White Noise

4:10 is our favorite bit- the management

      Taylor Caussyn poured herself a cup of coffee from one of the staff room pots, made a few polite morning missives to her co-workers, and then retreated to her most isolated of offices. The J. Edgar Hoover Building, like most corporate edifices, was organized from top to bottom, highest to lowest with the Director’s office on the top floor and Taylor Caussyn buried so far below ground that she was outranked by the mechanical room and the expansive evidence storage facility that were located above her.

Finely tuned (Part three)

            “It's a strange feeling, isn’t it?”

            Bernie’s head rang like a drum, and the smell of something burning choked his breath and made him nauseous.

On a Roof top

            Tim woke up the way that he usually did after one of his blackouts: on a rooftop, naked, and covered in blood. He closed his eyes again and groaned, the strange, beating ulcer of a conscience deep inside his brain throbbing slightly as he looked at the human remains surrounding him.

Finely Tuned (Part Two)

        Sing Sing was not well known for its comfort, a fact that Bernie became painfully aware of as he sat in his cell on death row. His trial had lasted all of three days before he’d been found guilty of twelve counts of assault and four counts of murder.

Finely Tuned

                  Bernard Hughes was born in 1918, just as his father returned from the war. Even though his father had never been on leave and his son looked nothing like him, Calvin Hughes loved Bernie, even if he was never once proud of him.

Chapter Twenty Three

            “What the hell was that?” Said Rosie. She was standing outside a forlorn Methadone clinic and David was painfully aware of the looks that the patients shuffling in and out were giving him.

            He shifted awkwardly and stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets, “You mean George Fletcher? The guy who confessed to the killing?”