

### SHAUNESSY AND A LITERARY DEATH

### Book 2 of 2

### Edward Drobinski

Copyright © 2020 by Edward M. Drobinski. All rights reserved.

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book 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 person. 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.

And furthermore, well within the imagined constraints regarding the precise precision of impressiveness, all spurious and soon to be overstated rights are supposedly reserved in pragmatic futility, and are hereby ludicrously claimed as such; the result of the confines of the US law which provides a modicum of protection to written materiel; strongly encouraging duplication and plagiarism, especially in the lawless bastion called China. In the US this scurrilous activity is now disciplined through a righteous "Shame on you" from inconsequential writers with nothing worth writing as well as college professors on the US Federal Government dole with nothing worth writing. This wordy errata is only here, since it may appear as amateurish to leave this blurb out, in full realization that unpunished breaches, excepting the painful, red marks which live on slapped hands for as much time as a China BatPoo II virus, will invariably be the case.

This section is customarily mandated to say in sad ineffectiveness, as the writer is a bit of a wary traditionalist with no desire for punishment, thereby reticent to defy any pointless literary customs, that no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means except those so authorized, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in the course of writing a review; limited to one of the laudatory type. A sincere thanks is extended to those who have allowed this time-saving boilerplate to be copied under a spurious CCO license. So, there part of it is.

Continuing in the practical doctrine of accepting passivity, the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Understand? Entirely fictitious. As in untrue, fabricated, invented, made-up (not like in one of those Marilyn Manson "outrageous" struts done in the most unattractive black, leatherette corset known to man, (not the fault of the corset) when performing to a large audience, obviously not his own, that being some weinie awards show televised from Tuxedo Junction), false, pretended, fictional, conjured, and all those other words one calls liars. If you have been sufficiently cursed to have been previously subjected to any people with similarities, either the book's characters, people you have wrongly construed to be analogous to the writer, or Marilyn Manson him or herself, you have the author's sincerest sympathies. Large charge. Right? However, if you are like any of them, the author invites you to socially distance yourself from him by six zip codes, at least until old Teddy (Lips) Adhominem Beelzebubus at the W.H.O. finds a remedy for some disease, the author most reasonably willing to settle for him not doing his Chinese by way of the remaining repressive elements in Africa best to exacerbate one.

In monochromatic addition and also in monochromatic fact these objectionable characters are so obviously fictitious that any attempt to assert otherwise would have to be the mercenary ploy of some lazy, non-productive crook or crooks, counseled, aided, and abetted by an otherwise unemployed chiseler or chiselers, as yet un-dismissed from the less than diligent bar. Any fancied apparent similarity to real persons is not intended by the author insofar as the author, if one is paying any attention to the flow of the materiel, spuriously alleges that he can conjure every possible archetype and their subdivisions upon subdivisions upon subdivisions ....... and if thought to be detected is either a coincidence or the product of your own sick and troubled imagination; perhaps most practically suggestive of an intensification in treatment and dosage.

Where the names of real places, corporations, institutions, and public figures may be projected onto made up stuff, they are intended to denote only such said made up stuff, not anything presently real as of the time of this entirely conjectural and metaphorical writing. China is merely a passing state of mind or a cheap something one might make one of those overpriced mall available chachkas out of.

I hope that you are one of those blessed with common sense, thereby being one who did not bother to read this professionally and thereby assumed and claimed "expert" semi-obligatory absurdity.

Portions have previously appeared in the following; New Yorker, Esquire, Playboy, New York Times, Ploughshares, Paris Review; and has been most appreciatively summarily rejected within the gloried holes of prestigious Horror Sleaze Trash (HST). Need the writer say more? Dumb question. I don't care. .... You choose to not believe it, but the author really does not believe that either. If necessary, expletive you with no mask.

### Contents

### 15 – Children of Paradise

The first overnight winds of fall were making their presences known. The cottonwoods were slowly changing their leaf colors from green to yellow and brown. One had to look up to notice, as none of the leaves had yet given up entirely, thereby settling into their inevitable crinkly, mass final resting place where the animal feet would trod and grind. Some lesser, one dimensionally needled evergreens confused this with a bluish sadness, or a desperate attempt to hang on, or whatever dumb mindset was most convenient for misinformed "immortals" to adopt at the particular moment. The needles may have wanted to extend their amusement with the show, at least until the matching repeats repeated and repeated and repeated and ........ zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz; they issued a silent, dispassionate "fuck you all, I'm out of here," if there ever was one. "Set me free, why dontcha babe? Get out my life, why dontcha babe."

Double door and "Don't Open the Door to Strangers" by Steve Kilbey; property of the author, the former the kind courtesy of Pexels.com modified, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

Mid-morning, Shaunessy was patrolling alone in his most official town vehicle, any of a series of flashing, multi-colored lights available with the simple push of the right button. It was semi-power, an aphrodisiac full power as seen by those with none; a long playing standard to Shaunessy, best not articulated for fear of stupid questions. To Shaunessy's delight, Chief Kerry had come to the taxpayer-money-saving conclusion that if his men were to spend their days giving out traffic tickets, there was no need for them to inefficiently ride in the same vehicle. Kerry's other "men," Striker was somewhere else in Vista e la Feria, ostensibly in the act of issuing a high priced summons to a speeding rascal with semi-deep pockets when Shaunessy was dispatched to the Bosque; a bordering resident again having called in a report of having heard gunshots there. All previous such reports concluded with an un-evidenced, other than one merely anecdotal, unsubstantiated claim, paperwork tally of an aggregated zero, stated in an artfully euphemistical manner, on the unlikely, but microscopically possible event that one brave soul from the New York Times would still idiotically invoke the difficult-to-invoke "Freedom of Information" act to access and read it, the police optimistically presuming their capability to understand rather than conveniently choose to misinterpret it. This could indeed happen when and if the new NYTimes editor is able to broaden his genre palette from its monochromatic fixation on leaf color. In their turn, the leaves are not burdened with such considerations. They don't even read the Times. When their time comes, they just fall like a de-funded W.H.O. pandemic conspirator.

Primarily in an effort to do the opposite of that, Shaunessy decided to avoid the havens of the well-travelled, mildly comical, deferentials on Vista de la Feria's main thoroughfare, artfully and cagily named Vista de le Feria Road. Shaunessy relied upon his specially and officially taken key, a rather large one at that, the size substantially irrelevant, but possibly of interest to the sciency, detail freaks. If there were still any of those around, carrying and paying attention to neither-here-nor-there rulers; the jesting mindset was one of his as yet to be westernly defined nafs. For Shaunessy this flashed through his mind at the speed attributed to that of a yet-to-be proven bot unleashed by one of the heads of goggle, gog, golligog, Barney Goggle with the goo, goo, googly eyes, or some other derivation of such duplicative, ersatz manifestations. It seemed to Shaunessy that it was part and parcel to an old story, indeed an ancient repetitious story yet to be 'scientifically' disproven, hidden so well in modern garments; ignorance in the sense of indirect and convenient ignoring, that mayhaps the 21st century methodology to un-explain in the one dimensional simplicity incorrectly and handily attributed to long dead Kant, more or less, as in a film 'representative' of the foamy, low level approach of the tidal wave; perhaps substantially not recognized as such; the matter none. In certain quarters utilizing "alternative" calendars, Millennial was a very old story; quite funny during its first two tellings.

Patti Smith and "Higher Learning" by Patti Smith; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

Shaunessy used his authority granted keys to gain entrance to the Bosque approaching ditch paths, another green-painted, and locked metal gate at every turn. He took his sweet time to re-lock each of them behind him. The unpaved parallel roads, one at each side of the man managed waterways were still running; the annual shutoff usually performed sometime around November first, when regulatory fears predictably morphed from fire to ice.

After having passed through and re-locked the last gate, he drove his siren-and-potentially-light-flashing vehicle down the dirt path, positioned between the "Clear Ditch;" a tiny waterway which was fed by the Rio Grande River, popular with fishermen, and the Bosque trees and bushes which were a natural boundary, on the average three hundred feet deep, between him and the Rio Grande river.

Ditch paths leading to Bosque; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

Ahead of him, Shaunessy saw someone with two dogs in tow. That person stopped and looked back, likely less than thrilled to have had their excursion into borderline nature marred by the smelly vroom-vroom-vroom provided by another intrusion of loud foreign parts on foreign wheels. The smaller dog stood in place, while the larger one pulled at the leash. As Shaunessy's car closed in, he saw that the person was Emily Crain, her head only half hidden in her dark gray jacket's attached hood.

Shaunessy got out and said; "Emily?"

Apparently having made less previous note of him than he had of her, she said; "Yes, officer," with a twinge of overly polite sarcasm mixed with bogus tolerance, like when Lilith was obliged to politely respond to the newcomer, Adam, with whom she had not yet been properly introduced, thereby being unaware of the irritating interloper's individuation.

"Have you heard any gunshots?"

Emily laughed at something only she knew and found funny and reeled from one foot to the other, almost falling when trying to get back to where she had started the process. She said; "No, you?"

"Had a few?"

"More than a few and there's no law against that. I'm walking."

"If you want to get technical about it, there is and you're weaving."

"Pesty, useless cops. Can't detect a killing; more interested in nonexistent gunshots and someone harmlessly walking their dogs. Go ahead and arrest me, jerk."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Your problem is with your nut neighbors and the jerk Medical Examiner, Harrison Brody III. Not me."

"Yeah, sure. Keep passing the buck. It's standard operating procedure. We'll all continue to be eternally fooled."

Funhouse mirror, the reflection uncannily similar to Jeff Bozos, and "Is This Where You Live" by Steve Kilbey; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

"Evidently, as apparently you are; and yeah, it is. But in this case it happens to be true. The Medical Examiner, Brody has the legal authority to end any further investigation with a ruling of suicide. It took him less than 48 hours to do that; my complaints to no avail."

"So, you too think Connor was murdered."

"That's not what I said. If you didn't understand, let me put it another way. I'm saying that there was an inadequate investigation to have made any ruling, and that it should have been further pursued."

"Oh, now I remember. You were one of the cops there that afternoon. You know, when I left him at 12:30PM, Connor was too drunk to hang himself if he wanted to. He probably wouldn't even have been able to zip his fly. He was lying on the floor, barely able to move or stay awake."

"I don't recall your testimony as having said that; and the time you first stated was 12:45PM as I recall. I couldn't and didn't become aware of his .32 blood level alcohol content until I saw Brody's final, case closing report."

"Whatever. Nobody fucking asked me! What's the point now?"

"Most likely none. Enjoy your doggie walk." Shaunessy turned toward his vehicle, disgusted with stupid instructions, cantankerous and impaired witnesses, and misplaced complaints. Emily Crain blurted a sudden flood of tears, consistent with any of a number of ploys for sympathy to which cops quickly acquire an unspoken immunity, the heart-rending displays most perfected by those in legal jeopardy in search of a "break;" the weak or partially dead pathogen an effective immunity to recurrence. However, this time Shaunessy must have been himself impaired through a possible neglect in getting his booster shot, resulting in the terminal mistake of hesitation. Filling the ostensible gap, his ears were barraged with drunken Emily's bar-room-common ramble. Attempting to "heroically" hold back the watery deluge, the only decipherable part took place when she yelled in apparent conclusion; "You wanna know what was really going on, cop?"

Shaunessy's best instincts told him to decline the desperate ending offer. However, his worst instincts, which considered listening to inebriated bullshit better than going through the boredom of "investigating" phantom gunshots, and then returning to the traffic ticketing of those with the audacity or faulty speedometer to be going 5MPH over the limit on Vista de la Feria Road made him freeze, thereby more or less willingly becoming subject to another useless and uninteresting diversion performed by a further "slick operator;" their need to correct their Stage Five lack of an audience; apparently unaware of their having descended into the world of inadvertent self- satire. The back of his head toward the late blooming orator, Shaunessy said; "The entirety of my being anxiously awaits your previously untold story. Isn't it strange how you can't see the river from here?"

"Does the entirety of your being prefer the long version or the short? Whether or not you can see it, it's an ace bet that the river is still there."

"A sort of eclecticism is at work. Whatever can be well or at least professionally done would suffice."

"Oh, yes. Yes! As in a tiny, humble strain in Connor James Wheaton's last bogus effort. One cannot help but expect it to be reviewed favorably by any reviewer of note."

"My back pages say a hearty and welcoming cheerio. Pray tell your besotted memories. I am all earplugs."

"Connor and I were lovers. I first met him here one winter morning when he was walking Rusty. We were both bundled up for the cold, with hoods, scarves, and all. So, I didn't know who he was, not that I would have known if he was less bundled, despite me being a lifelong reader. We clicked right away."

"You were also the last one to see him alive."

"So the anecdotal 'evidence' says."

"You also had a loud argument with him that morning. Statistics confirm that the 'other' woman is maniacally unhappy with that role."

"A correction or two, commander. I was the last one to admit to seeing him alive. The killer didn't feel it wise to say that. And you're apparently assuming that the 'other woman' wants marriage and a common roof over their heads. I have some news for you, Mr. Investigator. Household sharing does not necessarily equate to romance or love; hence ipso and facto, the different words. But since the case is closed, believe whatever the fuck you'd like." Emily was proud of herself for that one, and celebrated by smiling sarcastically and swaying to the point of an un-coming, potential fall. Her dogs, big Vossillay and little Silly Jody, got a bit of a neck tug. They then eyed each other as if to say; "Same old. Emily is loaded, and it's tolerable, more or less, considering that." Feeling as good as the circumstances allowed, she continued, while deferring to an easy slur; "Eventually I was awarded the privilege of seeing Connor's long overdue follow-up to 'Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers.' He had it tentatively titled as 'Boundless Monotony – a Chucklesome Novel,' and while it was almost the former in discernable quirk, it convincingly fell short of his wordsmith brand of execution. ......... "

"Um, yeah Ms. Lit Maven; but if I found it relevant to see substantially positive, unpublished indie reviews. I can find a zillion of them all over the web."

"Congratulations, maestro. Your capacity to interrupt is only exceeded by your 'unique, professional' ability to equate the overture with the song of the fat lady."

"Further personal enlightenment is undoubtedly warranted for my cultural perspicacity. Might you kindly refer me to your favorite, fat, female librettist?"

"That request for help is much too vague, and likely indicative of a fundamental misunderstanding; but quite good for a cop. Cheers. As I was trying to say, I immediately noticed that 'Boundless Monotony – a Chucklesome Novel,' was of lesser quality than 'Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers.' When we became almost completely at ease with each other, reliant on that seeming trust, I broached it to him, still in possession of a mild apprehension that my saying this might offend him; much as a certain 'facts' upset the unasked for, white supporters of BLM; or worse put him, vis-à-vis me, on the infinitely defensive posture, ultimately a complete loss. .......... "

In continuation of his cop-prick stance, Shaunessy said; "The intricate dynamics of interpersonal relationships are always so interesting."

"Shut up and you might learn something about them. Connor was not the least bit offended. He even said that he appreciated it, especially in the wake of on-line reader-reviewers who skim to up their 'numbers,' not understanding a thing. He went on to tell me that he had lost interest in the tedium of writing novels, in favor of the less tedious and more lucrative writing of magazine articles. However, since he had already taken an advance to produce 'Boundless Monotony – a Chucklesome Novel,' or some other misnomered derivation thereof, he had engaged the gardener, Rolf Hoffius, to ghost-write it for him. I mean like if that isn't an 'I-don't-give-a-shit' approach, please tell me what is. There is an infinite supply of ghost-writers, a few reasonably competent. But Connor took this jerk just because he was there, having no interest to even do a goggle search. So, Connor asked me to fix up Hoffius' stuff, not saying that it was such, and also not out of an interest in topnotch quality, but out of an interest not to be over-obviously caught in a subterfuge which might affect the advance he had already spent; and worse that it would prompt avaricious, mistake wifey, Anisette Rhona to barrage him with a never-ending boredom of being required to sit through the ultimate-and-redundantly-un-necessary-expansion-upon-her-one-line ability."

"I hope Anisette Rhona at least would have occasionally changed the decibel level."

"You're kind of naively optimistic for an old cop."

"Thank you. Please proceed."

"Rolf Hoffius, also amusingly unknown to the literary world as Dwight N. Creepshun or DNC if you will, self-publisher of three zero sales, pathetic indie books, is a twice convicted felon; armed robbery I believe; hence his late interest in gardening and all-too-encouraged, crap book writing, through easy access to free on-line sources with which one is encouraged to embarrass themselves and family ..........." Emily paused for the breath necessitated by her snicker.

"More or less. As far as I have yet been able to determine on the spiffy web, 'Rolf Hoffius' has served some serious time under his birth given name of Lupo Batinado. The gardener is also the self-publisher of three books no one has bought even on "free" days under the name of Dwight N. Creepshun; 'Ax Uh Dental Murder Charge,' 'The Bainsbridge Massacre Patsy,' and the science fiction/bizarro epic, 'Snot What You Think.' Gets tiresome; doesn't it?"

"Tell me about it. In ostensible mercy, sometimes humorously so, though I must admit that the title 'Snot What You Think' gets my difficult-to-contain, conspiratorial brand of interest aroused almost as much as JG Ballard's 'Kingdom Come.' Returning to the lesser note merely at hand, and having vocally expressed my notice of how Connor's writing had deteriorated from Novel #1 to Perennially Impending Novel #2; Connor persuaded me to edit the crap, as far as editing could be a panacea to a digitally displayed oversupply of chromosomes. I wasn't the least bit enthused about doing it, ultimately settling for his promise that my name would in no way be associated with the result. The morning of his murder, for the first time Connor told me that he was paying Hoffius. That's what our yelling argument was about. It's not as if I minded doing him a favor ......... very much. But, if he was going to pay to have Hoffius do his novel poorly done for him, I should have been paid too."

"Hear any gunshots?"

"Ha. Not at the time and still none today."

"So, you were his editor?"

"Only on that one unfinished second novel."

"Tell me. How long had you worked with CJW?"

"That's funny in a way, dependent upon what you mean by work. When we first met I didn't know that he was 'CJW,' and he didn't tell me of his 'lit-world-fame.' We didn't even know each other's names for two months. He was just another person like me, out walking their dog near dawn, hoping to be done before all the others came out."

"Did you think that he was suicidal?"

"No more than I think you and I are. He survived the grief of his loved Rusty dying."

"Do you know anything of his prior attempts?"

"Not from him. Only through the blaring, tabloid-type 'info' overload."

"Did Anisette Rhona know of your relationship with CJW?"

"Nobody sent her a greeting card to that effect. But, I don't see how she could have missed it. Her interests begin and end with cash flow. Both she and publisher Battson are in tune, regardingthat matter."

"If the venue is of preponderance of the evidence, not allowed in cases of a capital crime, dominated by anecdotal testimony, rather than something empirically based, thereby a requisite of beyond all reasonable doubt, I can prove that the teapot is circling the earth based on eyewitness accounts. I can also effectively 'prove' that it is not circling through eliminating the credibility of the eye witnesses. It's kind of a point of view mixed with instinct, ability, and diligence, which the courts, in their assigned power and 'wisdom,' require in capital cases."

"Works well for the Gambino family. Fact. Background – CJW and Anisette Rhona married later in life. Anisette Rhona, a low income 'artiste' of the pigmented, abstractedly expressional, artichoke green strain most liked her perception of increased financial stability. A pre-nup called for the separation of assets and no income re-distribution in the case of divorce. However, when there is no will in the enchanting land also known as the State of New Mexico, assets go to the surviving spouse. Connor was not the typical writer in that he sort of fell into it when considering post graduate options. Though this is now conveniently mis-stated in public spots, one would think for the benefit of the faux passionate deifiers of words, his undergraduate majors were math and philosophy, rather than the English later concocted. Don't take my word. This can be checked at whatever school he attended. Upon graduation, he was wondering whether to pursue his masters in math or philosophy when someone gave him a book written by a youthful 'prodigy.' Connor read it and concluded; 'I can easily do better than that,' thereby going back for a Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing, which he later said that he recommended to no one. He was quite content to write easy, money-spinning, and absurd magazine articles, though he had contracted with Battson; now President and Publisher at Farr, Simon, and Moreau; part of the McVirago group for a second novel, primarily in return for a promise of 'heavy' advertising of 'Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers,' which was heavily edited. Regarding the promise of advertising, Battson cited the lack of definition of 'heavy,' as well as crying the blues over not being able to do more, a supposed function of Farr, Simon, and Moreau being over-ruled by the 'marketing men' at the McVirago group. So when Connor was killed, he was already ten years late in delivering numero dos, despite help from his twice felonius Rolf Hoffius paid ghost writer and unpaid me. With the novel near or at completion, Connor was worth more to both Battson and Anisette Rhona, dead than alive; he intending to publish no more CJW novels, and she afraid of cutoff and the possibility of a lawsuit to recover any unfulfilled advance; somewhat prompted by Connor's telling her, with the intention of being distressing, that he was going to tell Battson to 'go fuck himself' that last day. Who knows what was in the mind of an untalented, desperate dumbass? Probably Anisette Rhonas's scrawny excuse for one." Emily gave hers a slap, and followed it with a wiggle and a breathless giggle.

Shaunessy smiled when he again went off topic and said; "The Medical Examiner did not look at CJW's computer at all, leaving it there. The publisher took it back to New York with him."

"Damn. I hope he didn't go through all the pictures."

"You seem suddenly light-hearted."

"More likely light-headed. I usually follow my infrequent Acker with another reading of 'The Rosie Project.'"

"Acker?"

"Kidding. Kidding. Just kidding. Really."

### 16 – Two for the Road

Chief Kerry's ordered solitary patrol assignment had its advantages. Shaunessy now had full control of the wheel at all times and didn't have to hear former partner Striker's asinine comments and "jokes" when he began driving by low-speeding-ticket-priority 977 Camino de Tristeza twice daily. Emily Crain's more or less impassioned story must have rekindled his enthusiasm for justice at the expense of his acquired sense of contemptuous disgust, though he realized that his opinion of the World Health Obstruction (WHO) authorities still required voluminous, Chinese approved, further study to safely accept any of their non-remedial actions. They thereby had miscarried any of their faux attempts to make much of a dent in either; much like those prone to serial false pregnancies. The WHO and the Center for Disease Continuation (CDC) went off sniffing drainpipes, reciting the alphabet, and being insistent upon more numbers for them to evaluate, revise, re-revise, re-re-revise, etc. etc. Though this was their long term standard operating procedure known to all but the useless participants in the farce, foolish Shaunessy still took note and marveled at how the hoary game was still able to take the preponderance of tricks, like a Contract Bridge duo adept at un-observed, under-the-table foot machinations, commonly known as footsies.

Shaunessy was looking for some reason to investigate further himself; to get back in that house now forbidden to him by the Medical Examiner, with the full support of Kerry, and the former petty annoyance of Striker. He thought; "There must have been something I missed."

When on the road for official or un-official business, Shaunessy never closed the driver-side window in entirety; always leaving a crack, so as to not be sealed off from outside sounds. A full closure shut off one sense and also was too much like the way he imagined his final resting place, and he didn't think that he required any practice to handle that; as most everyone he had ever heard of had handled it just fine; outside of the buried alive Poe fiction and the decades 'currently' popular zombie apocalypse genre; lesser one-hit-wonder-writers, excepting Romero, not worth mentioning even on the miniscule chance that they were still remembered by someone. For this same reason he never played music when driving the police car alone; it being only an occasional attempt at drowning out Striker when they had been "partnered."

Through his crack, Shaunessy easily noted that Camino de Tristeza was "noisy," like the sound of a metal grinder on the verge of conking out, as is often portrayed by the "affordable" DeWalt DW840, when it was not out of service, in need of repair; or the standard punk, metal, noise band. Shaunessy heard his official wheels replay the repeat performance of the sound of tires going over the persistent residues of gravel which were dragged out by locally domiciled vehicles from their gritty driveways onto the asphalt. It was a song old enough to be considered a classic, but wasn't officially recognized as having that "honor," also known as an invitation to knock off, like intellectual property or bat poo viruses are in polluted and smoky China, more properly and without stigmatization termed some unmemorable series of unrelated letters and numbers, claimed by them to be of assistance to the sciency, nerdy, use-yet-to-be-determined set.

The life-sized Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy dolls still sat together on adjoining chairs of partially hollowed out tree trunks, their accommodations, in the worst possible case no more nature-destructive than the 1,000 book print runs which have taken up permanent residence in its writer's living room; while a more optimistic thought suggested the finding of a marginal use for a portion of the trunks of full-grown trees which had expired of their own volition. They sat at the driveway end or its beginning, point of view obviously essential in that determination, of a house purported to be set well back from the road. The tightly bunched line of mature pines fifty feet back from gravel and asphalt Camino de Tristeza rendered that judgement, if any, highly speculative and entirely un-necessary; or so thought Shaunessy as he smiled while he drove by the cute figures who smiled back at him in likely fortuitous reciprocation. Shaunessy's Pollyanna side was more comfortable with interpreting that as a grand serendipitous gesture from friends. He wasn't born a cop, and only did the copping job forty hours a week upon having attained the age in which one was pre-Millennially expected to have some line of work. This and that, and more or less, it was more a sign of disinterest in the numbing repetition attendant to all jobs after the six month learning period would inevitably expire, than anything else, now coupled with an infuriating compulsion to do whatever he did as best he could. No more, no less; or so he thought.

As is the norm for one riding in a police vehicle, all of the pedestrian traffic as well as some of those ensconced in the well-under-the-speed-limit vehicles of their own, did the "friendly" wave and smile-grimace thing. They apparently were unaware that if the cop car driver returned all of their good tidings his arm would soon require regular cortisone treatment, and that any monkey-assed perp in the back seat had his hands cuffed behind his back, couldn't wave if he wanted to, and was as in the mood for another faux smile, as an umpire who had just missed his last call by a foot.

Number 977 Camino de Tristeza, also or formerly known as the Wheaton-Hunter house, showed a clear evidence of the change Shaunessy sought. What there was of a front, central, tended grass patch was now a foot-long candidate for hay baling, swaying in the breeze. Gardener, ghost, and indie "writer," Rolf Hoffius had no longer been doing a minimal level of his non-literary chores, while Anisette Rhona had been reluctant to hire a replacement. This struck Shaunessy as strange, indicative of some departure from routine activity which would have been scrutinized by Chief Inspector Maigret or Simenon in Paris, but ridiculously insufficient to obtain a US search warrant.

The silent inactivity at the scene of the official hanging-suicide and the odd, frontally lobed, hay patch became Shaunessy's most coveted, twice daily salutations on Camino de Tristeza. Its disinterested wave rivalled the warmth induced by the greetings of Walmart's grimacing door monitors in ersatz cheery search of the items not rung up on the register, which justified their existence on an efficiency expert – management consultant, cost accounting basis; and equaled the "Have a nice day" tedium somewhere near the bottom end of the lowest quartile of the surprise quotient. This altered form of stasis continued throughout the fall with all the perseverance of a common carp bottom-fish, brought to the US from Asia and Europe. Shaunessy thought; "While gardening help can be 'difficult' to find, if not obnoxious, in Vista de la Feria, it was not yet a task which required months of effort, especially if you let the conveniently misunderstanding Latka Gravas impersonator do ten unrequested things at full hourly rate." Nonetheless, as winter mildly set in, Shaunessy's futile trips began providing him with all the expectations of getting as much new evidence and remedies as that provided by a World Health Obstruction (WHO) or Centers for Disease Continuation (CDC) politico in an infectious crisis. Then he saw an old junk car in the Wheaton-Hunter house driveway.

Junker in Wheaton-Hunter house driveway; property of the author.

It was something like one of the four cars Shaunessy almost remembered as being in the driveway the day of the "investigation," the hatchback suitable for a gardener-handyman who couldn't afford a pickup truck. He called in the license plate number and found that the vehicle was registered to Rolf Hoffius. There was no sign of the felon-gardener-handyman-writer, his car's presence only unusual in that whatever things Rolf was doing there, one of them wasn't mowing, as the front hay patch was still almost knee high. Shaunessy thought; "Can't wait to get a look tomorrow. If Rolf and Anisette Rhona have non-gardening 'business' to discuss, it might be interesting to find out what that is. She's not a likely candidate for a romance with low income weinies."

During Shaunessy's next few trips to the site, he saw no driveway cars. The only activity he noticed was the long tan shoots caressing each other in the gentle winds. His suspicions of Hoffius' having non-gardening business with Anisette Rhona was more or less confirmed.

Impatient and desirous of likely un-needed haste, Shaunessy decided that paying a visit to the adjacent winery was in order. That didn't directly violate any order or determination he had been made aware of. He parked in the driveway at its end and rang the doorbell of the one storied, bronze, stucco structure. The response was not immediate. On his sixth try the resident owner-worker, Alejandro Montserrat, of the budding "Danza Del Sol Winery" opened the red door just widely enough to get his head outside, saying; "What can I do for you today, officer?" His sarcastic tone could have been meant to convey a reticence to speak with cops.

Shaunessy was long familiar with the attitude. As a result he had developed a method to counter it which worked most of the time. In the most deferential of voices available to him, he said; "Please excuse me for interrupting you, Mr. Montserrat. I'm looking for some help."

Montserrat must have heard that one before, as he mimicked Shaunessy's timbre, replying; "I'm having some trouble in trying to imagine how that might be. Please enlighten me."

"Okay, look. You're operating a commercial enterprise in a residential district. I can have the Zoning Department out here in about five minutes, and they will rip out all of your tender vines and drip watering lines. Can't we just be friends?"

"As I was saying, I'm always happy to co-operate with the friendly police."

"Good man. My problem is this. You might have noticed my car patrolling this area recently. But, before I get into that, may I come in, friend? It's a bit cold out here."

Montserrat turned and called out; "Get in the bedroom!" After some internal foot shuffling and a door closing, he opened the front one, standing aside, and said; "Please do. My home is yours."

Shaunessy stepped in, and was gestured to a reseda green armed chair in the "mud" room, the Spanish tradition known to him of having one room with an earthen floor. Montserrat sat across from him in a cardinal red chair both armed and winged. Shaunessy nodded toward the Spanish blue case piece against the wall, and said; "Nice trastero."

"Pretty good. A bit on the small side, more often used in kitchens. You know something of old Spanish furniture?"

"Just a little bit. I've only been here a year, but I'm renting a little, furnished adobe. Is that an original?"

"No. It's a reproduction. Almost all of the originals were burned for firewood when the train line came through, giving everyone access to Sears merchandise."

"How do you keep the wood which comes in contact with the floor from rotting?"

Alejandro snorted as he said; "Oil. .......... You sure you're a cop?"

"No, but the authorities seem to think so."

" .................. "

"Okay; my cop hat is back on, Alejandro. As I was saying, you might have noticed my car patrolling this area recently. I've been eyeing the Hunter-Wheaton house next door, looking for any unusual activity. Living here, I thought that you likely were in a better position to have seen some."

"Unusual? ..... Unusual? ...... Always. What is 'unusual' is often the norm."

"Appreciated. ...... On some level. ...... But, I'm being simple here, to the point of what is likely perceived as stupidity. My solace, insofar as that word indirectly, though popularly, connotes a fictitious, though useful need for understanding and 'smart' majority approval, faux deferential, perhaps that partially a result of my unconfirmed belief that it's not the least bit personal. ...... Sigh. I'm just trying to get the both of us focussed on comings and goings next door vis-à-vis before and after Connor James Wheaton's estivational demise."

"Oh. Why didn't you just say so to begin with?"

"It's complicated."

"Mind if I bring my wife and kids out. They just hate being sequestered in that small space. High doses of that breed petty insurrection. Besides, they too, might have seen something 'unusual.'"

"Of course not. You might recall that it wasn't I who sequestered them."

"Not directly. That stimulus – anticipated reaction thing can be as tricky as a competent false flag operation."

"You see me carrying any flags?"

"Come on out here. It's all right. ...... Come on. The man doesn't bite."

Out walked stooping Esmeralda, with Guillermo and Carlotta thigh high in hand. Alejandro said; "Esme, Gil, Carly .... and?"

Shaunessy stood and said; "Shaunessy."

Now unattached, Gil said; "That's a funny name." Esme re-attached him, looking his way, but directed at Shaunessy said; "Gil is having some difficulty in learning his social skills."

As Gil grimaced at the comment he had heard more than once before, Shaunessy said; "Me too. .... Listen, I'm looking for some help."

Carly pointed one index finger at her head and said; "Don't ask Gil. He's stupid."

Brushing back her cascading black hair, Esme said; "It's contagious."

Turning toward Shaunessy, Alejandro said; "You see? I'm hoping this gets better with age. ... My friend, Shaunessy ...."

Shaunessy interrupted to say; "I don't think it does. .... Please pardon me."

Alejandro sighed visibly and continued; "As I was saying, my friend Shaunessy is interested in finding out about any unusual activity next door," not calling it the Hunter-Wheaton house.

Gil said; "What do you mean by 'unusual?'" Shaunessy ineffectively, or accidentally-on-purpose hand covered a smile.

Judging by his tone only, Alejandro's level of patience seemed to be as rudimentarily tested as the conveniently overlooked thousand times prior, as in which will invariably be displayed in the next "authority" dictated lack of remedy for the "new," some say "novel," Chinese BatPoo II Virus to be exported to the west under the One-World-Democrat, ostensibly joking concept of free trade and weak kneed interdependence, that resulting in a feigned frustratingly, "diplomatic" communication in the absence of any possible resolution, when he said; "Out of the norm, Gil. Out of the norm. You know. The norm. Normal. Estandar."

Shaunessy quite un-necessarily said; "It might help to think visually."

Esme said; "You know, Al. Kids have no concept of norms. They're kids for Christ's sake. You really ought to spend more time with them and you might understand that."

Alejandro's voice rose a double digit number of decibels when he said: "Making wine is not a matter of just picking grapes. There's fermentation, bottling, corking and re-corking ...... "

Esme said; "Okay. Okay. Put a cork in it."

Alejandro cleared his throat and said; "My friend, Shaunessy here, would like to know if there's been any unusual activity next door. I haven't noticed anything myself. Perhaps someone else can be of some help."

Carly said; "Well, the gardener has been visiting regularly, but no gardening is getting done."

Shaunessy said; "Typical gardener. How often does he visit?"

Carly said; "Twice a week lately."

Shaunessy asked; "Have you seen him?"

Carly said; "Once or twice. I usually just see his bomb car. He no longer works as he used to. He goes right inside and stays only there until he leaves."

Esme said; "Do you ever hear anything?"

Carly said; "Not often as the windows are closed in the cold. A few times, but nothing unusual, anyway."

Shaunessy said; "What?"

Carly said; "Just like mom and dad. Yelling about money stuff."

Alejandro opened his mouth to speak, then apparently thought better of it.

Shaunessy half looked at Alejandro, while half-chuckling out; "Generally pretty common stuff. .... I'm told." He saw that Esme was making duck lips in numerous directions, inclusive of his. He looked to Carly and asked; "Do you remember any specific words?"

Carly giggled and said; "'When will I see some money?' 'As soon as I do. Complications. Just be patient.' 'Blah. Blah.' 'Blah. Blah.'" She looked at Gil, who had begun to show inadequately concealed signs of early stage attention deficit hyperactivity disorder by standing on the stained, child sized, ladder backed chair near the wall and saying; "Look at me! Look at me!"

Shaunessy went over to him, and picked him up; Gil laughing and blurting indecipherable, happy things. Shaunessy put him in his seated father's lap, where his happiness continued.

Shaunessy said his thanks and good-bye to all, especially thanking little Carly. He left, now virtually certain of knowing the common relationship between Anisette Rhona and Rolf.

### 17 – The Labyrinth of the Faun

Southwestern deep winter made its annual presence known through random, sporadic, but seemingly more or less regular flurries, adding short splashes of frozen milk, unrelieved until the approach of each high noon. The transitory greenery had given up its futile resistance, leaving the struggle to their more hardy pine, spruce, fir, and hemlock cousins. The un-tended tan, hay patch residing in front of the Wheaton-Hunter house bent a bit more with each flaked delivery.

It was the pre-dawn morning of February 20th. Shaunessy's twice daily excursions into the land of tertiary and tacit literary mayhem remained unrewarding, in any case in terms of him acquiring any evidence which might sway Chief Kerry, secondarily Medical Examiner Brody III. He woke and Margaret was not there. That was not unusual, as she often escaped the earthly winter doldrums through a series of short junkets into a heaven, presumably higher as measured both by Fahrenheit and Celsius; the latter's penchant to consider zero to be some sort of border, while its position was obviously one of neutrality.

He got out of bed, got the coffee machine going, and stared out the window, waiting for the percolation machine to finish its job. The Sandia Mountains were snow covered, just as they always were for six months of every year; a coating or cover for the higher elevations, depending upon one's point of view, even if limited to the blindness induced by the most horrid of overdoses of meta excess in absurd self-importance. He actually had less derision available for that than he did the assuming idiots who thought they had a monopoly on the "real."

Shaunessy gulped the dark water and drove to the office, intent on finishing off some paperwork he had allowed to lag, fully expectant of the early privacy which would allow him to do so undisturbed. Without this "new" addition to the information overload, the "authorities" might be as confounded as the unqualified gavone at W.H.O. might effectively play at being in the cause of infectious global death. It's hard to tell with a natural. In the case of tiny Vista de le Fiera, Shaunessy didn't want the numbers-centric "authorities" to think that there were half as many speeders in town for a week, and consequently that their standardized policies toward speeding infractions were both a panacea and effective deterrent. He didn't want their "studies" to come to any further erroneous conclusions, as if they thought that they had gotten it "right" once, it would undoubtedly only encourage them to issue more armchair, statistically flawed, edicts regarding programs aimed at something which might be of greater significance, like what degree of capitulation police should exercise in the case of a flying alien invasion. He parked in the headquarters lot and retrieved the one letter huddled in the postal box' left rear corner.

Shaunessy was just going to drop it on Chief Kerry's desk, but on his way to the boss' office his curiosity got the better of him. That the address was hand-written and that "Department" was spelled "Diportment" proved as un-resistibly intriguing as the latest Bizarro book, trying to milk humor out of un-remediable, late stage incompetence. Using a letter opener, he carefully retrieved the folded contents and found a typed note, apparently the beneficiary of an automated spell-check perusal or some fortuitous accident. His elation knew few bounds when he read it to find that it was possibly of some use.

"Connor James Wheaton was a murdered on the 12th of August. I saw what happened. Anisette Rhona dragged the dead body outside and staged the hanging at 1:00PM. You will also find a handwritten note regarding her, from the deceased on page one of his copy of 'Infinite Jest.'

A friend

{crummy drawing of a hanging)

This is not what happened."

Shaunessy speedily, chop-chop realized that his reaction was only his own, and that he would still have to convince Chief Kerry that this new information was enough to re-open the Wheaton case. He hurriedly input the prior week's traffic data, and watched the clock.

Kerry popped in after Shaunessy had to endure fifteen minutes of Striker's "good old boy" witticisms, inclusive of his pride in having successfully issued a $525 citation to a newcomer, unaware that it was a crime to pass a vehicle stopped to make a left on the single-laned right. "Must have been some smawtass New Yorker, now out five hundred and twenty-five smackers; moving vie-oh-lay-shun," Striker grinned, receiving none in return. Having recently been "spoiled" by his ability to work alone, Shaunessy would have thought the ordeal to have lasted two hours, were it not for the overhead clock. Shaunessy checked it twice to determine if it was still moving, and it was; seemingly in slow motion, but matching the rate displayed by his cheap, Chinese knockoff, "Rolex" wristwatch.

Shaunessy excused himself with a poor imitation of the Mitch McConnell patented "what-can-one-do" goopy face and strode to Kerry's office, paper and envelope in hand. He said; "I'd like you to see this," as he deposited the note and envelope in the center of Kerry's un-cluttered desk.

Kerry looked at the items for a few seconds, and said; "Don't tell me. You think this will warrant my authorization to re-open the Wheaton case."

His intents already pronounced officially unworthy, Shaunessy replied; "Not at all. I was wondering if you'd like to play tic-tac-toe with me. There's the paper. Got a pen handy?"

"Do you have any idea of how many crank reports I get?"

"Surely not regarding your performance."

"You may not be aware that at the management level, police work attracts every nut, troll, 'helpful concerned citizen,' no-life-asshole with nothing else to do, nerdy kids, as well as perps who think their communication will steer the investigation away from themselves."

"The latter category may hold out the tiniest glitter of promise here."

"There is no investigation!"

"Perp might not know that."

"It's been in all the papers."

"Maybe he thinks it's just more fake news, and there's another category which has temporarily slipped your mind."

"Such as?"

"Such as? .... Such as? .... Such as someone who belatedly decided that the killer should be punished. He may not be in police management."

"I believe that Shakespeare covered that somewhere. It was the son, and CJW had no children."

"On the other hand, 'King Lear' was more of a family affair, updated by Kurosawa's 'Ran.'"

Kerry got up and opened his credenza. He pulled out an overflowing file of papers, and spilled them on his desk. He said; "Look. This doesn't even contain the garbage the nuts send on-line. Not one of these 'interested' party communiques has anything to do with the case it claims to address. Most don't even involve a case; just 'friendly' neighbors trying to implicate a neighbor in something illegal. Look for yourself if you don't believe me! If these things had any validity all of Vista de la Feria would be behind bars."

"Thought most of them do have DUI warrants outstanding. That the writer indicated something which is only privy to one with knowledge of CJW's reading material, shows that the writer is a Wheaton-Hunter insider."

"You're jumping to a conclusion, and one that isn't particularly relevant at that. The writer of this garbage note most likely just made it up. Everyone knows that CJW was a big fan of David Foster Wallace, and 'Infinite Jest' is the book to have in that case. More importantly, no judge will issue a search warrant based on an anonymous crank note regarding a 'crime' which was determined not to be one half a year prior. Am I incorrect in recalling that your job application stated that you had lengthy previous experience as a cop."

Shaunessy saw a Kerry dead end regarding the other conjectures he had made and politely declined the offer to peruse the bursting junk file with a right hand wave, similar to a stop sign in the wind. He said; "My cop experience was stated accurately, though you may have noted that it was entirely in the regressive backwater sometimes called New York City, or with un-warranted braggadocio, the Big Apple. I think that I might understand your more accomplished position. I suppose you won't mind me keeping this little piece of nonsense, as your collection is already rather extensive."

"Be my guest. Start your own artisanal assemblage. It might be valuable someday, and best of all, Mark Leyner would likely approve."

Considering that as effective a dismissal as any, Shaunessy rose saying; "Left handed compliments are compliments nonetheless," took his paper and envelope back to his own cubicle, the entrance to which was blocked by Cheshire cat imitative Striker. He curtly said; "Excuse me," as he brushed by drawing no blood from his former partner, but thereby inducing a broader smile on the grinning mouser.

The Cheshire cat, as drawn in Lewis Carroll's 1865 "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland," public domain, modified.

Striker said; "Couldn't help hearing what went on in there."

"Is a smile obligatory or merely personally efficient?"

"Duh?? ................. "

"Thought as much. Here's an easy one for ya. I want to hang this somewhere. Make yourself useful, and go get me an adjustable frame, pawtner."

A humdrum ticket day complemented by the now standardized two trips by the Wheaton-Hunter vicinity filled the entirety of Shaunessy's required work day. Expecting no results from the framing instructions he had given Striker, when he was done ticketing, he took his paper and envelope home.

Margaret said; "You brought me a present?"

"It's something more of a past."

Had she appeared, she would have appeared to having been quizzically intrigued.
18 – The Fire This Time

Taking up the slack, Shaunessy said; "Margaret. I see that you're back from heaven. How was your vacation?"

Distracted from her opened present, Margaret said; "Hi, Tom Shaunessy, landlubber. It's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there. It's pretty, but it has a lot of dead spots."

"Relaxing, I suppose. Nice like Graeme Simsion's 'The Rosie Project.'"

"Nowhere near as entertaining and funny. More like Lucy Ellman's 'Ducks, Newburyport.'"

"Jeez, can't be that bad."

"I was exaggerating in a stylish magical reality posture."

"Rushdie?"

"The lesser crew."

"Perfection must have something going for it."

"Yes and no. You'll see. The best part is that it eliminates the deferences to the expertocracy."

"You would think that their lack of satisfactory results would do that anywhere. Everything is perfectly equal in death."

"You would think that? You, of all people, would really think that? After your earth bound, pitiful experience with Brody III and the politics?"

"Ummmnn. Right. My head must be elsewhere right now."

"'Between Two Worlds' was an excellent movie."

"They left out the 'Two' in the 2018 re-make."

"Typical 21st century solipsism. I'd go with the 1944 black and white, myself."

"Garfield, Henreid, Greenstreet, and Parker. Sure. Can't miss right there. ....... But, much more than that."

"Don't forget 1930's 'Outward Bound,' itself based on a 1924 play."

"No Fritz Lang?"

"No. You must be kidding."

"In this case, it's best to say 'yes,' despite the lie. You know, down here things get frustrating ...... "

"If you let them."

"Black lies matter."

"Serve it in a dozen ways. Take my advice. Nuthin's eek-onomical as Carolina rice."

"It's not only the 'desire' thing. It's also a simple matter of common sense being rendered un-common. Kerry has things ass backwards. He says that I have to have evidence in order to investigate while I say that I have to investigate in order to have evidence."

"You have to understand the confusing hatred thing. On the broadest of levels it's not hate at all. It's merely disagreement, exaggerated to the same degree as in that of an advertisement for a product with waning sales; '30% more,' 'improved,' '50% off,' and all of that claptrap attendant to unwanted things left on the shelf. Counter that thought with the fact that there are two distinct types of 'hatred' on earth; hot and cold, the latter most akin to earth-bound concepts of un-definable love and heavenly perfection. Yes. There really should be two separate words, but that would screw up the misunderstandings which the expertocracy successfully crafts, precisely those sought to be capitalized upon by those laughable wannabees who fancy themselves 'significant' or aspiring players as such in the ersatz 'democracy' required today. On a lesser note, some would also mention the gradations in-between, which are truly the result of equivocations, like those in which one is deluged with in the works of Fenton Foxfussy, and to a much lesser extent in Vollmann. Hot hatred is rarely used in any productive sense, and is most often an indication of the carrier's unhinged mental status. Like, fuck it, you know. On the other side of the misgauged spectrum, cold hatred can be quite productive. Not always, but can be, in the right hands. You see, well-placed, cold hatred, like with Burgess and Salinger, Gass on a Dorkey level, or more surreptitiously with Nabakov, can effectively deflate the position of a confused moralist or a purposeful scoundrel. One approach is the negativity of sarcasm. It lures the moralist and scoundrel in, they fatally attracted to the negation; then it proceeds to demonstrate that what they had conveniently taken as sarcasm was not that at all. Rather it was a simple depiction of their stupidity or vice; assuming the two are not different words for the same thing."

"Yes, circling, a function of the un-coronated, un-elected expertocracy. They have been 'successful in their attempt to remove the possibility of evaluating their rate of ineffectiveness, as they have no 'approved' competition; the majority of the populace too disinterested, gaga worshipful, stupid, lazy, or afraid of repercussions to even say that expert results are thereby un-comparative to a damn placebo. They make it much too easy for the purveyors of rarefied, 'special' knowledge."

Margaret considered adding some nuance; but quickly considered it un-necessary under the circumstances. Instead, she glanced at her present and went back to the primary topic at hand, saying; "Regarding the suicide thing; have you noticed how many creative folk, poets, artists, comedians, and even some writers, end up committing suicide?"

"Anecdotally, my 'study,' so so sporadic and so so un-focussed. I know Ernest Hemingway and Hunter Thompson did it well into their dotages."

"Perhaps it's all the hours spent alone writing; or the fact that creative people at too sensitive to cope with life in an insane world."

"I was thinking more in terms of severely declining sales levels and impotence. You have to remember that back in their day they had not yet invented the Senior Tour or Viagra."

"Another thought I had about CJW is that he might have been 'On the Spectrum,' with some degree of autism in his make-up."

"He did seem to have great difficulty relating to other people. But, who doesn't? Bukowski said; 'It's not that I don't like people. It's just that I feel so much better when they're not around.' Most just feel an imposed need to be 'social' and develop the skills to mask the natural aversion to the majority. CJW just kind of openly said; 'Fuck it. You're very un-fun and I don't need you.'"

"The 'reality' CJW questions leave me baffled, when I discount the current, likely, always confusing and duplicitous, monetary motivations. A strong suspicion is generated by my knowing that many things which have been left on the web are entirely consistent with a heavy handed intent to further the post-'suicide, lucrative 'Saint Connor' cult. Some are effectively fabricated through editing, and some 'inconvenient' items have been totally cut. I first saw the now famous, but increasingly less so, Charlie Rose interview with Fenton Foxfussy, Leyner, and some others years ago. It was longer and CJW got very contentious with both of those with any 'relevance;' turning Foxfussy into a babbling jerk in search of the bailout Rose sort of provided, by CJW simply saying a sarcastic; 'Enlighten me' when Foxfussy did his usual run-on-'explanation' as if his obvious and protracted banter was anything more than as pedantic as his 'poetic' mega hit, 'Theme from an Imaginary Midwestern,'s cancerous growths. A number of times CJW responded to Leyner by saying; 'I agree with that ............. fifty percent,' generously smiling at the 'f' point. He didn't have to get in Leyner's face as Foxfussy was able to handle that. During a long-drawn-out Leyner reply to Charlie Rose' and every interviewer's standard question of 'How do you gauge your audience?' Foxfussy actually interrupted to say; 'It's one or the other. You can't have it both ways.' Hehehe. Yeah, even on-the-one-hand-on-the-other-hand Prince Fenton Foxfussy couldn't stand the fourth round of repetitiveness. Those parts are no longer on the web, and I'm virtually certain that my memory is accurate, as I was put onto it around 2009 by a huge CJW fan and reader, who saw it the same way I did. At the time I'd looked at everything CJW I could find on the web, and sat through the entirety of 70% of it. He took it to the guy on Bookworm, Charlie Rose in a solo appearance, and worst of all the audience who wasn't laughing enough during his reading of an early essay. My impression at the time was of a brilliant, combative person, with little patience, who didn't give a fuck. I mean he almost admitted that when he half sarcastically apologized for the 'advantage' he had over other writers through getting a fast start out of the gate. After having not watched for a few years, the type of stuff I found recently was more suggestive of an insecure, sensitive person, more in line with the increasingly popular 'Saint Connor' image the 'damaged' relate to. This could be partially chance regarding what I saw and what was available; but not entirely. Early on in terms of his emergence into the lit world, Connor described himself as a high school jock who for the first time started to get the idea that he was smart in college. I 'learned' from one supposed source that his depression was also first diagnosed when he went to college. I was always curious if this went back to grade school. If it's a biological thing, as the 'expert' pill dispensers and chemical imbalance measurers say, it seems as if it should. He also started heavy pot smoking in college, and the possible effects are the subject of numerous academic papers, most rightfully buried on the deep web with the snuff films, none conclusively in opposition nor an advocate, as might be most likely expected. As a personally observed oddity, in most cases there are no negative effects, and there is no unpleasant withdrawal when stopped, which CJW balls up a bit in 'Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers.' I suppose that pot can increase the degree of introspection, and if the smoker was previously completely unaware of what was in their head, he might get some shocks. But to hear him say and of more significance, demonstrate it, that he was quite fine with writing magazine articles, which on the average pay better than books, and he had a special pal who liked his stuff at Esquire, I think. ......... It seemed as if he was not yearning to be judged as a significant writer long before the critical reaction to his fourteen hundred pages of goofing disinterest had rendered him one."

Shaunessy said; "So, bottom line, he was okay with the shit, and just liked to publicly insert a more or less hidden 'fuck you' to the shit transmitters when he thought they most called for one?"

"Yeah. Makes sense to me. I mean like who wouldn't like to get right in the face, wearing a halitosis-resistant-face-mask of course, of that un-coronated and un-elected WHO Director-General Tedros Adhominem Beelzebubus? The dope is an anti-US, pro-terrorist, pro-ISIS, pro-China BatPoo II virus, pro-Palestinian Camel Pox, and pro-Africa flunky. Only the 'experts' claim an inability to see that. If the dumbass could hide his obvious agenda somewhat he might receive a modicum of respect."

Bat fried rice, "No thank you"; property of the author.

Shaunessy said; "Anisette Rhona kind of addressed this when she said she was unhappy with his disinterest in writing any more novels, he shrugging contentedly at becoming a 'pop star.' Bob Dylan, a strong person, once answered questioners who were unhappy with his abandonment of folk music and going electric, insolently asking 'What are you now?' to which he laughingly said; 'I'm a pop star.' Dylan also once mocked the posthumously contrived CJW type of personality long before anyone knew Connor James Wheaton's name. Remember

'Now, little boy lost, he takes himself so seriously  
He brags of his misery, he likes to live dangerously  
And when bringing her name up  
He speaks of a farewell kiss to me  
He's sure got a lotta gall to be so useless and all  
Muttering small talk at the wall while I'm in the hall  
How can I explain (sarcastic in the voice of little boy lost)  
It's so hard to get on (sarcastic in the voice of little boy lost)  
And these visions of Johanna, they kept me up past the dawn.

..............................................

The peddler now speaks to the countess who's pretending to care for him

Saying name me someone who's not a parasite and I'll go out and say a prayer for him.'

Sounds as if Bob Dylan had previously met CJW after his death."

"There is not an infinite supply of architypes. Autistic spectrum disorder is an interesting affliction. It was almost removed from DSM-5 as a disorder 5-6 years ago. Unlike the catatonic extreme of hardcore autism, it can be viewed as merely registering strong preferences for some things and zero interest in others. But, the doctor and managerial types changed their minds. I think we all have it to a certain extent. One of the few bits of good advice my mother gave me was; 'If you ever get stuck talking to a psychiatrist, don't tell them the truth.'"

"I'm certain that expert management decided that cancelling a 'disorder' would have a negative impact on expertocracy income."

"That is just so cynical, that it must have merit."

They kissed passionately, pressing their lips against each other urgently, like two innocent, eager teenagers who are not yet practiced in love; impairing some of their pleasure through tension and haste. With this evanescent kiss, he felt as if he was again an adolescent boy, afraid of lingering and possibly being observed by her mother's stern eyes. He made up a sweet song for her in which she was a multi-colored bird flying in a distant dream world, free and more lovely than the others. To him she fit in with that idolatrous, primitive world of toucans and infinite forests. For those with eyes to see, a sequence of winged soaring in heaven blue, above the ocean and the rain was more beautiful and free than the pale, provocative gyrations of a nightclub stripper. Pity the blind, as this vision of love is not written in braille. Her adornment is lilac; cotton with a gelatinous texture. The frill is tight on top and held in at the center by a black leather belt, one notch shy of constriction. Her skirt was short, though bursting like a terrorist's best friend. She smiled in the ecstasy of the dance; her full lips puffed out like chili red tulips playfully in bloom, with ellipses of thin butter gold at the edges. How real and beautiful she was. How natural and unaffected. And how for the moment oblivious to the idiotically cynical rabble.

### 19 - Van Loading Ada

It once again became middle March; though only the eighth according to the periodically adjusted, lunisolar calendar. The stubborn winter doldrums in Vista de la Feria had been battling with early month, measured responses of the irrepressibly impending and overly anxious spring-vernal equinox scheduled for the 19th. Like an outgunned freedom fighter, the newcomer picked its spots, stuttering through bold days of parting cloud wisps and hiding on the days of uniform gray-blue drear. Spring seemed to be utilizing its interpretation of an Obama ass-kissing Joe Biden prepared speech intended to pick up Bernie Sanders' objecting dropouts, aimed at those who apparently had not yet realized that they had nowhere else to go. Miscalculation ruled the day. Covert guerilla warfare was the best approach when cold still had the guns, but warm had the numbers.

1851 British calendar; public domain, modified.

On the 19th Shaunessy saw a white van parked in the Wheaton-Hunter house's driveway; not unlike the one driven by Brody, the Medical Examiner; but a coincidence. A perspiring Friar Tuck-crowned and mustachioed man of 40 and 180, plus or minus 10 in the former and inclusive of 30, plus or minus another 10 in his barrel gut was bent into the van's open back end. Shaunessy parked behind him, and the bender stood and turned toward the "intrusive" police vehicle. His off-balance, ham-fisted pirouette revealed that he wore a thick, frayed, opera mauve t-shirt with an amusing blurred salmon-pink, which in its salad days might have been a chili-red lettered "READ BETWEEN THE WINES" decked posterior bolstered by a similarly hued, self-congratulatory "I would challenge you to a BATTLE of WITS but I see YOU are UNARMED" front. As Shaunessy had disciplined himself to focus on potential, Shaunessy tried not to think of the indicated Mailer-Vidal marketing farce reprise when he could not help but make note of the sharply contrasted indigo in the sweat-darkened pits. He thought; "At least we're not indoors, there's something of a breeze, and its DFW porous at the borders."

Sweatshirt; property of the author.

The perspiring lit maven had been grunting as he was loading cardboard boxes; ostensibly heavy for a gym dilettante. As these sweatshirts were all the rage in Southern California, Shaunessy broached him with a cordial New Mexican; "Somewhat out of place here, pilgrim?"

"Just business in the boonies," he replied without bothering to sparkle his dull eyes as in the standard attempts to deflect from an illegality, like a river-wader ensconced in a US sanctuary city, and as if the entreaty was one he had heard a million times prior. Apparently feeling as surly as if he was an aficionado of the Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez' high-heeled, feet-in-mouth "issues," he continued with; "You're dwelling in the driveway. If there is one, please get to the point."

"Police, fuckhead. Investigating a possible theft. What's in those boxes?"

"Books I've purchased from the owner."

Shaunessy peeled back the top of one box to view the contents which was haphazardly piled books. He said; "Owner here to verify that?"

"No, man. Look, if I was a thief I wouldn't be taking out used books. The boxes would be loaded with jewelry, computer equipment, aluminum, and heating pipes."

"Okay. Okay. Don't get all overwrought."

"Thomas. Thomas. Wake up. It's all right. You're having a bad dream."

"Margaret! ....... Maybe a good-bad one." He glanced down. At his feet were copies of "Ada" and "Infinite Jest." He added; "Tending toward the good, from my point of view."

"Margaret followed his eyes, and gushed with excitement, saying; "Ooooo, I love 'Ada.' I haven't read it in years."

"It's much less popular than some of Nabokov's others."

"Sure. It upsets the petty rebellious lit set, as it's a worthy, extremely well-done key, with no apologies. Vladimir Nabokov published 'Ada, or Ardor: A Family Chronicle' in 1969. It was his last."

"A very appropriate time."

"'Ada' began to materialize back in 1959, when Nabokov was flirting with two projects, 'The Texture of Time' and 'Letters from Terra.' In 1965, he began to see a link between the two ideas, finally composing a unified novel from February 1966 to October 1968. It would become his longest work. I can't wait to read it again. Good show, Shaunessy."

"Guess it's tough on today's ADD set. Their loss. Funny in a way how 'Lolita' became his big one. ...... Maybe not so funny. More disgusting."

"Nowadays, appealing to the weird, pervert, terminally bookish market insures favorable posthumous reviews, like the typical Goofreads babble. Back when it was published in 1955, only noted authors were allowed to publish such 'art,' and that meant an increased sales level. A bit later the lucrative potential movie deal materialized, in this case 1962, as the degenerate sex stuff was considered 'new' and 'exciting' at the time, as it was just approved for the PG market in the sixties. After the onslaught of continued sick stuff as well as the bogus reviews prompted by the net, it no longer has any more relevance than any other time capsule. If the readers aren't totally ignoring, they're just skimming their favorite pervs, for direction to eighty-eight million sub-genres for the occasional laugh, thinking it signals some sort of sophistication. Ever see anything of that lifetime top rated US, Goofreads reviewer?"

"No, and thanks for the warning."

"Pitiful degeneration. Funny in a way, as apparently the Byrnes and Ignoble clerk has no idea why her weekly and monthly ratings have fallen faster than a turkey with a case of lethal Chinese Bird Flu, despite her impressive credentials."

"So, you've taken the trouble and pain to notice. You may have noticed that 'Ada' is not by herself."

"Let me take a wild guess. You're about to enlighten me with your observation that she is with Van, no matter and defiant of the prelude, ultimately exploring all the great cities of Western Europe with Van? What a slut."

"Slut shaming does not become you. ........ "

"I cast no aspersions, nets, or value judgements. Ostensibly, the understanding sarcasm is not in your sluttish repertoire. In the future, please remind me to keep my crystal visions to myself, referencing only ideas under the belt of the likes of Sanderson, Martin, Card, LeGuin and Rothfuss."

"That's cruel. Ostensibly, you are the one with a sarcasm 'issue.' But, please don't curse me. .......... Changing or not changing the subject, I was referring to 'Ada,' the book 'Ada,' sitting next to the book 'Infinite Jest.' Book. Book. Book. Say it with me; Book. Book. Book."

"Book. Book."

"Acceptable. More or less."

"Thank you."

"Back here on Terra, my twice daily drive-bys of the Wheaton-Hunter residence finally resulted in my seeing a van, small 'v,' parked in the driveway, loading boxes. Not the van; the person next to it; that is. The van was just sitting there, more or less, as far as I could determine. Like when you weren't really in the mood. Anyway, I stopped and found out that wifey Anisette Rhona had sold CJW's books. I bought the copy of 'Ada,' also with the notion of re-seeing it now. But, more importantly, I also bought CJW's copy of DFW's 'Infinite Jest,' and found his inscription right on page 1, where the anonymous note said it would be. Look."

CJW's annotated page one of "Infinite Jest" by David Foster Wallace and paneled office; property of the author, the former under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

Margaret said; "Almost too good to be true. Check the handwriting?"

"It was him, all right."

"Any other notes in the book?"

"Your detective abilities are better than Kerry's. I don't know; never checked; and he never asked. Just the usual 'no.'"

"Coffee, babe?"

"Great. This shows that the note dropped at Police Headquarters had to have been sent by someone who knew CJW extremely well. The local editor, the gardener, the publisher, the maid, or Anisette Rhona. A chance nut is possible, but not likely. The first is also not likely, as to call further attention to the case if she was the perpetrator of the crime is dumb, devoid of some masochistic mental imbalance. The second is not one above the act, but with no obvious motivation. The third is ruled out because the letter was sent locally. The fourth is an unknown, also with no apparent motivation. The fifth is ruled completely out as she would not want to invite the personal scrutiny the note might have prompted. The sixth is like betting on Trump beating Clinton for the Presidency."

Handing him his steaming cup, Margaret said; "Here you go. Sounds like the logic doesn't bring you much further than where you were before seeing the inscription. Did you run it by Brody?"

"If I wanted to hear from an asshole, I'd have farted. A little bit, as if you eliminate the one in a million chance that the note was sent by an outsider, it does show that someone is out to get Anisette Rhona, CJW included. I showed Kerry, who threw ice water on my excitement through being openly annoyed, rather than even pretending to show some interest. That's not even a decent professional put-off; more like an 'expert's' 'Trust me. I know.' parallel with results that are obviously non-existent. Kerry's tired 'reasoning' was absent. For one reason, he's likely afraid to overstep his bounds by seeking agreement from adamant hotshot Brody. The Medical Examiner has the ability to run circles around everyone with his long-winded dissertations upon corpse flatulence. But his decision was terse and firm. ...... I wish I could 'scientifically' confirm the sender of the note. If only I could tie this note to someone specific."

"What good do you think that would do?"

"Effective shakedowns have been performed with less than a potential charge of lying to the police. Recall, the writer said that Anisette Rhona was a murderer he-she-it had witnessed. ....... Serious shit which Maigret would have used well."

"Well, consider the Simenon. Are you certain that the note can't be traced?"

"It came from a printer, probably attached to a personal computer."

"Check the web?"

"No, that's full of useless B.S., not worth the time spent."

"Try the net, silly. Only 90% of it is bullshit and sales pitches. So if you try ten sites you'll have an average chance of being well-informed, assuming you have a working bullshit filter. Beides, despite it being B.S., it can be effectively used as people believe it when whatever B.S. is written is convenient for them. Think like a Democrat."

"Devil."

"Angel. Proven. Obvious, even to a physicist."

"You can prove anything to one of those quantum-math-God particle guys."

Precisely why you should search the web. Look, I'll do it for you. Just grouse over your coffee. ........ Boot. Boot. God, this thing is slow. Welcome yourself. Catchy little ditty. Okay. Here we go. What should we search?"

"Goggle results not advertised with Goggle."

"I'm not using Goggle. MSM."

"That's why I said that."

"Oh, you still think of them as competitors?"

"Brothers at arms in the 'International One World Geek Association.'"

"I'm trying 'printer trace.' Bingo! Gadgets&Geeks.org is right on it. An article titled "Printer Signatures" by Dark Twain. Hope it's not too provocative."

"Last month a CIA document concerning a Russian plan to hack US loo paper factories and send all the rolls of butt wipes their own way became public. Someone had scanned and shared the document with online publication 'Red Baboon Ass Lit,' which printed the document. Only minutes later, a defense intelligence contractor named 'Rip One' was arrested for stealing classified information, having been unintentionally outed by 'Red Baboon Ass Lit,' who actually thought the document to be an absurdist short story submission. It was later revealed that the CIA traced the leak to 'Rip One' through 'Red Baboon Ass Lit's' immediate 'publishing' of the document/short story.

How did it happen that a scan of a document was traced back to 'Rip One?' Did the Deep State operatives set up 'Rip One' for forbidden public flatulence? Is 'Red Baboon Ass Lit' a front for the Deep State CIA? Possible, but not very likely, and totes irrelevant to the topic of this article. Like most possible conspiracies the answer is much simpler than would make the story interesting. Does the CIA use some special kind of printer that can be used to trace prints? The answer is no and yes, the word 'special,' the tricky part. You see, this 'tracing technology' is part of most printers, likely yours too.

Shock your nerves, aspiring agent of espionage? This is something pretty well known to your average, nerdy snoop; just not to the general public. All color laser printers print a special pattern of microdots; a tiny grid, small and faint enough that you can't see them with the naked eye. For transmissions unacceptable to government authorities, the Deep State, the Politically Correct Police (PCP), and free-lance trouble makers, it is substantially correct and safest to assume that all color laser printers include some form of tracking information. The tracking isn't necessarily going to identify the user, or the location of the printer, if used at a site not one's own. But, if the remote site is one at which you can be placed, watch your ass and have an airtight alibi.

Can you be tracked using this? Of course you can. Have you been paying any fucking attention at all? The microdots reveal the exact date and time that the printout was taken, where the printer was purchased and by who; and if the dumb purchaser took the trouble to register it with the manufacturer in a rookie belief that the foreign warranty thereby gained was of any value when the damn thing goes on the fritz, there too.

'We be instructed police authorities, international to no comment matter this,' said Maritza Meyer Yahu Epstein of Wuhan, the People's Republic of China; no provable sarcasm intended. We will update this article if any of the other manufacturing companies which have re-located to shithole non-countries respond later.

In the aforementioned CIA case, this allowed the agency to narrow down the non-ink leak to a single printer, and where the copy was made. From there, the CIA didn't need the services of Julian Assange to further narrow it down to the actual whistleblower. Anyone can track timecode for printer requests, to see who is sending a document to be printed and when.

'Not that it necessarily adds anything to this article,' according to Neil B. Bohr, Senior Security Advisor at an undisclosed provider of security services, and longtime friend and contributor to Gadgets&Geeks.org; 'The information encoded in and around the microdots includes the date and time the document was printed, assuming it had been correctly set, and the serial number of the printer that was used. This information can be used to correlate a printed document with a physical device using logs of printer events, if maintained and available, or comparing the encoded serial number with those contained somewhere. The average user needs to know, albeit belatedly, that this technology has existed for some time and is included in all popular brands of printers. But, chances are if the authorities have not yet come for you, they won't. Either that or you're on a low priority list or you did a stupid 'Spartacus' Booker. This capability was initially added voluntarily by certain printer manufacturers allegedly in response to government pressure to prevent counterfeiting when color laser printers became widely available. The only way to avoiding having microdots printed on your documents is to use a printer that's not known to use this technology, if there are any left.'

This kind of information is just one type of metadata, and for most people, it doesn't matter. But whistleblowers, bonkers free speech activists, enemies of the Deep State, those doing work where keeping one's identity secret is of utmost importance, and those who still foolishly value a privacy long dead, could find their privacy, and even their safety, upended by these 'secret' signatures.

Beware. They can see all, only blind to the black and white."

Shaunessy said; "I've got to try this. Techno-nosy-nerdism is good."

Margaret replied; "You're so gullible, you're cute. You must have had a big brother."

"I have no interest in that psychological shit right now. But hang onto that 'cute' observation for a while."

"I'll try, but past experience strongly suggests that it comes and goes of its own volition."

"Okay. I'm going to do the thing I most dread; call Brody."

"I had no idea that you were like that."

"Yes. I do my best to hide it. But, there are times when the 'law of the situation' obliterates all else."

"Don't get too worked up. That net report has a 90% probability of being poppycock."

"And it was as poorly written and as un-necessarily fluffed as a Vollmann encyclopedia of his 14th century dreams."

"I thought him less 'modern' myself."

"My assessments tend toward the overly kind. ....... Tarry, I must. Brody is just a poor construct-manifestation of an unreal blockage, Derridians recognize as illusory or paper mache."

"Foucalt you. Nobody goes there anymore because it's too crowded."

"Add in signified-signifier somewhere on your list."

"You started it. Don't criticize me."

"Enough, woman. I am using my 'smart' to ring Brody III's 'smart' this very instant."

This sort of became a non-event, other than for the possible those who got into the ringy-dingy excitement; most of the fruitless cacophony ostensibly enjoyed by devotees, perhaps desperate and instructed, of a Matthew McIntosh 'art installation' devoid of any notion of the advertised mystery. Brody was either dead, not inclined to pick up for Shaunessy, or deeply engrossed in a W.H.O.-patented obstruction of health and justice. Being optimistic by nature, he hoped it was the former. After enduring fifteen rings with no 'please leave a message' interruption, Shaunessy clicked off, not sure of whether he was elated, happy, satisfied, mildly disappointed, or totes dissatisfied with the zero results, only 'of use' to an 'expert' PCP2 virus bean counter.

Shaunessy didn't want to leave open the opportunity for his detractors to accuse him of having done a slipshod job, so he dialed Brody's number again, on the chance that his first input was incorrect, perhaps having previously entered the number of the suicide prevention hotline. Believe it or not, shit really does happen, and that is not made any more unlikely by everyone's compulsion to repeatedly and in unison say so. The same thing happened, though just to keep things a tad interesting, Shaunessy this time didn't cut off the ringy-dingy until it had reached sixteen.

Margaret said; "That was most considerate. Thank you."

"Pleased to oblige. Frankly, it was easy, not entirely lacking in self-interest, and reminiscent of Agatha Christie's Hercule Poirot."

"Orthodox?"

"Unobtrusively and tranquilly so. You must recall that Hercule was around when the bijou subject now virtually obligatory in books, resulted in banning."

"Double feature in one eighty."

"I'm going to try to get one of Brody's assistants' numbers from his thing. ............. Whoooo! Worked."

He found Petersen Beam II listed at the Medical Examiner's Office. Shaunessy dialed and was greeted with a resolute "Beam speaking."

"Hello, Mr. Beam. This is Shaunessy, one of the cops at the Wheaton 'suicide.'"

"I'd like to say that I recall, but I was preoccupied with gathering evidence. What can I do for you today?"

"I've got a page run off from a computer printer. Can this be traced?"

"Is it in color?"

"Yes."

"No problem. Bring it over."

Click.
20 – Pale Fire

Shaunessy said a hurried but excited goodbye to Margaret, took his paper, and drove his Indian red Toyota through the streets of Vista de la Feria and Albuquerque. Halfway there he recalled that since this was a day he was scheduled to be on traffic duty, it was best to call Chief Kerry, and advise him of some excuse as to why he wouldn't be doing that this day; a stated and un-provably wrong case of the Blue Flu.

His mind wandered a tad, an occupational pandemic these days, and he first thought substantially in visuals.

Cartoon; modified public domain.

That was followed by verbalized thoughts devoid of pretty pictures; "If the BLM folks believe their own bullshit, why do they not first address the fact that 94 percent of black murder victims were killed by other African Americans? In further fact, these high rates of black-on-black killing have been the norm for well over a century. Strange priorities? Why do Democrat politicos and the main stream media worship at the feet of felons, losers, weirdos; inept people never able to attain any level of power or success? Why do Democrat politicos and the main street media attack the police instead? They, who only protect us from these losers? Why do our gutless leaders and the main stream media kiss the losers asses? The police should take the rest of the year off, and just let the losers and leaders kiss each other's asses, which will undoubtedly result in the obliteration of the Dem 'leaders.' ....... Hmmnnn. When I put it that way;'Yay!'"

Shaunessy's trusty, plastic "smart" phone lie on the passenger seat, on top of the tree-extracted paper "evidence," that somehow jogging in him a now amusing, meta non sequitur of the Wheaton case shutdown process. Two warm finger touches and Kerry's machine was ringing like a vandalized fire alarm on both steroids and viagra.

After three, Shaunessy was pleased to hear; "This is Chief Kerry. I'm unable to come to the phone now," yadda, yadda, and yada.

Shaunessy replied to his welcomed, synthetic, non-entity; "Good morning, Chief. I hope I'm not much more than a tiny fraction late in telling you that I won't be in today. I further hope that my cautiously pessimistic approach to the virus I've apparently acquired proves to be preferable in the long term vis-à-vis today's ticketing of moving and non-moving violators of Vista de la Feria's rules of the road; substantially from elsewhere. Thank you."

Before he hung up he heard Kerry's voice and stifled the "Oh, shit," he was naturally inclined to burst; instead saying; "Chief. Glad you're there. I was worried about you."

"Thanks. Me too. Fine. By the way, I suppose you know that there are no virus treatments available at the Hunter-Wheaton house. You're aware of that?"

"Numerous 'expert' and authoritarian sources have so advised, particularly against the Clorox fumes."

"Excellent. Wouldn't want one of my finest men to jeopardize their chances of becoming President."

"Nah. No interest. I get my fair share of abuse in other places."

"Such as?"

"If you don't know I can't tell ya."

"Get plenty of rest and drink a lot of fluids."

"Yes sir."

Click.

Shaunessy almost missed his left off Central Avenue onto Louisiana; his concentration restored when his smart phone began yelling at him; "Next left. NEXT LEFT. NEXT LEFT!"

"Okay, okay. Don't give yourself an aneurysm, unless you're another Democrat Presidential hopeful with elephant ears."

Having turned ostensibly correctly, he then heard: "Your destination is on your left."

Shaunessy took the word of the machine's feminine voice and turned his car into the parking lot in the proximity of a non-descript, five storied building. The she machine seemed contented; perhaps just silent. The building, which was sort of attached to the lot was apparently constructed of multi-hued concrete and glass mixtures of shatterproof and float in varying degrees, bore no number or logo. Overall, it seemed to be doing whatever it could to avoid attention. He parked in the sparsely populated lot, and approached the structure on foot.

The sign in the empty lobby indicated that the New Mexico Medical Examiner's office was on the third floor. Shaunessy took the elevator. When the door opened on three, three oppositional, indigo arrows, one curved, were painted on the graying cream wall, each sitting below the words "Office," "Intake," and "Lab." Shaunessy opted for "Office," that undoubtedly construed by any of the plethora of dilettante psychologists as perhaps an emblematic indication of his long term aversion to the supposedly "real politik," when if anything other than a requirement to move in one direction or the other or the other. While a professional betting man would have taken the 3-1 odds, placing his money on that "Lab," Shaunessy's chosen direction was seemed to be more likely, nothing more than the current result or manifestation of a long term aversion to geek science and death, coupled with a pronounced, predictable preference for the pristine.

Shaunessy found the "Office" section to be fronted by an unoccupied receptionist desk dominated by something that looked like an old portable television that wasn't turned on, with more or less wall-to-wall, parking-lot view windows behind it. Shaunessy rang the tiny bell which invited ringing, "if no one is here to help you," producing a rather terse and tinny Pelosi-Schiff type dit, dit, ... dit, not destined for the US top forty.

As in a puppet show, out of nowhere popped a masked head attached to an irregularly shaped body, it's one-size-fits-all, white, triflingly gore stained, knee-length lab coat the likely uniform of the proportionately challenged figure. The "irregularity" noted was not intended to be a commentary on the cranium's conceptually connected colonic consistency. It offered a muffled "Good morning," or something that sounded reasonably like it, though with a tone one uses when they're thinking; "Thanks for interrupting me. Thanks so much."

Shaunessy was focussed on his "important" paper, thereby deaf to any nuance, intentional or not. He said; "Good morning. I'm Shaunessy. I spoke to someone here about tracing a page run off by a computer printer. ... Color!"

"Oh yes. That was me; Peterson Beam II. Pete. Just cleaning up the remnants of the last corpse to come through. I expect that it will wait. Let's see what you have." Pete removed his mask, but retained the cover of his gore coat; perhaps out of a religious habit.

Shaunessy handed Beam the document.

Pete said; "Wanna watch?"

"Depends ... "

"Your stomach will be fine. It can be done right here on this computer. You just have to promise to look out the window when I input my secret code."

"I'm a cop!"

"Yes, you told me. I haven't yet forgotten."

"Just checking on security procedures."

Beam signed on and scanned the document on the floored printer's lid, then made a series of entries on both the computer and the printer to bring the scan to imagrupluspro. While he was doing that Shaunessy asked him the whereabouts of Brody.

"He's out all day on one of his politicking jaunts."

"Politics?" said Shaunessy, only playing a little more stupid than usual.

"Oh, sure. He probably doesn't really have to go, but it makes him feel important. For me, I like it when he's not here. You may understand that the Medical Examiner is appointed by the New Mexico State Secretary of Health, who in turn is appointed by the Governor. If this crook is put out, so might be Brody."

"Maybe you too."

"Maybe. But there are a thousand as many jobs available for Lab Techs than Medical Examiners, most without the repugnant aspect. Clean. ......... Look here. We got an easy hit on first try. This was run off on a Leynmark MC3224dfw Laser Multi-Function Color Printer; a middling product, often avoided in pro, high volume settings; model #40N9O040O, purchased at Walmart store #57208003, right here in Albuquerque on Seven Bar Loop Northwest. Whew, let me catch my breath. ........ on January 12, 2017 for $186.45 including tax, serial #GOSH70372, by one Rolf Hoffius who used Visa card #4037-9402-2017-6331 to effect this purchase, though curiously he paid for the paper in a separate transaction at the same place the same day. At the time Rolf Hoffius lived at 303 Romero Street, Suite 108, Albuquerque, and moved to 9316 Tanoan Drive NE, Albuquerque on December 1, 2019; quite a change, and a definite upgrade."

"Rolf Hoffius," Shaunessy thought; "An insider, and the one that's already been convicted of being on the law's wrong side three times, using the statistics, meaning that he'd committed thirty offenses." With no deviation from sincerity, he said; "The amount of information available is absolutely breathtaking."

"Yes, sir. Why do you think it takes the clerk ten to fifteen minutes to check you out when you buy a computer or a printer? It's not because the store wants them to go slow. It's because they are required to. And if the purchaser registered it with the manufacturer they'll have it too."

"Required by who?"

"I really don't know. It's been rumored that all manufacturers entered a secret agreement with governments to ensure that the output is forensically traceable."

"How can I find the serial number on the machine itself?"

"You can actually find it four different ways. The easiest is on a plate or sticker somewhere on the machine; in this case it's a white sticker in the middle. Just open the front cover."

"What if it's been removed?"

"It usually isn't because a legit user doesn't care and the illegitimate one probably knows there are three other ways to find it, anyway. But, if it's gone then you have to get a little nerdy. If you're stuck try the configuration or settings report. If you can't do that, then hire a geek."

"Thanks. You must remember that Rolf Hoffius was one of the people present the day Connor James Wheaton met his maker or totally evaporated, which Brody, despite argument, adamantly ruled to be a suicide. Aren't you concerned that by giving me this report Brody will be unhappy with you?"

"Actually, I didn't remember until you said that. But, I don't care and won't tell him if you don't. He doesn't have the skills to find out any other way. Like I said, this job isn't exactly the be-all-end-all in my life. If Brody becomes unhappy, that's not my problem. In fact, I'd find that amusing."

"Brother geek!"

"Don't flatter yourself, padron."

"Please pardon me as I have so few opportunities."

"That's a shame. People should have an infinite amount of opportunities in which to embarrass themselves. You must have been cursed with a prospective-discomfiture-deficit-disorder. Come here. You need a cuddle."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa there, Julio baby. Whoa. Some things are best left in their meta state; the physical cure much worse than the disease. ........... It's not personal. It's just that the residual gore on your coat sort of ...... sort of ...... ah, you know. ..... It's probably me. ..... No doubt it's just me. I mean like ........"

"Okay. Okay. No sweat. Just cut it. I just thought it was more or less mandatory now. That's all."

"In some circles of heaven or hell, I'm sure. But, we're not obliged to go to either place. ...... Right?"

"Of course. Allow me to retreat on the most un-cuddly basis."

"I mean like, please don't be offended. It's not a matter of revulsion or anything like that. ....... Well ...... It could be a lack of attraction. ...... But that doesn't mean the opposite of attraction, whatever that is."

"Repulsion, according to Roget. But, that's just so 19th century; a dancer or a petty criminal, and neither of us are that. Fine."

"I hope you're not saying that only out of a wish to not broadcast your hurt."

"I'm not hurt."

"That's so brave. .... I'm really sorry."

"No need to be, ace. I'm quite fine. Okay?"

"When I read between the lines, it bothers me how this might be affecting you. ...... I really like you, ya know?"

"Ugh. Can we just leave this topic already? I assure you that I'm fine. If you're not, that's your problem. Damn."

"Your 180 has been completed, little friend. I understand. Believe me. Hehehe. Can't I just say sorry?"

"Are you calling me what I think you're calling me?"

"That's impossible to answer on a number of levels. It's okay by me. All right?"

"Wanna get a punch?"

"Anger is the alternative way of showing hurt. I'm so sorry. If my old legs were what they used to be, I'd take a knee."

"All right. You're the one making the issue of it? Just stop."

"Stop what and of what?"

"Calling me a perv cuddler, goddamit. Don't play that butter-wouldn't melt-in-my-mouth shit with me."

"Pardon the fuck out of me. But, I don't recall having made any reference to your strange, physical, ostensibly oral proclivities."

"You just destroyed all of your prior bullshit."

"The apparent condescension detected, rightly or wrongly, was intended as an indication of a kind tolerance. If you have any problem, it is with your overly sensitive, value judgement of my execution, rather than that of my good intent."

"Okay. ........ Okay."

"Bought that last shit. Huh? Hehehehe. Sucker."

"I'm just trying to end this stupid conversation which became tedious ten steps back."

"You started it."

"You seem to conveniently think that I started it."

"Why would I do that?"

"I don't know. You must be fucked up, man."

"Maybe. But, let's just conclude by agreeing whatever the problem is, its Brody's fault."

"Cool. ........ Little cuddle?"

"No! ...... I mean like it's not personal. ..... It's just that ............ "

"You're so gullible. I was just kidding."

"Sigh. Can I get a printout of all of this?"

"That will take a few minutes for the software to convert the conversation into print-ready status."

"I mean the stuff about Rolf Hoffius and his color printer."

"Hehehe. Certainly. Just let me first set the printer to black and white."

Shaunessy drove back to Vista de la Feria in a state of exhilaration, running amber lights and coasting through the red signs foolishly insisting upon a hugely unenforced full stop, like a ChineaBatPoo II virus, A/K/A known as CBP2, Palestinian CamelPox II, A/K/A PCP2, A/KA Pacampo2, A/K/A Palestian Camel Poo Pox II, the former terms unacceptable in certain anti-US circles, economic re-opening, boldly right in the face of those who worship at the feet of the "experts," presently and particularly one of the shit-faced swine named Teddy (Lips) Adhominem Beelzebubus.

Teddy (Lips) Adhominem Beelzebubus; currently the property of Soros and China.

Shaunessy recalled having read; "Prior to Teddy's failed tenure at the head of the World Health Obstruction (WHO), he served on the executive committee of the Tigray People's Liberation Front, US classified as a terrorist organization; one of four ethnically based, but somehow not considered racist, political parties making up the Ethiopian People's Revolutionary Democratic Front, the brutal authoritarian regime that has ruled Ethiopia with an iron fist from 1991 to the present. When Teddy sought to become WHO Director General in 2017, he met with fierce opposition to his candidacy from the people who best knew him; Ethiopians angry with his service to and defense of the country's abusive regime. He was ultimately confirmed at WHO despite having directed the cover-up of three un-necessarily deadly cholera epidemics by simply insisting that they were Acute Watery Diarrhea, apparently hoping to avoid the impact that the public admission of a cholera epidemic might have had on Ethiopian tourism and the image of his party. In retrospect, that episode bears a striking, chilling resemblance to the Teddy led WHO response to the Chinese BatPoo II's appearance in Wuhan. What makes this totally unforgivable is that the Teddy-led WHO was informed of the truth about the virus at a time when life-saving action could have been taken, and chose to ignore it. On December 31, 2019, scientists in Taiwan, which continues to be excluded from the WHO due to Chinese pressure, notified WHO of evidence of 'human-to-human' transmission, but WHO did not pass this information on to other countries. For as long as he could, Teddy ignored Taiwan's warnings and validated China's grossly negligent lies and their Western, half-million-strong 'infected-tourist-exporting' attack. Despite other future recollections subsequently brought out by anti-Western organizations in his defense, like the main stream media and the Democrat party, Teddy clearly said; 'There is no evy-dense that Chinese BatPoo II is trans-missy-bull from indy-vid-you-all to indy-vid-you-all, and there is no raisin to pleece any res-trick-shuns upon cone-tin-ewed travail,' which allowed infected Wuhanis, then sequestered in China, to travel to the US and the rest of their hated West, in numbers sufficient to please only the interests of Bozos' skyrocketing AmawayOnSteroids' pumped market value. Most viruses, including the 2003 predecessor, Chinese BatPoo I, as well as most viruses in general, are known to be trans-missy-bull from indy-vid-you-all to indy-vid-you-all. So, the question should have obviously been; 'Why is China BatPoo II any different?' Why anyone had chosen to pay any attention to the terrorist with an agenda is another question. But when the world finally began to awaken to the purposely exported threat and reality of CEEBATPO-19, Teddy immediately began blaming the international community for its inaction. Two months later, as the WHO declared that the PCP2 virus, an alternate name adopted by friends of Teddy and the Chinese who find it 'politically incorrect hate speech' to stigmatize the perpetrators, had become a global pandemic, Teddy had the gall to say that 'soam coon-trees are strooggled with a leck of ree-zolv,' and that the WHO was 'diply cone-sern .... by the ail-army livails of in-ack-shun,' and that 'soam coon-trees are nut app-roaching this threet with the li-vail of po-litick cone-mitment need to cone-trol it.' Who does this terrorist and/or criminally negligent ass think he's fooling? Ice Cream Bag Nancy Pelosi, Johannesburg Joe Biden in dementia, and/or Airport Croissant Loving Alexandria Occasional-Cortez?"

Non-sequential excerpt from "Mrs. Robinson" by Paul Simon; property of the author under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

Shaunessy thought; "Having one world is like having a crackless ass," and suddenly had secondary and tertiary thoughts; the boundless exhilaration gone the way of all measured statements. Above the grrrrrr his tires made upon the asphalt, he could hear Kerry say; "Wait. We need more information," while all of the other information spent months and centuries gathering is now seen as so obviously, incomplete, inaccurate, flawed, and plain old useless that some dare use the anterior word solely. A second ago, Shaunessy had just doubled his collection of CJW-murder-relevant papers, and couldn't wait to show Chief Kerry. It was only 4:15PM, and if he didn't get snagged by some overzealous and glorified cop not yet restrained from handing out ticketed infractions, he could reach Kerry with the news before the tired codger packed it in at 4:45. Instead, he decided to drive home and discuss his new information with Margaret. There was no rush as it was now months after the fact and she might know of a better approach. She usually did.

Shaunessy parked in the gravel driveway and let himself in saying; "Margaret, are you here?"

"Sure. I've been joyously dancing around and I didn't even knock over anything."

"I've got a little something I'd like to run by you."

"Some grief to lay on my ethereal presence, no doubt. 'Laugh about it. Shout about it when you've got to choose. Every way you look at it you lose.'"

"'Look around you. All you see are 'sympathetic' eyes. Put it in your pantry with your cupcakes.'"

"I knew there was something I liked about you. Lay it on me."

"The good news is that I've almost confirmed that Rolf Hoffius wrote the note."

"Almost?"

"Yes. It was run off on a printer he purchased. I have to confirm that he is still in possession of it."

"So, confirm it."

"That's the tricky part. I could go to his place and try to confirm it. But, that would take his co-operation. Since I have no warrant, Hoffius could either refuse my entry, my visit tipping him that something was wrong; or worse, allow it, thereby seeing my interest in his printer, which I cannot seize, and dump it. My only options are to hope that a seasoned criminal gets stupid, or run it through Kerry, and get a warrant, from someone who appears to have no interest in the Wheaton case, and is in fact riled by mine."

"Easy. Make it in Kerry's interest to get you the warrant. Make it appear to be his idea."

" ....................... "

"Half. Petty details can be quite the bitch."

"Angel; here on earth that's all we have. Forgot already?"

"Conscious effort pre-dating my angelhood. Blame me?"

"Pre-existing conditions are covered under the best plans."

"Excellent. Screw it. If Wheaton was murdered, his murderer is no threat to anyone else anyway."

"It's hard to argue with Maigret."

Margaret resumed her dance, simultaneously singing; "'And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson. Jesus loves you more than you will know.'"

Shaunessy said; "'Whoa, whoa, whoa."

"Dammit. Stop inflicting me with your obsession. Can't you just dance?"

"I thought you might have figured that one out by now. Maybe I overestimated angelic powers of empathy."

"Not a chance. Look at this."

Sad angel welcoming the latest victim; property of the author.

Shaunessy said; "Oooh. That's not easy to look at. Okay."

"'Be on my side. I'll be on your side.'"

Otherworldly cuddles with; "I didn't know that I had a side."

"It's not your fault. ........ Neither is it mine. Look. Your earth bound particulars often confuse through their mere mass, not substance. On the one hand, Hoffius likely isn't all that bright; otherwise he wouldn't be a felonius two time loser. Approaching him with no authority to do so will probably work. However, if it doesn't that's more than likely the end of your fanatical string. ................. "

"It's 'fanatical' to seek justice?"

"Whew. The 'J' word opens another long, multi-branched decision tree. We don't want to go there, as some branches are brittle."

"We fall down, go boom."

"Like a moralist with a Physics PhD candidates' point of view."

"Yes, that bad. Think Wittgenstein slapping children."

"Ugh. I'd rather think Einstein and Oppenheimer exploding."

"Just remember that the determination is in turn determined by the determinator's point of view, that revolving and a prisoner of chance circumstance."

"Wasn't that Schwarzenegger?"

"More or less, in particular, but not out of any compelling necessity. Movies never have the depth of books."

"That is so snobby! Renoir, Kurosawa, Bergman, Welles ...... "

"You could go on. But, as I said, more or less."

"Yeah, yeah. Can we get back to Kerry?"

"Run it by him. If he balks, you're no worse off than you were before; possible win; no possible loss. Catch the codger early in the AM before the age-proportionate-fade sets in. After lunch, just fuggedaboudit. Make him feel like he's extending himself to do something brave and heroic. Virtually all earthlings go for that kind of crap every chance they get. It gets their attention quickly, but starts to fade as soon as they start thinking about the possible risks. Forget the virtual aspect making it totally universal if you can indirectly eliminate his risk, without making that effort obvious. Perhaps, in this particular case, you can convince Kerry that the warrant is necessary to further investigate the filing of a false police report, thereby Hoffius involvement having little or nothing to do with the Wheaton non-case."

"We must put a stop to this malicious, fake information flow! We'll make a few examples."

"Yes! Yes! My excitement would be uncontainable if I were not an angel."

"Manipulation!"

"Persuasion!"

"Wait a second. Isn't that 'angelic' way of thinking more akin to someone not necessarily as a benevolent spirit?"

"Not if it does good and you started it anyway. I suppose you haven't noticed, but it simultaneously opens up the possibility of a reverse, if needed."
21 \- Persuasion

Patti Smith and "Persuasion" by Patti Smith and Fred Smith; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

Shaunessy left his house at 8AM; Margaret nowhere in sight or sound. The middle March morning was dodgy, if not out and out cantankerous. The early sun had disappeared behind a low hanging, tightly knit congregation of fluffy gray, indistinguishable obscurities most dismiss as clouds. A drizzle made its minor presence known on Shaunessy's windshield. He set his wiper to its lowest setting, one-third of the highest; that sufficient to maintain his more or less clear view of Vista de la Feria Road. His mind flip-flop wandered back and forth from "Persuasion" to George Eliot's, A/K/A Mary Anne Evans' early late nineteenth century rendition of "Middlemarch," the title no longer inclusive of its un-remembered first and significant sub-title; "A Study of Provincial Life," thereby and presumably making it more conducive to the twenty-first century commercial necessity of blurbs, bumper stickers, and t-shirt "recaps," directed at "cool" Millennials; highly educated and despite that "bright," in full possession of their tedious, "boring," long, long, short, inane story of the remote provinces.

1871 cover of the first edition of "Middlemarch," the first volume of eight; public domain.

Reverie, reverie, music, music, drops, drops, inclusive of, but not necessarily limited to current events, current events; Shaunessy continued to fully agree with Margaret's recommendation of persuasion regarding Kerry, yet also recognized the need for an effective technique. What persuades one does not inevitably persuade all. The closest to that he could come was his protracted and lingering Middlemarch perception that the best way to make someone want something is to tell them that they can't have it, more or less.

The drizzle evolved into a light rain, much like a China BatPoo II domestically restricted brand evolved to sprout leather black wings and fly at night, for fear of Bobo dinner consumption, and surreptitiously, under the cover of darkness, migrated west, being aided by WHO, and distributed by market gaining AmawayOnSteroids.com, to everyone else's loss, consistent with the Bozo policy of performing in the manner in which "a cheetah pursues a sickly gazelle." Any bat question surmised was purely rhetorical, as it may have not have even been a question. WHO can say with certainty.

Wouldn't you just know it? Only WHO claims they didn't. The vision challenging downpour commenced, spreading and testing his windshield wipers, just as Shaunessy entered the Vista de la Feria Police parking lot. To avoid a soaking he parked near the entrance, not checking the mailbox near the road. Chief Kerry and Striker's autos were already there anyway, and he thought that it was only fair that it was someone else's job to do something other than obstruct and defer to "experts" and give out traffic tickets. He walked to his cubicle and sat, ignoring Striker's grinning face in the cubby next to his. Striker followed him, sans grin, and said; "You got some kind of problem?"

"You tell me, ace. Did I forget to say my gracious good morning?"

"Okay, I guess this coronavirus thing has gotten us all down. Damn, it's not as if we're asking the medical authorities to do anything difficult or creative. Making vaccines have a long term standard operating procedure. Ye get ye some of the dead or barely alive shit, mix it with some juice, and shoot everyone up with it. Duh!! No matter how much time is taken, six months after it is administered there will undoubtedly be a class action lawsuit saying that it made their kids stoopit, hard to deny, and that it gave people purple ass, diarrhea, and some other shit. So the 'experts' delay and delay, hoping to avoid the lawsuits which always come anyway. What's new, partner?"

"Good morning, smiley."

" .................... "

"Didn't your folks teach you that it's impolite to stare?"

"It's okay as long as your mouth is not open catching flies. Try this, grumpy. What is black and tan and is best on knickers?"

"Can't imagine."

"A Doberman Pinscher."

"Haha. Cute word play."

"Got one more. Why don't blacks like country music?"

"I'll bite."

"When they hear hoedown, they think their sister has been shot."

"Laughing out loud."

Striker said; "Forget it," and went back to his desk.

Shaunessy cradled his two documents in his left hand, thinking; "That was easy," and made his way to Chief Kerry's office. He used his right to gently rap on the open door, and rather than walking in, stopped and waited for an invitation, willing to settle for an acknowledgement. Kerry took a few seconds to shuffle some papers he had on his desk, breathed deeply as if he was doing Shaunessy some sort of a personal favor to break from his pressing drudgery, and waved him in with the faux stressed, circling flick of someone on traffic duty at a busy, un-lighted, and un-signed intersection.

Traditional games being as long-standingly effective as they are, more or less, mostly because of their being effectively longstanding; despite being as predictable as they are, Shaunessy played into the boilerplate, not wishing to attempt to up his currently un-needed risk level, much in line with a misunderstood Bobby Fischer move saying; "I see that I may have interrupted something important. My apologies. I can come back later. No big thing to either of us either way."

"No, please. Have a seat. What do you have?"

"A wrap up." Shaunessy placed his two papers on Kerry's desk. "That crank note came from Hoffius. Brody's forensics team confirmed that. Just the words of a felonius nut loser. Might as well file this where you keep such things." Shaunessy rose and said; "Off to traffic duty."

Kerry asked; "Brody saw this?"

Shaunessy sat back down, saying; "No. One of his team traced it while he was out playing politics. Brody probably doesn't even know about it. If he did he'd probably have been on your phone complaining already."

"So, you're finally done with this."

"Yes, sir. I was the only one trying to keep the Wheaton case open, and nothing has come of that, other than me pestering people, and finding a few minor details which lead nowhere. Ha. That's stuff for conspiracy theorists; not cops or fact based professionals. Sorry for being a pain."

Kerry's face seemed quizzical, but any words which might have elaborated upon that were not forthcoming, leaving the Chief with the expression of a parched tree. Feeling that it was his involuntary turn to speak, he said; "Very good. ...... Carry on."

Shaunessy walked out uncertain as to whether or not his ploy had been effective, but willing to bet on it if given some odds.

Striker sat in his cubby, his back to any passers-by, pretending that he had heard nothing, which he probably didn't know was quite true. Shaunessy ducked out while things were good, listening to the "Persuasion" which was playing in his head.

As often happens with the infrequent Southwestern rain, the downpour had exhausted all of what it had in the few minutes he was inside. Sometime while Shaunessy was listening to Striker jokes or in Kerry's office the sky had transitioned from low and uniformly gray into a general high blue with seamless and a few blurred gradations between the precise colors, interspersed with bulbous white clouds, with thin, lines of gray at their bulb defining, puffed edges. Without the tiny gray lines there would have been no way in which to differentiate one balloon shaped member from the other. Shaunessy was more relaxed and less obsessed than he had been since prior to Connor James Wheaton's death, and spent the day bestowing cordial, Vista de la Feria moving violators with luxurious and costly summonses. He was enjoying himself so much, he ticketed for two hours longer than he was required, and only realized that it was time to go home when the now indirect and angled sun bestowed the horizon with a beautiful, purple tinge, like that of the most glorious of spring mornings or the cover of an old Grateful Dead album. "Julie catch a rabbit by his hair."

Late day sky; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license, modified.

Shaunessy drove back to his rented, five room, adobe casita, paying more attention to the firmament than the road. A few times he marginally drifted into the other lane, and received righteously belligerent honks for his lack of consideration for the clearly painted dividing line. He was glad that he was not involved in a fender bender for his minor infractions, that thereby conducive to the continuation of his sky watching.

When he entered, Margaret was doing a writhing sort of dance to something he couldn't hear. It had to have been something that John Coltrane or Dexter Gordon might have done. "One Flight Up" came to mind. She said; "Come on. Dance with me."

He was in the perfect mood, and Shaunessy did just that, feet moving and both arms extended as if he had his arms around her. Maybe he did. He felt the gentle tap of her fingers on his shoulder, closed his eyes and kept dancing. He felt them again, and he opened them to see that Ramon, his Moongate Road landlord was standing there smiling.

Ramon said; "Dancing with the stars?"

Shaunessy said; "More or less. Ramon comes in on cat's feet. Good evening, Ramon."

Margaret said; "When the music's over."

Shaunessy said; "When."

Ramon said; "Right now. Buenas noches. I just saw you come in and followed right behind. .......... Look, I'm not one to make judgements. As long as I get the rent and you don't mess up the place, do your own thing." He smiled, though he probably didn't intend to.

Shaunessy thought that dancing around in private was not the least bit unusual, but to be doing it without music might be seen that way by folks lacking in imagination and creativity. He said; "Thank you. What's on your mind today?"

Margaret laughed and Ramon cleared his throat, saying; "I've got to leave before the next dance starts. I just wanted to advise you that my stucco man, Hector, will be around making some patches. So if you see someone here, no problem, it's him. Okay?"

Shaunessy said; "Okay, I love having company."

Ramon left and Margaret said; "Sorry, I got you in trouble."

"No trouble, my lady. It's kind of amusing. I'm in too good a mood to let silly trifles ruin it. This morning I tried playing some persuasive reverse psychology on Kerry, and wound up playing it on myself."

"These kinds of results should be sent to the mavens at 'Psychology Today.'"

"Certainly, but not by me. I gave Kerry the flyer and the forensics printout, and said that I was finished with the case/non-case, hoping that he would be his usual contrary self and insist that I pursue it."

"Dangerous game. Did he do what you expected?"

"No, I thought at first, but maybe a few minutes later, after I left, for a reason I find to be strange. It's only in my head. My feigned disinterest became real. My obsession was gone. I no longer cared, and just enjoyed my frivolous day in the sun."

"I hope it works out."

"As far as I can tell, either way, it can't miss."

"Anyone who ever played a part, wouldn't turn around and hate it."

"Lou Reed. 'Sweet Jane.' You know, Wheaton wasn't the nicest guy in the world. He was openly cheating on his wife. The woman involved was used as an unpaid editor of the garbage Hoffius was actually ghost-writing for a few bucks, under the expectation that he would be openly credited as the co-writer of CJW's next one, which CJW had no intention of doing. His publisher advanced him a nice sum and was patient for ten years with his lack of production, finally receiving an inferior something belonging on the free self-published lists. This guy screwed everyone. So, why should I care if he was murdered? No one else who knew him does."

"Emily Crain?"

"Ah, a horny, old reader, spinster drunkard. I've also found that I really don't like Striker either."

"You're on an excellent hate roll. Please continue."

"Not hate; indifference. Striker is your classical dumb redneck, vicious in his standard grinning way. When we were daily 'partnering' in the pole-eece-vee-hick-el, it was obligatory to establish some sort of amicable relationship, as his ass was continually five feet from mine. That wouldn't even have qualified for the minimal level of social distancing mandated during the Chinese BatPoo II outbreak. He's just a jerk, who if transported to a big city, would proceed to be unable to cross the big streets without assistance."

"Joe Buck from 'Midnight Cowboy?'"

"More like Ratso Rizzo; actually a deficient cross in any direction. Even here in Boonietown, he is destined to be the angry, stupid, un-compensated holder of the league's bag; not knowing what hit him."

"My precious lover of all humanity."

"Haha. That's poetic."

"That's even off-topic by my standards."

"New heights! On their side, they probably think that I'm the weird one. What with no bar stool perennially occupied and no friends over after work. No parties, either gauche or sophisticated. Just a job; a severely limited job."

"Since when do you pay any attention to their assessments?"

"Always did. ........ For five minutes twice a year. I was hoping it was more noticed, as I really don't want them to think that I was acting this way out of complete ignorance. That might jeopardize my career."

"You're fine. Your ignorance level can't be seen as anything higher than partial .... by a reasonably informed person."

"The five minute clock ran out."

"Like a Bobo bat at the slightest of hand movements in the direction of a fork."

"You're the greatest. Got you, angel."

"Best not to tell anyone. My angelic reputation is at stake."

Shaunessy felt an embrace and was sure that it was real. He lay on the couch and didn't care if Ramon was prowling by a peep-providing portal.

Indifferently and diligently arriving as precisely on time as an AmawayOnSteroids.com Prime delivery the following morning, Shaunessy proceeded to his cubicle and futzed with something on his computer that didn't require any futzing. He was facing away from the opening on the aisle when he heard Striker come in and offer him an ebullient "Good, good morning, my intrepid and thorough partner." In his head Shaunessy could just see Striker's obnoxious, grinning, good-old-boy mug, and without turning said; "Mornin'." He was surprised that Striker knew the word "intrepid," but quickly dismissed that thought as the net had been providing easy access synonyms to every marginally literate user for two decades. He was reminded of his oft forgotten mental note to look up xenophobic. He got his second surprise of the day when he saw that it wasn't a fear of xenos, but rather "having or showing a dislike of or prejudice against people from other countries." Well, either the Oxford Dictionary, or the Bing Translator, or both said so. The source details weren't exactly crystal clear. But, Shaunessy curtailed his search right there, feeling he had made the reasonably required effort, and if the result was wrong, he could always blame Oxford, Bing, or both. He heard Chief Kerry's voice say; "I'd like to see you in my office."

Shaunessy said; "As soon as I sign out of this." When done he got up to see that Kerry didn't wait for him. He walked to the Chief's office and rapped at the door.

Kerry said; "Close it behind you."

Shaunessy did, while making a Mitch McConnell patented, goopy, "I don't really want to, but I have no choice," face, hoping the effort didn't permanently freeze his own cheeks' descent into his jowls. He sat and said; "Yes, sir."

Kerry said; "This is no one else's business."

" ................... "

"Shaunessy, you've retreated from pursuing anything more regarding Wheaton's death."

"I had lots of encouragement. Isn't that what you wanted?"

" .................. "

"I'll always have my thoughts. But, an investigator's job is not an all-encompassing one. I sometimes forget that." Shaunessy's scowling, brief, display of teeth opened the possibility that he had meant the opposite.

"You don't need this job, do you?"

"I don't know. Probably not. What's that got to do with anything?"

"Could be the primary determinant of your attitude."

"Attitude? Attitude? What is your problem with me doing what you have instructed? I like spending my day in the sun, handing out tickets to appreciative, smiley, petty transgressors of trifling road infractions. You might well recall that was my reason for leaving the ugliness of bleak and dreary New York City, and relocating to this sunny 'Land of Enchantment.'"

"Cut me some slack here. I'm not the bad guy. I just have outwardly imposed boundaries, like everyone else."

"Brody is quite the cheetah."

"Inclusive of Brody."

"Well again, fine with yeztruly. Wheaton may have committed suicide; likely did. And if someone did get away with murder, it won't be the first time, and it doesn't appear to be that they were of the serial variety. No one is in imminent danger in Vista de la Fiera. So, I've finally accepted the verdict and really don't care. Psychologists find acceptance to be healthy. I'm following instructions, don't care to attempt to do anything otherwise, and I'm happy to be distributing sunny tickets."

" ................. "

"I don't get it. I'm feeling as if you find something wrong with whatever I do. I mean, I'm not exactly the President of the United States, as articulated upon by 'democratic' social and main stream media."

"Hahaha. Yeah, huh? Things can be quite the bitch. I'd of thought that a New Yorker would have learned that prior to having attained the advanced age of fifty-five. It seems a necessity or at least an inevitability for any non-zealot paying a modicum of attention."

"'Social media,' with its attendant lockstep identity politics have done me in."

"I called Mr. Brody, and told him about the note and its being traced to Hoffius. I recommended re-opening the investigation and he adamantly refused. It's obvious to anyone that he's going to block any possibility of his quick decision being found incorrect."

" ................ "

"However, any detriments to justice are just as well the fault of us. You and me. See, we've been operating under the hidden premise that pursuing a murder charge is the only route."

"That's what all this is about. No?"

"Yes on a moral level, but no procedurally. Crimes other than murder were committed. If Med Ex Brody's nerdy 'science', and his insecure unwillingness to admit that he might have made a mistake legally precludes us from pursuing Murder One, we can still shake things up by pursuing the other criminality; that worked properly leading us to the murderer at a lesser charge."

"A hand slap for a capital offense."

"Not necessarily. Could be a broken arm. Depends a lot on how well it is handled. Look; there are no better options available."

"Ha. My Chief has no doubt forgotten the comforts provided by the injection of cool, synthesized apathy, right in the face of hot, but inevitably short-lived, terminally boring interest."

"Choose what you will. It's yours to do or not. Striker is here to pursue what you won't. Based on the note and printer verification I've obtained a judge's warrant for Hoffius' arrest; the charges numerous; including perjury, the filing of a false police report, tampering with evidence, hindering a police investigation, failure to report a capital crime, defamation of character, slander, libel, and if that's not enough, add the unauthorized, unpaid postage use of a post office box to deliver, theft of government services, and fraud by way of the fucking US of A mail. ....... Most people would regard this as a stupid annoyance, but a two time felon is likely to piss in his draws. Jerk will probably resist arrest too."

"Wicked, wicked. I like it. I can seize the printer?"

"Sure. You can even take Striker to assist in the arrest."

"You had me going for a minute. Ummm ....... How can I politely say? Ummm. ......... I mean we'd be like sitting in the same car for forty-five agonizing minutes; ninety round trip. That kind of dictates some conversation."

"You might easily distract him with some Vince Gill Wisconsin, if you just find the station that plays what once passed for 'outlaw.' Maybe one of Willie Nelson's, if he can ever get over his need to go on and on uninterrupted, though that is his best and perhaps only source of a middling level of 'lucrative' commerciality. But, aesthetics at a time of impending justice? I'm as shocked and appalled as Chinese President Xi Jinping claims to have been when he was told that Bobos are known to eat bats and babies when there is no market for the organs. Let them eat chiroptera and liver, indeed."

"Yellow peril. Old phrase from pre-enlightened times. ... Can't Striker take his own vee-hick-ell and spare me the chit-chat?

"Yeah, I guess. Sure."

"I'm on my way."

Shaunessy said; "Striker! You're coming along with me to pull in Rolf Hoffius. Chief says. Also says for you to take your own car as there is evidence to be confiscated."

"Is he expected to be armed?"

"Not likely, but be prepared as you never know with the dumb creeps with prior records."

"I'm set. Let's go!"

"Relax for just a few minutes. I forgot something at home."

### 22 – The Roundup

Modified 1941 poster of "The Roundup;" property of the author.

Shaunessy returned in twenty minutes and said; "Follow me into Albuquerque. We have jurisdiction because the crimes were committed here in Vista de la Feria."

Striker said; "You sure of that, boss?"

"No. Matter to you?"

"Not really."

"9316 Tanoan Drive."

"The high rent district."

"Yep. Hoffius must have recently come into some money. Let's go."

Shaunessy's lead car meandered through the business and fast food lined semi-highways of Albuquerque's Northeast with Striker right behind. He had waited this long and was in no particular rush now. His yellow, black, blue, and white complicit surroundings were merging into an indirect re-stating of their originally simple black and white. The surplus of subsequent yadda yadda yadda was just an "expert" assisted attempt at a confusion designed to reward the guilty at the expense of those in no position to resist. It reminded him of how China's Xi Jinping had colluded with WHO's Teddy (Lips) Adhominem Beelzebubus, to tell the world that there was no evidence that the Chinese BatPoo II virus could spread from person to person and that no travel bans were necessary, allowing Xi to send 500,000 infected agents all over the globe, concentrating on the West, which had committed the "crime" of bringing his communist nation out its of long term poverty. Details of statements after the deed was done have relevance only in terms of how long it would take the yellow, biological weapon's infestation to reach exponential growth, and then the entirety of the globe.

WHO's Teddy (Lips) Adhominem Beelzebubus and China's Xi Jinping celebrating the success of their scam as shown on the chart behind; property of the author.

But, today was different. Shaunessy was finally being allowed to close in on a Wheaton case insider; one who had nothing discernable to gain from CJW's death, was never alone with CJW that day, and also had some unknown motivation to point his concealed finger at Anisette Rhona, a formerly clandestine lover of last resort. Their loud arguments were heard by the wine grower's kids, and might suggest something other than the calm and quiet disinterest attendant to romantic breakups. Hoffius wasn't there to argue about his gardening fees, as he hadn't been doing any since Connor James Wheaton had died.

The tranquility of the semi-green, semi-populated, sparse, and minorly contoured golf course, apparently designed for the lowest scores and degree of difficulty, took the place of the lube shops, self-storage bins, assemble-it-yourself furniture outlets, and fast food restaurants on his left. Shaunessy put on his left blinker to alert Striker that any second they'd be turning onto Tanoan Drive's one-way-in-one-way-out road, hoping that Striker was not overly engrossed with the latest version of Willie Nelson's catchy tune; "On the Road Again."

They parked in the asphalt driveway of #9316 and raced to the front door, guns in hand. He and Striker positioned at the door's sides, Shaunesy knocked hard and called out; "Police, open up." Getting no response, he knocked louder and yelled; "Police. Open up or we'll kick it in." They heard two toilet flushes, and with their first kicks the door opened, Hoffius right behind it faux calmly saying; "Yes, officers. Please pardon my being indisposed. What can I do for you?"

Striker walked right in, spun Hoffius around, and cuffed him from the rear; saying; "Nothing more. That's it, asshole." He patted Mr. Indisposed down, finding nothing except an inky pen knife in the shirt pocket where a nerd-pack once resided. He clicked it open, revealing a four inch blade. "Concealed weapon carried by a two time loser. Ummm. Ummm. Ummm. You got some big time 'splainin' to do, boy."

Hoffius' pen knife, extended above and retracted below; property of the author.

Hoffius was no rookie to the routine, and consequently made no movement or resistance, sighed, and deadpanned; "I write with that. Exactly what am I being charged with?"

Shaunessy said; "Was just about to get to that. You are under arrest for the charges of perjury, filing of a false police report, tampering with evidence, hindering a police investigation, defamation of character, failure to report a capital crime, the unauthorized moving of a dead body, and if that's not enough, add the unauthorized and unpaid postage use of a post office box to deliver, theft of government services, and fraud by way of the fucking US of A mail. Now, let's add the concealment of a deadly weapon to the mix. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you." ....... Shaunessy had embellished what was on the warrant a bit, but it really didn't matter beyond the act.

Striker said; "You in some deep doo doo, boy. Ummm, ummm, ummm. The slammer goan be your forever home."

Hoffius grinned and said; "False arrest; police harassment with financial consequences to be determined through consultation with my attorney and psychiatrist."

Shaunessy said; "You probably don't know it, chief. But, we have traced that note you dropped in the police box about Anisette Rhona, straight to you."

Hoffius said; " ............ "

Shaunessy went on; "Yes. Most goons don't know it, but forensics can match output with printer. Please excuse my seizing of your printer. I hope it doesn't hinder your abilities to communicate. That might be dreadful for a writer so popular."

Shaunessy went into the sparse living room adjacent to the hall and opened the printer, which sat on the Chinese-assemble-yourself, "affordable," metal desk. He said; "Wouldn't you know it, Serial #GOSH70372. Sometimes those techies can be absolutely amazing. Wouldn't you say, chief?"

Hoffius' look of semi-strained, confident levity dissipated as if there was an epidermal landslide on his face all the way from his brow to his chin. His tint had, more or less, simultaneously adopted a monotone, ashen, pale blanch; consistent with the final stages of a Chinese exported illness, replete with a faulty ventilator foolishly acquired from the sniggering, profit-making source of the sickness. But he was still compelled to defiantly say; "You got doodly-squat; zero; nil; zilch; zip; nada; bubkes. I'll be out ten minutes after booking."

Shaunessy said; "A mere bagatelle. Mind if I have a further look around, Mr. N. Creepshun? ...... Never mind racking your brain, Dwight. That was rhetorical. Striker, keep good watch on this desperado."

Striker said; "Please have a seat, badass," and directed Hoffius to the spotty, three stretchered, Goodwill or otherwise second-hand, no matter the other gracious nomenclatures available, bentwood chair. He sat with a full weighted thud which disturbed the firmament as much as a 4.5 on the California Richter. Striker showed his concern, asking; "You okay there, partner? ...... Wouldn't want to have one of our guests injured while at our mutual party. ........... Mmmmmmmmmmm. Good. No complaints."

Shaunessy searched the premises, upstairs, down, low, and above; even checking the yard with a mind toward recent digging. He came back with a brow furrowed in an odd, John Bolton-like rocking back and forth, and hands gingerly holding two plastic bags at their tips. He said; "In plain sight. In plain sight. Unbelievable from a man so experienced. An unregistered firearm; an assembly job, and an ounce and a half of contraband, with its contiguous, legal intent to distribute. I'm absolutely shocked. Shocked. In thirty years on the force I've never seen anything this amateur. ...... Striker, my partner, be double careful. This loser idiot might do anything at this point." Directed toward Hoffius, he added; "We'll have to add illegal possession of a firearm, and possession of cannabis with the intent to distribute to your laundry list of infractions. New Mexico statute 30-7-16 prohibits any felon from owning or possessing a gun, and I don't suspect that you have a card permitting medical use or distribution of marijuana."

Hoffius said; "No. No way. You planted that. That's bullshit."

Shaunessy retorted; "No. You just forgot to flush and launch from window. Regardless, get a little practical, chief. Is a jury going to take the word of a twice convicted, armed felon who has also admitted to being an accessory to murder or the word of one of Vista de la Feria's finest?"

Striker laughed as he slapped Hoffius' head, saying; "You gone deef or something, boy? The Man asked you a question."

Hoffius said; "I have nothing to say until I see an attorney."

Shaunessy said to Striker; "I'll pile the evidence in mine, and you drive the creepy perp to headquarters. Take good care, as we wouldn't want the suspect to hurt himself on the way. Mucho pole-eese problemos. ....... Hope he doesn't resist arrest. We've all got enough problems."

As Shaunessy loaded the printer, computer, handgun, and pot, into his car, Striker loaded Hoffius into his, making sure that he didn't hit his head upon entry and strapped him immobile inside the back seat.

Hoffius and the evidence went to Vista de la Feria Police Headquarters. Striker watched him squirm around in his rear view mirror, saying; "Ye got yisself some resisting arrest now, boy." Smiling, Striker drowned out any replies or complaints with some of that old, good time music.

Porky Loser, "Carolina Rice" by Anonymous, and "Jemima Surrender" by The Band; property of the author, the latter two under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

When they arrived Striker told Shaunessy of the new charge to add to his list. The two detectives escorted Hoffius into the station, one on each arm, as Chief Kerry was in the process of finalizing a phone call to the District Attorney. Hearing the entry door rudely slam, though that inadvertently dictated by his officers' arresting situation, he chose to err on the safe side, hung up, and addressed the possible invasion as invasions should be addressed; his gun drawn. Chief Kerry came out of his office, and stared at Hoffius' face with an expressionless exterior façade, eyes vacant, excepting what was arguably a hint of bemusement, placing his police special back in his belt. Hoffius responded in kind, as much as was possible devoid of a gun, likely thinking; "They're determined to throw the book at me. No need to try currying any favor." Kerry said; "Book him."

Shaunessy did just that; then offered him his one phone call. Hoffius refused it, and said; "I'm a poor man, don't have an attorney on retainer, and I don't know the Public Defender's number. Perhaps you can make the necessary arrangements."

"Don't have any friends or relatives either, I guess."

"Just like you."

"You overly flatter yourself, like any typical author bio."

Shaunessy brought him to the cell, which had been specially constructed of cinderblock, so as to not represent a fire hazard to the guests, or at least act as an imperfect retardant. The only window to the outside was tiny, high and barred; only passable by small animals and insects, and only capable of granting visibility to competent winged creatures; momentarily bringing the great Raymond Chandler to mind. The walls were peeling their white paint, exposing the underlying, mottled gray as well as an un-policed Antifa riot. This was the result of some sort of problem yet to be "expertly" determined. The possibilities included surface contamination, surface temperature, that the coating was not compatible with the substrate, that the coating is not compatible with an existing coating, age, moisture, and that the surface was too smooth. While "moisture" intuitively seemed the best choice, and the latter seemed a silly consideration on rough cinderblock, one could only hope that the prisoner was not meaningfully inconvenienced before the "interior paint mavens" made their final determination. Like a protective big brother, Shaunessy told Hoffius; "Don't eat the chips," and locked the window barred door.

Shaunessy brought in the evidence and joined Striker and Chief Kerry, who were standing near the chief's desk in his office. Chief Kerry said; "I've just been telling Striker that he did an excellent job."

Shaunessy said; "Absolutely flawless."

Chief Kerry said; "I never know when you're joking."

Shaunessy said; "If I find out, you'll be the first one I'll tell; in high hopes of a warrant."

Chief Kerry said; "Get out of here. Both of you. Vista de la Feria traffic offenders have been running rampant. ....... Well, what are you waiting for? Expedite the tickets! Rapidamente! Rapidamente!

Shaunessy and Striker walked to their cars, Striker saying; "I don't know about the Chief. Sometimes I think he's from smawtass New Yawk."

Shaunessy said; "Geography irrelevant. When presented with an overwrought situation, the standard safest response is a reciprocal overwrought one."

Chief Kerry tried to make arrangements with the busy Public Defender, succeeding in being politely invited to leave a message. He did and pressed on with a duplicative texting attempt, his huge fingers an obstacle on the teeny cyber keys.
23 – Jarndyce vs. Jarndyce

"You have got to be kidding me! You just have to be kidding me!" American Civil Liberties Union Senior Staff Attorney in Albuquerque and Public Defender Lucia Martinez-Sanchez continued with; "All you have on my client is what you planted on him."

Chief Kerry said; "There was no plant. And in any event, if that was the case the burden of proof would be on you. Come, come. Unfounded allegations do not become you."

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; "I can't accept that. Medical Examiner Harrison Brody III' assistant, Grissom B. Smilowitz, PhD., has found none of my client's fingerprints on the items; only those of your Detective, Thomas Shaunessy."

Shaunssy said; "It's not easy to carry pot and guns with your feet," while he was wondering what he had touched when at their office.

Chief Kerry said; "Hold on a second, Shaunessy. And Ms. Martinez-Sanchez; gaining your acceptance is a most worthy goal to which I'm sure we all aspire. But frankly, who will a judge and jury believe? The word of a twice convicted felon or the word given by one of Vista de la Feria's finest with decades of a spotless career in law enforcement? We're solid here. No 'negotiation' on that."

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; "No drug priors."

Shaunessy said; "Two serious priors, both including weapons."

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; "Inadmissable."

Kerry said; "Maybe. Maybe not. Don't need it, anyway."

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; "'Perjury, filing of a false police report, tampering with evidence, hindering a police investigation, defamation of character, failure to report a capital crime, the unauthorized moving of a dead body, and the unauthorized and unpaid postage use of a post office box to deliver, theft of government services, and fraud by way of the USA mail.' I assume this all stems from the flyer received at Police Headquarters, which you allege came from my client."

Kerry said; "More or less. However, it is not an allegation. Brody's office has confirmed that this 'flyer' came from your client's printer."

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; "No one has been brought to court for those kinds of 'violations' in this century. Very selective enforcement. And, never heard of that kind of tracing ability before."

Kerry said; "I'll defer to your legal 'expertise' of the 21st century, and take your word that no one has; primarily because it really doesn't matter to me. Regarding your 21st century tech deficiencies; check with Brody if you don't believe me. ......... Better yet, check with his assistant, Petersen Beam the second. It's absolutely amazing how this tech world can convert keypad entries to muddy foot prints."

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; "I'll check that. Assuming that is the case, I further suppose that he also proved that my client put it in the box."

Kerry said; "No, not exactly. Our 24 hour surveillance tapes do. That's sort of a no brainer."

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; "I'd like to see that."

Kerry said; "Consider it done."

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; "Okay. Okay. What I'm not having any success at understanding is two-fold. First, it seems obvious that you are coming down with two lead boots on Hoffius; something usually reserved for the likes of Al Capone. Secondly, why are we even having this conversation? I mean that, if there is not going to be any negotiation, why don't we just proceed to court?"

Kerry said; "I suppose that we could. I do assume that in your job as attorney you are obliged to tell your client that if he loses, he won't be standing in any sunshine for the rest of his life. That's quite a risk. So my question to you is what does your client offer to allow us to view his infractions in a better light? Give me a reason to be co-operative."

Shaunessy said; "Ms. Martinez-Sanchez; we are giving you the opportunity to appear as quite heroic; getting the wicked po-leese to back off their spurious charges, standing up for the poor little man, and all of that. To do so, appearing as 'revolutionary' effective, it might even enhance your stature at the ACLU. Your client's misdeeds are of secondary, or perhaps even tertiary consequence to us. .......... "

Kerry interrupted to yell; "Shaunessy, stop!" Utilizing a lower pitch he turned toward the Public Defender and said; "My sincere apologies for my detective's outburst. I'd like to assure you that his is not necessarily the opinion of this station's management."

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; "Apology accepted, but please be assured that I'm used to hearing negative reviews of my chosen work, and while the first two or three may have bothered me slightly, since then I have developed some sort of immunity to 'assessments,' both asshole and not. You may not get the analogy, but because of tariffs, Communist China unleashed a viral plague on the world, covered it up, and is now trying to blame the US for the whole thing. If that weren't bad enough, US corporate political media, some of which are literally paid to run Chinese propaganda, are actively helping that coverup. It's refreshing to hear the non-party line; no matter how ignorant. Please proceed, Detective Shaunessy."

Looking toward Chief Kerry, Shaunessy said; "Con su permiso, el jefe. .... Sin objeciones? ..... Gracias." Redirected toward the defending attorney, he said; "Ms. Martinez-Sanchez; first allow me to say that I share your views concerning assessments. They're merely the jerk assessor's attempt to usurp the judgements one should be making for themselves; ostensibly an attempt to make the one who does something dependent upon the continuation of the faux largesse of the one who does nothing, or instill a requirement for him to pretend to do so; no particular derision aimed at the do nothing set. And you're right. Your analogy, better termed a metaphor, makes no sense to me whatsoever. Point of order; a metaphor is a figure of speech in which a word or phrase is applied to an object or action to which it is not literally applicable, especially something abstract; whereas an analogy is a comparison between two things, typically for the purpose of explanation or clarification; to wit 'an analogy between the workings of nature and those of human societies.' Since lay people invariably interchange the terms to no great detriment, I'll stop my 'expert' analysis right here; hopefully serviceably short of bringing in the complications and nuances provided by symbol, allegory, and parable; and to a lesser extent figure of speech, figurative expression, image, trope, comparison, word painting, word picture, conceit, apologue; and the unfairly, in my humble opinion, much overlooked emblem. In fairness, I should point out that your substance or concept is not inconsistent with that of my own view. To the point, Ms. Martinez-Sanchez; your client's note indicates that he is most likely an insignificant part of a much larger picture, but that he might have seen the entirety. He said nothing of the sort during original questioning, but that note suggests that he may have changed his mind for some reason. What matters most to us is what your client may know of Connor James Wheaton's death. I'm sure that if he has something juicy to spill, all charges could be dropped." Shaunessy looked away from Ms. Martinez-Sanchez and added; "Correctamundo, el jefe?"

Kerry shrugged affirmatively, and then mumbled some condition or equivocation, of interest to any mice lurking behind the wall.

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; "Mr. Shaunessy. You could not imagine how much you have made my day on a number of levels. If I might offer one free but valuable piece of advice, which I think you'll need for some reason which currently and conveniently escapes me, I'd strongly suggest that one never trust any Bobo baby and bat munchers or any contentious clarifications, regardless of source. One little detail you've omitted. Like a dead bat, that resisting arrest charge doesn't fly. One cannot very well resist arrest while handcuffed in the back of a police vee-hick-ell, even if part of a flied lice takeout, housed in one of those flimsy, left over containers once used to thinly and tattily transport tiny, tropical, thalassic trawl. I'm certain of agreement on that."

Shaunessy said; "Better you than me."

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; "My path is clear. You are much too easy."

" ................ "

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; "I am off."

Shaunessy said; "Any ETA of when we'll be back on?"

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; "Nothing precise, but more or less soon, depending. I'm scheduled for a conference regarding deadly pole-eese encounters with armed, contraband merchants of color in Joe-ja. And I've yet to see how co-operative my Huffass client has the capacity to be."

Shaunessy said; "Hoffius."

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; "Yes. That's what I thought I had said. But, no matter. I must tarry on to Savannah. Ciao."

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez tarried, leaving the chief's door open.

Shaunessy said; "My hopes are high. This woman felt no need to do anything other than her job. Nor, did she deign to spend any time trying to justify it to those who might sound as if they don't approve. Secure competence and/or secure incompetence are desirable virtues."

Kerry said; "I don't know about that, but I'd suspect that sitting here in solitary stir for a few days won't hurt Hoffius' inclination to be co-operative."

Shaunessy said; "That's actually the part of the scenario I fear to be the weakest chain in the link. He might find that not being pestered by others is a quite pleasant relief."

Kerry said; "I could have him transferred to County. But, he's adapted to the likes of Central State Prison in Macon twice before."

Shaunessy said; "Likely, not enough to want to go back to a communal jail. Besides, being here will probably result in Striker playing Igor to his Frankenstein monster. ...... I don't know; your call."

Kerry said; "Seems clear. I'm transferring him to County. By the way, was that gun and pot a plant?"

Shaunessy said; "As far as I know, pot always comes from a plant, but until Brody proves otherwise, guns don't."

Kerry said; "I'm being serious."

Shaunessy said; "I can't believe you asked that. You know that I'm a good cop."

Kerry nodded the mildest of possible affirmatives; and Shaunessy, entirely uninterested in providing official limo service for a creepy perp, swiftly exited and resumed Vista del la Fiera traffic duty; possible contamination not an issue. His attitude was more one of a disgust, capable of producing horrid, serial barfs. One personally unfamiliar with this sort of motivation might have thought that Shaunessy had gotten a glance at the ridiculously wide, black wingspan of an infected, trained, and flying Chinese bat happily on the loose in the wide open spaces in the US.

An uneventful week passed; Shaunessy passing it in the company of his unkempt moving violations citations book and more or less in the proximity of Vista de la Feria Road, where rushed, petty rogues exceeded the limits to the possible detriment of the curious, sentient, domesticated animals, who their domesticators were once again and thrice again, 'accidentally' remiss in their mission, to keep the generally little, but multi-sized at the perimeter, ones more or less safe from hominid, fast lane, 'progress.' He considered his role in that effort more worthwhile than a commissioned traffic study.

Rolf Hoffius spent it in the County minimum security dorm alongside frequently visiting meth-heads, DUI's, video game boosters, parole violators, and those with multi outstanding warrants. When asked by other inmates the standard jail question of what he did to get there, Hoffius cooly slurred; "Moving a dead body, possession with intent, and this shit wouldn't have happened if not for my prior assault convictions." Like any indie self or small press publishite with more than 500 "sales," his status in the minimum stronghold went to list top. He had done his best and was proud of that. The losers didn't attempt to fuck with him. But still something was missing. It may have been that the only potentially decent paperback available on the table was a ripped copy of Isaac Asimov's "The Robots of Dawn," and it made as much senses as Burroughs. He considered his role worthwhile.

Striker searched Vista de la Fiera Road for the captive audience, with whom he could obtain personally satisfying guffaws for his redneck jokes. The stuck suckers, with asses firmly ensconced in their bucket seats, who thought their feigned sighting of the long played, black comedy routine performed by the likes of non-medical "Dr." Tedros Adhominem Beelzebubus might alleviate them from the ticket, fine, and its consequent monthly insurance premium upward adjustment. He considered his role worthwhile.

With no fanfare or particular personal enjoyment, Chief Kerry spent phone hours with one of the Deputy District Attorneys, sometimes referred to as Assistant District Attorney. He was mostly trying to convince one assigned Takshaak Singh, demi-anorak, that the case would be headline material in step two, gaining him more prominence than his District Attorney boss, Harold Dooley Balotid. Precarious lines were walked wherein Kerry never knew what he had said to prompt it, but on more than one occasion Mr. Singh was compelled to indignantly point out that he did not speak Hindi. Kerry tried to insist, with all the persuasiveness of a pre-recorded iPhone tone that the operative concept at hand was not one of cheap showbiz, but rather one of rarified, high end showbiz. Takshaak's umbrage vocally waxed increasingly poetic with each such shovel. He considered his role worthwhile.

Seven days anon, Ms. Martinez-Sanchez returned from Joe-Ja, seemingly unscathed in the visible places where those scathey things may be. She might have made good use of "Triderma's 'The Genuine Virgin Aloe,' an everyday bruise relief cream 1oz which provides fast healing and soothing relief for bruises, itching and redness. It helps skin heal after cosmetic, esthetic or surgical procedures. This gentle, yet powerful cream helps soothe and heal skin from bruises, redness, skin tightness or dryness. It's the perfect cream to take with you to the dermatologist and to use immediately after laser, waxing, peels, or tar and feathering, to help calm and soothe your skin. It is also ideal for those who bruise easily, have thin skin or heal slowly." Quite a product, and only she will ever know if she had used it, as if it mattered.

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez marched straight into Kerry's office, Shaunessy following, and said; "Got us the deal of a lifetime." She threw down the document and said; "Read this."

April 11, 2020

To whom it may concern;

This valuable information is offered in the interest of justice; and justice only. It was not coerced in any manner, shape, or form. Through the word of my attorney, Ms. Lucia Martinez-Sanchez, I am also aware that in return for this valuable document, I am to be granted immunity from any and all charges for which I am being currently held, as well as any charges that might arise from my activities in regard to the event and events surrounding the death of Connor James Wheaton, with the exception of any spurious charges of Murder in the First Degree, to which I herein plead not guilty. I hereby represent that I will testify to what follows in any court of law so directed. I further understand that upon signed acceptance of this valuable document, I will be immediately, un-conditionally, and without harm released from County Jail at a time when public transportation is operational; none of that 3AM belligerent, abusive nonsense in the dark, which seems to be the thrill of a screw's life. If any of these conditions are not met, I didn't write this; and further, any signatures on this valuable document, purporting to be mine are forgeries.

On August 2, 2019, I, Lupo Batinado, please no China Bat II jokes, most commonly known as Rolf Hoffius, A/K/A Dwight N. Creepshun, A/K/A DNC, arrived at the Wheaton-Hunter house 10:30AM. It was one of those hot summer days, which the Nulib nutters invariably cite as proof of "global warming;" when in fact it is an offsetting ten degrees cooler than average one hundred miles away. The overnight clouds which had kept in the previous day's heat, had given way to the dawn's insistence upon an unobstructed sun, brilliant and deceptive in its stationary existence, which gave the illusion of movement. It wasn't a matter of being stubborn or willfully fraudulent. Without any prior consultation, God just had stuck him there. Okay? He had done nothing to dispel the sciency geeks saying that he was cheerily rotating around the earth, as supposedly did everything, and earth inhabitants seemed to like that notion muchly. That worked well for billions of years, until some loser named Galileo di Vincenzo Bonaulti de Galilei A/K/A Galileo, an illegal alien here in the US, screwed the whole thing up in the 17th century. Now the sciency geeks muddy the waters through saying confusing sophistry such as; "Fixed relative to what? Moving relative to what? The very essence of fixed vis-à-vis moving is an ocular illusion. It all depends on your frame of reference, and thus it is muy stupido to wonder, and mucho stupido to openly ask if the sun is moving or not. Relative to the galactic center, the sun does indeed move; but we sciency geeks most often use a heliocentric frame of reference in the solar system, and then in that scenario the sun is not moving at all and could use some lessons from South and Central America. Jeez. It is abundantly clear that it had to have started somewhere, and the sun has filed no objections to our drawings. Further, our rendition has passed peer review." Hehehe. On a positive note, this sort of nonsense can actually be sun beneficial, at least in terms of the few reading earthlings with open minds, within the nasty context of a market which rewards clarity and repetition, at the expense of amorphous substance. ...... Be assured that the preceding is no stigmatizing reference to Wuhan, China, virus-spreading, or the delicacy of bat consumption.

At any rate, after having provided the central and ascendant essentials of that hot, hot day, I believe it is high time to introduce the specifics of the little story, with which everyone seems overly concerned. I was more or less Connor James Wheaton's paid ghost writer on his posthumous smash hit, "Boundless Monotony – a Chucklesome Novel." In order to keep that a secret I also dallied a bit at being the gardener-handyman, and periodically Anisette Rhona's fornication partner. My homie, Connor, was well aware of that, and encouraged more, in apparent hope that if Anisette Rhona had something to do, she might get her big booga eyes off of him for a while. Despite the low pay for the easy ghosting and the challenging buggering, I was enthused that I would be granted co-authorship and equal financial share in the next novel Connor got "weinie sap" Henry Battson; publisher; former editor, now President and Publisher at Farr, Simon, and Moreau; now part of the McVirago group, to shell out for. We had never discussed subject matter, as if that was a resurrection of some archaic requirement, tut, tut; and I settled into the assumed mutual understanding that once a name is branded, accidentally or not, what invariably follows is an "on-the-one-hand-on-the-other," "critical" evaluation coupled with price enhanced sales initially in lucrative hardback, in actuality ranging from 60-300% of the prior; at the higher end close to being able to give up that day job as well as running those weinie writing seminars, like that pathetic dip, non-medical doctor mouthing off at W.H.O. ....... That was neither rhetorical nor a question of any species.

Please pardon what you likely now see as a digression. While on the one hand it is more of the promotion writers are encouraged to continually supply; on the other, you will soon see that it is all part of the story, if you happen to be as equivalently sentient as a happily, hot, hopping Aussie 'roo in trifling blazes during the annual Bogan landscaping project.

Frankly, with the novel now finished and the grounds more or less tended, I had no reason to be there unannounced other than to pick up a few bucks for puttering around with and watering the frontal sage. Anisette Rhona was there all morning, while Battson had not yet arrived. While hosing the frontal sage, I heard Emily Crain inside yelling something about "not getting paid," which made me smirk as she was always yelling about something; and I thought that at least this time she was close to making some kind of sense, though I couldn't imagine her being any more useful than the typical, recapitulating and spoiling, indie Goofreads book reviewer or a Chinese political "informant" immediately gone missing.

Emily left at about 12:45PM, leaving Anisette Rhona alone inside with CJW. Emily was happily sloshed, another of her usual traits, like the yelling and cockeyed driving. She backed out of the driveway like she had learned to drive a car in Beijing. By 1:00PM Anisette Rhona must have gotten a bright idea. She was kind of overdue. No doubt, she wished that I would have left by that time, but things are never ideal, and there were enough comings and goings, Battson soon expected, to supply any investigator with three suspects with more motivation than her own, hidden financial one if the death was considered a murder, and no problem at all if it was considered the more likely, as advertised, final playout of Connor's suicidal bent. She went into CJW's private room, and found him passed out drunk on the floor, hands bound with duct tape, very conveniently in the sense of enabling a murder, but not in the other sense of facilitating the appearance of a suicide. Thinking quickly under her imagined pressure of an imminent pre-nup decided divorce deadline, she must have opted to risk the former, as she had little in the way of options and time, while a ruling of murder wouldn't detract from her ability to obtain the life insurance proceeds. Wound duct tape on skin takes forever to get off, and leaves a mark even if you use Clorox. She took one of his leather belts from a closet in the room and garroted him with it; forced to lift upward, under the circumstances. When finished, she cut it off, as she could not move the heavier body into a hanging position by herself. She nailed the short end to the outside, nearby portal overhead beam, in order to make it be seen as if CJW had been hung there, and that someone, ultimately it turned out to appear to be she, had cut him down.

That was when I came in, about 1:10PM. The noise of the hammer got my attention and I decided to investigate, thinking that some actual work was needed for which I could volunteer and charge them. I soon saw that my potential daily charge as well as my future hopes lay inert on the floor; no co-authorship, not even the chump change for ghost writing; and it was obviously Anisette Rhona's doing. I mean nobody would have been on a chair hammering some decoration into a portal beam right after they found their husband dead, except in one of those icky, whacked out Danish murder semi-mysteries like "The Tenant." I was infuriated, but as I do in emergencies, I got totally rational. Anisette Rhona wasn't doing well physically, not having the strength to easily move the larger body outside. I checked and it was not breathing. As she was trying to drag the body, I made a quick estimate of the score and made a deal with Anisette Rhona; with whom I had been having a reluctant, semi-Mellors-type of relationship, which was "suggested and cheered on" by Connor, presumably as a way to get her away from him. I said that I would forget having seen anything and help her drag the body outside in return for $250,000.

At point I knew that I had her. She'd have agreed to anything; even a million. But, rather than shoot for the moon, I knew that she'd later think about it, and being so monetarily oriented, she'd totally balk. I estimated that she'd short me one-fifty on the two—fifty, but that would be enough to set me right, and I could periodically mau-mau her for subsequent tidbits. Anisette Rhona told me that she didn't have any money of her own, which I had expected, and that I'd have to wait for payment until Wheaton's estate was settled. In retrospect I guess that Anisette Rhona quickly agreed as she had no intention of paying me as I couldn't very well inform the police without implicating myself in a third felony. At that point CJW's life insurance was still a possibility, only later ruled out by the suicide determination. We dragged the body out to the portal, leaving it on the bricks in the sun, and I told her to wipe the prints off of everything which had been touched. She didn't remember the hammer, but I caught that. I didn't need to be owed major money by someone with a long term lease at the Western New Mexico Correctional Facility under Vigil. Because of perimeter foliage, the body was not observable by any neighbor; nor from any part of the house other than the door in CJW's room.

In further retrospect Anisette Rhona must have planned to say she left to run errands at 12:00PM, in hopes of among other things placing me, Battson, or both of us at the scene at the time of the murder and her removed from it. Her testimony did attempt to put Battson in a difficult logistical position, though his motivation was financially middling weak, if not the result of a passionate outburst, which hanging would seem to mollify.

We left the empty house together, but in separate cars at 1:15PM, leaving the front door unlocked for Battson's appearance or Emily's re-appearance. Our last minute calls to each other might have drawn the attention of the worker/owner of the vineyard across the street. What could we do? Kill him in the middle of an unsheltered field in broad daylight? He later confirmed our time, but no one was paying any attention.

After a month I came looking for my money, and Anisette Rhona went into her act about how CJW's estate had complications and was held up in court. Other times she spoke of how surprisingly little was in it, raising some doubts in my mind, because of her inability to keep her story straight. There was no way I could check, so I just started to show up every Friday to hear more "news," rather than tend to her grass and bushes. I was now a partner in more ways than one.

By February, six months had gone by and I was disgusted. Maybe it was because of the dismal winter. High plains desert regions like Vista de la Fiera and Albuquerque can be so drab in the cold months; gray skies, defoliated bushes and trees, and flatter than all that beer they let go skunky because of that ChinaBatPoo II virus lockdown. I don't know. Maybe it was because of the times she had given me two injections of $5,000 each. Anisette Rhona told me that the funds came from her own money and were given in 'good faith.' I couldn't know, but hoped that at best, she was just going to drip and drab it out to me, as I had the goods on her. Then the money stopped, and my visits resulted in yelling sessions. After I had left a few of those, further reflection led me to the thought that rather than the $10,000 making me the slightest bit optimistic, it told me that she had collected the CJW estate money, and that was all Anisette Rhona thought my silence to be worth. After pondering the situation one more particularly dismal late winter day in Tanoan, with the flurries that can't decide to snow, and with the rent coming due, I decided to put an end to the BS, and anonymously drop off that flyer in the Police mail box, including the reference to that annotation in the David Foster Wallace book. I knew this would give it the credibility one assigns to an insider, and was sufficiently irked to risk it bringing some attention my way. No matter the temporary inconvenience an investigation would cost me, I expected to prevail as I was the only one with absolutely no motivation to kill Connor James Wheaton.

Justice arrives every spring when the pint-sized lizards ascend desert dwellings with the sun on their backs and the warmth in their bellies.

Lupo Batinado

A/K/A Rolf Hoffius

A/K/A Dwight N. Creepshun

A/K/A DNC

Shaunessy said; "A tad maximalist and repetitious. But picks up nicely toward the end. Wouldn't you say?"

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; "He probably was open to some editing, ostensibly unlike Matthew McIntosh in theMystery.doc and wasn't compelled to add pictures and blank pages. But, on second thought I felt that it had a pleasant natural flow. Eyedeekay."

Shaunessy said; "Eyedeekay?"

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; "Works better in written form."

Shaunessy said; "I assure you I had no intent to be critical. People all too often mistakenly take a benign characterization the wrong way."

Kerry said; "The supposedly benign characterizers often say that, while fully understanding how their remark will be interpreted. Keep it in this room, but that effort is probably the worst attempted rat-out effort I've yet seen."

With an edge of defensiveness in her tone, Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; "You couldn't say that if you understood it to be a transcending literary effort."

Shaunessy said; "Yes. I especially liked the poetic ending about the bat poo and the lizards. I am now enlightened."

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; "Wasn't the opening compelling?"

Shaunessy said; "I'll have to recuse myself from commenting on the weather report, as I was there that day and have an alternative recollection. Not substantial mind you; but a nuance or three. .... In the interest of keeping your client out of future trouble, he might do well to pitch the idea of writing the Wheaton-Hunter story to Battson."

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; "Focusing on technicalities rather than substance prompts me to question why you didn't pursue a career in law. I'll mention your suggested pitch. He'll be able to skip over the grades one through four readers. And his purple manner of writing will not disturb the economic possibilities when the subject matter interests the public."

Shaunessy said; "I thought I did. In your case, with your penchant for bogus drama, I'm prompted to wonder why you didn't pursue fiction. Regarding Hoffius, maybe he could even get Emily Crain to edit."

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; "She'd likely insist upon up-front payment this time around, and I don't believe that my client can afford it."

Shaunessy said; "This document serves its purpose. We can black out the extraneous parts for the minimalist readers."

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; "Diabolical! My compliments. We all know that will only make the readers lust after what has been made unavailable to them."

Shaunessy said; "No Mephistophelian intent, I assure you. Just considering methodologies to comply with possibly ingrained reader tastes, fancies, and limitations. It's created for their and only their judgement, you know. Perhaps we could supply them with both products, the edited one first. If dissatisfied they could merely flip to the second account. But, thanks all the same."

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; "Use your felt tip as you will. My only interest here is getting my client out of jail. Not wanting to boast you should know that it was like pulling a wisdom tooth to get this."

Kerry said; "Enough! We have what we need here. We are at a point of mutual agreement, though some of us are not recognizing the overlap of the concentric circles. Whichever is page one and page two, the deemed innocuous parts can be skimmed by the reader if so desired. That inevitably happens anyway."

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; "You are playing with me or us. We all know that concentric circles are circles that share a midpoint, such as an archery target or a dartboard. Your statement suggests the sharing of only a mutual periphery. Please visualize that the circles, though different size, all have the same bullseye. Regular polygons, regular polyhedra, and spheres can also be described as concentric as they all share the same center."

Shaunessy said; "I'll admit that after seeing your fine results I was just playing, like when DFW speaks with a forked tongue."

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; "Me similar, though my play was more akin to that of Joelle Van Dyne; Madame Psychosis to some."

Shaunessy said; "I think I may comprehend. If you change the beginning, which no one else saw, you automatically change the mass perception of the end."

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; "If you insist upon bringing in Pynchon, I reserve the right to start all over."

Shaunessy said; "No objection whatsoever, if I am allowed a brief period of recuperation."

Kerry said; "This two-sided menage a tois is hereby concluded. Threes are always difficult. If you two have issues, please take them outside. I have business; a dirty informant to be released, a dirtier perp to put behind bars, and a guardedly obtuse, but pliably ambitious Deputy District Attorney to keep convinced that doing things my way are actually his way, and in his own best self-interest."

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; "That's so ....... "

Kerry said; "Out!"

Shaunessy said; "Double twist when ........ "

Kerry said; "Out, I said! I'm not kidding! I tell you that I can start reading passages from a Mark Leyner book; his mama giving long, long remembrances of his youth to an empty mall in its empty food court with yesterday's dried and hard Chinese dumplings on every cheap seat. Don't push me!"

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez rose and went for the door.

Shaunessy did the same while muttering something or other about there not being any need to go ballistic.

### 24 – Crime and Accusation

It had to have had been early April; the all too short but abundant and lovely, white apple blossom time in New Mexico for a few days. On this particular day, the blossoms were still clinging to the wide trees which had lost their central leader. The tiny white flowers were so delicate that a modest breeze could, and soon would throw them to the ground, where they would be presented with no other choice than to join up with last season's Malus domestica dried up fruit remains. The trees themselves were rumored to have been once part of a huge Vista de la Feria farm; the apples picked, packed, sold, and eaten by consumers all over the great southwestern part of the USA. Or so the toothless old gappers say at every opportunity. Now the originating trees have been either cut down or exist as an ornamental oddity in a suburban yard or an adjoining field not yet plundered by the carriers of nail guns, screw guns, Home Depot seconds, and previously presumptuously prepared, pending purveyors of "progress." It was truly amazing how the field residing bearers of flowers and fruit had survived devoid of human caretaking, which 'experts' deem an absolute and painstaking necessity. Now the little flowers are welcomed as a sure sign that the cold weather had passed. That may not be entirely true. But soon the toothless old gappers in training will be saying that at every opportunity, so convincingly, that one would think that they actually believed it, as much as one believes what pours from the "Black Lies Matter" lips of W.H.O.'s Teddy.

Apple blossoms; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license; modified.

Chief Kerry and Deputy District Attorney Takshaak Singh had worked out the details of the charges to be filed and an arrest warrant was issued by the Honorable Magistrate Ambrose Bierce for Anisette Rhona Hunter and/or Anisette Rhona Hunter-Wheaton. Shaunessy arrived at work early that morning. Striker was not in attendance, but Kerry was already there. He seemed excited and called to Shaunessy the moment the front door banged behind him; "We have an arrest warrant!"

For his part, Shaunessy was tempted to rejoice, but caught himself, finding it practical to avoid the likely letdown or "joke" soon to follow curt, cryptic, and "joyous" announcements, and wait for the further details in the small print. He was sufficiently aged to know from experience that unfounded expectations breed morose disappointment better than Beijing could worldwide breed the China BatPoo II virus, even with the conspiratorial aid of terrorist and non-medical-doctor Teddy (Lips) Adhominem Beelzebubus, current head of the West-hating, and also West-funded W.H.O. Some dunce-cap-wearing dogs have a seemingly irrational penchant to bite the only hand which feeds them. Perhaps this is the "diplomatically understandable" result of having had an existence wholly dependent upon being a standardized staple in part of an endangered species indifferent, coarse, Chinese Bobo cuisine. Hey, if that's not exactly right, Bobos know what Bobos know.

The warrant, which seemed to push many, if not all, of Kerry's shifting enthusiasm buttons could well have been for some 'bad-ass' scofflaw who had not paid his traffic ticket by its due date, who had also refused to turn down his no-tax-paying, Willy Nelson station during his offensive and battery draining encounter with an authorized representative of the much too simple, hidden, and plebian law; the latter further hindered at his own peril, but not choice, through the Libtard imposition which required police daintiness when dealing with a belligerent, armed, multi-time felon. A mistake could cost one their job, and even worse, a uniform banishment from social media.

Through effortlessly being primarily focused on how much time had passed since the last entry in the Wheaton-Hunter diary, one might more or less say that the most expected approach of a natural bloke cognizant of an undocumented, but far from outspoken 'foreign' cousin climbing up walls in the wings, Shaunessy nonplussed; "A resolute goose step and a cheers, mon capitan. ...... Please excuse my thighs' seeming reticence. It's merely due to their having been enjoying a rest for much too long."

Like one striving to oblige a teasingly reticent fart, Chief Kerry grimaced while shifting the weight in his chair from left to right and said; "The warrant is for the arrest of Anisette Rhona Hunter. I thought you'd be pleased."

"Well, sure. Just give me a minute to check what else might be on my compelling schedule. I'm sure I can fit it in somewhere; if not today, then tomorrow. Please correct me if I am wrong in the view that it has become obvious that time is not of the essence." He retrieved his scruffy and unruly, mixed-dogs-eared book from his back pocket and fanned the pages, pretending to be reading the contents like any book reviewer doing a volume. "Good gosh and consarned golly. How about right now?"

"Good show. But Striker isn't in yet." Kerry slid the document toward Shaunessy.

"I don't need any help from Striker. I think that I can pull in this woman on my own, and actually I'd prefer to do the routine that way."

"Your efficiency is not only admirable. It is also Vista de la Feria Police Department budget conducive. Why, Striker can give out $1,000 worth of traffic tickets in that time."

"You're to be commended for your continual efficient insight. As obvious as the least bit of scrutiny would provide, most never attain the capacity to realize that everything comes or goes in packages. I'm on my way, Chief." Shaunessy took the warrant and left the office, headed for his sanctioned patrol vehicle; the one with all the impressive options for red and blue light flashing and ear-splitting sirens available with a diminutive click of the right button. It seemed appropriate, and much more "official" than his personal means of transport. When the engine more or less semi-purred after his insertion of the thingy with the three magical symbols, he aimed the car toward the untended, gently greening hay in residence at the front yard of 977 Camino de Tristeza; that same hay much like a homeless and tatty Los Angelean sleeping on Hollywood Boulevard's "Walk of Fame" or a manipulating abuser ready to pounce.

At the same time, in an unknowing mimic of the copyright violating performance of the many residents of the Wuhan Province, terrified, potential informants, Anisette Rhona, for her part, nervously stood by her front window, using both hands to firmly grip the empty, multi-hued and multi-fonted "Sarcastic exaggeration is the best thing ever" coffee cup, more or less in expectation of the arrival of a horde of infected bats. If it had been one moment later; or even if it might have been an hour; the nascent sun sailed into a patch of clouded sky and the woman feeling as yet an un-hunted woman, that not particularly conducive with her semi-twisted desire to be otherwise, saw that visible quintessence of rule lift an errant billow to indicate a spot notably toward, yet still beyond her. Quite the conundrum it might have been had she seen the reflection.

Her clouded reverie ended quicker than the attempt to make a TV film of Fenton Foxfussy's 'Theme from an Imaginary Midwestern,' or for that matter any other severely over budget, un-filmable, internal monologue with pretensions to aquatic action here and there, but mostly neither here nor there, noticed to be as such on day two of inspection, when Anisette Rhona saw and heard Shaunessy's police car enter her driveway in extraordinarily moving, state-of-the-art cinematography and seemingly Blu-ray based surround sound, perhaps enhanced by the digitized special effects provided by the remastering of the recalcitrant, coerced, and disinterested gravel which had taken up boisterous residence on its tires, much like the self-appointed Ministers of Information trying to explain away the gang-related violence, everyone else expected in the cop-free nirvana, commonly referred to as CHAZ-CHOP-CHIT.

For two moments she congratulated and comforted herself in imagining that she understood a cheap alternative stage production of the mid-19th century story; Fyodor Dostoevsky's "Crime and Punishment" with Rodion Raskolnikov (Rascally Rodent or vice-versa), flip-flopping midway; apparently more or less gravitating toward the uncaring safety of guilt denied; like any modern, sufficiently popular to attract an advertiser or two. Turning her back to her righteously boring captor-on-the-way, she walked submissively away in the direction of her front door, looking to neither the right nor the left; hardly daring to breathe, her head and back actually aching with the simple "prophecy" of a scattered terrorist's explosion; like a well-planned New York City outbreak of China BatPoo II, hidden in the "artful" graffiti, deftly executed with all the precision of a spray can. Perhaps, in utilizing the standing-room-only popularity of the subway venue, like a George Saunders series of shorts makes use of "The New Yorker" and the converse but also simultaneously reciprocal play-out of the ancient story's old words derided in "new" and clever words, while ostensibly unaware that the subject idea is totally non-existent in any form of reality, outside of the cyber-based, fantasy genre as shown by any of a number of Goofreads, feral, and indie reviewer's "reader considerate reviews." To say that this is redundant and boring is precluded by that statement being ultimately just another redundant, boring, and useless reflection upon the Goofreads play book; the derivative always unable to exceed the stature of their source.

Soon upon arriving there, Anisette Rhona Hunter-Wheaton had fully returned to her solipsistic rationality, her thoughts "This fuck is bothering me." She opened the door, Shaunessy still a few steps away, but packing. Anisette Rhona said; "I've been expecting you. What took so long?" She thought that she was being sarcastically witty, and by her standards she was.

Shaunessy said; "'Scientific' interference. The 'experts' are running as rampant these days as looters disguised as peaceful protestors. Haven't noticed?" He cuffed her flailing arms and added; "You are under arrest for 1) attempted murder, 2) assault with a deadly weapon, 3) unauthorized transport of a dead body, 4) tampering with evidence, 5) conspiracy to conceal an attempted murder, 6) perjury, 7) suspicion of first-degree murder, 8) conspiracy to commit murder, 9)aiding, advising, or encouraging suicide, 10) gross negligence in not properly monitoring one you have already testified as to having been on 'suicide watch,' 11) aiding and abetting a suicide, 12) tampering with a crime scene, 13) conspiring to tamper with a crime scene 14) leaving the scene of a crime and 15) obstruction of a police non-investigation." Shaunessy couldn't help but, very un-professionally and very un-expertly laugh out loud at the last charge.

Envisioning her immediate near-future almost as well as a de-funded criminal from W.H.O., Anisette Rhona put on a brave front, and said; "That is atrocious. Not only is the writing uninterestingly plebian and as poorly worded as an Asimov information dump, it is redundant in at least three places. No doubt it would get poor reviews from the Goofreads indie book 'mavens,' if they had taken the trouble to read prior to spouting like a beached whale."

Shaunessy had a number of 'clever' responses at his disposal, including that in this case that he was the reader rather than the writer or editor, and was thereby obviously totally blameless in the shoddy construction of the excerpted passage, as well as some BatPoo about the degree of importance she had assigned to the Goofreads crowd source. But, rather than risk saying anything this horrid woman might construe to be agreement, he countered with a matter-of-fact; "Hey, bitch. No one edits me. Got some problem with that? Take up a fucking petition and then shove the results up your skinny ass."

Shaunessy found it mildly amusing to watch and hear the captured, petite mercenary attempt to reverse a field in the midst of a broken play that the Boselli God would have been overly "challenged" to fix on a crummy, hundred yard gridiron, when guilty-and-useless-as-a-meant-to-be-clandestinely-anti-US-W.H.O.-pronouncent-by-way-of-China-Xi's-approval, Anisette Rhona said almost, but not quite confessionally; "Two time felon's word against mine. You lose."

"The jury just might not like your face. I would say that the odds are."

Anisette Rhona kicked each of Shaunessy's shins, to which he responded; "Thank you. We will now be adding assault on a police officer and resisting arrest to your list." After having given all of a second's thought about using his foot to kick her offending legs out from under her, and humorously enjoying the tit for tat as she fell, he thought it the best thing to do. Reverting from being justified to a needed practicality, he surmised that there was a high probability that some nerd-Lib-anti-police weinie probably had a camera on the event, to be displayed later sans the first kicks. Sometimes it is best, while also professional and practical, to defer fun when dealt a losing hand, and wait for the inevitable winner.

"This is bullshit. The Medical Examiner has absolved me, screamed Anisette Rhona. "My lawyer will have me out quicker than a copyright challenged Chinaman can steal a US Batman movie, and you'll be up on harassment charges."

"Imprisoning Capone on tax evasion was bullshit too. But, if you had asked Al, he seemed to think that it worked. .... Harassment? Moi? Dear lady, I am merely executing the warrant-issuing judge's order. You might do better to try 'scaring' him." Shaunessy led her to the car by her frontal manacles, almost sorry for bringing in someone so pathetic and deluded. Almost. But not quite. With a protecting hand on her head, he made sure that she didn't damage it further during her descent into the back seat.

Subsequent to making a verbal ruckus in the sound-proofed backseat; at the station, Anisette Rhona became stoic and quiet. She was booked and allowed her one call, which she wisely made to her attorney; one Robert Weinstein, who worked out of Albuquerque, more or less right next door to Vista de la Feria. Shaunessy was amused that she had chosen a lawyer who specialized in defending pedophiles and/or illegal immigrants; nay, undocumented ....... something or others, that determination apparently a function of the day of the week. He kept his visions to himself.

At questioning, Anisette Rhona said nothing but; "Any comments will be made through my attorney." Shaunessy was actually glad of that, as it minimized the amount of time he was required to spend alone with her in a small room, jotting down her boring lies, while inundated with enough stale perfume to gag a banquet sized, Chinese bat in the Province of Wuhan, with short, but vicious eyes.

She was taken to the same cell recently occupied by Rolf Hoffius. It had not been tidied after his relatively recent departure. Small towns are constrained by small budgets, though that seemed fitting in a "poetic" sense. Left alone, after the door clanked shut, Anisette Rhona Hunter Wheaton sat on the hard, black, leatherette, pop down bed/couch staring at the unreachably high window, wishing that someone might have at least had attended to the cobwebs and grime, apparently not realizing how hilarious it was to be a cynic expecting a display of some sort of optimism.

### 25 – Zabriskie Point

Zabriskie Point"; property of the author.

"Hey, hey babe. Job done. It's all over. I'm back. Freedom!"

"Good gracious!" said Margaret, "I do believe I'm inside a happy ending! Well, let me see, for future reference I shall write down the title and the date I heard it on my account at Goofreads. That must be 'Shaunessy and a Literary Death' and today. Would you please explain the plot and the overall point."

"You must know by now. There is no plot," said Shaunessy unhelpfully. "And there is no point."

"The book, most heavily when in proximity of or alluding to the denouement, breaks as much new ground as an immigrant gardener not aware of being under surveillance, unintentionally evading easy delegation to any recognized, existing, standard genre or subgenre. It simultaneously anticipates; through grudging respect and a simultaneously derisive mock, the 'humorous' falsetto of the elevated and inconsequential, as well as the pedantic drone of the truncated and popular, as undoubtedly would have come from both the Gaddis pumpers at the ostensible self-proclaimed, high end to the devotees of Bukowski at the other, had Charlie been understood by them as having found something worthwhile beyond the stupor, had the author not herein registered his anticipatory anticipation, in full expectation of the two-faced majority to find solace in their ability to defy, rather than their elusive, some might say inability to outdo anything. The book demonstrates the fragmented relationship between the signifier and the signified without calling attention to the still viewed as solid, but nonetheless definitely ancient semi-trope; like a Nobel Prize winning, Yasser Arafat's accumulation of billions 'in the cause' of the perennially caged Palestinians in the era of the Palestine Liberation Organization through and beyond the adjustments dictated by the Second Intifada. Deconstruction of meaning and the rationality of thought are as given as the Lewis Carroll penchant for jabberwocky. The prior is not meant to overstate the relative importance of the ending, as we could not have one of those without an attendant beginning and middle, silly. It just happened to be there, that's all. When the clownishness of one is divided by naught, it is the mathematically defined source of infinite jest."

"Who said that? It didn't sound like Ramon." said Shaunessy.

"Said what?" said Margaret, "And what's a Ramon?"

"That overly simplistic ramble, of course. And that little man in the window who wasn't there."

"Whatever does that mean?" asked Margaret.

"Why is a Derrida like a derrière?"

"Eyedeekay."

"Eyedeekay either. The first five letters just happened to be there, that's all, I should think."

"It would be reasonable", said Margaret in a firmer than usual tone "for you to explain what the book is about, so that I can put that in my Goofreads review."

Shaunessy sighed heavily and said; "A review is not a synopsis, no matter what Kirkus may say. ........ Except on those spoiler-filled babbles the indie 'reviewers' install on Goofreads. On a technical level, it would seem to be reasonable to expect a compelling succession of non-contradictory circumstances in a Tana French attempt at a mystery, but don't expect that you'll find any. Besides, it is the reviewer's responsibility to write the review, not the author's. The reviewer sees the bag of words as they see it; no further instruction called for. In the absence of understanding, a half-baked synopsis is provided. No matter, excepting the spoilers laid on potential future readers. The writer's job has ended; which is where I believe we started."

Margaret couldn't think of anything interesting to reply to this, and she really didn't want to write another silly review-synopsis on Goofreads, partially because no one reads them anyway, but mostly because a true reader is not a writer. She just thought that Shaunessy would like that, and wanted to be nice. "It's the intent which most counts," she had heard rumored. So she spoke not another word. ............. After a lull which seemed to rival "Artamène ou le Grand Cyrus," by Madeleine de Scudéry, in both length and comprehensibility, she heard Shaunessy say; "Would you like to hear of my take on that one?"

She said an emphatic "No!"

Shaunessy was taken aback, like a shipped Chinese assembly-required bistro table which defies assemblage, as what he really had said was; "Would you like to hear of my next one?" He could not have known how Margaret's mind was occupied with its shifting between the two worlds of un-desired niceties and Long Ms. Scudery. Since Shaunessy had more or less taken pleasure in his long relationship with the lady, and was convinced that the feeling was mutual, he concluded that something must be temporarily askew and amiss, and tread softly on with; "I'll be back to those relaxing speeding stops sans my former partner Striker again."

Margaret said; "That should take the edge off."

"Yes. Especially since we'll be on opposite ends of town. On the way back here I ran across a good funny. No, not on the net. Kind of 'of course' on that anticipated silly thought. It was in the free 'Albuquerque Alibi.' I picked it up in Walmart's entrance way right next to the noblessely obliging 'Have-a-nice-day,' grimacing woman enthroned on her purple, plastic, patio pulpit, presiding over the exit with the 'heart rending' insertion up her snotting old nose. You know the one; can't miss 'em; the replacements, if any, are always an 'oh so sad' mirror image. Nowadays they only ask to see your receipt if you're white. Also couldn't miss the letter, it being adjacent to the 'Horny Women Seeking One Night Stands with Hard men' columns. Odd coincidence. Huh? The letter from the purportedly local Sad Sack began went something like this;

'Dear editor;

I sincerely hope you'll print this. Not for me, but because I'm certain that many unspoken others have experienced this type of neglect. It is time to put our collective feets down and insist upon fair and equal treatment.

I called 'Suicide Prevention Lifeline and Ancillary Services' and they put me on hold again. After ten minutes of Nine Inch Nails musaak, a voice came back with a question.

'Are you still there?'

'Yes.'

'Shit. Figured. ......... Look, you've already used up your month's allocation of ten free chats and you're living on borrowed time. An unlimited subscription is available for $39.99 per month plus tax, 12 months payable up front. Got your credit card handy?'

'Yeah, but that plastic debt is one of my depressing problems. Won't this make it worse?'

'Don't worry. Look at the bright side for a change. If you kill yourself you won't have to pay it.'

'Cool. Never thought of that.'

'Hold the line for the next available suicide intake counsellor.'

'Suicide is painless. It brings on many changes ......' blandly musaaked in my ear, seemingly knocked off by the Rolling Stones during their recent Geriatric Tour, interspersed with mellow voices which extolled the virtues and cost efficiencies of 'above ground lawn 'burial,' carcass composting, and its environmental friendliness; especially conducive to the flourishing of popular purple raspberries.'

It was a catchy tune, despite what that baboon at the WHO zoo says, and thoughts of those raspberries get one's butt moving. ............. 'Da da da da dee dum. Is anyone ever going to pick this fucking thing up? I got the gun in my fucking mouth, man.'

'This is Katrina; your personal suicide architect. This call is being monitored for quality control purposes. How may I help you today?'

'Glub, glub, prashit.'

'Is that Hindi? You'll have to spell it for my translator.'

'No. It's broken English. I had the gun in my mouth and I knocked out three of my front teeth.'

'Did you know that the funeral parlors rip you off on that irrelevant cosmetic stuff?'

'Not really.'

'Yes. Unless it is otherwise specified by the decedent they standardly perform all sorts of superficial 'beautifying' services at the highest of rates, while in just a matter of a few days you'll be getting your face eaten by worms. Total waste. For $10.99 plus tax per month, payable 12 months in advance, we'll send you and whoever you designate for burial obligations information which will save thousands of dollars, with monthly updates. May we charge that to your card?'

'No, godammit. When the fuck is someone going to start to talk me out of committing suicide?'

'There's no reason to use bad words. We're professionals just trying to help. Secondly, I'm not here to talk you out of suicide. I'm here to help facilitate it in the most expeditious and affordable manner possible.'

'I want to be prevented; not facilitated!'

'Well, you just navigated yourself into the wrong department. Didn't you? Please hold while I switch you to Prevention. .... I didn't hear a thank you.'

'Thank you? I'm supposed to be paying for this shit and I'm getting farted around. This is the Suicide Prevention hot line. Is it not?'

'And Ancillary Services. We've expanded. I can also connect you with a horny babe who talks dirty. That'll probably take care of all your problems. We're having a special on that, right now; just $5.99 plus tax per ten minutes, 3 hours payable in advance.'

'I'm having some trouble doing the math in my head.' ..... "

Margaret interrupted to say; "That's absolutely atrocious, Thomas. I'm surprised at you."

"Sorry, Margaret. Investigating these murder-suicide cases has some bad effects. Just a little attempt at a joke. Glad this CJW business is over. Celebration. Justice was almost done. ........... No sarcasm intended. That's pretty good when trying to unravel a situation which emanates from the standardized motivations of love, money, revenge, self-importance, blackmail, incorrect 'expert' findings, and true deceit complicated by perceived deceit, the oddities of legalities, misrepresentation, procrastination, laziness, disinterest, the false public image demanded of a pop star, unexpected opportunity compromised, and a completely chance page conveniently considered 'useful' added with humorous intent at the very end. I don't think that anyone else has the whole story, but that doesn't really matter. Each segment has sufficient understanding of the events to adequately proceed with their end of the deal and Anisette Rhona will be punished, if not criminally, then on a civil basis. The only one who consistently told the whole truth as it applied to that particular day was the publisher who absconded with CJW's computer, and that statement probably requires the caveat that this was because he didn't know anything better under the circumstances, and/or that one must first comprehend that there is a required general need for businesslike, profit oriented entities to 'create' a public image which is designed to maximize revenue. First, let me supply the background. ...... "

"Second, let me find a comfortable seat with a soft pillow."

"Comfy?"

"As much as one can be when about to attempt to politely and with feigned interest, as indicated by lip machinations at appropriate moments, sit through the maximalist version of the old story."

"Well, if you really don't want to hear it?"

"No. No. Don't be so sensitive. Amuse me. Amuse us. The only thing on TV is 'The Mandalorian' anyway, 'Star Wars' fan fiction; playing repeats already. ......... Uhmmnn. How can I politely say? This will be less than ninety minutes. Correct?"

"Much less, but longer than one attention challenged 'Mandalorian' fangirl might desire."

"My unfaltering lover now equivocates and simultaneously chides?"

"You're getting extremely off topic."

"Half off topic."

"You say that so resolutely."

"Just proceed with the damn 'amusing' long story already. Okay?"

"No problem, sweets. First, it's best to understand where the victim, CJW, is coming from. Everything else is derivative of him. .............. "

"You sexist pig!"

"May I 'just proceed' as you demanded?"

"Negotiably requested is a better description."

"I will ignore Webster's hampered meaning of words right here as a deference to you, my love. ......... "

"Please, yes. Saint Shaunessy has such a nice ring to it."

"I'll ignore that too. What was I talking about?"

"CJW's 'primacy' in your extended and time-consuming story which no one understands."

"Got it. It's actually quite easy to follow using the particulars; much more difficult when a generalization is attempted."

"Particularize away."

"Okay. Thank you. CJW is moving around somewhere on the autistic spectrum disorder chart as is graphically shown in DSM-5; as are we all. Five or six years ago, the 'experts' were positioned to remove this from the manual, thinking it merely a strong indication of preference when within the mathematically normal distribution regions, rather than a 'disorder' which negates recognition or the appearance of recognition. People get all kinds of insulted when no one pays attention to them, as if anyone ever paid attention to anyone else. ......... You're not supposed to say that under the penalty of BarneyGoggle, subsidiary, and affiliate lifetime banishment. ...... So, CJW is minutiae seen as difficult, because he sometimes contradicted what he had previously said, and popularly difficult because some people didn't understand what he wrote and because of his penchant to issue disdainful rebukes to anyone sufficiently foolish to risk a public confrontation. ...... "

"If I might interject, ....... "

"I'll save us the tedium. Not then. His contradictions were more the result of an attempted and more or less effective 'Battson and Hunter management' of his filmed interviews, coupled with a feigned, long term tedium brought about through being required by the business people who paid the penthouse bills for him to effect the most lovable, popular Millennial stance; sidestepping their net-age, standardized money, power, communications control, and ultimately fascistic lust."

"The transition from 'artiste' to pop star."

"Yes, from his point of view of their point of view. From his point of view alone, he was likely always tending toward the pop star. He most often handled that quite well, but sometimes resisted as too much of a farce from both his and theirs."

"Yes, the most moronic are still unable to differentiate Laurence Olivier from Richard III; whether in book form, stage production, movie, or further 'artistic' derivation."

"Yes. Same wavelength, babe! 'The Entertainer' and I'd just like to add what you stopped short of specifying; that differentiation is anathema to box office. ....... You do realize that these diversions are extending the story."

"Some extensions are worth extending."

"I knew that you were not only an excellent cuddlebug, but also a genius demon."

"Flattery will get you everywhere."

"Can it make flesh of the ethereal?"

"That's a good question."

"Where was I?"

"I don't know. Start over."

"Sure. Rather than repeat what I've already said, I'll take another direction. Through business management and the not infrequent blurbs issued by his mercenary wife of four years, Anisette Rhona Hunter, CJW is popularly viewed as this depressed, tortured person, with an unshakable need to write 'meaningful' literature. He wasn't that at all; at least no more than anyone who was aware of having had some sort of choice, ultimately never of any prior significance. Rather, he satisfied any possible need to do that when twelve years ago he published to both high sales levels and critical acclaim 'Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers.' Its writing was the result of three years of tedious work, as he would say; 'very un-fun, and paying enough to live modestly for three years,' and then he was required to have it 'edited' by very commercially oriented Henry Battson; his formerly assigned editor, more or less, and now President and Publisher at Farr, Simon, and Moreau; now the most profitable part of the McVirago group. The net result was the elimination of somewhere between 133,000 and 200,000 words; retaining and minorly repositioning the remaining 485,000. ......... "

"Oooooh, that must be so frustrating for a writer."

"Maybe. I don't know. But that's irrelevant in a way as CJW was not condemned to that limitation the vast majority of the time. However, it also had to have been a first-hand experience of what he expected through his long-term attraction to the joke of the absurdist form. He had evidenced no particular interest in writing until his post-graduate days when he was trying to decide what his Masters would be in. Upon being presented with and having read a book by a 'prodigy,' he said; 'I can do better than that.' His undergraduate double major of Math and Philosophy, was later to be restated as Philosophy and 'English' as part of the Anisette Rhona Hunter and Henry Battson led; Farr, Simon, and Moreau marketing plan which took precedence in the eyes of the willingly and happily duped public. Meanwhile CJW was raking in easy money from writing magazine articles and doing television appearances. That actually pays more than the writing of any book which doesn't become a major Hollywood movie. Easy five figures for an expense paid trip and three pages or an expense paid trip with one page; plus both of which also gave him an excuse to be away from Anisette Rhona."

"That does require some explanation."

"Well, CJW and Anisette Rhona married later in life, more out of a Connor James Wheaton wish to not be alone than anything romantic. Anisette Rhona, a low income 'artist,' liked the financial stability. A pre-nup .......... "

"No. No. I well understand that part. It's the magazine pay which throws me."

"Hmmnn. I was getting ahead of myself anyway. When a high circulation magazine cover says it contains something from a popular star, their sales level goes up another 20%. Make a few ballpark assumptions and do some simple math. On one video CJW was doing a reading of one of his old articles. The audience was laughing and a few times he followed the laughter by saying; 'And I only got $15,000 for this.' High circulation magazines are more lucrative than books; which are deemed 'best sellers' at less than an 8,000 sales level. CJ was quite happy, but had made two mistakes. He was in love with Emily Crain, more or less, a local avid reader, who was editing what was tentatively and finally called 'Boundless Monotony – a Chucklesome Novel,' which he had rashly contracted with Battson to do, for a pretty penny I might add, right after 'Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers' hit the charts. He soon found that he had no interest in writing it, exacerbated by his subsequently discovered observation that doing so would sequester him in the house with Anisette Rhona all day; who he had taken a few years to settle in on seeing her as the cold, untalented, and money grubbing parasite she is. I mean within a week of his death, the 'artiste' no one had ever heard of prior to her also late life marriage to him, who I might add was trying to sell ten poor quality, seemingly dashed off paintings commemorating him for $20,000 apiece."

"Her agenda seems so obvious."

"To us, because we're lovers. To suckers, leeches, parasites, and mercenary investors, otherwise. On primarily a business level, the crux of CJ's problem was that he had engaged the two time convicted felon, gardener, Rolf Hoffius, to write the book for him at $10 per page; generously assessed. Rolf didn't have many economic options and had already fancied himself some sort of writer as the result of self-publishing three stinkers which sold less than fifty in total. Rolf's literary endeavor had a less than obvious degree of similarity to CJ's entrée into the world of letters, in that it's prime motivation was pragmatic and plodding, rather than the usual author-espoused, lifelong love of books. For Rolf, writing was merely an alternative to either a lifetime of gardening or risking a lifetime of incarceration; like most, encouraged by the removal of the gate keepers introduced by free on-line publishing, and their attendant sellers of services 'guarantying' mega sales for a fee. Being an experienced crook, his problem wasn't that he believed the bullshit. His problem was that like most everyone unable to see themselves, he wasn't very good at it and did not have the funds available to advertise his stuff into a recognized 'brand.' So while he was helped by the small change he was picking up from CJW, he had greater aspirations toward being openly listed as co-author of the next CJW book, thereby having his name 'established.' It worked well for Sanderson. For his part, CJW didn't mind fulfilling his already late obligation to Battson and Farr, Simon, and Moreau with a bogus book, especially as he didn't feel adequately compensated for the best seller he had already given them. His only reticence was in granting Rolf his requested co-authorship, as he feared that could throw legal nuances into his and his alone, contractual obligation to produce a book and keep the advance. While he had promised Rolf co-authorship of the next one, he had no definite plans of there ever being a next one, though there might, depending on how much Battson would non-refundably advance. Typical business, and if one doesn't understand it, one would best stay away. Experienced writers will universally tell you that all you will ever get is the advance, and that after you pay your agent and invest in promotion, there isn't all that much left over. On a financial basis, writing books alone is either an exercise in hope of movie interest, the unknown revelation of a fragile ego, too much idle time, and/or a masochistic wish for poverty.

Connor came to see that Rolf was more technically horrible than he felt comfortable with in the ghost's trying to pass off as humorous, the atrocious writing, oh so obviously a joke missed by plebian trodders in the mud of high end lit, without any demonstrated ability to simultaneously show that the retardation proffered was not the upside limit of his repertoire. Sure, the likes of Crapaton Milkwart and Keen had gotten away with it on a modest basis; but it was not a good bet for someone with an established reputation, more or less, capable of main stream television appearances and high circulation magazine articles.

When his new lover, Emily Crain, got sufficiently secure to say that 'Boundless Monotony – a Chucklesome Novel' didn't sound at all like him, CJW first spoke of his frenzied life and lack of desired relationship with Anisette Rhona; both true insofar as an incomplete short story may be. Upon short reflection, he invited her to edit it, and as expected, she was flattered. There was no discussion of pay and CJW particularly refrained from saying that Rolf had written it, on fear of what she might say or do in the advent of another vicious end to a liaison. With the book ready on the morning of Battson's visit, he decided to come clean with Emily, and the vociferous shit landed in the fan like the kungflu."

"Didn't Anisette Rhona know about Emily?"

"In terms of being lovers, sure she did. But Anisette Rhona's concerns were purely and all too predictably financial; as she only thought of romantic considerations to the extent to which they could affect her money interest. In fact, Anisette Rhona would have been quite happy even if Emily moved in, as long as she continued to receive the benefits of CJW's writing income. Their pre-nup called for the separation of assets and no income re-distribution in the case of divorce. Anisette Rhona was totally screwed in the case of divorce, but found out that under New Mexico law if a person dies without a will their assets go to the surviving spouse and the children; and in this particular case there was none of the latter. So Anisette Rhona made a choice based on her motivation and the cards she was dealt."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Why didn't CJW have a will?"

"I don't know. Expectations of immortality, I suppose. That's the default position. Never got to ask him. But I can take a few more specific guesses at the commonly repetitive details. He was only 46. He was having a good time and like most that age, had no thoughts of death. Or he was busy as he wanted to be with other stuff. Or he didn't want to even think about it. Thought it bad luck. It's something that died when he did. Anyway, from Anisette Rhona's point of view it became obvious not only that this marriage wasn't working, but that CJ had found her replacement part, when he met Emily while both were out early morning dog walking. While he had what was sort of contracted for in having 500 pages of something called 'Boundless Monotony – a Chucklesome Novel' ready for Battson's visit, he chose to scare Anisette Rhona in her largest fear place by telling her that the novel was nowhere near ready and that he was going to tell Battson to 'fuck himself,' because of how Battson had butchered his masterpiece; 'Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers.' It was a perfect punch as if Anisette Rhona was paying attention to anything other than her now Gucci pocketbook, she'd have known that CJ didn't give a flying fornication about anything in the BS literary world other than its ability to give him a four figure hourly rate for whatever he felt like writing after attending some all-expense-paid event. A modicum of attention would have quickly told anyone that CJW was not the typical writer in that he sort of fell into it when considering post graduate options. He majored in math and philosophy, rather than the English later concocted; the first semi-big book being written when he went back for post-graduate English study. The attention, though small, that this book got actually embarrassed him and he shied away from speaking of it, as he only wrote it 'to get a good grade in the course, using the style the professor favored,' – kind of a Dorkey, thesaurusly flecked, petty lack of story, cohesive narrative, or personal interest. Immediately thereafter adopted by the Dorkey geeks, he proceeded to fill a few of their endless cyber pages with prolonged, incomprehensible (to them) book reviews, interviews and essays, which to him were a total goof, especially in that these geeks who prided themselves on having some sort of rare, unique brilliance gave no indication that they had any inkling of being preposterously-over-the-top, nonsensical put ons, ostensibly unintentioal. Upon outset CJW found this a micro niche market populated by the pretentious those who gave their blessings to the obscure, tedious, and overly difficult; any reversal of those 'special' traits grounds for banishment from their Eden to the Nodding world which vulgarly and asininely mingled with 'lessers' necessitating the faking of the universally objectionable traits of relative popularity and its attendant abomination of breadth. CJW did recognize that with only a handful of statistically insignificant exceptions, it was necessary to hunker down and play in the T-ball and Little League prior to playing in the Majors. However, the goof rich Dorkey excursion soon gave way, because of the literary and market acceptance of 'Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers' 10,000 sales during its first month, 300 in autographed and fruitless, happy faced hardcover to a recognition and invitation into a realm which actually bestowed its awards through providing the needed coin of the realm. The litmags, and semi-litmags such as 'Esquire,' flocked to his door like chickens two hours late for their thrown Healthy Harvest Non-GMO, 17% Layered Pellets, Chicken Feed, or a pitiable, weak, and needy Dorkey poseur attempting to hawk bogus and overpriced scratchings on Goofreads. CJW was quite content to write easy and absurd magazine articles, though he had taken the opportunity to also again contract with Farr, Simon, and Moreau's Battson to do one more novel, which literally became 'Boundless Monotony – a Chucklesome Novel,' feeling it long term magazine-writing-necessary to turn out something which was seen as too difficult for critics to dare criticize, and also sufficiently semi-accessible enough for other than the most avid of Dorkey readers to purchase, if not read or appreciate. Had he seen it, he would have surprised himself more than anyone else when his intended non-participatory joke resonated through a rather broad segment and was one of three finalists for the Pulitzer Award for Fiction, though the award was not granted that year, one must suspect that the voting panel may have noticed something unusual. At any rate after "Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers' was released, he soon came to his senses and saw that he had attained his 'credential' required goals, and the next step was to attempt to differentiate and socially distance himself from the Dorkey chained geeks.

Let me get off CJW for a moment. His YouTube stated approaches to lit contained contradictions and I could circle around forever. I suspect that this emanated from his original desire to make an outstanding living, which he later redefined in methodology after the unexpected heralding of 'Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers' coupled with it having earned him 'enough to live modestly for three years,' while the easy magazine and TV short excursions provided much, much more. Like most everyone Anisette Rhona assumed the opposite; also noticing that CJW had spent sufficient time with Emily Crain for her to consider the gravy train days numbered.

Shoreline and "Row Jimmy" by Garcia and Hunter; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

Anisette Rhona actually had plenty of time to think about staging a suicide, giving her all the rights and cash flow. CJ's public image had been commercially managed, changing his appearance radically, from that of a rather ordinary looking young man to a disordered substance dependent suicide candidate, under the tutelage of Henry Battson. Battson knew that eccentric looking writers sell more books than the nondescript, especially in Farr, Simon, and Moreau's high lit niche. CJW once wryly smiled when saying; 'I'm not supposed to say this, but it's an acquired taste.' When the opportunity not infrequently presented itself to Anisette Rhona, she reinforced that, at the same time very aware that any death with some suicide earmarks would be casually treated as the fulfillment of a widespread expectation. She was more than the usual degree of worried when CJW told her he'd be having a bit of a row with Battson over the incomplete book, bringing to mind the possibility of a lawsuit to recover the advance. She decided that this was the day; and just in case the authorities concluded murder, the house would be full of other possible candidates, and she directly tried to point her finger at Battson. Here's a reconstructed timeline based on what we now 'know' based on adjusted reports which do not negate or necessarily contradict each other, as did the earlier ones.

August 12, 2019

9:25AM – Emily Crain arrived. She was let into the house by sneering Anisette Rhona. That being long established standard operating procedure, decades prior 'learned' through contact with scores of other never-was's, who in pitiful attempts at blocking, apparently the thrill of their pathetic lives, succeeded only in temporarily occupying a portion of her path. Emily merely made a tight lipped, dull eyed 'smile,' passed Anisette Rhona by, and joined CJW in his private 'writing' room. She closed the door behind her; their privacy aided and abetted through the inside push of the clicky little button thing on the circular housing which also enveloped the handle. They ignored the neatly stacked and printed ruins of 'Boundless Monotony – a Chucklesome Novel.' They drank and carried on, as lovers will. Well of spirit, CJ decided to tell her the truth regarding the book being written by Rolf Hoffius, who he had paid. Emily initially reacted terribly, now feeling cheated both romantically and financially. She yelled incoherently, but at a decibel level capable of reaching the winery across the street. Soon, the inebriated lovers proceeded to kissy-kissy make up. They intermittently got further sotted and made up more, though with a bit of an edge wherein at approximately 12:40PM Emily 'playfully' bound CJ's hands with duct tape, ostensibly a needed show of power which CJ recognized and half-jokingly complied with. Emily left five minutes later. How she managed to walk and drive home without having played bumper cars will forever be a mystery. CJ's constrained hands did not prevent him from pouring and downing a few more shots of straight Jack Daniels; at that point the burgundy as effective and interesting as tap water. That irresistible warm glow pervaded his room; and he gave into its seduction, laid on the carpeted floor, using his recently departed dog Drone's errant towel bed as a pillow. He contentedly closed his eyes, scenting his Drone. His pleasant dreamy state evolved to one of passed out nothingness; the last thing he would ever know.

10:30AM – Ghost writer, gardener-handyman, Anisette Rhona semi-loving, and of most personal significance, twice convicted, felonius and in desperate need of an income which would not risk an unforgiving third, Rolf Hoffius, A/K/A Dwight N. Creepshun, arrived. 'Boundless Monotony – a Chucklesome Novel' now finished and the grounds more or less tended he had no reason to be there unannounced other than to pick up a few bucks for puttering around with and watering the sage. He continually said that he left at 1:10PM, seeing no one, and worked only in the front yard; the first assertion true. His statement was at best incomplete in that he heard Emily yelling, did some unplanned 'work' in the back, saw and left at the same 1:15PM time as his partner, Anisette Rhona who had gotten his attention when she hammered in the nails; after assisting her in the dragging of CJ's dead body and providing unrequested technical advice, which was followed.

1:00PM – Seeing her opportunity, Anisette Rhona got an idea. She wished that Rolf Hoffius would have left by then, but she knew that things are never quite ideal, and a moment not exploited is just a moment passed. She went into CJW's private room, and found him passed out drunk on the floor, wrists bound with duct tape. She took one of his leather belts from the closet and strangled him with it; lifting upward to make the neck marks appear to be consistent with those of a hanging. When done, she cut the belt off, and nailed the short end into the outside, but nearby portal overhead beam, to make it appear as if CJW hung himself and that someone, by chance eventually to be seen as she, cut him down, as she didn't have the strength to lift the body and stage a 'proper' hanging. As she was struggling with CJW's much heavier corpse, trying to drag the body outside and under the nailed belt cut-off, the felonius Rolf Hoffius found her as he had heard the hammering noises and came back to investigate. Immediately assessing the score and seeing his dreams of co-authorship money washed away, he made a deal with Anisette Rhona, with whom he had an as-seen-by-her a Mellors-Lady Chatterly type of relationship, that he had seen nothing in return for a silencing payment of $250,000. Anisette Rhona quickly agreed as she had no intention of paying him and that he couldn't very well inform the police without implicating himself in a third felony. In order to buy some time to allow him to rationally think about it, and also because she didn't personally have access to the sum, she added the proviso that he'd have to wait until the CJW estate was settled. Hoffius' calculation differed in concluding expectations and options. She intended to say that she left to run errands at 12:00PM, in hopes of among other things placing Hoffius and/or Battson alone or together, it didn't really matter to her, at the scene and her being most importantly removed from it. Hoffius helped her drag the body out the door to the sun-drenched portal under the nailed belt fragment and gave cover-up advice which was taken.

1:15PM – Leaving the front door open, Anisette Rhona and Rolf Hoffius left, each in their own car, drawing the attention of the worker/owner at the vineyard across the street, who later confirmed this. This was before Henry Battson arrived, Anisette Rhona's prime objective to place him alone with the dead body, as a backup plan, in case the authorities did not rule the death a suicide. CJW's body was left lying in the baking sun, which made it impossible for the Medical Examiner to establish the precise time of death, or so he said, and the body was not observable from any part of the house other than through the glassed door in CJW's room.

1:20PM – Henry Battson, President and Publisher at Farr, Simon, and Moreau; arrived and let himself in. After twenty minutes of couch sitting silence, he left to have a few more beers at the famous Indigo Crow, where he had been since noon. He didn't feel comfortable exploring the possibly empty house, and further, if CJW was there he didn't want to risk disturbing and 'provoking' an argument with the volatile writer, especially in the expected contentious discussion of the very late book.

2:10PM - Henry Battson left the Indigo Crow and drove back to the Wheaton-Hunter residence. None of the employees of the establishment could later confirm this; ostensibly as Battson was a rather nondescript business-type the artsy oriented sommeliers des vin of the waterhole almost tolerated when not ignoring or serving with 'cool' eyeless contact. Besides, being seen as one seen capable of consorting and cooperating with the 'pig' police, that possibility risked an incalculably huge impairment to a waiter's career. At 2:20PM Battson once again let himself in the front door, this time unobtrusively annoyed with the empty house, but still reticent to disturb cantankerous CJW. He groused under his breath while sitting on the couch in the open living room, mentally trying to decide whether he was 'buzz' maddened by the inattention granted one of his stature, or 'buzz' amused with the flouncing artistes he had once again glimpsed, this time in 'remote' New Mexico's Indigo Crow; the standardized archetype apparently universal; but for the costumes worn. Anisette Rhona re-entered at 2:25PM and after perfunctory cordialities offered to 'graciously' find and produce CJW for him. Excusing herself, she diverted around a bit. After the appropriate delay, she 'found' the body on the portal and began screaming; 'What have you done to him?' Battson followed her sound, eventually seeing the carcass, and rather than worrying about any legal implications, thought; 'Oh, shit. There goes the fucking book and the advance is out the window.' .......... Ummagumma. Retraction. Whether or not a CJW effort, put something out with his deceased name on it, and you have a financial, award winning smash. I mean 'What else can a poor boy do, other than try to make the best out of a situation he was handed, while devoid of resurrectional abilities? It's really such a shame that the liar is dead.'

2:35PM – 'Frantic' Anisette Rhona called 911, sufficiently 'incoherent' to induce the recording machine to register decibels with a highly fluctuating range.

2:45-2:50PM – Emily Crain and Rolf Hoffius popped back in for no particularly discernable reason; she maybe in search of some more of the bottled ecstasy her empty pockets could not obtain, and he attempting to keep an eye on his only investment. Emily seemed as shocked as an alcohol induced numbing rationality allows; an initial gasp which quickly settles into one of those dazing recognitions propelled by 20-20 hindsight. More 'alert' Hoffius probably just kept an eye on the 'developing' events.

3:00PM – Striker and I arrived at the house and sat outside waiting for the Medical Examiner, as instructed. I saw the winery worker, who turned out to be the resident owner, working in the overbearing heat.

3:45PM – The Medical Examiner arrived with his team of two assistants. We saw the corpse, and 'allowing' me the privilege of sitting in, Harrison Brody III questioned the four people there, in what seemed to be a cursory manner. Based on what they said, I made my first timeline and left.

The following day, I got lucky when Striker called in sick. Not having any impediment, I did some investigating of my own. The winery worker/owner told me that yesterday had been an unusual day at the normally quiet Wheaton-Hunter house as he heard a loud argument in the morning, the number of visitors was much more than ordinary, cars coming and going, and Hoffius and Anisette Rhona leaving together at 1:00PM, which was inconsequentially imprecise and understandable in terms of his lack of a timepiece and testimony later given when the passed event was not initially seen as being of any significance, other than their leaving together, a distinct improvement over most web postings. It was actually 1:15PM, and Alejandro did say that they were exchanging some indecipherable conversation, to which their tones assigned a seeming importance. Nobody else in the area saw anything. I visited CJW's psychiatrist who said that she had not prescribed any anti-depressants, as he wasn't depressed. Rather he was having some trouble in trying to cope with the false image Battson, his agent, and Anisette Rhona had pressured him to effect, as well as guilt feelings he had in being unable to tell Anisette Rhona that he didn't love her, and thereby proceeding to a divorce. Given the 'money primacy' he had experienced with Anisette Rhona as well as other prior women, he was in no rush to get into the same potential trap with 'sweet' Emily Crain. I went back to the residence and Anisette Rhona not there, I was let in by the maid, who had cleaned up the area, as well as the rest of the house. She said that one of her duties was to watch CJW when Anisette Rhona was away. This was my first indication of his needing to be watched, though I noted that it was also based on instructions from Anisette Rhona. ............ "

Margaret caught Shaunessy at a brief pause, saying; "Is this almost over?"

Shaunessy, used to years of the same comment/question, acted as if he was not put off by it, calmly replying; "I'm not sure. This ramble does not emanate from any sort of outline or story board. Do you have anything else compelling to do at the moment?"

"I was strongly considering another net scan. ...... Improvement seems inevitable, and if not present you can just click it off."

"Multi- tasking challenged?"

"You don't want to know."

"I can always start over from the beginning, if you'd like. It can be easily abbreviated as in CHAZ-CHOP-CHIT."

"No! .... I mean, not necessary. I think I'm getting the gist as well or better than your average skimmer."

"Hmmnn. .... Two days after the death, and without any further investigation of the four people present that day, neighbors, or CJW's psychiatrist, Brody issued his final report, concluding that it was a suicide, effectively putting an end to the case. He noted a .32 blood alcohol level and the decedent's 'well known' disposition toward suicide.

November 30 – When finally not any longer saddled with Striker and his incessant one liners from before the flood, like on former, less efficient, days of traffic duty, I began driving by the Wheaton-Hunter house two or three times daily, in hopes of seeing something unusual.

December 11 - My daily drive-bys resulted in seeing an ersatz red hatchback junk car parked in the driveway, not much unlike the one there on the first day of 'investigation.' It was registered to Rolf Hoffius though he was nowhere to be seen and the lawn had not been tended for months.

December 15 – I spoke with the owner of the adjacent winery. His kids told me that the reddish junker was somewhat of a semi-regular attendee of the Wheaton-Hunter driveway, and of having heard some indecipherable yelling the last few times it was.

February 20 – A note stating that Anisette Rhona had performed the murder of CJW was received at Police Headquarters, also making reference to a handwritten note CJW had put in one of his books, stating that if he is found dead, check on Anisette Rhona. I requested Chief Kerry to re-open the case. He refused, saying that 'prank' mail is common. I continued my daily excursions.

March 8 – I saw a white van parked in the driveway; not unlike the one driven by the Medical Examiner; but a coincidence. A perspiring Friar Tuck-crowned and mustachioed man of 45 and 180, the latter inclusive of the 40 in his gut, in an amusingly sweated shirt with a 'READ BETWEEN THE WINES,' posterior bolstered by a self-congratulatory 'I would challenge you to a BATTLE of WITS but I see YOU are UNARMED;' opera mauve up front, which sharply contrasted in the darkened pits. He was grunting as he was loading cardboard boxes into the back of the van; they ostensibly being heavy for a gym dilettante. As these sweatshirts were all the rage in Southern California, I broached him with a cordial New Mexican; 'Somewhat out of place here?' 'Just business,' he replied without looking up, and as if the entreaty was one he had heard a million times prior. ............"

"You're dwelling in the driveway," said Margaret. "If there is one, get to the point."

"Sure. Just testing that you hadn't fallen asleep. I found out that Anisette Rhona had sold CJW's books, many with allegedly handwritten notes, these especially valuable in re-sale to those of the 'literati' who seek to have physical evidence of their being special."

"Thomas!! My word!"

"All right. All right. I bought the copy of 'Infinite Jest," and saw the handwritten note exactly where the 'anonymous' police informant said it would be. I concluded that the original note had to have been sent by someone who knew CJW extremely well. Of the four, only Anisette Rhona was entirely ruled out. As you know, the note was traced to Hoffius' computer. The following day Kerry finally got more or less on board, though Brody still balked. We arrested Hoffius on some BS, and dropped the charges in return for his co-operation in laying some other 'experimental' charges on Anisette Rhona, with the Deputy DA and Judge's approval, the former totally sold on Kerry's story of how this case would advance his career."

Margaret said; "Vonnegut's very conveniently misunderstood, pro-capitalism 'God Bless you, Mr. Rosewater.' It worked for me, but what might you say to those who choose to say that the ending was rushed and confusing?"

"To those for whom I have little respect; 'Ah, can't please everyone, and everyone's a critic. I am saddened and humbled,' while making my best attempt to hide the laughter. To those I do respect, I say; 'Thanks for noticing. Really; that you noticed is a personal honor I'll always warmly cherish more than a low IQ, ISIS bomber cherishes the backward rules of Sharia and the fifty virgins he soon expects to meat. Addressing the specific, the deficiency, if any, was entirely the fault of my loved wife Margaret. She indirectly compelled me to do that, with an absolute plethora of strong hints. Sorry. Any textually lacking interpretations of a hidden 'Hehe' is solely within the sick mind of the misinterpreter and/or the misinterpreted. Hehe."

"So, no one here is entirely innocent."

"I'm not sure that follows, and I'm also not sure which 'here' to which you refer. But sticking with the Reader's Digest condensed book, no. Everyone including Connor, was scamming somebody or disregarding prior commitments in differing degrees. .... Except me, you know."

"Yes, that 'precocious' halo is overwhelming and to some blinding."

"Aaaargh. So what would you have had me do?"

"Well, I could offer some long detail regarding your poor relationship with Brody."

"He's a ridiculously self-important prick! I might add, with all the mental capacity of octagenarial Joe Biden."

" ................. "

Assorted pictures and "Here at the Western World" by W. Becker and D. Fagen; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

" ................... "

"Don't obsess. You can only do what the law allows you to do."

"That's what I've been thinking about. I wanted to come to a place like this and give out traffic tickets in peace. That already bores the hell out of me. I find I'm interested in investigating the big, ugly cases I left New York to escape. Maybe I'll wrap my career up right now."

"What? And then mope around the house all day bothering me? I won't have it. Look, just be a little patient. More big, ugly will soon pop out in this 'Land of Enchantment.' Guaranteed. None of these bastards are totally innocent. Never were, never will be. And someone has to catch them. This time Connor James Wheaton paid the full price for a trifling infraction and Anisette Rhona Hunter might not be paying much anything for the most significant one. If left alone this particular subsection of the rabble brand would all kill each other off. Without any outside interference they would naturally and unknowingly in their 'sophisticated' intrigues make the world into a better place for the rest of us."

"As usual, you're right Margaret. Love ya, babe. I don't know. They make it so that to make a living you're required to, at a minimum, convincingly pretend commitment to a well-paying job. Eventually the act blends with the initial tendency, leaving a gap of sorts, totally reliant on a series of contradictory books."

"Not up here. You'll see. Love ya, babe."

"The problem down here is that things are easy to break. Any idiot can do it. And they're virtually impossible to fix. Love ya, babe."

The duo dashed off somewhere out of computer eye view, apparently having better things to do than bother to take the required ten seconds to turn it off, leaving it to play for no one.

Precisely three minutes and 8,846,782 bytes later, the ignored laptop screen did a swirly, blanked, blued, and then flashed; "We interrupt this program to bring you momentous news just posted by Reuters."

" **Fresh Hope from China on the ChinaBatPoo II Virus**

Sunney Xie, director of Baoding University Advance Innovate Center for Genome, reveal that "anti- ChinaBatPoo II" drug been success at more or less human test stage.

'We inject neutralize antibody into infect African in Guang Zoo. After five day poo load reduce by factor 2,500,' said Xie.

'Mean drug therapute.'

Drug use neutralize antibody; produce by human immune system to prevent virus infect cell; which Xie's team isolate from blood of sixty recover Africa Zoo patient.

'Cost West plenty yuan. Hehe.'

Truly good and competent science doesn't get you left out of it. Truly good and competent science gets you right in it. [Osteosensibly]

Playful bear"; property of the author.

Prepared kitten"; property of the author.

### All's Well That Ends Well

### The End of Book 2 of 2

