went up the stairs, avoiding surveillance cameras and a night watchman who might hear the sound of the elevator.

He exited the stairs into a short hall and saw an ornate oak door with polished brass accents. There was no name on the door, but he knew this had to be Karlson's personal office. He let himself inside and closed the door behind him before turning on the tiny, high-intensity light attached to his headband. After confirming there was nothing of importance from a brief look through the secretary's desk, he entered Karlson's office.

It was a corner office with a magnificent view north along the tollway. A large black ebony and polished chrome desk was in front of the wall facing the north windows. The other windows were on the right as one sat at the desk. The entire wall behind it was covered with shelves and cabinets, with a countertop that served as a credenza. This held two computers and monitors and a small TV, presumably for watching the stock market news and CNN. The desk itself had a telephone, photos of his family, and some pens in a crystal caddie. Karlson was obsessively neat, which went along with his compulsive nature, Jason thought. Art pieces hung on the walls and sat on tables. The whole effect was one of quiet, unobtrusive yet obvious wealth, spiced with artistic taste. Jason stopped admiring the setting and turned to the desk for the task he came for, finding out more about Dick Karlson.

He realized that Karlson probably kept most of his files on computers, which he couldn't get into, but that he might have some in paper form somewhere. He took out his lockmaster keys and opened the locked cabinets behind the desk.

Files were grouped in large categories, each containing items by year from the past five only. He rapidly thumbed past the files concerning stocks, bonds and similar investments, until he came to real estate, commercial. His pulse quickened as he recalled Karlson's relationship to I I A and Shelstone. He fingered through the file until he found one marked "pending." He removed the folder and opened it on the desk.

Inside was another folder labeled Presidential Park. He looked through the proposed project. Karlson owned a controlling interest in several hundred acres of land north of Dallas. A possible extension of a tollway was dotted through almost the center of the property. A foldout map indicated with various colors the locations of proposed office, retail, single-family and multi-family areas. Along the west side was a golf course labeled "country club". Small areas for parks, lakes, and green belts were aesthetically interwoven with the commercial and residential components to complete the colorful tapestry.

It was beautiful. A lot of time, money, and planning obviously went into this. Jason estimated roughly that this investment might run into several hundred million dollars and return a profit of at least five times that amount.

Jason's curiosity was exploding, as he looked at the list of investors---Brock Gillis owned 25 percent, other private investors owned a total of 15 percent, and a few banks and financial brokers owned the remaining 10 percent. Shelstone was mentioned, along with two other firms as brokers, and Grady Jenkins' law firm were the attorneys of record. Everyone he was investigating stood to make a lot of money if the project was developed.

Jason closed the file and returned it to its place. Looking through the other files, he found one marked Philosophy Club. He opened it and found a list of members with their addresses and phone numbers, a schedule of topics and dates, and notes on the subjects. Jason saw that Karlson and his wife Barbara had discussed Spinoza, their notes still in the file, neatly typed. He also found a list of the murder victims---Patagos, Abrams, Silverman, Danton and Manzoni. These were placed in a column next to the philosophers Plato, Aristotle, Spinoza, Descartes, Machiavelli Hume, Kant, Nietzsche and Sartre. There were no names placed beside the last four. No other notes, no musings, and no doodles.

He either keeps all his thoughts in his head or in a computer under a secure password, Jason assumed. All this was circumstantial, but it certainly gave Karlson a motive for killing Manzoni. He needed to have a talk with Mr. Dick Karlson.

# Chapter 42

In his book-cluttered study, Ian Harris finished typing out Chapter seventeen of his latest murder mystery on the computer. He saved it and turned it off, savoring the last scene he had written. This was his tenth novel, five of his previous ones having made the bestseller list. His first two were unremarkable, but his third was a blockbuster, becoming a number one national bestseller and later a movie, making Ian wealthy from then on. He also liked to spice his literary output with some poetry and personal philosophy, continuing his occasional contributions to the New York Times, Boston Globe and Philadelphia Enquirer.

He got up from his desk and went to his small bar, where he poured himself a short glass of scotch. He carried it back to his desk and savored the single-malt that he favored. He decided to call his friend, Mayor Robert Thornberg, and put down his drink beside the phone on the desk. Thornberg picked up on the third ring. "Hi Bob, Ian. Are you busy?"

"Hello Scotty. No, I just turned off the ten o'clock news. They covered Philips' speech to the attorneys today."

"What did you think about it?"

"Well, you know he's running for my seat and will engage in the usual BS and mud-slinging. He blamed me again for the loss of the football stadium and flight of businesses from the downtown area. He failed to mention the report in Forbes that Texas was first in the country in the number of the top five hundred U.S. company headquarters and that Dallas has its fair share."

"Are you worried about him?"

"I think I can hold my own with my record of increasing business in general and maintaining the budget without increasing taxes."

"What about these murders, Bob? They have national attention and have put him under a glaring light."

"Yeah, they'll either make or break his career. If he finds and prosecutes the killer, the resulting popularity will probably catapult him all the way to the governor's office and possibly Washington. On the other hand, if he doesn't solve them before the election, his ass is grass. I will be re-elected and he'll have to leave office."

"Doesn't that put us in a moral quandary? We want to stop the murders and catch the killer, of course, but we don't want him elected mayor. Maybe Providence will help both to happen somehow. Anyway, you know you can count on my support. I'll be glad to sponsor a fundraiser for you and campaign among my literary friends and clubs. Of course my checkbook is also open for you."

"Thanks Scotty. You've been a good friend and very generous. How long have we known each other? It must be ten years or so."

"I guess it has been that long, ever since we met at a Renaissance Weekend. We just seemed to connect---a politician and a novelist, a strange combination."

"Not really---we both deal in fantasy."

They both laughed. "Anyway, Bob, I hope you beat Philips for re-election. Call me if you need anything."

"Thanks, Scotty. I know I can count on you. Goodnight."

Ian hung up, turned off the light in his study and strolled to the kitchen to grab a snack before going to bed. He had lived alone since his wife died five years previously, both of them regretting that they had had no children. Ian realized it was just as well, since even with all his wealth and fame he was a quiet, retiring man who enjoyed reading and writing.

After his wife, Claire, died he moved to Dallas, partly because his friend Bob Thornberg coaxed him, partly because he found the people friendly and living easy, and mostly because he wanted to get away from painful memories in the old house up east. His comfortable cottage close to the SMU campus was convenient to all his needs, including the university, where he used the library and gave seminars in creative writing.

Ian Harris, the easy-going, bohemian writer, and Bob Thornberg, the gregarious, carefully dressed politician, made the odd couple. Bob introduced Scotty to the Dallas political and business society, where he found himself discussing books with businessmen, bankers, and lawyers. He became an easy mixer, collecting personalities for his novels. Scotty took Bob to lectures and to his book club, where Bob enjoyed the opportunity to escape from politics and expand his mind in other directions. It gave depth to a person who had to debate complex political issues.

Each benefited from the other. Scotty made relationships that eventually put him into contact with promoters and movie investors. Bob benefited not only from Scotty's generosity to his projects and campaigns but from his political philosophy as well. Scotty gave him important ideas and helped him with his speeches.

Ian stepped into the kitchen and turned on the light. He took out a chicken leg from the refrigerator and took a bite, then laid it down and poured himself a glass of milk. He walked over to check the back door, as he always did before going to bed. He was mildly surprised to find it unlocked and guessed he had left it that way when he had returned from taking out the trash.

Still munching the chicken, he turned out the kitchen light and entered his hallway. Something hit him hard in the back of his head. The chicken and milk-filled glass flew down the hall as he fell unconscious to the floor. He didn't feel the bullet as it exploded inside his skull.

The killer welcomed the rush of elation, as he exited the house and drove off. A sense of completing a masterful creation filled him, like an artist contemplating his painting. He massaged the steering wheel and laughed aloud. He could still visualize the pool of blood spreading from under his victim's head.

At home, he congratulated himself on the planning that was bringing his strategy to its consummation. He admitted to himself that it wasn't only logical reasoning that had brought success. Reason has its limitations, some philosophers said. It can't motivate us to action; only our emotions can do that. We have to have a desire and the will to act, but we are motivated by hunger, love, anger, fear and other feelings that are beyond reason. We have to be skeptical of our reasoning and look at our basic feelings. We have to learn to trust them and use them. His basic feelings were ambition and victory.

His elevated sense of accomplishment overwhelmed any compunction of thoughts of right or wrong. Morals, after all, are products of a person's emotions; something was right or wrong if a person felt it was. Thus, the whole basis for these murders had morphed from reason to passion, passion that had at first seduced him, but then had enslaved him.

# Chapter 43

Grady called Geneva on the morning of the Philosophy Club meeting. "Hi, are you ready for your discussion tonight?" he asked.

"For the most part.. I thought I'd make a short outline today. What about you? Do you need any help tonight?"

"I'll just have some snacks and drinks. No big deal. I thought you might like to come over early for a light dinner before the meeting. I can cook up some Italian sausage and pasta. We can discuss your talk while you help me set up for the meeting."

"I don't know, Grady. I have a lot I have to do today."

"Oh, come on Geneva. You've got all day. I really miss you. I've been so busy lately that I haven't been able to break away for a real date. Why don't you come over about six? The dinner will only take a little while and we can talk. Please."

"Okay, you've twisted my arm. I'll see you at six." She admitted to herself that she also enjoyed the company of this handsome man.

"Good, see you then." They hung up and Grady smiled. He didn't like Brock elbowing in on Geneva. He wanted her for himself.

Grady had the sausages cut up and simmering in a seasoned sauce when Geneva arrived. He hugged and kissed her on the cheek. They had a glass of wine and talked while he boiled the water and added the pasta. Dinner was accompanied by conversation about books, theater and Washington politics. Nothing was said about the Philosophy Club or the murders.

As Geneva was helping him clean up and start the coffee, Grady decided to open the subject. "I know that Brock is interested in you. He took you to dinner before our last Philosophy Club meeting. What do you think of him?"

"He's a very intelligent man. He has single-handedly developed his giant conglomerate. But you know that. He reads a lot. He's interested in history and knows a little philosophy. He gives the impression that he's a single-minded businessman with only money on the brain, but he's pretty well-rounded as far as his intellect is concerned."

"I know all that. What I want to know is how you feel about him personally."

"He's very nice, a true gentleman. He didn't try to come on too strong. We had a nice time together and I really enjoyed his company."

"You still didn't answer my question."

"Grady, do I detect a little jealousy? Why so much interest in Brock?"

He walked over to her and reached out for her hands. "I just wanted to know if you two have something more serious going on. I don't trust Brock. I think he has ulterior motives. Has he made any propositions to you?"

"As a matter of fact he did. He said if we got married we would make a great pair, socially and economically."

He dropped her hands and stood back as if in shock. "Economically! Was it a proposal for a business merger or a marriage? I told you he had money on the brain. What else did he say?"

"I don't know. We talked about a lot of things." She didn't tell him that Brock suspected that if the murderer was one of the Philosophy Club, that it was probably Dick Karlson or him. What good would that do? Grady would only deny it, whether he was guilty or not.

"Geneva, I really care about you. Please don't fall for Brock; he's a fake. Give me a chance. Let's get together some more so you can really know me." He put down the dish of cookies that he was carrying and reached for her hand. They looked into each other's eyes, and a current of energy flowed through their touch.

Grady pulled her to him and looked at her with a longing that seemed to exude from his soul. She felt his palpable emotion and read his thoughts as if they were a printed poster. He moved his face closer to hers, searching. She lifted her head and offered her lips. His mouth closed onto hers, consuming her with his kiss. His tongue tentatively reached out and her mouth opened. They kissed with an unsuppressed passion.

It was as if they finally had release for the pent-up feelings each had accumulated. A mutual sense of belonging enveloped them. Finally, reluctantly, Geneva pulled away. She looked into Grady's eyes as if she wanted more, then a shadow of doubt crossed her face.

"I'm confused, Grady. Brock has filled me with such doubts. Let's talk about this some other time."

"There is no other time. I'm falling in love with you. You've got to believe me, and get away from Brock."

She was overcome. "Oh, Grady. The others will be here in a few minutes. I've got to freshen my makeup. Let me get my thoughts together and arrange my notes. I've got to switch gears and start thinking about David Hume."

She emerged from the restroom and went into the large common room and put her papers and books on the coffee table. Grady finished in the kitchen, feeling frustrated. He hated Brock even more. He was still thinking about his nemesis when the doorbell rang.

# Chapter 44

Grady welcomed everyone and turned the discussion over to Geneva, who said, "As you know, our subject tonight is David Hume, a Scottish philosopher, who lived from 1711 to 1776. Hume tried to put our mental activity, including reasoning and experience, on a more scientific basis. In other words, by advancing a science of the mind he was psychologizing philosophy."

She explained that Hume examined how a person learned and how reasoning was limited in our gaining of knowledge. "He said that the only way we are aware of things is what our senses and experience tell us. Everything we know, then, about the external world is filtered through our senses. Our sense impressions, in turn, are colored by our emotions."

"Don't our culture and environment have an effect on our emotions too?" asked Herb.

"Sure they do," she replied. "How we are brought up and the values of our society certainly shape our feelings toward things. Therefore, they have an effect on our common sense and reasoning, how we actually think about things."

"So, reason has its limits, doesn't it?" said Dick. "We can't get away from our emotions and basic feelings. They shape our thinking, no matter how unemotional and logical we think we are."

"That's really profound, especially from someone with your logical brain," said Brock. "But what did he say about how we make moral judgments? Are they also just emotional?"

Geneva explained, "Hume said that nothing in itself is good or bad but how we judge it by the emotion it arouses in us. Thus our experience conditions us to react to something with love and awe or hate and anger."

"Wasn't Hume also skeptical about religion?" Grady asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yes, he was skeptical about anything that a person believes on faith, especially things like miracles, which he considered to be against scientific logic. He said in his writing, 'It takes a miracle to believe a miracle.' He said that you can't take something on faith just because some holy person or holy book said it was so. He wasn't a skeptic just to be skeptical; he just wanted everyone to be critical in their thinking."

"You can't argue with people's religious beliefs," said Barbara. "Religious beliefs aren't based on science or reason or logic; they're based on faith and emotion. A person looks at a human eye, for example, and is awestruck by its complexity. How could that come about by accident, he says? It must've been designed and created by a creator being. You can't argue with him; his reasoning is unscientific. You can't change someone's beliefs or faith with reason or subject them to testing like you can scientific ideas."

Stuart picked up the argument. "I love to get into discussions with people over science versus religion. Religion is on the defensive, and it can't support its belief, other than to say God doesn't have to explain Himself; He just made it the way it is. You'll always have people who hide behind their holy books and cling to their faith no matter what scientific evidence that you confront them with."

Herb interjected," We can talk about the conflict between science and religion all night. Personally, I don't think the two are in conflict at all. Science has to do with facts and figures, whereas religion has to do with morals and how to live your life. They should not interfere with each other."

The discussion continued for some time. Finally, Brock added, "I think we've exhausted this argument between science and religion. I'd like to ask if any of you heard about the murder earlier this week."

"I heard that Ian Harris, the author, was shot in his house," said Geneva. "What a tragedy. He was really a talented writer. I read some of his books. Who would do such a thing?"

"Who knows?" said Brock.

Doris shook her head, apparently thinking about the implications of this most recent murder.

"I read some of Harris's essays and letters," said Dick. "He was really a skeptic too. He sent very articulate letters to newspapers and magazines, school boards and city and state governments, even to Congress. He was vehemently opposed to religious fundamentalists who try to force their beliefs on schools and government."

"It's a great loss that such a literary figure was murdered. It really frightens me," murmured Geneva.

"Was he of Scottish descent?" asked Doris.

"He was called Scotty by his friends," said Grady. "And his name is certainly Scottish. Why?"

"Oh, I just thought it was another interesting coincidence that the murder victim and our philosopher tonight were both Scottish. You might also note that both of their last names end in the same letter. The murder knows our philosophy schedule. He or she may actually be a member of our group."

"You're frightening us, Doris," said Geneva. "If you think that someone of our philosophy group is involved in these murders, then maybe we ought to stop meeting."

"No," Doris said firmly. "The murderer has an agenda. He will murder or not, regardless of what we do. We've got to be vigilant and help the police if we can." She looked around the room, gazing into each person's eyes, trying to gage them. No one blinked or looked away.

"Okay, Doris," said Barbara. "I'll have the meeting at our house next time. Who would like to lead the discussion?"

"I believe the subject is Kant," said Herb. "He's one of those difficult German philosophers. I'd like to tackle it; that is if Doris is feeling okay."

"All right, Herb," said Grady. "I'll be your substitute if you can't make it. I studied Kant in college. And you're right. He is rather dense, like all those German philosophers."

Brock stood and went over to Geneva. He put his arms around her and whispered something to her, kissing her on the cheek. Grady couldn't stand it. He inserted himself between the two and turned to Geneva. "Why don't you stay and help me clean up. We can talk some more."

Brock poked his finger into Grady's chest. "I was talking with Geneva."

"I don't care if you were. And don't touch me," Grady said, his voice carrying across the room. Everyone turned and saw Grady push Brock. "Get out of my house."

Brock pushed away Grady's hand and hit him in the face, knocking him down.

The room erupted. Geneva yelled. Herb and Dick separated the two men, as Barbara helped Grady up. Stuart was shocked speechless, fear widening his eyes.

Doris said, "Stop it! You two are acting like jealous teenagers. Now shake hands and act civilized."

Brock and Grady grudgingly shook hands, but the flames of hate leapt between their eyes. Everyone could tell that this fight wasn't over yet.

The meeting broke up into chattering twos and threes as they made their way to the entry and their cars. They talked about the scuffle between the two men. Some chatted about Ian Harris's murder, about his books, poetry, and philosophy. Some asked themselves the inevitable question, could it really be one of them?

# Chapter 45

"Good morning, Dr. Goodman. How're you feeling today?"

"Not very well," Doris told the nurse. She had been admitted into the Presbyterian Hospital the night before with dehydration. The chemotherapy's side effects were relentless, Doris having lost her hair and over twenty pounds from the nausea, vomiting and diarrhea. She had also developed anemia and had to have a blood transfusion. Herb was the donor, because fortunately he had O negative blood type.

The nurse checked the IV. "Are you comfortable? Do you need anything?"

"No thank you. I'll just go back to sleep if I can."

"Just ring if you need anything."

Doris felt lousy. Sometimes she felt that the treatment was worse than the disease. Feelings of despair washed over her, causing her to wonder why she put up with all the suffering. She and Herb had discussed with the oncologist about stopping the chemo and letting things take their course. But the doctor had convinced them that he was going to try a new therapy protocol which had great promise. She wanted to hang on long enough to help solve those murders. After a light lunch of soup and Jell-O, which she succeeded in keeping down, Doris called Jason Colbert. She willed herself to sound strong. She knew the detective needed her help.

"Jason, I wonder if you have time to come by the hospital this afternoon and talk with me about those murders. I have some ideas."

"I'm sorry you're in the hospital, Doris. How are you feeling?"

"The blood and IV fluids are helping. I feel a little stronger. Can you come?"

They agreed to meet at four o'clock that afternoon.

Later that morning, Mark Davis came into the office. Jason asked him to see what the other team members had found from the FBI, Austin, or any of the professional associations of their chief suspects. Satisfied that those bases were covered, Jason grabbed some lunch, read over the crime lab's report on the Harris murder, and drove out to the hospital.

Jason knocked gently on the hospital room door. "Hello Doris, can I come in? How are you feeling? Do you feel like talking now?"

"Come in Jason. The answers to your questions are yes and no. No, I really feel terrible. Yes, I will force myself to feel well enough to talk. I've got to fight this overwhelming desire to give up. I still have things to do. Tell me, if you can, what you've been doing in this case. What leads do you have, if any? Anything you tell me, that's confidential, will stay with me."

Jason summarized what he had found out about the relationships Jenkins, Gillis, and Karlson had with various real estate dealings. He told her about Karlson's large land holdings and plans to develop it. He didn't tell her that he had broken into his office. "The plans show that a proposed expansion of the tollway would go right through that property. It's interesting that Manzoni, the city councilman who was murdered, was against that expansion. I have a hunch that Karlson may be our man."

"Dick Karlson is an enigma to me also," Doris said. "He's rich and competitive, but I still can't read him completely. Something hides behind that pleasant façade."

"I also suspect Karlson," Jason agreed. "He's everything you said and more---wealthy, brilliant and driven. Two things you said bother me, too. His relationship with the City Council is one. The council would have to okay the tollway expansion through his property. The other point is his relationship with Phillips.

"What about the other murders? What motives could he have for them?" Doris asked.

Jason paused. "I can't think of reasons offhand for killing Patagos, Abrams or Silverman. He doesn't seem to be prejudiced in any way."

"I can see why he would want Manzoni out of the way," Doris added. "Perhaps Danton has something to do with the property. And what would Ian Harris have to do with it?"

"Ian Harris has been a supporter of the mayor. Thornberg has opposed the extension of the tollway, and is up for reelection. Karlson would to want to damage his chances, and maybe taking out Harris would do that."

"It's possible," Doris mumbled.

Grady assured Doris that he planned to talk with Karlson. He added,"I don't know why, but the DA has taken an intense interest in this case. He's put extreme pressure on me. In fact..... Andrew Phillips has threatened to force me to retire if I don't find the murderer"

"You poor man. No wonder you look so tired and on edge."

"You're right there, and thanks for caring. You've been a lot of help to me in this confusing case. I, I mean we, have a lot more work to do. I plan to do some more snooping."

"Good luck," she said.

"Now, I know you must be tired, so I'd better go. You keep fighting, and you can win this battle."

"Thank you, Jason. I know you care about me. Happy snooping" She smiled and winked like a knowing accomplice.

He winked back and returned a crooked smile. "I just want to tell you that all the guys on my team are pulling for you. Some are praying also. I hope it's all right with you if Christians pray for you."

Doris smiled. "Of course it's all right. We all pray to the same God, don't we? Tell them I really appreciate it."

"I will. Good-bye. I hope you feel better."

"Good-bye, Jason." She blew him a kiss.

Jason cleared his throat and wiped his eyes as he walked down the hall from Doris's room. He had grown fond of that brave, intelligent woman, and relished their visits. He didn't like the sound of her good-bye. "God," he prayed. "I hope it's not her last."

# Chapter 46

Jason knew that breaking into suspects' homes and offices to obtain information was not only illegal, but that whatever was obtained was inadmissible as evidence. He succumbed to the temptation anyway. He promised himself that he would become a new person, a new kind of cop, if only he could catch this one killer. These murders obsessed him more than any he had ever investigated.

Jason had planned to break into Brock Gillis's office next, but upon discovering that the Gillis TeleCom buildings had state-of-the-art electronic and live security, he decided to visit Grady Jenkins' office first.

That night, Jason paid a visit to the building that housed Jenkins' law firm. With over a hundred lawyers, it occupied five floors of Thanksgiving Tower. Jason knew the security guard, a retired police sergeant, who in fact had befriended Jason when he was a rookie patrolman, taking Jason under his wing and showing him the nitty-gritty of the department.

Jason punched the after-hours buzzer and the guard came to the door, opening it when he recognized Jason and warmly shaking his hand. Jason explained that he was investigating the Dallas murders, and why he was there. "I have a little snooping to do in one of the suspect's offices. Will you help me?"

"I don't want to lose my job."

"All I'm asking is that you turn off the surveillance camera on the floor of Grady Jenkins' office. It's on the top floor of their law firm."

"If you don't disturb anything, then they probably won't be suspicious and check the tapes. I'll turn them off in the elevator and on the floor that you'll be on. You can examine the office at your leisure."

"Thanks, sergeant. I owe you one."

"You're more than welcome, detective. Even though I'm retired, I'm still a cop at heart."

Jenkins' office was in a corner that had a very nice view toward the north, overlooking the Arts District. The office was not too large, and the furnishings leaned to the contemporary Going around the desk, he saw that one of the cabinets had a locked file drawer, which he had no trouble opening. He had a feeling that these were Jenkins' private files. Jenkins must think that they're safer here, Jason thought, let's see what he's into.

He found files on Jenkins' real estate investments, his relationships to I I A and Shelstone, and something very interesting. Jenkins was a partner in several downtown apartments and condo developments with ex-councilman Anthony Manzoni, a connection that Jason hadn't known about. But what would he gain by his murder? He might pick up Manzoni's share of the partnerships, but there had to be something more.

Another file had a running tally of visits to Las Vegas and Shreveport casinos, with wins and losses and cancelled markers. Apparently, Jenkins was quite a gambler, his wins and losses amounting from ten to forty thousand at a time. He was a regular poker player in two different games, keeping the names, phone numbers, and little personality sketches and poker tells on each player. He had a running total of his wins and losses in the poker games also, being up $8,500 in one game, down $9,700 in the other. That's no big deal for a lawyer of Jenkins' stature, Jason thought.

The next folder had a list of sports bets and bookies. Jason guessed that he didn't trust the computer. The name struck Jason like a bolt of lightning----Manzoni. A Joe Manzoni was his bookie. He apparently owed Manzoni over $100,000. Jason whistled softly.

Jason's investigation of Tony Manzoni's murder had showed that he had a brother named Joe who lived in one of the condos Tony owned. Jason wondered if that was a condo that Jenkins also owned a part interest in.

What's the connection then, he thought? Why would Jenkins kill Tony if he owed money to his brother? Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe he meant to kill Joe to wipe out his gambling debt and shot Tony in error. It's possible, thought Jason, as he thanked the security guard and left the building. He would have someone talk with Joe Manzoni. He would talk with Karlson then with Jenkins himself.

* * *

On his way back to the station the next day Jason chewed on the information that he had uncovered. It was a lot to swallow, and he would need his team to help digest it.

He first called a judge to get search warrants for the offices and homes of Dick Karlson, Grady Jenkins, and Brock Gillis. He convinced the judge that they were suspects, and that he had just cause.

Then he called together whomever he could find to the conference room. He told them that he had search warrants, but not that he had got them that morning. He mentioned Karlson's investments in land that an extension of the tollway may pass through. "That gives him a motive in removing Manzoni, who opposed the tollway extension." He went over his notes about what he had found in Jenkins' office. He emphasized the large amounts that Jenkins gambled, his debts to casinos and to bookies. "Most interesting is that his bookie is Joe Manzoni, to whom he owes over $100,000."

" Joe Manzoni? Is he any relation to the councilman that was murdered?" asked Mark Davis.

"His brother. Jenkins also was partners with the councilman, Tony, in some of his apartments and condos. We have to figure out if Jenkins benefited from Tony's death or whether he was really trying to kill Joe and got the wrong brother."

Jason outlined their plan. "Sharpe, I want you to uncover all of the properties that Tony and Jenkins were partners in. Then, I want you to dig up everything on Joe. See if he's paid his taxes; see about drugs, prostitution, whatever else you can find. James and Campbell go pay a visit to Joe. Lean on him and see what he knows about Jenkins."

"Okay men, let's get going," said Mark. He waited for the others to go, and then turned to Jason. He spoke softly. "Jason, how did you get this information? You didn't break into Jenkins' office, did you?"

"Yes I did, but we have a search warrant, remember. To make everything up-and-up, you and I will officially serve the warrant tomorrow. We will get whatever records we find at that time. Okay?"

"All right. I just don't want this evidence thrown out if the court thinks we got it illegally."

"Don't worry. Everything will be cool."

After they cleared the room, Jason sat alone for a few minutes. He had to create some space to clear his mind to think. Events were accelerating and seemed unreal after such a long time of chasing shadows. He had to free himself of the feeling of unreality and focus on the game. After all, it was a game. There would be a winner, there would be a loser, and the stakes were life and death.

# Chapter 47

Dick Karlson was working late in his office. He had called all of the members of the City Council except the mayor, and one councilman. He had determined that three of the members from inner-city districts were against the tollway expansion, while four other members were for it. The mayor was known to be against it, and so was Manzoni, but he was dead. That left a tie. The remaining councilman that Dick was about to call would break that tie.

He had worked hard, putting together that development around the proposed expansion. He had spent a lot of time and money acquiring land, lining up investors and drawing up plans. The expansion had to have the approval of the City Council, and he was going to pull as many strings as he could to get it. It was part of his strategy to use financial leverage, to elect a new mayor and majority of the City Council, who would pass the expansion proposal.

He called the undecided councilman and asked about his position on the tollway.

"There are so many pros and cons," the councilman said. "The mayor is strongly against it and has some persuasive arguments."

"I know he does, but so do we. I have a lot of wealthy people lined up who want to invest in any development. I can give you names right now. They told me that they will give support for your re-election if you vote for the tollway expansion."

"I can really use the support. My opponent is already campaigning and my funds are pretty slim."

"I'll make a deal with you, Bill. If you vote for the expansion, you can be assured of a full campaign chest for re-election. You don't have to decide now, but give it some serious thought."

"Thanks, I'll consider your offer very seriously."

Dick hung up feeling good about the conversation. If that vote was 'yes', then he will have won. All of this effort will be rewarded. There was a hell of a lot of money that would be made from the expansion, a lot of development of homes, apartments, office buildings and retail. It would allow him to reach his goal of becoming a billionaire.

He was thinking about a list of donors to call the next day to raise money for the election, while he closed down his computers and locked his cabinet and office. After he exited the elevator on the ground floor, he waved at the security guard, "I'm leaving now, Jack."

"You were sure working late, Mr. Karlson."

"I had a lot to do, but I'm going home now. Goodnight."

Dick went directly to his car and drove through the quiet, tree-lined neighborhood to his home not far away. He was thinking about the coming election and the vote in the City Council, and congratulated himself on the fruits of his hard work.

It was almost 1 a.m., and he knew Barbara would be asleep as he pulled up the driveway and stopped in front of the electric gate. He pressed the remote button in his car and waited for the gate to open. A man in dark clothes stepped from behind a tree to the left and behind the car. He approached the driver's side and fired. The bullet shattered the window and struck Dick in the head. Another shot immediately followed and penetrated his neck while he fell over to his right side.

The killer looked around for any witnesses and then peered inside the car at the bleeding head of his victim.

About ten minutes after the killer left, the neighborhood security patrol car approached the Karlsons' residence. The patrolman recognized Mr. Karlson's car parked in front of his opened gate with the lights on and the motor idling. Becoming a little suspicious, he looked closer. Noticing no one sitting in the car, he decided to stop and check it out.

As he approached the car, he turned on his flashlight and called, "Mr. Karlson, is that you? Are you all right?"

Silence returned from the idling car. Fearing trouble, the patrolman's flashlight reflected off of scattered glass on the ground. Reaching the demolished driver side window, the probing light revealed shattered safety glass covering the body and wounded head of Dick Karlson. Spattered blood on the inside of the windows cast a scarlet haze around the car.

The security guard immediately opened the car, removed the seat belt and checked for a neck pulse. Finding one, he put pressure on the wound and called 911. He waited with the wounded man until the emergency medical team arrived

The ambulance arrived with lights flashing and two EMT men ran to the car. "Thanks," one said as he took the guard's place and applied pressure to the back of Dick's neck, "we'll take over now." A police cruiser with two cops arrived soon after.

The security patrolman answered the cop's question, "It was 1:07 when I noticed the car idling with the lights on in front of this open gate. That's when I found Mr. Karlson. I made sure he was still alive, then called 911."

"Have you told his wife yet?" one of the cops asked. " I suppose she lives here."

"Yes, Mrs. Karlson is home, but I haven't told her yet. I was waiting for you."

"You did right. You can go tell her now."

He walked up the drive and rang the bell. It took a while for her to answer, and he started to wonder if she was a heavy sleeper, when she came to the door, still tying her robe.

She saw the flashing lights from the EMT vehicle and police car and became alarmed. "What is it?" she asked as she opened the door.

"It's Mr. Karlson, ma'am. He's been hurt."

"Is he all right? Let me go see him." She stepped outside.

One of the cops saw her and walked to her, holding up his hand. "Let's let the medics work on your husband, Mrs. Karlson. He's been shot.They say that he's alive. I'll have to ask you some questions."

Barbara said, "Let me get some clothes on. I'll answer your questions, but I want to see my husband and ride with him in the ambulance to the hospital." She was in an emotional turmoil, wondering who in the world want to kill Dick.

Later that morning, Dick was taken to surgery. After the operation, while his patient was still in recovery, the neurosurgeon talked to Barbara. "He'll be all right. That is, he's alive and out of immediate danger. Nothing vital was damaged. The bullets went through the top of his skull and the back of his neck. He'll be in a coma for a while, though, because of the swelling of the brain. That could last several days, although weeks or even months is not unusual."

"Weeks or months!" exclaimed Barbara.

The surgeon tried to reassure her. "I've seen patients ,who have been unconscious up to a year, suddenly wake up with no loss of mental or physical faculty." His attempt at reassurance only exacerbated Barbara's anxiety.

"What will I do if he dies, or worse, if he's unconscious for a year? What about his business? I have no idea what all he's into."

The neurosurgeon tried to reassure her again in his awkward way, then giving up, he excused himself that he had another patient to check on and left.

Barbara made sure that Dick was resting and stable in ICU, then got a ride home. She took a long hot shower and thought about Dick's shooting. Who would kill him, and why? She knew he was involved in a lot of financial dealings; he always was. He talked about the possibility of an extension of the tollway, and his investments in that area. They also discussed its political implications. The City Council had to okay the project, and the mayor and some members were against it. Barbara recalled that Tony Manzoni had been vehemently against the tollway extension.

Dick was glad that her friend's husband, and old boss, Andrew Phillips was running for mayor. Dick said that he was going to donate to his campaign. A thought struck her. Did Dick have anything to do with Manzoni's death? Is it possible that Dick was targeted as a reprisal for Manzoni and to impede Phillips' election?

She got out of the shower, put on a nightgown, and collapsed into bed. Thoughts of the Philosophy Club and the murders swirled around in her mind. What was Doris implying, that someone in their group was a murderer? Was it Dick, or was his attempted murder part of the same plot? Again, the questions who and why pounded inside her brain, until she fell into an exhausted sleep.

* * *

At home, the killer was doubly satisfied. Not only was he happy that Karlson was removed as one of the stumbling blocks in his plan, but his death would place the blame for the murders where he wanted it. The trap was closing and the final goal was coming nearer. A sense of satisfaction enveloped him like a warm, cozy blanket.

He had learned to trust his feelings, though relying on his sound reasoning as well, to tell him that what he was doing was right. The philosopher Kant had said that the only thing that is unqualifyingly good in this world is a good will, the will to follow a moral law. He had already convinced himself that his moral law was right, because it served a higher purpose. Never mind your own happiness said the same philosopher; do your duty. Your duty and therefore morality is not making yourself happy, but making yourself worthy of happiness. We can seek happiness in others, he said, but we must seek perfection in ourselves, whether it brings us happiness or pain.

As he turned out his light and turned over in bed, the darkened room wrapped around him. It's almost finished, he said to himself as the thought reverberated inside his mind. The emptiness of the room returned the thought through a hollow silence...almost complete. His mind rebounded from the echo and leapt to the future that would open itself to him. So much to accomplish, so much to complete, so much to have.....when this was over.

# Chapter 48

Dick Karlson's shooting took Jason completely by surprise. On the other hand, his attempted murder had eliminated one of Jason's suspects. He would use the warrants to search Jenkins' and Gillis' homes and cars. He would personally search Jenkins' car and Mark could search Gillis'.

Jason found Jenkins car at his office downtown. He kept his midnight blue Lincoln Town Car spotless, with the usual things---sunglasses, note paper, and maps---right where they should be. A look in the trunk also revealed a neat and clean owner. Might as well look in the spare tire well to be thorough, Jason thought. Removing the carpet and tire cover, he saw a hand towel wrapped around something. He picked it up and slowly unwrapped it. What he saw was a nine-millimeter automatic with a silencer. Bingo, smiled Jason.

He carefully rewrapped it, put the trunk back the way he found it, and drove back to the ballistics lab. He told Jim to cross-check the gun with bullets from the murders that he was investigating. In his mind, Jason had included Karlson's shooting as one of the Philosophy Club murders, as Jason had begun calling them. But how did he fit in? Jason had thought that he might have been the killer.

Mark went out to Gillis' building and went through his car. He discovered nothing, his black Lexus spotless. He called Jason, found that he was over in ballistics and told him that he would meet him there. He and Jason decided not to wait for the report but to look at the test themselves.

"Did you find any fingerprints, Jim?" Jason asked the police ballistics expert.

"There were no prints on the gun or bullets. Howard went over to shoot the gun, and he ought to be back any minute with the bullet. I've lined up the photos of the bullets of the other shootings on this computer, where you can see that they all came from the same gun."

Jason could easily see the same markings on all the bullets extracted from the victims. About that time Howard returned with the slug from the gun that Jason had brought in. Jim put it under the scope, took several photos and inserted them into the computer, made copies and juxtaposed a copy of the new slug with each of the ones taken from the victims. "What do you see?" he asked.

"I'll be damned. A perfect match for all of them," said Jason. "That's the murder weapon all right. Gimme a printout of that, will you, Jim? I don't want to wait for the official report. I'm going to take this up to the Chief right now."

Jason first checked to see if the gun was registered. After getting a negative answer, he called the Chief's office and told the secretary that he was coming up there to show him something important. He also told Mark to get all of the members of the team together that he could, and they would meet in an hour.

When he reached the chief's office, he told him, "I found a gun in one of the suspect's car that ballistics matched to all the ones from the victims,

"Who does it belong to?"

"The gun's unregistered, possibly came from offshore, probably imported by drug dealers. The silencer is illegal of course."

"Where did you find it?"

"I found it in Grady Jenkins' car."

"So you think Jenkins is the murderer?"

"He was one of my suspects. I'll get a warrant for his arrest."

"I know the DA will be elated," said Stroud.

"I'm sure he will. Would you mind calling and telling him, chief? I really don't feel like facing Mr. Phillips today. Tell him I'll give him a heads up when I have Jenkins."

"Good work, Colbert. I'll be glad to call Phillips for you. Good luck with Jenkins."

Jason walked into the conference room about fifteen minutes late. "Good, everyone's here," said Jason. "Detective Davis has probably told you that we found the gun that was used in the murders and attempted murders in Grady Jenkins' car. James, call and tell Jenkins' secretary to call us immediately if she hears from him. See if you can put a trace on his cell phone. I want all of you to be on the lookout for him. Mark, put out an APB. Any questions?"

"We've got our major breakthrough," Mark said. "Now let's find Jenkins and bring him in."

Each officer gathered up what notes he had and went to his own assignment.

Jason went back to his desk and called Doris. He considered her his unofficial partner. Without her he would still probably have only a coded note. His call found her at home resting.

"Hi Doris, Jason. How are you feeling?"

"Hi Jason, a little better I guess. What's up?"

"I have some news for you," he said, excitement coloring his tone. "I found the gun, the murder weapon. Our ballistics matched it with all the bullets we found in the victims."

"That's great, Jason."

"I found it in Grady Jenkins' car."

"What? You did? Grady Jenkins' car?"

"Of course, it doesn't prove Jenkins did it. But this is the first hard evidence we've found. I have enough now to arrest him. I know the DA will be overjoyed. He won't take his claws out of Jenkins until he has convicted him."

"I hear you," Doris said. "My gut feeling was that Dick Karlson or Brock Gillis was the murderer, but it's hard to argue with hard evidence."

"Do you think that Karlson's shooting is related to the other Philosophy Club murders?" Jason asked.

"Is that what you call them? Well, let's think about it. The next philosopher on our list to discuss is Kant."

"Karlson's name begins with the same initial as Kant," Jason added.

"You're right, Jason. Dick's name is spelled the German way and Kant was, of course, German."

"That fits in perfectly with your theory. The murderer has to be in your Philosophy Club."

"We had discussed the idea of your coming to our meeting. You put it off, but I think you should still come."

"Well, Karlson won't be there and I doubt if Jenkins will be either. But it might be interesting. Do you think it would be a little awkward to have a police detective at your discussion?"

"Oh, it might be. But it'll also put some pressure on the group. You don't have to say anything, just watch everyone."

"I haven't studied any philosophy, but I'm always open to learning new things. It might help me to see the environment that the murderer has been working in."

"Good," Doris said. She gave him the details of the meeting location, and they said good-bye.

Jason thought for a moment, his mind becoming lucid, the weariness and indecision that had paralyzed his thinking evaporating like a fog in sunshine. Realizing that he was beginning to see a path opening before him, he had to follow it. Even though he wasn't certain about Jenkins, he knew that his next step was to find him.

# Chapter 49

After obtaining an arrest warrant, Jason and Mark went to Grady Jenkins' office. His secretary said that he wasn't there and that she hadn't heard from him. That was unusual, she admitted, because he always checked with her if he was going to be late or was not coming in.

Jason showed her their search warrant, and he and Mark went into Jenkins' office. They turned up the files on Manzoni and the gambling. Jason showed them to Mark and said with a wink that they looked important. Mark nodded knowingly and took them to the secretary.

He said to her, "We're taking these files as possible evidence. Here's a receipt for them." He also gave her his card. "If you hear from Mr. Jenkins at all, call us." She looked frightened, nodded, and took the card.

They drove to Jenkins' home, hoping to find him there, but weren't surprised when they found no one there. "Well, I guess he's probably hiding out somewhere, maybe left the city," Jason said.

"That certainly makes him look guilty, doesn't it?" replied Mark. Jason agreed.

They searched in the house but found nothing of importance. Back at headquarters, Mark filled out a report, while Jason checked on the APB. He had obtained a photo of Jenkins at his house and sent it out to all officers. He notified them that he was to be picked up on suspicion of murder.

* * *

Grady sat alone in a darkened room of the strange house, unshaven, in wrinkled clothes. A look of bewilderment covered his face as he stared at the sliver of light seeping through the curtained window. He ran a nervous hand through his tousled hair. A turbulence of emotions – fear, helplessness, uncertainty, and anger -- swept through his mind.

Doris had called him yesterday afternoon at his office. He was surprised by her call.

"I have to know something," she said. "Did you have anything to do with the shooting of Dick Karlson?"

"Of course not. Why would I?"

"That's a good question. Why would you? Money, perhaps."

"Doris, you know me better than that. You were my therapist."

"I know that you don't handle money well. Do you still gamble and bet on sports a lot?"

"Yes, but..."

"Do you owe a lot of money?"

"Well, some, but not that I can't manage. I wouldn't kill anyone, and not for money anyway."

"I know you pretty well, Grady, and I believe you. I'm going to help you, but if you're guilty, I will be too, by aiding you."

"I understand. I would never do anything to harm you, Doris. I love you like an older sister."

"Okay. The detective I've been working with on these murders called me a while ago and told me that they found a gun in your car. Its ballistics matched the ones from the other murders. You're under suspicion for murder, Grady, there will be a warrant issued for your arrest."

"Maybe I should turn myself in," Grady said, speaking as a lawyer. "I'll post bail and help the police search for the real killer. I'll convince them of my innocence, but my best defense is to find out who the murderer is."

"Don't go to the police," Doris warned. "Detective Colbert told me that the DA is anxious to get a conviction in this case. He'll convince the court to deny bail, move for an early trial date, and convict you. You won't stand a chance."

"I'm innocent. I didn't kill those men."

"I know that. I had suspected it was Brock all along."

"Of course it's Brock. After all, Dick has been shot; you said Stuart was not capable; and I know I'm not the one. But what can I do? I..."

"You've got to go into hiding. I know it'll look like you're guilty and evading justice."

"It'll look like I'm guilty as hell, but I can't turn myself in. If what you say about Phillips is right, he will try his best to convict me of murder. I know his reputation."

"Do you have a place to go? Don't tell me where. I don't want to know in case the police ask me."

"I have an idea where I can stay."

"Good. You have my cell phone number. Don't use your cell phone, though; they can trace it."

"I'd better go home and get a few things together."

"I suggest that you catch a taxi downtown and take it to your house and to wherever you're going," Doris told him. "They'll be on the lookout for your car. Don't waste a lot of time packing. Get undercover as soon as you can. What's your next step after you get settled?"

"I've got to get Brock somehow, before the police get me."

"That's right, Grady, now you're sounding positive. I'll help you. Now get out of there."

"Before I go, would you do me a favor? Call my son, Marcus, and reassure him. I'm sure he's heard that I'm under suspicion for murder. Tell him that you think I'm innocent. I don't want to call him myself, because I don't want him implicated."

"I'll be glad to call him for you." Doris said.

He gave her Marcus's number, thanked her, and hung up.

Grady threw a few clothes and personal items into a suitcase as fast as he could and left his home. He had called a bachelor friend of his, who was out of town, and asked if he could use his house. His excuse was that his condo was being worked on.

He learned where the extra key to the house was hidden, and that there were extra keys to the car in the garage. His friend told him that he would not be back home for at least three more weeks and that he was welcome to stay as long as he needed to. "You're welcome to any of the food and liquor you find," he said. "And by the way, for your protection, there is a gun in the bedside table."

He had been in his friend's house before and made himself familiar with it again. He hardly slept that night, finally collapsing in his clothes on top of the bed. He awoke in a fog of uncertainty, and found and made some coffee. He sat down in a recliner, sipping it, staring at the drapes over the window.

He had to get Brock somehow, before the police got him.

# Chapter 50

Thursday night was the next meeting of the Philosophy Club. Because Dick Karlson was still in the hospital, Geneva had told Barbara that she would have the meeting at her house. She got hold of everyone except Grady, since no one knew where he was.

"Doris, this is Geneva. How are you feeling?"

"I have my good days and bad days, though I should say bad days and better days."

"I'm really sorry to hear that. How is Herb holding up?"

"He's really been a wonderful nurse and friend. I don't know how I could've gotten this far without him. He's at work now, but I'm sure he doesn't have his whole mind on his research."

"He's really a wonderful guy you've got there." She changed the subject, "I'm also calling about the Philosophy Club meeting. I wondered if we should have it. Dick is in the hospital, we can't find Grady and you're not feeling very well."

"But Herb will be there and is looking forward to leading the discussion on Kant."

"I don't want him to feel that he has to, if you need him with you."

"Herb will be all right. I can spare him for one evening. Also, I have invited Detective Colbert to come to our meeting. He's the one investigating those murders."

"But why to our Philosophy Club discussion?"

"I thought it would be interesting for him to see the interaction of the members. Of course, Dick and Grady won't be there, but he can watch and listen nonetheless. I told him it would be all right with the group. He promised he would just listen, since he doesn't know anything about philosophy."

"Is he going to question all of us like Hercule Poirot?"

"He said he just wanted to come and meet everyone and listen . He might say a few words, but he won't question anyone. At least I don't think he will."

"Well, I think it'll be a little awkward, but I know Herb will do a good job, even with the detective listening. We'll miss you. Meanwhile, let me know if I can do anything."

"Thanks Geneva, I will."

* * *

Initially, the meeting at Geneva's was going to be a small one, with only Geneva, Herb, Stuart, Brock and their guest Jason Colbert. Doris decided at the last moment that she could make it and Barbara said she would try to come later, after visiting the hospital.

Jason came right on time and met Geneva first, who introduced him to Brock Gillis. "I've heard a lot about you, Mr. Gillis", Jason said.

"Oh, in what way?"

"Well, I know about your company for one, but I also remember when you ran for the City Council. I knew that you're active politically, but I didn't realize you're also interested in philosophy."

"I guess there's a lot you don't know about me, but that's true about most people, isn't it?"

Jason smiled and nodded agreement.

Geneva gathered everyone into her large family room and introduced Jason Colbert.

"I'm only here to listen and observe," he said. "I'll just sit here like a shadow, so please ignore me and enjoy your discussion. I hope to learn some philosophy myself."

Herb began the discussion. "Since you're only here to listen, detective, it'll be easy to ignore you. We won't be afraid you'll argue with us." Everyone chuckled, which broke the ice.

"Immanuel Kant was born in 1724 in Prussia, where he taught philosophy," he began. "A little man with a great mind, he never married. He published his first treatise when he was almost sixty and has influenced philosophy ever since."

Herb reminded everyone that Hume had said that everything we knew had to come to us through our senses and experience, that we weren't born knowing things. Kant disagreed with that. He said that knowledge of certain things existed before our experience of them. Such ideas as God, immortality and a moral code did not rely on our reason or experience of them. They were truths that were independent of our senses or experience.

Brock said, "Isn't that like mathematical truth? Two plus two equals four, no matter what our experience is."

"That's a good example," said Herb. "Kant went further and said that reason and science are limited in what they can explain. Such things as God, immortality or moral truth are not available to examination by reason. They exist before our experience of them. So reason and science can describe the external world, but are limited in these other areas."

Herb explained that religion in Kant's day was being influenced by new scientific theories. Many thinkers such as Descartes had been trying to put religion and theology on a scientific and logical basis. Kant said that religion couldn't be based on scientific reasoning.

"Then what should religion be based on? Kant said that it had to be based on morals, and that those basic morals were innate and not dependent on reason, experience, or emotions as Hume maintained. Kant insisted that religion had an absolute moral basis, what he called a categorical imperative."

"What in the world does that mean?" asked Geneva. "I've heard of that, but I still don't know what it means."

"To put it as simply as I can, it states that a person should act in such a way that it could become a universal law."

Doris explained, "It means that we should do things that, if everyone did them, life would be better. Kant's examples were telling the truth and keeping promises. You can see that if you couldn't trust anyone, business and everything else would stop."

"So, he said that these morals existed outside of science and religion, is that right?" asked Geneva.

"That's right, morality is defined by society and is part of our free will," said Herb.

"Well," said Brock, "if morality is defined by society and our will, then morals are all relative. There is no absolutely good morality."

"I don't think Kant implied that. He said that his maxim was categorically imperative, that is, absolute," said Herb.

"Let me explain," said Doris. "His maxim sounds like the Golden Rule. If we treat others as we would want to be treated, then everyone treats everyone else the same, morally well. Every religion in the world has a variation of this moral law, so it must be universal. It is because it works. People are happier."

Barbara had slipped in during the discussion and indicated to Geneva not to interrupt it. She broke her silence by interjecting, "I agree. If we act toward each other in a reciprocal and positive way, then business and every other kind of interaction can work for the mutual benefit of everyone."

"That's true," said Geneva. "By the way, I'm glad you could make it, Barb. How's Dick?"

"Well, he's stable but still unconscious. The doctors say he's out of the worst danger, but they really won't know for sure for a few days."

"You must be devastated," said Doris.

"Oh, Doris, you can't imagine. The neurosurgeon said that he might not regain consciousness for months. I don't know what I would do." She choked and put a napkin to her eyes.

Doris reached over and took her hand. "You're a strong woman, Barb. You'll find the strength to deal with it. Just take it one day at a time. Don't think about weeks or months, but only about what you have to do each day to help Dick. Most of all, remember that we're all your friends. You're not alone."

"Thank you, Doris. I can't believe that you of all people, who are fighting this horrible cancer, are giving me support. You don't know how much I appreciate it." She started to cry again.

Geneva, as a good hostess, turned to Jason. "Well detective, I hope you could follow our discussion. Kant tends to be a little dense. Do you have anything you would like to say?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Caldwell. I think it was very interesting. I learned something long ago that has nothing to do with Kant. It's that most people don't think about things like morals. They just go about their lives lying, cheating, or killing if it serves their own purpose. They may have a twinge of conscience about it, especially if they think about God or immortality, but I think they usually don't."

Brock said, "That's pretty cynical. So how do you think a person should act, especially if he's not religious?"

Jason replied, "A person should respect others and treat them with justice. I guess the Golden Rule of treating others as you would want to be treated is a good one. But I also believe that a person should act positively, and not just passively suck whatever he can get out of life. I think that any of us can and should make a difference, and make a contribution to this world we live in. I believe my purpose of catching criminals is my contribution."

"I agree," said Doris. "And you're doing a good job of it. Do you have anything to say about the murders?"

"I'll only say that the murderer will make a mistake. He can't outsmart the law. We will catch him. One of your members, Grady Jenkins, is not here and is under suspicion. That's all I'll say. I want to thank you for letting me attend your discussion."

Stuart, silent and pensive most of the night, had watched Jason intently and had been too preoccupied to enter the discussion. In a hesitant voice, he said, "Detective, I'd like to say something about these murders, which seemed so distant other than Dr. P., whom I knew as my professor. But now they're becoming too real. Mr. Karlson was shot and Mr. Jenkins is hiding and under suspicion. I'm in that philosophy class with Marcus Jenkins, who is devastated that his father is suspected of murder. This is really frightening to me; it's really too much and I'm going to quit coming to these discussions. They've been interesting and I plan to take another philosophy course next semester. I hope everything turns out all right and you find the killer, but now I'm going to leave. Thank you all for having me."

As everyone was saying their good-byes to Stuart, Jason added, "I understand how you feel, Stuart. Would you give me a call tomorrow after your classes and clear up a few things about Dr. P?" He handed him his card.

"Okay, detective. I will." Stuart took the card and quickly made his exit.

Jason left soon afterward and the others continued their discussion while cleaning up. A few wondered whether Grady could be the murderer.

As they drove off, Herb turned to Doris, "How do you think tonight went?"

"You did a good job with Kant."

"Do you think the detective got anything out of it?"

"Jason is smarter than you think. His comment showed some philosophic thought, whether he called it that or not."

"What do you think got into Stuart?"

"I think Stuart is a bright student, but immature and not ready to confront things like murder with people he knows. I think he's really scared and wanted to get away from real life and escape back to the warm womb of the university. He isn't the murderer; he doesn't have the emotional strength for something so deep."

"What do you suppose the detective was thinking about our group?"

"I watched the interaction of everyone tonight and I watched Detective Colbert watching everyone. I also noticed that Brock Gillis was observing him closely. I could almost hear the wheels turning in Brock's mind. What is he planning next?"

"We'll have to see," said Herb.

As Jason drove home, he thought, was anyone ever certain about anything, really certain? Some convinced themselves that they were, but almost always had some lingering doubts. Did anyone else have thoughts like these? Some did, but most don't.

# Chapter 51

Grady awoke from a sleep troubled by nightmares, drenched in sweat. He had dreamed of running frantically from pursuers with guns. In other scenes, he was chasing someone, a dark stranger, who always seemed to evade him or disappear around some turn.

He stumbled out of bed and padded into the kitchen to make some coffee. He had found some canned goods and frozen dinners, but mostly subsisted on fast foods, venturing out only at night, when he stocked up on necessities.

He had to plan a way to get at Brock and prove his own innocence before the police found him. Things were beginning to make sense in Grady's mind. Brock detested him. He wanted Geneva for himself. He had been planning to pin the murders on Grady, and planting a gun in his car was his final touch. He was sure that Brock would undermine Geneva's trust, so she would also suspect him. He was afraid that Brock would finally wear down Geneva, until she succumbed to his advances. Grady couldn't stand the thought. He remembered the intense feelings they had shared at his house. Grady would try to enlist her help in trying to outflank Brock. It was his only hope.

He had purchased an inexpensive cell phone and a prepaid calling card with cash. He decided he had to talk with Geneva. "Hello Geneva, this is Grady. I'm okay, just listen. I can't talk long in case they're tracing your calls. Can you meet me tonight? At ten. I've got to talk to you. Please believe me that I didn't kill anyone."

"I want to believe you. Do you think it's safe for us to talk?"

"We'll both have to be careful. This is what I want you to do." He outlined a plan for them to use roundabout ways and to meet at a McDonald's. "Don't tell anyone. I know I can trust you."

After ordering coffee at the drive-through, they parked in a corner away from a light. Grady got into Geneva's Mercedes.

"How're you doing?" she asked.

"Not too well. Someone got me into this mess, but with your help, I'm going to get out of it. Geneva, I didn't commit any of those murders, but I think I know who did."

"Who?"

"Brock Gillis. You heard Doris say that it's someone in our Philosophy Club. It can't be you or Barbara or Doris. If it isn't Herb or Stuart or Dick or me, then that leaves Brock. I haven't figured out why yet, but it's got to do with money. There must be a connection between Brock and Manzoni. There must also be a reason he wanted to kill Dick Karlson."

"Brock tried to convince me that you were the murderer. He said that you owed a lot of money and were doing it for that."

"I admit I do owe a lot of money. I don't manage it well, but I would never murder for it. You've got to believe me."

"Oh Grady," she reached over and hugged him, "I do believe you. I know you couldn't kill anyone, except maybe Brock." She laughed and Grady joined her.

"I'd like to wring his neck right now", admitted Grady.

"But what can I do?" Geneva asked.

"First of all, don't trust Brock. Resist his advances."

"Brock has been so persistent about asking me out, sending me flowers and presents, calling me all the time. I keep putting him off. I've run out of excuses."

"Don't put him off, go with him, play along, see what he has to say. Tell him you're interested in him. Ask him what his thoughts are, about his future plans, investments, anything. Maybe he'll say something I can use. He doesn't love you; he only wants your money. So don't fall for any of his marriage propositions. I'm the one who really cares about you."

She felt her feelings for Grady dissolving any suspicions that she had about him. "I trust you, Grady. I don't care about Brock. I care about you, and I don't want anything to happen to you. Please be careful."

Grady put his hands on Geneva's shoulders and pulled her closer. He was surprised to hear those words, but knew they were sincere. A rush of emotion welled within him.

She looked into his eyes, searching for the glimmer of truth that she knew was there. She believed in this man. She felt sincerity exuding from his hands into her body. She closed her eyes in anticipation. Feeling the unspoken message, Grady took her in his arms and kissed her. She returned the kiss with the relief of knowing that the person she was falling in love with reciprocated those feelings.

Reluctantly relaxing their embrace, Grady said, "I care a lot about you, Geneva. I have for a long time. I'm afraid to use the word love, but I certainly can't deny the feeling. You fulfill a need in me, a desire for peace, for completion, for meaning in my life."

"Oh Grady." She reached for him. He pressed her against his chest and kissed her with all the passion he had built up. A hot glow like magma engulfed the two. Hungry for comfort and somebody who could trust him, Grady held her with desperation, devouring her with kisses. Geneva returned his passion, finally feeling that she had found a kindred soul, a man who made her feel secure, a man she could love. She whispered in his ear, "When I'm with you I feel whole. When you look at me, you don't look through me. You see me as I really am."

"Yes I do. I love what I see. I'll be okay. I'll come for you," he said as he looked into her eyes. Love and trust were in his gaze. "I love you, Geneva"

She kissed him again, this time with tears in her eyes. "I love you, too," she whispered.

Finally releasing her after a final squeeze of her hand, Grady walked off into the night. She sat alone for some time, sipping at her lukewarm coffee, allowing the emotions from their meeting to seep through her. Yes, she felt love for Grady. Was he sincere, or did he want to use her in his desperation to get at Brock? No, she couldn't be that cynical. She trusted him.

Was Brock the murderer then? She would have to see what Brock had to say for himself.

# Chapter 52

Brock did as Geneva expected, and asked her for a date for the following Saturday night. She was reluctant but decided to trust Grady's advice and go out with him.

They went to an expensive restaurant uptown and, after a delicious dinner by a renowned chef, they lingered over coffee. She agreed to his suggestion that they move to the adjacent piano bar to continue their conversation over drinks.

They discussed the upcoming elections and who might win for mayor. Brock mentioned his business and how he was expanding into a joint venture with a European company. He intimated that he expected a windfall in profits from a real estate investment, not revealing where or how much.

He continued, "I don't know what you have your money in right now, but the stock market is really unpredictable, especially with the price of oil fluctuating. You might look at some real estate, especially north of Dallas, because that's where the real growth has been the last twenty years or so."

Geneva picked up the hint. "What are you investing in now?"

"I'm in a partnership that's developing some land north of the city. It may really be big."

"Maybe I should invest in it, too," Geneva said. "Where is it?"

"It's next to where the tollway extension may be."

"I thought the tollway extension was defeated by the City Council."

"Oh, it is for now. But Manzoni, who was against it, is dead and the mayor, who opposes it, is up for reelection."

"Isn't Andrew Phillips running against him?" she asked.

"He certainly is, and I'm supporting his campaign."

Geneva wondered if Brock may have removed Manzoni for his investment.

Brock changed the subject. "What did you think about our last Philosophy Club meeting?"

"Well, it was a strange meeting, but I think Herb did a pretty good job with Kant. He's always so difficult to understand. I hope the detective wasn't bored," she said.

"It was really awkward with him watching everyone," agreed Brock. "Stuart is still immature and I'm glad he left. Grady wasn't there, and that looks suspicious. The detective said that they're looking for him. What do you think of that?"

"I don't know. Grady doesn't seem like the murderer type. He is so personable at our meetings and he's always been nice to me."

"Well, I'd like to tell you a few things about Grady Jenkins. He's a compulsive gambler. He's made millions from his law firm, but he has also lost a ton of money. He used to have a huge house in North Dallas, but now lives in that condo. He owes at least a hundred thousand dollars to casinos and bookies in Las Vegas. He also has a bookie in Dallas that he owes money to. That bookie, coincidently, is the brother of the city councilman who was murdered. Figure that one out."

"I didn't know that. However, even if he owes all that money, why would he murder those people?"

"For money, of course. Why else would he do it? I think he's using the Philosophy Club and some of the murders to cover up his real motive. Grady was supposed to be the legal counsel in a huge commercial and residential development north of Dallas, that would make him a half million in fees, which would more than pay off his debts. That deal was being engineered by...Dick Karlson. Dick had a disagreement with Grady over the contract and threatened to fire him as counsel, which is probably why Grady tried to kill him."

"I find it hard to believe that Grady would kill Dick over a contract."

"Not just a contract, Geneva, but a lot of money and his freedom from gambling debt. You know how those bookies and casinos can put pressure on you. A person will do anything under that kind of pressure...even murder."

"Oh my God, Brock."

"I learned something else that really clinches the case. The police found a gun in Grady's car and its ballistics match the bullets taken from the shooting victims, including Dick Karlson. Geneva, you've got to believe me. He may talk to you and try to convince you that he's innocent. He may try to get you to help him. He may actually try to turn you against me. Even though he may have said that I'm the guilty one, I can assure you that I'm not. What would I have to gain?"

"I don't know. I'm so confused." Geneva shook her head and stared at her half empty glass. She picked it up and took a sip, staring into Brock's eyes, looking for a sign.

Brock decided to risk advancing his case with Geneva even more. He held her gaze and grabbed her hands after she put down her glass. He kissed her fingers gently and held them to his chest. "I love you, Geneva. I've loved you for a long time. Please know that my feelings are real. I want to marry you. After all this blows over, I want to take you on a long trip. I have friends in Paris and Shanghai. We could spend time traveling through Europe and the Far East. Please say you'll marry me."

Geneva was shocked and pulled her hand from Brock's. "Oh, Brock, I do care for you a lot, but I don't know if I love you. I'm so confused right now."

"That's okay. I want you to think it over. You'll realize that we have so much to give to each other. We can have a wonderful life with no worries. Why don't we go over to my house now? I can make some coffee and we can get comfortable."

"Thank you so much, but I'm tired. It's been a long week and I have plans to go to Austin for the day tomorrow with two of my friends. I'd like being with you some other time, though. Give me a call."

On their way to Geneva's house, Brock continued to tell her how he felt about her. "I've loved you ever since I saw you gazing at that Greek statue that you helped the museum acquire. You're beautiful and smart. I've admired your comments at our philosophy discussions. We would really be good for one another." He continued to flatter her, tossing aside any objections that she advanced.

He pulled up in front of her door and killed the motor. "I've got to go in now; it's getting late. I had a wonderful time," she said.

He helped her get out of the car and walked her to the door. When she stopped to take out her keys, Brock pulled her around and took her in his arms. He kissed her deeply and pressed her body against his. Gently but firmly, she released his kiss and pulled away. "I'll think about all that you said." She opened the door and stepped inside.

"Goodnight, Geneva. I love you. I'll call you Monday."

Geneva went into her kitchen and poured a glass of wine. She sat down and began to think about the evening. She reviewed what Brock had said, through the skeptical eyes that Grady had given her.

First of all, it sounded as if he would gain more from Manzoni's death than Grady. How did he know about Grady's gambling debts, and the murdered councilman's bookie brother? But most telling of all was that he knew about the gun that the police found in Grady's car. That hadn't been in the news, and she knew the police didn't tell him. Grady was right, Brock put it there.

He's the murderer, all right. Geneva made a decision. I'll call Doris and see what she thinks before I call that detective.

# Chapter 53

Jason called the DA's office and made an appointment for that morning. At ten sharp, Jason entered Phillips' outer office. "He's at his desk," said his secretary. "I told him you would be up shortly."

As Jason went through the outer office and started to open Phillips' door he heard the DA's cell phone and Phillips answering it. Jason decided it was probably personal and waited with the door cracked until Phillips hung up. Phillips didn't see him open the door because he was facing away, looking out the window.

"I know that the tollway expansion is on hold right now," Phillips was saying. "It won't be for long. I know of several people who are working hard to renew the project.

"Yes, Karlson is in the hospital, but his plans are drawn up and his partners will continue the project.

"We have to defeat the present mayor and some of the City Council in the next election. Then I intend to use all my power to get the measure passed.

"I really appreciate all the work you're doing to help me get elected. Keep it up. I'm speaking tomorrow at the Dallas Chamber of Commerce meeting, and the media will be there, of course. All our work will clinch the election and we can enjoy the rewards. Good luck."

Before he hung up, Jason quietly closed the door. He waited a moment, then gently knocked.

"Come in," came the curt reply.

Jason briefly brought Phillips up to date with the search for Grady Jenkins, relating details about the gambling debts, the relationship to Tony and Joe Manzoni, and of course the gun found in his car. He told him that all units had a photo of Jenkins. "It'll only be a matter of days, if not hours, before he's apprehended," Jason finished.

"Excellent," exclaimed Phillips. "I can't wait to get him behind bars and indicted by the grand jury. We'll bring him to trial expeditiously and I'll prosecute him myself. Good work, detective. Call me as soon as you've arrested him."

Jason thanked him and left, wondering about the phone call. He thought that the mayor and council had voted against the tollway expansion and that the issue was dead. He decided to call Austin and ask some questions.

Later at his desk, Jason put a call into the Texas Department of Transportation, and asked to be connected to whoever was in charge of highway construction in north Texas. He introduced himself as a detective in the Dallas PD and told the official that his murder investigation had led him to questions about the tollway expansion.

"Yes, it's true that the expansion of the tollway was voted down by the Dallas City Council," explained the TexDOT official. "And even though the tollway is under a separate authority, the construction has to be supervised and certified by TexDOT. We'll be the first to know if it's a go or not. We have to okay it."

"Have you heard anything about a new proposal?" asked Jason.

"As a matter of fact, last week, the state senator from the district that includes Dallas had a proposal passed by the Senate Transportation Committee that TexDOT should reconsider the expansion. The governor supported it and we're actively working on a budget. We haven't gotten bids yet, because the Dallas City Council hasn't agreed on it."

"What are your gut feelings?"

"The rumors around here are that there may be a new mayor and majority on the Dallas City Council that will pass it, but don't quote me on that."

"I won't. I'll keep it confidential as part of my police investigation. Thanks for your help." He hung up and called Kevin Sharpe, telling him to go to Austin and get everything that TexDOT had on a proposed tollway expansion in north Texas.

# Chapter 54

The next day Andrew Philips was the keynote speaker at the monthly luncheon of the Dallas Chamber of Commerce. Several leaders in the recent development of Dallas were being honored. They included the owner of the Dallas Cowboys and the new stadium; a developer of Victory Park and the uptown district; and the CEOs of Exxon/Mobile, Southwest Airlines and Gillis TeleCom.

Phillips was introduced and welcomed with a warm applause. He thanked the president of the Chamber of Commerce, and then mentioned each of the honorees and repeated some of their great contributions to Dallas.

"However, as wonderful as all these contributions are, none of them would be possible without the farsighted leadership of city and county leaders. Some mayors have harmed our city by their failure to see and take advantage of opportunity. Shortsightedness and petty politics lost the new Cowboy Stadium to Arlington. We still don't have enough hotel rooms around the convention center. The present mayor opposes an expansion of the tollway."

He continued to criticize the present mayor, and stressed the need for the tollway extension.

"I know you have all been concerned about the recent murders of prominent people in our city. Some of you probably have fears for your own lives." A few heads nodded in the audience. Brock Gillis turned to his neighbor and agreed with Phillips.

"I want to reassure you that we have narrowed our suspicions down to one individual, and we expect to make an arrest any moment. You can rest assured that I will take personal charge of the prosecution. I will put all the power of my office in expediting the procedure prior to trial and will help the judge make it as short as possible, trying to avoid long delays by the defense. I promise that I will get a conviction and that I will seek the greatest punishment allowed by law." The audience applauded.

Phillips reminded them of his successes as DA in reducing crime in Dallas. Then he finished by promising that as Dallas's next mayor, he would lead it to more progress.

The hall erupted in enthusiastic applause, everyone rising to their feet. The TV cameras took in the scene. Andrew Phillips' face glowed, knowing that he had made a good campaign speech, and was confident about his chances for mayor.

# Chapter 55

Doris had to vomit, but she didn't have time to make it to the bathroom, so she bent over the trash can next to her bed and retched. The juice and Jell-O that had been her breakfast made it into the receptacle. She felt miserable, having lost thirty pounds. Her skin had turned a pale yellow. The cancer had spread to her liver and the new therapy protocol was not working. She took a sip of water to clear the bitter taste from her mouth, while another wave of nausea rolled over her like a tsunami.

She reached for the wet washcloth that she kept at her bedside and laid back on her pillow, placing the cool cloth on her forehead. She waited patiently for the nausea to pass, forcing her mind to concentrate on other things. Thoughts of the murders and the Philosophy Club swept through her like a maelstrom. She had to bring this to an end before she ran out of energy. She had to help Jason while she still could, she thought desperately.

Feeling that the nausea had passed, she put away the wet cloth and reached for her notes that she had placed on the bed beside her. The last philosopher was Kant and the victim with the same initial was Dick Karlson. There was obviously more reason for the killer to choose him than his name, she reasoned.

The killer had pointed us to the Philosophy Club with his note. He knew that we would narrow it down to Dick, Grady, and Brock. He used Dick's attempted murder to put the blame on Grady by planting a gun in his car. It's obvious to me, she thought, that Brock had another motive for eliminating Dick.

Later that morning, the telephone rang. It was Geneva. After asking how Doris was feeling and getting the report, she came to the reason for her call. "I went out with Brock last night. We had dinner, but nothing else."

Doris smiled with the thought that Geneva had to report her activity with Brock to her. "What happened?" Doris encouraged her.

"He said some things that might relate to the murders. I thought you would be interested."

"I am, Geneva. What did he say?"

She told Doris how Brock tried to increase her suspicion of Grady. She mentioned the gambling debts and the bookie.

"I already knew about Grady's debts," she said. "He told me."

"But what I thought was most interesting," Geneva continued, "was that he knew about the gun that the police found in Grady's car. Who knew about that? It wasn't in the news media."

"I knew about it, because the detective called me right after he found it. As far as I know he hadn't told the media. I called Grady, immediately after to warn him. No one else knows, not even Herb."

"Then Brock slipped," Geneva said. "He knew because he was the one who did it. He's the murderer."

"I believe you're right, Geneva. You have nailed the coffin shut, so to speak."

"Should I call the detective? Was his name Colbert?"

"Yes, Jason Colbert. I'll be talking with him later, so I'll let him know what you told me. This is going to help clear Grady."

"I hope so," said Geneva. "I really care about him."

"I see that you do. Keep helping him in any way you can. I'll do my part."

"Thank you, Doris."

Her problem, Doris thought, was how to help Jason catch Brock before he murdered someone else, and how she could clear Grady. Who was the next philosopher to be discussed? Nietzsche. She decided to start there, to see where her reasoning would lead.

Nietzsche was another German philosopher, who developed the concept of the superman, whose morals and ideals were superior to the ordinary person's. He despised the week morals of Christians and Jews. The Nazis idolized Nietzsche, and Doris didn't like him or his philosophy at all.

She reasoned that the next victim would also be of German descent. Since the Philosophy Club meeting was Thursday of next week that would give them a little over a week to figure out who the intended victim was and how to prevent his murder. A plan began to evolve in her mind.

She called Grady's new cell phone and immediately identified herself.

"Hello Doris, how are you feeling?"

"Lousy, thank you, and how are you doing?"

"Surviving."

"Listen, I called to tell you something that I think is important that may help you. I believe the next murder will be a day or two before our next Philosophy Club meeting, which is next week. I think the victim will be German or at least have a German name that begins with N, since our topic will be Nietzsche. If Brock is the murderer, you've got to find out who the intended victim is and stop him somehow. If you catch him, you can remove the suspicion from yourself."

"But how can I do that? I can't ask the police to help me."

"No, you'll have to do it yourself. I think you'll have to break into Brock's office or home and see what you can find. He has to have something that will give us a clue."

Grady was silent a moment, collecting his thoughts, trying to develop a plan. "I don't think I can get past the security of Brock's office building, so it'll have to be his house."

"I have a feeling that his notes on the Philosophy Club will probably be at his home anyway," agreed Doris, "and you might find a clue to the next murder with them."

Grady said he would do it and call her afterward.

They hung up and planned for their next moves.

# Chapter 56

Grady called Brock's office, gave a false name, and asked for an appointment for the next day. "I'm sorry," the secretary said, "but Mr. Gillis will be out of town on business. He will not return to the office until Monday. Would you like to make an appointment with him for when he returns?"

"No, that's all right. I'll just call back next week for an appointment. Thank you very much." That would give him all weekend to get into Brock's house.

That night, he researched the security and sabotaged the electrical and phone connections so that it looked accidental. Battery-run internal devices he would have to disarm when he got into the house.

Sometime after 2 a.m. on Saturday night, Grady let himself into Brock's home through a laundry room window. Using a small flashlight, he found Brock's study. On his desk were some notes and a short stack of books. The top book was a collection of the lives and thoughts of philosophers, having a bookmark at Nietzsche. The second was a copy of an English translation of Nietzsche's _Thus Spake Zarathustra_. He's doing his homework, Grady thought.

At the bottom of the stack was a book called _Ethical Values in Western Civilization_ , by Dr. Reinhold Niemann. Brady turned the book over and looked at a picture of Dr. Niemann, a man in his sixties if the photo was recent. He had thinning gray hair combed back in the European manner with fullness over the ears, a trimmed mustache and goatee, and penetrating eyes behind rimless spectacles. Definitely professorial.

The biographical note mentioned that he did his studies at Heidelberg University, Cambridge, and Yale. He moved to the University of Dallas in 1998, where he became chairman of the department of philosophy in 2004. Grady knew that the University of Dallas was a private Catholic school that was sometimes confused with the University of Texas, Dallas campus.

He looked at the table of contents and flipped through the book. Typical heavy philosophy he thought, but it didn't seem to be related in any way to Nietzsche. Why did Brock have it with the other books? Reinhold Niemann, a German philosopher, name ended in N; his thoughts began to churn. What else did he have?

He opened one of the file drawers behind the desk. At the front of the drawer was a category labeled "Pending." He pulled it out. The first folder in the file described an entity named Montclair Holding, a typical holding company that controlled several smaller businesses and investments. Brock was the president and chairman of the board. Other members of the board and shareholders were a potpourri of prominent businessmen in Dallas. Grady noted that one of the largest of its holdings was Passway Properties.

The next folder in the file was of Passway Properties. Grady could see that it had been buying up property all along a proposed expansion of an expressway that would go near the old Texas Stadium across from the University of Dallas campus north to the Alliance Airport.

That should be very profitable property, Grady thought, as he flipped to see who the investors were. One of the names struck him, Dr. Reinhold Niemann. As his share of the investment, Dr. Niemann had put up some property that he owned near the University of Dallas campus. Very interesting. Brock probably had first right of refusal to obtain Niemann's share if anything happened to him. The settlement agreement proved him right.

Grady had enough----the name of the next probable victim, his connection to Brock and Brock's motive for killing him. It might be a little tentative, but Grady was convinced that it had to be Niemann. He carefully put all the papers back exactly the way he had found them and wiped everything that he had touched on his way out. Now he had to figure out how to catch Brock before he murdered Niemann.

# Chapter 57

Monday morning brought a clear, cool March day. Even though the morning temperature was in the 60s, it would warm up to the high 70s in the afternoon. Spring came early in Dallas, the flowers and trees already blooming. Golfers braved the March winds for an afternoon in the sun. But Grady had work to do.

He waited until midmorning before calling Doris, to be sure that she was ready to talk. "Hello Doris. How're you feeling?"

"A little better today. I've been able to keep my breakfast down. Have you had any luck?"

"I broke into Brock's house last night and found some very interesting things. On his desk I found a book by a philosophy professor at the University of Dallas. His name is Reinhold Niemann. I think he may be Brock's next victim."

"Tell me why."

"Well for one, he's a German philosopher whose name starts with the same initial as Nietzsche. That goes along with your hypothesis."

"You must have some other reasons to suspect that he would be the next victim."

"I do. Listen to this." He told her about Montclair Holding and Passway Properties. "Professor Niemann put up his property as his part of the partnership. If something happens to him, Brock has the first right in obtaining his part. That gives Brock a motive."

"Grady, that's great work. If you're correct and we play it right, we can destroy Brock. We have to set a trap."

"I can't wait to catch that S.O.B."

"Let's think this out," Doris continued. "The other murders have usually been on the Monday or Tuesday before the Philosophy Club meetings. Our next meeting is Thursday this week. Find out the professor's schedule for those days. It might allow us to narrow it down to either Monday or Tuesday."

"I can do that easily," said Grady. "All I have to do is call the philosophy department secretary and see what he has planned."

"Good, then we have to decide where Brock will most likely attempt the murder. Most of the murders have occurred as the victim was going to his car or getting out of his car. That's the easiest way to ambush someone."

"What I'll have to do is watch the professor as he leaves his office and gets into his car. If Brock isn't there, I'll follow the professor to his home."

"You'll have to be careful. Brock will have a gun and he's killed several people already."

"I know, but I have a gun from my friend's house. I'll also have the advantage of surprise."

"Okay, but be careful, and good luck"

After hanging up, she called Detective Colbert. "Hello, Jason, this is Doris."

"How are you doing, Doris?"

"Not bad considering, but I didn't call you to talk about my complaints. I have something to tell you. I've done some snooping on my own, but don't ask me how or who. As you know from our Philosophy Club schedule, Nietzsche is the next subject. He was a German philosopher. I've concluded that the next victim is a Professor Reinhold Niemann, who teaches philosophy at the University of Dallas. He is originally from Germany and of course his name starts with N."

"I won't ask how you found this information. If this professor is the next victim, what do you think I should do, put a 24-hour guard around him? Maybe I should tell him to leave town for his own protection."

"You're smarter than that, Jason. You're just playing with me. You'll use him as bait to catch the murderer."

"When is this supposed to happen? Did your source tell you that, too?"

"According to the pattern of the other murders, the attempt will be made Monday or Tuesday before our meeting on this Thursday. I know you can find out the professor's schedule and lay a trap for the murderer."

"I'll have to work fast. Thanks for the tip, Doris. Hope you feel better."

"Thanks, Jason. Good hunting."

Doris's plot was in place. All the important players would be on stage at the same time. If the action played out according to plan, there should be a climax...she hoped.

# Chapter 58

Professor Reinhold Niemann was a man of regular habits. A typical German academic, his routine was so orderly that everyone associated with him knew it well. He had classes on Mondays, which ended at 2 p.m. He then remained in his office, working until 5 p.m. He left his office promptly at 5:15 and went to his car in the nearby faculty parking facility. He had a reserved parking space in the well-lighted, covered parking garage.

On the first Tuesday of every month, the professor presided at a philosophy department faculty meeting. The meetings began precisely at 5 p.m. and lasted until 7 p.m. The chairman always kept them running on time.

It was the first Tuesday, and for today's meeting, he used the time from 4 p.m. to 5 p.m. to draw up his agenda and had it printed by his secretary with copies made for the faculty. They were going to discuss the retirement of one of the faculty members and names of possible candidates to replace him. In addition, one of the fellows in the Ph.D. program wanted to teach a course that included material from Richard Dawkins, whose books were outspokenly atheistic. He would present his reasons for teaching the course. The department members would then vote whether or not to accept it.

Even though the University of Dallas was known to be a tolerant liberal arts school, it was still Catholic. Professor Niemann wanted to be careful that his faculty members were not too anti-religious, while still granting them academic leeway.

Niemann's secretary stepped into his office and handed him the copies of the agenda. He thanked her and read it over. It was ten minutes until five. Satisfied that he was ready, he put the copies into his briefcase and walked briskly to the conference room. He returned the greetings of colleagues and nodded to Allen Learner, the Ph.D. fellow who was to seek permission to teach his course. At the head of the room, Niemann took out the agenda and handed out copies. He looked at the clock on the opposite wall. At five o'clock he called the meeting to order.

Jason and Mark Davis arrived at the campus at 5:30 and drove into the faculty parking garage and parked on the second level. The reserved spaces for the chairmen were well-marked on the first level.

"Mark, why don't you go down and hide yourself so you can watch the professor's car? I'll stay up here where I can watch anyone approaching the garage." He checked the time. The parking garage lights were timed to come on at 6 p.m. They didn't. Someone must have disabled the lights. That only made it more certain that the murderer intended to act here.

Jason noticed a car that he didn't recognize approach the garage. As it entered, the driver turned out the driving lights. The car glided to a dark corner of the garage away from Niemann's car. Jason looked at his watch, 6:15. He watched the man as he got out of his car and walk toward the stairwell, so he slipped down to the ground level and hid behind the doorway. The stairwell was close enough to Niemann's parking place to allow a person to prepare an assault on anyone getting into or out of that car. The man in dark clothes and cap entered the stairwell. Jason had his gun drawn and immediately faced the man. "Don't move. Put up your hands."

It was Grady Jenkins. "So you're the one after all," Jason said. "You're under arrest for murder and attempted murder. Turn around slowly, kneel down and put your hands behind your back." He read him his rights.

At first, Grady was too shocked to respond. How in the world were the police here?

"Look, Detective, you've got the wrong person. The real murderer is on his way." He looked shocked, like an animal caught in a trap. His eyes widened and his voice trembled.

"My information was that there would be an attempted murder here and sure enough, here you are." He locked the cuffs on Grady's wrists and jerked him up.

"Wait a minute," Grady pleaded. "I'm the one who found out the intended victim is Professor Niemann. I discussed it only with Doris Goodman. I'm here to stop Brock Gillis. He's the murderer."

Jason didn't respond to Grady's statement about Doris, although it made him wonder. Maybe she wanted him to trap Grady. "If you're innocent, then why do you have this gun?" Jason asked as he took it out from Grady's waist.

"Brock is armed. I was going to prevent him from killing Dr. Niemann and bring him to you with the other evidence I found."

"What other evidence?"

Grady quickly told him what he had found at Brock's house. "It's all there. Brock has the motive to kill Niemann."

"Maybe you're right and maybe you're making it all up to save your own skin. Why didn't you just come to me and tell me all this before?"

"Because you would have arrested me and Brock would have gone free. Look, if you don't believe me, just wait until the professor comes out to his car. If Brock doesn't show, you can take me in. I'll stake my freedom on it."

"Okay, Jenkins, but just to make sure you don't run, I'm cuffing you to the railing here." He released one hand and cuffed the other one to the steel bar.

Jason knew that Grady had no choice. He hoped that for his sake he was right and Brock showed up. If Brock didn't show up or planned to attack the professor at his home, Grady was going to jail. If he did show up and somehow eluded or shot Jason, Grady would be helpless. Brock would probably kill him and make it look like he killed the detective.

Either way, Grady was trapped.

# Chapter 59

Professor Niemann looked at the clock. It was 6:30. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, if we have no other matters to discuss, I would like to use the remaining time to allow Mr. Learner to tell us about the course he proposes to teach."

Allen Learner stood up. "Professor Niemann, ladies and gentlemen, the course that I propose to teach will include a discussion of Richard Dawkins' books, which are frankly anti-religious. I am not defending his statements. In fact, I will show that many of his arguments are weak and have faults.

"The basis of my course will show that there is an argument for a new paradigm between the traditional ideas of God and atheism. New scientific evidence has shown that the entire universe and even humans are growing in complexity. The underlying force behind this growth in complexity is all-pervasive, active and self-creating. I like to use the term 'ultimate reality' for this force. It was proposed by another author, but I won't go into that. My thesis is that I am only using Dawkins' book to poke holes in his argument to show that there is another way." He continued to explain further his idea of ultimate reality. "I hope I've made myself clear."

"Yes, you have Mr. Learner," Niemann said. "Even though we are a liberal university, we still have to be careful about what we teach. Does anyone have anything to add?" Hearing no opposition to the proposed course, the department approved it.

"Are there any other matters to discuss?" Niemann asked as he checked the clock. At five minutes to seven he put an end to the discussion, and at precisely seven, he arose. The meeting was over. He picked up his briefcase and strode from the room.

As he walked through the door leading to the parking garage, the professor buttoned his jacket. He walked purposely, his head down, his thoughts wrapped around the discussion of ultimate reality.

Brock Gillis watched from his car parked near the walkway as the professor emerged and strode toward the garage. After he passed, Brock quietly got out of his car and followed him. He put his hand under his jacket and felt the handle of the gun under his belt. Niemann approached his car and pressed his key to unlock it. He was putting down his briefcase to open his door, when Brock pulled out his gun.

"Stop where you are," Jason yelled as he stepped from the stairwell. He pointed his gun at Brock. "Throw down your gun."

The professor suddenly screamed, "Don't shoot. I have no money."

"Not you, Professor," Jason yelled. "Get down!"

Brock was confused at first. The detective's unexpected appearance disoriented him. He knew if he shot the professor, then Jason would shoot him. He used the diversion created by the frightened professor and shot at Jason. The bullet struck the concrete wall beside his right temple, the chips spraying his face. Jason howled and crumpled, his hands covering his eyes. Thinking he had hit Jason, Brock turned to run. Mark took a shot at him but missed. "Jason, are you all right?" he yelled as he ran to check on his partner.

Grady had watched the scene from the stairwell, handcuffed and helpless. "Detective, are you hit?" he said. Mark knelt beside Jason.

"No, I'm not hit, but that bullet threw chips into my eyes. Can't see for shit. Mark, go after Gillis."

Mark started running after Gillis. He was unable to get off another shot.

Grady saw Mark leave and watched as Jason helplessly tried to clear his eyes. He stretched his hand to reach the gun that Jason had dropped. He picked it up and aimed it at the detective.

"Give me the keys to the cuffs."

"Why should I?"

"You're helpless and the other detective won't catch Brock. I can follow him and he won't recognize my car. You both can follow us."

"I don't know..."

"Detective, we're wasting time. He'll get away."

"Here". He gave him the keys.

"Give me your card," Grady said. "I'll call you on your cell phone when I see where he's going." He put Jason's gun down on the stair and removed the cuff from his wrist, leaving the other half hanging on the railing.

Grady looked up and could see that Mark had stopped running after Brock's car and was returning to take care of Jason. He ducked down and ran around to his car.

Grady passed the professor on the way to his car. He was still lying face down on the floor with his hands over his head. He kept repeating, "Please don't kill me." Grady ignored him and got into his car.

Brock had out-run Mark to his car and took off. Grady figured that Brock probably thought he had hit Jason and that they wouldn't be following him. He didn't know that Grady was there, and wouldn't recognize his car. It would be easy for Grady to follow him. He did so at a distance, so that he wouldn't risk being seen.

Brock raced across the city to the Gillis TeleCom building. As he approached, Grady slowed down and let Brock enter and park. He called Jason. "Where are you?" Mark answered Jason's phone.

"I'm at the Gillis TeleCom building. He just went in and parked. He's probably on his way to his office. You know where we are?"

Jason took the phone, "Jenkins, this is Colbert. I'm all right. We know where you are and we're on our way."

Grady hung up but realized that he couldn't wait for the police to arrive. Brock might destroy some of his evidence or try to escape. He had to stop him.

# Chapter 60

The Gillis TeleCom building wasn't locked up yet, and some of the tenants who had been working late were still leaving. Grady got out of his car and followed Brock to his executive office. After he pressed the elevator button to the top floor, Grady put his hand to his waistband and realized he didn't have his gun. He would have to do without it.

The elevator stopped on the top floor and opened. Grady stuck his head out to make sure the hallway in both directions was deserted. He left the elevator and hugged the wall on the way to the entrance to the executive suite. He slowly opened the door. The outer room was dark, but he could see a light from Brock's office. Sounds of drawers opening and closing filtered out.

Grady stood with his back to the wall outside the open door. Barely peering around the opening, he saw Brock stacking papers beside a shredder. Grady knew what he was about to do. "No you don't, you bastard," he yelled as he ran and took a flying leap at Brock across his desk.

His shoulder crashed into Brock's chest, throwing him back into the credenza behind the desk. Brock recovered and pushed Grady back onto the desk, papers flying onto the floor. Both men swung at each other, and fists found flesh. Brock threw Grady face first against the wall, smashing his nose, blood running down his lip. Brock then reached for his gun, but before he could get it, Grady rushed at him, butting him in the mid-section. They fell to the floor, struggling with each other. Grady held on to Brock's hand so he couldn't get at his gun. He hit him in the mouth with his right. Brock's head twisted with the impact, and he saw a fallen bronze figure to his left. He picked it up and hit Grady in the head.... hard. Grady crumbled like a rag doll, unconscious, his scalp bleeding.

Brock looked down with relief at Grady's unmoving form. He threw down the heavy figure and looked at the papers that they had scattered over the room. To hell with them, he thought. The police were surely following Grady.

He had called his helicopter on the way to his building. It should be here before long to pick him up on the roof. He would be gone before the police arrive and well beyond their reach. He smiled to himself.

Brock picked up the gun that had fallen to the floor and stuffed it into his belt as he turned to the door. He ran down the hall to the exit and climbed the stairs to the roof.

As he opened the door to the roof, a gust of wind jerked it out of his hand. He retrieved it and shut it behind him. He turned and saw a large white cross painted in the center of the lighted helipad and started to walk toward it. The brisk wind whipped at his coat and blew his already messed-up hair across his face. A trickle of blood ran slowly down from his split lip. He absently wiped it with the back of his left hand.

He stood in the center of the white cross, and looked out over the lights of his part of the city. All this had been his at one time. He had been poised on the brink of having a lot more, and now had to abandon all that he had worked for. Standing in the center of that cross, he failed to recognize its symbolism of sacrifice. He searched the sky. It was clear. He should be able to pick out a blinking star that was coming toward him from among all the stationary ones. Where was that helicopter?

Jason and Mark ran from their car into the building. Leaving the elevator on the top floor, they entered Brock's office with drawn guns, only to find Grady moaning on the floor. Mark wet a towel from Brock's adjoining bathroom, while Jason probed and lifted Grady's head. They could see he was regaining consciousness.

"See what you can do for him, while I go after Brock," Jason said. "He's probably gone up to the roof to get to his helicopter. Follow me when you can."

Jason ran to the exit and up the stairs two at a time, his gun ready. The door to the roof was closed. Jason listened for sounds, then slowly turned the knob and threw open the door. Brock had anticipated someone following him and stood with his back to the wall beside the door.

"Drop the gun, Colbert," he said from behind the detective. "Don't even think about turning with it. You know I won't hesitate to kill you. Drop it." Jason dropped his gun. "Put your hands behind your head and slowly turn around. Now walk to the center of the helipad." He kept his gun aimed at the center of Jason's back.

Realizing that his only hope of staying alive was to keep Brock talking, Jason said, "It's over Brock. We know you're the murderer, not Grady."

"You're wrong. They'll blame your death on Grady, just like all the others. But it doesn't matter, because I'll be long gone and somewhere you can't reach me. I have millions placed in an offshore account, where I can live beyond your extradition. I've had this all planned for just such an eventuality."

"Before you kill me, humor my curiosity. Why did you kill Karlson? You knew he was a suspect along with you and Jenkins."

"I had to remove Karlson because he was going to freeze me out of the development he was planning. I also planted the gun I used to shoot him in Grady's car to implicate him. So it served two purposes."

"Karlson was going to replace Jenkins as attorney on that project, wasn't he?"

"Yeah, that's what gave him a motive to kill Karlson."

"Do you have another partner in your scheme?"

"You'll never know. He'll complete the plan and we'll both be rich. You have no idea and you never will, because this conversation is over." He raised the gun to eye level and pulled the trigger. Jason flinched, but nothing happened.

"Damned gun," Brock cursed as he tried to unjam the pistol. This was a new gun that had replaced the one he had left in Grady's car and he was unfamiliar with its double safety. He let the useless gun dangle in his arm. "It doesn't matter. My helicopter will be here any minute and the pilot is armed."

"It's not coming, Brock. We knew about your helicopter. On our way here, we called our police dispatcher to keep it grounded. You might as well give yourself up and come down to your office with me." He started to walk toward Brock. "Give me the gun."

Brock looked for a way to run for the exit, but Jason had him blocked. He started to back away....."You fool," he yelled above the wind. "You don't realize that you've put your puny self in the way of great plans. I had the will to do great things, to be powerful. Yes, I had to kill, but even the gods have to destroy in order to create."

"Humility was never your major suit, was it?"

"Humility," he spat out the word like rotten meat, "has no place in the world of men with ambition like me. It's either the scheming of a hypocrite or the timidity of a slave. It shows the lack of will and power. Of course, you and your sniveling meddlers wouldn't know that. You get in the way of people like me that create good."

"You're wrong, Brock. Your twisted mind has confused good and evil. It's the power of justice that has triumphed over greed."

"Not only are you stupid, but you're blind too, detective. I'm like Nietzsche's superman, superior to the average, plodding peon. You're all weak and have no strength of will. You'll never rise above the masses, never make your mark on history."

"And you will, Brock? What mark will you make? A murderer, schemer, and liar. How will you be remembered? Certainly not as a superman. Your will is a drive for power and money. That's all you feel."

"Perhaps so. I certainly don't have any feeling for you except disdain and disappointment, of course. Another philosopher said how useless all this striving is, this endless pain of life that only leads to a painful end." He realized that he had backed to the edge of the roof. He paused and looked around. "He and I say that life is a lie, and the most courageous act of all is... death."

With that defiant statement, Brock turned and stepped out into the void beyond the building's edge. A step into empty space, tumbling into blackness, into rushing wind, an end to the battle of life. Peace. Forever.

Jason walked to the edge and looked down at the lifeless form splayed on the steps of the Gillis TeleCom Building.

# Chapter 61

Jason went down to Brock's office, where Grady was sitting on the couch holding a wet towel to his head. He looked up as Jason entered and asked, "How're you feeling?"

"Like my head is about to fall to pieces and I have to hold it together so it won't. Where's Brock? Did he get away?"

"Yeah, sort of. He jumped off the roof."

"Killed himself? I guess I'm not surprised."

Jason turned. "Mark, why don't you call 911 for an ambulance to pick up the body and go down and wait for them. I'll stay with Jenkins and go through some of this stuff."

Mark replied, "Okay. It's too bad that Brock ended it this way, but it saves the trouble of a trial."

"Yeah," said Grady, "I would have liked to see him squirm in court and spit my innocence in his face."

After Mark left, Jason said, "What was Brock doing when you found him? This place is a mess."

"He was stacking papers next to that shredder. We scattered them during our fight."

Grady and Jason gathered up the notes and files, some of which were still by the shredder waiting to be fed into it. "Look at this," Grady said, showing a memo to Jason. "Brock intended to exercise his option to obtain Karlson's interest in the Presidential Park development. That explains why Karlson was a target. He must have been certain that the tollway expansion was going to become a fact. But how did he know that, when the mayor and City Council were against it?"

"Brock removed Manzoni from the council. Remember, he was one of the members who loudly opposed the expansion. I have a hunch that there's a lot more. Let's keep looking." Jason stacked some of the papers. He looked under the desk and saw a hidden panel that was still open. "Look at this." He removed a thin file labeled 'Andrew Phillips'. He took it out, laid it on the desk and opened the folder.

Inside were receipts of donations to Phillips' campaign, memos signed by Phillips promising to get the tollway expansion passed once he was mayor, and another thanking Brock for his assistance. Finally, there was a simple contract signed by Phillips and Gillis, stating that for "services rendered" Phillips promised, after the tollway expansion was passed, to award city communications contracts to Gillis. Gillis, for his part, promised to help get Phillips elected and give him 25 percent as his share of the development. It was to be under a false name, since the mayor could not be seen to have a vested interest in getting the tollway expansion. It also stated that Gillis' "services" were guaranteed to get Phillips elected mayor.

"How would he guarantee the election?" asked Grady.

"I think that Philips was going to use these murders to obtain national attention, then prosecute and convict the murderer. That was going to be you. The sensational trial would catapult him into the mayor's office, which would be his next step to governor or senator. You can imagine what contracts he would send back to Gillis once he was in Washington."

"But we don't have proof," said Grady. "These were Brock's insurance in case Phillips tried to renege on the deal, but they aren't proof of Phillips' involvement."

"That's true. If confronted with this, Phillips will laugh in our faces. He'll just deny it and Gillis can't argue with him. He can still blame Gillis' death on you and say that this is your attempt to shift the blame. There's still an outstanding warrant for your arrest for murder. If I were you, I would stay in hiding until this is settled. Maybe we can get the charges dropped, if there's enough proof that Gillis was the murderer."

I'd better go now."

"I'll tell Mark that you slipped away while I was going through this stuff. He'll understand. We'll keep in touch through Doris."

"What if Doris becomes too sick? What if she dies?"

"Let's just hope that she doesn't."

# Chapter 62

The next morning after returning to his friend's house, Grady called Doris to tell her what had happened.

"Oh hello, Grady," Herb said. "Doris isn't here. She became very sick last night and we had to take her to the hospital. She's weak and on IVs. I'm afraid that she doesn't have much time left." His voice was cracking and he choked on the final words. "If she dies, I'll miss her so much."

"I know Herb. Everyone that she touched will miss her. She's a true jewel."

"As a last resort we're going to take her to M.D. Anderson in Houston. They'll have the newest trial drugs for her. That'll be our last hope."

"My heart is breaking for Doris and you. Please tell me if I can do anything."

"Thanks Grady, but you have your own hands full. Just be careful."

Grady hung up and sat back in his recliner, a plastic bag of ice on his head. Every bone and muscle in his body ached. He felt as if he had been run over by an eighteen-wheeler. He had taken some medication he had found and poured himself some scotch.

He thought of Doris, that courageous and intelligent lady, who had helped him so much. She was the one who had really solved this case. She had worked so hard on these murders in spite of her horrible illness.

This mess wasn't over yet, he admitted to himself. Brock may be dead, but Phillips wasn't, and he may still get away with it. What if he became mayor, or even governor? The unpleasant possibilities exacerbated his physical and emotional exhaustion, until he dozed off into a fitful sleep, his drink unfinished.

# Chapter 63

Andrew Phillips read in the morning papers about Brock Gillis' death, apparently from a fall from the roof of the Gillis TeleCom building. No cause of the fall was given and there was no statement by the police. The article reviewed Gillis' success in the telecommunications sector, and as CEO of Gillis TeleCom. It also included his unsuccessful run for city council, his political activities and his charitable contributions.

Phillips shook his head and decided that he wouldn't let this event deter him from his ultimate goal. He would take advantage of it. He called one of his assistants to prepare a statement. "I want it reported that Grady Jenkins is under suspicion for the death of Mr. Brock Gillis. Jenkins is already wanted for questioning in several other Dallas murders and there is an outstanding warrant for his arrest. He's currently at large, so anyone having knowledge of his whereabouts is urged to contact the Dallas Police. Send notice to the Dallas PD to double their search for him. You know what to do."

After he hung up, he realized how fortunate he was to be rid of Brock Gillis. He had indeed done his dirty work, but now he couldn't use any of it to pressure Philips. He couldn't blackmail him for favors after he was elected mayor, or even governor or senator. Gillis had succeeded in his job and now Phillips could reap the dividends. This was going to turn out much better than he had hoped for. A mixture of emotions flowed over him and, like a fine wine, gave him a heady rush of well-being.

Philips decided to kick his campaign into high gear and called his old friend, Ron Brousard. He was CEO of an established public relations firm and had a lot of important business contacts and wealthy friends. Brousard had helped Phillips in his successful campaign for DA. He asked Brousard to head up his campaign and start raising funds. They outlined a media blitz, some fund-raising dinners, and public appearances.

"Thanks Ron, I know I can count on you. By the way, we should be arresting the suspect in those high-profile murders any time now. I'll get a conviction easily."

"We'll really capitalize on that in your campaign."

"I know you'll help me like you did when I was elected DA. I'm sure that after I'm mayor, I could get the city to contract your company to promote business."

"Thanks, Andrew. Good luck." Phillips hung up with a smile on his face. He could almost picture himself sitting at the mayor's desk.

# Chapter 64

Phillips picked up a pen and started making a list of people and organizations that he would address during his campaign, including appearances at major charitable and sporting events. His head was spinning in anticipation of his political rise to prominence, when his door suddenly burst open.

Chief James Stroud, followed by Jason Colbert and Phillips' flustered secretary, entered the room.

"What the...," started Phillips.

"I'm sorry Mr. Phillips," his secretary blurted. "They didn't tell me they were coming and just asked if you were in."

"We don't need an appointment, Phillips. We just want to ask a few questions," said Stroud. The secretary left and closed the door.

"You know I'm a busy man, Jim. You should've made an appointment. Now, what's so important that you should burst in this way? "

Stroud said, "You're going to be a lot busier after what we have to tell you. Detective Colbert, tell Mr. Phillips what you told me."

Jason began, "No doubt you've heard about Brock Gillis' death last night, but the paper didn't say that I was there. I know that we had evidence and motive against Grady Jenkins, but Brock Gillis was still under suspicion for the murders."

"Why do you have to burst into my office to tell me this?" Phillips asked.

Jason continued, "Because we found papers in Gillis' office that he was apparently trying to destroy. They detailed how he had contributed to your political campaign and had agreed to make you a silent partner in some land development if the tollway expansion was approved after your election as mayor."

"There's nothing wrong with any of that," Phillips scoffed. "Now that he's dead, all agreements are off. Any scandal will quickly blow over. I'll gain all the notoriety I need from solving those murders."

"We found a contract you had signed stating, that for services rendered by Gillis, you would reward him with city contracts. It also said his services were guaranteed to get you elected mayor. Those services were the murders you would convict someone for. There is only one person who stands to benefit from all those murders; that person is you."

Phillips laughed, "You don't have anything to implicate me. Of course I would benefit from trying and convicting a serial killer; any DA would. That doesn't mean I had anything to do with them. All you have is some vague agreement. You're trying to shift the guilt for the murders from Grady Jenkins to a man who's dead and can't defend himself. You have nothing but your own wild imagination to base this on, detective. Now if you don't have anything else, get out."

"There is another item," Stroud said. "Yesterday, I got a letter from Arturo Hernandez. Do you remember him?"

"I can't say I do. All those Hispanic names run together. You know we prosecute over a hundred through my office every year. What about him?"

"He was the one you sent to prison for the murder of that doctor's wife, Melissa Cranston. He stated at trial that the doctor hired him. You then got a conviction and a life sentence for Dr. George Cranston."

"Oh yes, I remember that now. I was still an assistant DA."

"Yes you were, Andrew, a very successful one, too. Your record and especially that trial catapulted you to the DA's office."

Phillips proudly stated, "I believe I've done an outstanding job in keeping crime down in Dallas since I was elected DA."

"Indeed you have, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. Several people who were convicted during your tenure have been freed recently due to new DNA evidence, but that's another issue. Back to Hernandez. He'll sign a statement that the doctor had nothing to do with his wife's murder. He said that you also knew this, and that you offered him a reduced sentence with early parole if he would testify against Dr. Cranston. He wants to clear his conscience by helping to release an innocent man from prison. This story will appear in the newspapers tomorrow, after Hernandez and I have a news conference this afternoon. I think this will finish your career, Andrew."

Phillips impaled him with his stare. "No it won't. It will be my word against Hernandez, a convicted yardman-robber-murderer. You'll only make yourself look ridiculous."

"The news media will not only broadcast Hernandez' sworn statement," said Stroud, "but they'll dig up all your other convictions that have been overthrown. That ought to fatally damage your campaign for mayor."

Phillips shook his head with a disgusted smirk on his face.

Jason decided on a bluff. "Before he died, Gillis said you were the mastermind behind the murders. It was all your idea to get you elected and to finance your way to the governor's mansion."

"You have nothing to prove that," Phillips spat out.

"Yes I do, Mr. Phillips. I have it on tape." Jason drew out a small tape recorder from his jacket pocket. He hoped his bluff would work.

Phillips saw the futility of further argument. "You may be right," he said as he reached into his drawer. He pulled out a gun and pointed it at Jason. "However, you won't have the satisfaction of coming to my trial. I won't have to look at your smug face when you tell the jury how you solved the murders. One more murder won't matter, will it?"

Jason turned white. Thoughts of Teri and his kids flashed through his mind. He never imagined his life would end like this.

"Wait," shouted Stroud.

"No, it's all over," said Phillips, as he released the safety, stuck the gun under his own chin and fired.

Jason and Stroud jerked in shock. Jason threw open the door to the horrified secretary, who was listening at the door, and said, "Mr. Phillips has killed himself."

# Chapter 65

Jason was at his desk writing reports, including dropping the charges against Grady Jenkins. He looked up as Jim Stroud came to his desk. "Hi chief, what can I do for you?"

"I want to thank you again for doing such a fine job."

"Thanks, chief."

"Jason, there's something else I want to tell you. Lieutenant Miles retired. Yesterday was his last day."

"I heard that he was retiring, but I've been so busy. I didn't even get to say good-bye."

"That's all right. He told me how proud he was of your work before he left. I want to introduce you to the new lieutenant in charge of homicide. Come with me."

Jason was curious, but decided to wait and see. His mind went through the possibilities as he followed Stroud down the hall to Lieut. Miles' old office. The door was closed.

Stroud opened the door and Jason followed him inside. All his team, including Mark, were there. Shouts of "surprise" and "congratulations" flew at him. On the desk he saw a new name plate, "Lieut. Jason Colbert." They even had a cake with his name on it. After a round of handshaking and backslapping, Mark announced that they were all going to a nearby bar to continue the celebration. It was the end of the day shift.

Everyone in the bar celebrated solving the murders and Jason's promotion. Jason lifted up a fresh beer and raised his voice. "I didn't earn this promotion all by myself. I owe a thanks to everyone who helped me along the way. I want y'all to know how much I appreciate all you've done. And thanks for the beers, too." They all laughed and raised their drinks in acknowledgement.

"Now, I'd better go home. I want to tell my family the good news. I'll see y'all tomorrow, and I hope sober." Laughter filled the bar. They yelled congratulations and clapped him on the back on his way out.

At home, he kissed Teri and told her the news. She screamed and hugged him. The kids heard the commotion, came running, and joined in the celebration. Jason finally extricated himself and said, "Hey, let's all have dinner. I'll bet it's getting cold. I'm starving."

After dinner, they all cleaned up and the kids went upstairs. Jason sat with Teri in the family room. "I want to tell you something," he said. "I looked at a person about to shoot me, not once but twice in the past few days. When you're faced with death, it makes you think about what's important. I made a promise to myself."

"And what was it?"

"I know that you've suspected me of doing some questionable things in my career. Well, that's in the past. It's all over with. Stretching the law is especially wrong if it's done by a person who's pledged to uphold the law."

Teri smiled. This had been a part of Jason that Teri had a problem with, and he knew it. She was glad that he finally acknowledged it.

Jason looked at Teri's eyes and released the emotions that filled his heart. "Those men who were murdered just happened to have the wrong name and vocation. Their deaths were tools for someone's ambition. It could have happened to anyone; it could've happened to me. I'm making a promise to myself, that I won't bend the law anymore in chasing crime. I want to be an example for the younger cops. After all, I'm a lieutenant now. I don't care if God hears my promise or not. I've made it and I'll keep it."

"I'm proud of you, sweetheart," Teri said, hugging him. "You're a good person."

"I haven't been a good enough person, Teri, but I'm going to be. When I was looking at the gun Phillips was aiming at me, I thought of you and the kids." He looked away and wiped a tear that was starting. He continued with a tremble in his voice, "A person could die unexpectedly in a car accident, or crossing the street, or from a stray bullet. He should never have to say, if only I had told people I love how much they mean to me. Well, I'm telling you right now, how much I love you."

He took her in his arms and kissed her. She returned it with enthusiasm. They stumbled into the bedroom, pulling off each other's clothes, and closed the door.

# Epilogue

Marcus was relieved and happy that his father was innocent. He told him in a joyful celebration, that he had decided to go to law school.

Doris returned from her treatment in Houston. All evidence of the tumor metastases had disappeared. She had gained weight and her hair was growing back by the time that her friends in Dallas saw her again. All the members of the Philosophy Club got together to welcome her back. Jason was there and hugged Doris warmly, so glad to see her getting well. Dick was still recovering, working at home on his projects.

They all agreed that they would continue the Philosophy Club and invited Jason to join. At first he was hesitant, but Doris convinced him that he had much to offer. They agreed not to discuss only philosophy.

"We all have questions about life and the universe," said Grady. "It's good to have others that we can talk to about them."

Herb added, "You may be familiar with Socrates' statement that the unexamined life is not worth living. What he meant was that we should step back from the petty problems around us and look deeply at our lives. Are we doing something meaningful with them?"

"Not everyone is capable or willing to look critically at himself," explained Doris. "If a thinking person doesn't seriously examine his life, then he will never know whether it's worth living or not."

Jason nodded in agreement. "A person should rewind his life like a videotape and look at it. Is he proud of what he's accomplished or ashamed of what he did or didn't do? We've seen what the effects of a fatal philosophy can have on a person."

Jason hoped that, like Socrates said, an examination of his own life would make it more worthwhile. His journey had just begun.
