The Extremely Reverend Pat Garner Fallgood was found dead in the filthy ally beside a gay bar. He'd been murdered, shot through the heart with an arrow. A second arrow skewered his puny balls together like kabobs on a spit.

At first, the Harrisburg city cops ruled it "natural causes," but they shot two pedestrians just in case. The Dauphin County detectives overruled them. So, the official verdict was death by suicide.

The announcement to his television audience of mostly old, poor and hopeless white women was that he'd been struck with a bolt from the blue, a satanic plot!

The Extremely Reverend Pat Garner Fallgood had made a substantial fortune as a television preacher, all of it tax-exempt. Though he spent lavishly, he'd invested, much of his booty in what he called America's most Christian industries, oil, pharmaceuticals and arms. After his extravagant televised funeral, over ninety million dollars was willed to the Pat Garner Fallgood Evangelical Conquest Fund.

Mrs. Fallgood got the sprawling Zion Castle, a hundred twenty acre estate with its medieval mansion. On part of the walled estate new drugs were tested mostly on unpaid black children. They were guaranteed that, for their sacrifice, they would either go directly to Christian heaven or be inducted into the military. The Extremely Reverend Pat Garner Fallgood had always been very fond of war and of an obedient masculine military force.

The widow Fallgood was also endowed with $30 a week for life to supply her with gin and other necessities. It cannot be said that she was very pleased with her inheritance so it's unlikely that she was the one who murdered her husband, no matter how much she detested him in life.

Another lady, this one with no obvious relationship to the skewered evangelist, was willed ten million dollars and a remote island called "Lotus-Eater," in far-off Lake Superior. Her daughter, "Frolic," was endowed with ten million and a pony. She was a nasty ten year-old, ruthless and very devoutly Christian. For play, she took up collections from her dolls.

The mother would have to be considered a likely suspect in the murder simply because she profited from it. A better suspect would be the child. She carried a knife secreted beheath her frilly skirt and had once enjoyed watching a videotaped execution in Extremely Reverent Pat Garner Fallgood's church.

Extremely Reverend Pat Garner Fallgood also had a male friend, Randy Lancer. Although in life, the two had been very close, Randy's legacy was only a job. He was made chairman of the Pat Garner Fallgood Evangelical Conquest Fund and the gun factory it owned. The preacher had often said that "guns make the best love."

The preacher's killer could be just about anyone. Nobody could be said to be very unhappy about his suicide. Few people had liked him much. He was fat, gray and smelled of roses and liverwurst.

His religious programs went into profitable rerun complete with endless pleas for cash and admonitions for the faithful to kill people they disliked and to imprison their neighbors. Months after his death, checks were still coming in in his name from the poor suckers who endorsed his philosophy of control and obedience to state authority.

Always on the job, the Harrisburg city cops promptly closed the Twin Towers Tavern behind which the television preacher's naked corpse had been found. It was declared a nuisance. The clever cops suspected that homosexual vice was going on. For one thing, the flesh-colored towers flanking the cafe's entrance had bulbous, circumcised summits unmistakably phalic.

For a direct hint, a detective had gotten a blow job while drinking on a bar stool as a swarthy somebody shoved the better part of a bottle of port up his posterior. That kind of behavior might succeed in making even a Harrisburg cop suspicious.

It was Stevie M. Reid, the owner of the gay bar, who hired a detective to get to the bottom of the murder. Hopefully he could get his establishment reopened. Harrisburg had more than its share of gay bars, but the Twin Towers Tavern was the only one which held fashion shows in a nudest colony on South Mountain.

The dispossessed bar owner couldn't afford more than the cheapest detective. He hired K. Ervis Evans, a former state cop. Evans had been fired from the troop, but not before he'd sexually assaulted at least three women. He'd stopped the women on bogus traffic charges. Like most cops, he liked to handcuff women. In Evans' case he also liked to force them into gasping fallatio before frantically mounting them like bitches in heat. Some of the motorists complained of these vulval ministrations.

Mister Evans was fired. He was allowed to keep his handcuffs and the tube of KY Jelly he always carried on the job.

The Pennsylvania State Police are widely recognized for their crimes and corruption, especially their habit of raping motorists and stealing drug evidence.

Ried had a personal relationship with the excop. While still a trooper, Evans had occasionally stopped in the bar to shakedown the fags for dope and cash. Since most queers are married, their wives are typically frustrated women whb don't get the sex they crave. Evans took their names. Later, he'd visit the frustrated wives and reward them with yards of black kielbasa. He was one of the few Afro-Americans who considered his root to be as hot as a Polish pepper.

"Before he was killed, Fallgood was in the bar," Stevie Reid explained to the detective. "You know that it wasn't really a suicide or anything like that. It was murder. He was shot with an arrow or with two arrows if you count the one through his nuts."

Evans took notes as well as he could. He was no scholar and spelling even ordinary words was a challenge. After leaving the state cops and taking an online detective course, Evans had attended the Harrisburg Community College for a semester of "criminal justice." He managed to get a state detective's license on condition that he not sexually assault his clients.

"Fallgood preached a lot against homosexuals and sex," the bar owner continued. "But it was all hypocrisy. Everything about him was hypocrisy. He came into the bar usually with another guy, that one who inherited his business. Usually he wore a dress and the other guy called him "Elain."

Detective Evans wrote it all down, trying to get a picture in his mind of the old televangelist in a smart low-cut frock and high heels. He wanted to know how the preacher got to the bar and how he left and if he had a lot of money. Seems he came and left in taxies because the Harrisburg cops tend to gun-down patrons who walk or drive themselves. Reid acknowledged that the preacher had no shortage of cash and drugs, for that matter. Maybe that was the motive for his murder.

"On the night he was killed," Stevie Reid explained, "he came in early as I remember. He was alone. He sat in a booth with a guy he picked up. He was giving the guy a 'blessing.' That's what he called a hand-job. The last I saw of him, he disappeared into the ladies room wearing a floral dress and carrying one of those little clutch purses. As far as I know, it wasn't found with his body. He was discovered naked. It was a nasty sight! By nine o'clock neighborhood crowds gathered, picking up souvenirs. I could have made a thousand dollars charging admission."

The detective couldn't make sense of the disappearance of Fallgood's clothes, purse and even his sequin-encrusted pumps. He must have been stripped before he was killed, but why, and why carry off the clothing? That would have delayed the killer's getaway. Carrying women's clothes would likely have attracted unwanted attention.

Evans got the name of the man the victim had been sitting with. It was Jeff Beardsly, a drug dealer and bootlegger. Evans knew him. In fact, he'd bought drugs from him. He was a fairy, but hardly the killer type. Still, maybe he could say who killed the preacher.

Ervis demanded $500 and some marijuana as his retainer. They struck a payment deal. Reid explained that his sole interest was to get his bar reopened. He figured that if he could prove that the bar wasn't involved in any way in the murder, the Liquor Control Board, a highly political committee of government addicts, would give his license back.

• Shoes and Clues

From the first, Ervis Evans figured that the killer was most probably Randy Lancer, the preacher's friend who'd inherited control of the Pat Garner Fallgood Evangelical Conquest Fund. He seemed like the obvious killer, a fairy, jealous that his lover was out on the town giving the five-fingering fling to some stranger's love-muscle. Still, Ervis was being paid, so he figured he'd be methodical, at least $500 worth.

Ervis knew the pair of city cops who'd responded to the first call of a naked dead guy with an arrow blooming from his chest behind the Twin Towers. They could tell him only what he already knew. The suicide story was just a cover-up. Harrisburg cops do that a lot. There hadn't been much blood they told him and the arrow through the guy's balls looked like it had been driven in with a hammer after he was dead.

"Whoever killed him wasn't in any panic to runaway. He wasn't scared," the one cop explained.

"One strange thing, it looked like someone had pissed in his face. Maybe a drunk didn't see him in the dark."

Then again, maybe it had been the killer adding insult to injury. Urine might contain DNA or otherwise identify the assailant. This case might be easier than it had seemed.

Before visiting the lab where a little of the crime scene evidence had eventually been taken, Evans visited the city detective who'd dropped by the scene on her way to investigating a purse-snatching. Sure, a purse-snatching sounds like a trivial matter, but it had occurred in what was known as "Alcohol Alley." That was Harribsurg's showcase district and Mayor Dicks pet project. Several dozen untaxed drinking dens were the Mayor's pride. Mobsters, government bosses and out-of-town crooks could drink and raise hell under the protection of the city cops. The first duty of all Harrisburg cops was to guard Alcohol Alley and to shoot down any black folks who behaved suspiciously when they left.

Evans wanted to see the pictures of the murder scene. The city detective, a captain named Bonny Delay (but called "Boobs Display" behind her back) admitted that the cops hadn't bothered taking any photographs. The incident hadn't happened in the Mayor's pet, Alcohol Alley. Besides, the cops had decided to rule the incident "natural causes."

Boobs did have a few snapshots, however. Some ladies from a nearby Hispanic church had photographed the scene. They went to gawk at the spectacle of a naked old Anglo shot through with arrows like in a bad western. One of them recorded the sight with her new digital Olympia. She emailed copies of the pictures to Boobs after the city detective had made her routine visit to the church. Boobs regularly pressured the Hispanics. She didn't want them to behave like other citizens and expect to be "free" from being victimized by crime. The city cops weren't in business to protect Hispanics.

The digital snapshots weren't very good. Mostly they focused on the corpse, his face grimaced with agony, his hands clinched into fists. In one of the shots, however, Evans noticed a pair of brand new sneakers off on the side of the scene. They were big and obviously new. It looked like they'd left tracks in the puddle of preacher blood seeping from beneath the body. The detective was sure the sneakers were a clue. He just didn't know what kind of a clue. There was always the chance that he could find out who sold the shoes, but that would be time consuming, hardly within a $500 budget.

Detective Delay gave him printouts of the photos. He wanted to show them to the man he called "the Wizard." He was as clever as Evans was dumb.

The Pennsylvania State Police have a fancy, high-tech crime lab. After a couple weeks some of the scraps from Fallgood's murder scene had ended up there. Ervis Evans wanted to know what they'd learned about the urine found on the body. Could it be linked to a killer?

"What do you want it to prove?" asked one of the two technicians playing video games on the lab's elegant computers.

Even though he'd been a state trooper of sorts, Evans didn't understand what the technician meant. "We don't do anything with evidence," the man explained, irritated at having his game interrupted. "Not until the department tells us what they're trying to prove in the case. Then we fix it. The evidence always supports what the police want to prove. It saves a lot of needless work and effort."

"Now, in your case," the other technician broke in, "all the Fallgood stuff was given to our clerk. It was supposed to be a suicide, so, I think the stuff was thrown out."

The clerk, a girl named Florinda, was surrounded by boxes and equipment in a tiny cubbyhole in the corner of a back room. She remembered the Fallgood case. In fact, she and her mother were great fans of the television preacher. They'd send him money and were devastated when he'd been struck dead with a bolt from the blue. She even wore one of his lapel buttons, "Guns For God!"

Florinda hadn't "discarded" the evidence. "But it wasn't urine," she explained. "That would have been a disgraceful sacrilege to befoul a great man like the Extremely Reverend Fallgood. It seemed to have been a sweetened lemon fruit juice. It was like that kind that's sold in little boxes with a straw."

"So there wasn't any useful DNA?" asked the detective.

"Oh, we don't really do DNA testing," the girl smiled. "We just pretend to do that. It's much too much work. Besides all the department wants is to have their suspect tied to a certain crime. I just type up a report. They're only criminals, you know, so what does it matter who's DNA it is?"

Before confusing himself any further, Evans realized that he should try to get advice from Ed MacIntosh, the fellow called "the Wizard." Mac was a difficult man, but he had what Ervis sorely lacked: brain power.

Ed had been a highschool teacher before he was hired as a curator for one of Mayor Dicks' silly museums. Mayor Reeve Dicks (usually called "Flabby Dicks" or "Creepy Dicks") was seriously anal retentive. His unnatural lusts included collecting refuse, enjoying addictions and kissing prominent parts of prominent older men.

Using a lot of tax money, he'd paid top dollar for old things that fascinated him (especially guns and other phallic objects). Against the wishes of the citizens, the mayor started a whole string of what he called museums. Really, there were little more that his personal junk collections. He was, after all, anal retentive.

Ed MacIntosh was put in charge of the old bottle collection in the mayor's grubby Wild West Museum. Nobody patronizes a Wild West Museum in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Who would expect such an attraction in a third-rate Eastern city? As a result, Mr. MacIntosh had plenty of free time. He had his own little business, "MacIntosh's Flea Market."

Not only did Mac buy and sell all sorts of old curios and antiques, he also acted as a go-between; a broker who, for a fee, brought sellers and buyers together.

But MacIntosh's true passion was precious gems and gold. That's how former state trooper Ervis Evans had gotten to know him. Like all cops, Evans did a lot of stealing. When he got some likely trinket, he offered it to Mac. Mac was seldom interested.

Mr. MacIntosh wasn't really a fence for stolen property, but he wasn't a fool, either. He only bought things that looked like they could be legitimate, nothing that was obviously hot. He asked few questions and pretended to be taken in by the inane yarns Evans and other cops told to explain their booty.

The most useful things about Mac were his power of observation and his encyclopedic knowledge of a wide variety of useful things. That's why he was called the Wizard. He could see through a puzzle. Mysteries were one of his hobbies and he could put clues together almost instinctively.

Ervis Evans visited the Wild West Museum. He took the badges that he'd stolen during his visit to police headquarters. Mac didn't like Ervis and didn't buy the badges. He did accept a nifty magnifier as a gift. Evans had lifted it from the crime lab. Mac listened to the detective's account of the murder and studied the pictures.

He asked about Jeff Beardsly, the man who was with Fallgood just before he was killed. Evans hadn't talked to Beardsly yet so he couldn't say much about him. Ed asked about the time of death. Evans was uncertain. "It was before eleven O' clock, I think," he reported, "but the body wasn't reported until after eight in the morning."

"I wouldn't worry too much about the missing clothes," Mac offered. "The body lay in the ally for quite a while. Expensive clothes and a purse were probably stolen by a third party."

Studying the photos, he decided, "the killer planned the murder pretty well. The puzzle is how the killer get him outside and why was he naked and how did he get that way?"

"It was most likely something sexual," Ervis decided. To the dirty detective everything was something sexual. One of the Wizard's shortcomings was that he wasn't a proper pervert. He couldn't even figure out why his wife had left him to live with a younger man.

"Maybe and maybe not," continued the Wizard. "The whole thing is very contrived. Why was he shot with an arrow? A bow's a lot harder to conceal that a gun or a knife. There must be some significance or some symbolism in that, or, maybe the killer's just trying to make us think so."

After studying the picture a little longer, Mac said that the blood stained shoes most likely belonged to the killer. "I think they were worn by somebody with small feet to mislead the police, maybe even a woman. If you notice how wide they're open, it may be that the assailant simply pushed his own shoes inside those huge sneakers. Whoever took the clothes left the sneakers because they were bloody. Besides, they're really cheap, Wal-Mart crap."

Thinking for a moment, the Wizard added: "I get the feeling that this was a hate murder, not one motivated by profit. Killings for money are more direct and simple, without ritual."

As Evans took back the photos, Mac pointed to an object under some brush. "That looks like a juice box. It doesn't belong around a gay bar. It may have been left by the murderer. Ask yourself why a killer would be drinking juice while murdering someone. That's cold blooded!"

Detective Evans concluded that he'd overrated Ed MacIntosh. He hadn't been any help and had been damn rude, not even shaking hands. Just so the trip wouldn't be a total disappointment, Ervis (now even hornier than he usually was) watched for women leaving the museum. It was quitting time. He focused on a young one with luscious broad ass. Evans liked broad ass.

Using his state police training, he stalked his prey all the way to her door. He elected not to rape her just then. He'd relish the anticipation. But he made a note of where the woman lived. He'd get her later. He was excited just imagining it.

He fantasized that he was another state cop, one who'd actually been the Governor's limo driver. That lucky brute hadn't just raped his woman, he'd tied her out spread-eagle with duct tape. He beat her up before covering her mouth with the tape and leaving her to slowly die, but not until he ravished her on both sides.

The pity was that some of the girl's friends found and saver her. The best part was that Paul, the state cop, got off without even being charged. The Governor came to his aid!

• Jesus' Wars and Whores

After sleeping on what he knew so far about the Fallgood murder, Ervis Evans decided to call on his prime suspect, Randy Lancer, the preacher's homosexual darling, religious fanatic, and Republican political big-shot.

The Extremely Reverend Pat Garner Fallgood Evangelical Conquest Fund occupied a sprawling office complex on the West Shore in Camp Hill. Like so much with Christianity, the offices had been built with tax money on a tract donated by the local Republican township government. It was black glass festooned with countless American flags around a sprawling parking lot crowded with the most expensive foreign cars.

Nobody was allowed to see Chairman Lancer. He was much too important. Evans was stuck pumping a receptionist, a big breasted blonde girl with a wide mouth and a continual chatter. She looked like a clone of all the others bees hurrying around the plush offices, but she was a willing source of gossip.

Abbi Van Dibner, the receptionist, was cheery and talkative, just not very clever. She made it clear that she adored the Extremely Reverend Fallgood and was devastated by his passing. But it wasn't a great surprise. He was often threatened and had many enemies.

"A lot of people complained," the blonde explained, "when they were cheated out of money, or their families were cheated or bills weren't paid. They refused to understand that for the sake of the Christian cause, it's perfectly desirable to get funds anyway we can. The ends justify the means."

Abbi explained that the Extremely Reverend had a wonderful bodyguard. He'd formerly been a state prison guard, Sergeant Robin P. Brown. He'd quit after killing too many convicts. The trouble was that sometimes the Extremely Reverend had special, private meetings and went out without Sergeant P. Brown following along. If Sergeant P. Brown had been there been there nothing would have happened to the Extremely Reverent. He was very violent and dangerous, an ideal Christian.

"I have reason to believe that sex may have played a part in the murder," the detective explained. "I'd really like to talk to Chairman Lancer. Can you arrange an appointment?"

"Sex" was a key word. Whenever that sensitive topic was broached, Mr. Lancer was to be informed at once. Sex was the worst of all possible things. "What do you mean, 'murder?'" the now wary girl asked. "The Extremely Reverend was killed by Satan with a bolt from the blue."

Ex-cop Evans couldn't help but think how nice it would be to drag the woman under the desk and force her to take his meat. Such lewd thoughts continually burst into his mind. He had to force himself to stick to business.

Evans assured the big breasted woman (he like big tits as much as big rump) that Fallgood had been murdered and sex was surely involved. Within a few minutes, he was admitted to Chairman Randy Lancer's inner sanctum.

"The reason you're black," Chairman Lancer explained without any introduction or preliminaries, "is God's righteous punishment for the sins of you heathen people. All pagans are God's enemies!"

Ervis Evans was too stunned to say anything. He would have punched the guy, but two stock men were standing beside his desk.

"You and your kind are not welcome here." Mr. Lancer announced with a pronounced lisp. "You may just as well leave. I have nothipg to say to you."

Evans was now pretty sure that he'd found the killer. "I know that you and Fallgood were queer lovers," Ervis spat. "I think you killed him or had him killed out of jealousy that he was seeing other men. And, of course, ninety million dollars is a big incentive, too!"

Stammering and waving his arms, Lancer shooed away his body guards. That kind of talk wasn't for their ears. Threats of the revelation of a homosexual tryst couldn't be allowed to spread. It would seriously hurt revenues. Even Christians can recognize hypocrisy if it's blatant enough.

"Mister Evans, you must never spread such a story," the Chairman told him. "You might end up very dead!"

"So you did kill your boyfriend," Evans leered. "I suspected you from the first. Fags can't be trusted."

Composing himself, Randy Lancer explained that he was in no way involved in the Extremely Reverend's death. He loved Fallgood and would have done anything for him. At the time of his death, he was in Los Angeles, attending a televised rally promoting Jesus' War. "We've collected over three million dollars," he said proudly. "It will buy tanks to kill foreigners and Christians who disagree with us. We're even negotiating for a used war plane. It will be used to destroy liberals, socialists and foreign leaders. It will be God's punishment for not obeying the Extremely Reverent's preachings."

"You're nuts! I guess you know that," the detective sneered at the man. "The whole bunch of you are crazy!"

Ervis Evans realized that his prime suspect had an airtight alibi. He'd check it, of course, but a televised event 3000 miles away would make it difficult for the nut to have killed his lover.

"You seem to have a perfect alibi," Evans admitted. "I'll check it, all the same. Now, tell me everything you know about the old queer. If you don't cooperate, I'll make sure everybody knows what he was. Who do you think killed him?"

Lancer was sure that the death had simply been a street crime. He'd spent a lot of money to cover it up and to keep the circumstances secret. Harrisburg cops can be bought cheap and the city government including closet Republicans like Mayor Reeve Dicks, is a slave to the almighty buck.

"I loved Pat," the man said looking sincerely grief stricken. I would have willingly killed for him, but I had nothing to do with his death. It must have been street thugs. Wolf-packs of black boys prey on people all the time. They'll kill for a pair of sneakers or a gold chain."

"Who were his enemies?" the detective wanted to know.

"You realize that a marvelous man like Extremely Reverend Fallgood had many enemies, mostly disgruntled contributors. We've taken a lot of estates and money from senior citizens. Liberals hate him, too, and a lot of Democrats were mad because he got so much tax support and manipulated the Republicans so well."

Randy Lancer went on to say that he thought that one of the worst enemy who may have wanted to kill the Extremely Reverend was Elmer Jon Santoz. He was a newsman for the MSNBC cable news network. He'd done stories about how much the Extremely Reverend had stolen especially from the old and poor. He'd even hinted that the great man had fathered a bastard. "Obviously, we couldn't have that kind of reporting," Lancer explained. "We had him fired and tried to poison him, but he disappeared. He was only one of those filthy Hispanics, you know, so we didn't follow up on it. But that kind of guy might do anything. They become obsessed with truth and doing good. It's disgusting!"

Evans wrote it all down. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. The good Christians were willing to kill somebody to keep him from publishing critical stories. The detective realized that he was in danger, too and would have to be damn careful. "Who else may have wanted him dead?"

Shannon O'Reiley, a former employee of the Pat Garner Fallgood Evangelical Conquest Fund, was another of Lancers' good bets. He'd been an advertising executive and an expert in propaganda, pornography and political manipulation. Being a beautiful fellow and overtly homosexual, the Extremely Reverend had promptly seduced him.

"They were having an extremely hot affair," Lancer explained. "Shannon was in love and thought that Pat loved him. He didn't realize that a great man like that needs much more that a single partner. He walked in where he didn't belong and caught Pat and me 'in flagrante delicto' as they say. He went berserk. He had to be fired and paid off. But O'Reiley is one of those nasty, vengeful guys. He might have killed Pat. He was certainly mad enough over the betrayal."

"What about Fallgood's family?" Evans asked. "How did he get along with them?"

"His wife is his only real family," Lancer said. "He used to have a brother, but he died in an accident. At least the Harrisburg cops ruled it an accident."

"Why would a queer have a wife?" Evans wanted to know.

Randy Lancer explained that most homosexuals find it convenient to be married. "For a public man like the Extremely Reverend Fallgood, a wife is indispensable," he explained. "They didn't really have a relationship, of course, in fact they hated one another. She's a drunk. For all I know she may still be a virgin."

"Why would Fallgood preach so stridently against homosexuality when he was a queer himself?" the detective wanted to know. "That's really hypocritical!"

"We always preach against all kinds of sex and pleasure." Lancer confided. "Homosexuality is very evil, but only when others enjoy it. It's like that mayor in Washington state. He campaigned against the gays while he was secretly sucking them off. The only sin is in getting caught."

"Who were the woman and the kid who inherited all that money from him. Were they family?"

Randy Lancer almost blushed. "That's a whole different story," he admitted. "The woman is Elain Dark. She's a prostitute who works at that big truck stop in Carlisle. She's a pretty devious and filthy woman. The kid's her daughter."

"What's their relationship to Fallgood?"

Reluctantly, Chairman Lancer revealed that Fallgood had hired the woman's services on a number of occasions. "I don't think they ever actually had intercourse," he said. "She used to beat him and tie him up, stuff like that, mayby give him enemas. It was very expensive. I had to pay the bills."

"So where did the kid come from?" Evans demanded. "Women don't get pregnant from giving an old fag an enema."

"Whores don't get pregnant at all," Lancer said shrilly. "Not unless they want too. They take precautions."

"So, what about the kid?" Ervis insisted.

"I'm not sure." Randy admitted. "All I know is that she had a daughter and said that it was his. He sent her a thousand dollars a week. I suppose that he may actually have been the father. Why else would he pay? Frankly, I suspect her pimp. He's some rabbi from Harrisburg, Michale Freedman. Now that I think of it, that guy was greedy enough to have killed the Extremely Reverend if he knew there would be a big inheritance."

• Crooks and Books

Ervis Evans had dug up the address for Jeff Beardsly, the guy who'd shared a table with Fallgood just before he was killed. He was going to visit him, but, as often happened, the ex-cop's mind kept drifting to rough, filthy sex. On his way uptown, he detoured. He resolved to bust a nut on a young Hispanic nurse, Roberta Dow.

More than a month earlier, by chance, he'd caught the woman carrying drugs that she'd stolen from the office where she worked. Using his best police training, Ervis terrorized her. He threatened that he'd turn her in if she didn't give him sex. He promised he'd be back to collect and she better cooperate. Now, the pervert detective decided it was time to get his lust-rewards.

Evans parked his motorcycle around the corner so his prey wouldn't hear him coming. The office, an oncology doctor, occupied one of the converted old mansions on north Second Street. He tapped on the back door. An unsuspecting Roberta innocently opened it.

With the quickness of a cobra, Evans snatched the girl out onto the back porch. He forced her down among some trash cans. As he pried his erection from his fly, he snarled for her to be quiet and cooperate. His intention was to jackoff in her face or to thrust himself down her throat. He'd frequently done the same to motorists he stopped when he was a state cop.

Catching Ervis completely by surprise, Roberta hit her assailant in the nuts with the corner of the book she'd been carrying. She used all her strength. The burly detective reeled back in crippling pain, letting the girl break his grasp. "If I ever see you again," the nurse panted scrambling for the door, "I'll charge you with rape! I know who you are."

Evans fled as fast as his throbbing balls would permit. He was trying to stuff his collapsed salami back into his pants. He hadn't expected such resistance. He'd get even. The pervert-cop realized he shouldn't have been so careless. He should have surprised the girl at home. There he could have taken his time to slap her into submission. But the world is full of victims, most of them willing. He'd find someone else.

Recovering her breath, Roberta phoned the police. Of course, they ignored her. It wasn't the policY of the Harrisburg cops to protect Hispanics. When they got attacked, it's their own fault.

Ervis Evans was in a surly mood by the time he reached Jeff Beardsley's up-scale apartment. The man worked as an executive in the State Department of Education. Evans had to wait for him to get home. It started to drizzle and then to rain. By the time the suspect got there, the detective was soggy and well as surly. To make matters worse, Jeff Beardsly didn't want to let the dripping visitor into his elegant apartment.

When Evans started to ask about the murder at the Twin Towers Tavern, Jeff decided that it was better to do it in private. The two went into the immaculate kitchen. Jeff was a really flaming faggot, but very refined and gentlemanly. Walter, the man he'd lived with for more than a dozen years also worked for the state, but in the Department of Imprisonment. He was expected home in about half an hour. Jeff wanted to have the interview finished before then.

Beardsly readily admitted that he'd been with Fallgood early in the evening. "After we'd finished, another person picked him up," Jeffrey said getting out pans to start dinner. "They went into the ladies room together. Both were in dresses. They were kissing and feeling one another up."

"Who was the other person?" Ervis asked.

"It was that unsavory Steven Shaffer. I think he's in jail again now. He's always selling stolen things and getting into fights."

"Yeah," glared Evans, "well, you're a pusher and sell booze to kids. How's Shaffer more unsavory than that?"

"That's only to meet people," the fairy said in self defense. "I almost give junk away just to meet nice men. Shaffer is a real low-life. He'll have sex with anybody, man or woman, clean or filthy. His own cousin has been screwing his butt since he was a child. Besides, he's a snitch, an informer and liar."

"If you didn't kill Pat Fallgood, do you think Shaffer did it?" Evans inquired.

"Well, he could have," Jeff said starting the meal. "I know it wasn't me. I left as soon ad I'd finished my business. I was only there because Walter, he's my friend, was being mean to me."

"Do you have any other ideas who might have killed Fallgood and why?"

"As soon as I heard about it," Beardsly replied, his limp wrist flopping to and fro, "I said to myself that it must have been Steve Reid who killed him. He's the nasty man who owns the bar. They'd been arguing about a bar tab. Mr. Reid was trying to overcharge the Reverend. They didn't like each other at all. Reid even made fun of the way he dressed."

As the detective was writing out the information, Jeff thought of someone else. "There's a policewoman who might have done it," he offered.

"Yes, I think it may have been her. She hated Reverend Fallgood because he'd taken her mother's whole estate. And you know how the police are, crooked and violent. Reverend Fa1lgood had even mentioned that he'd seen her when he was coming into the tavern. My guess is that she killed him. Her name is Kymm Paddy. They call her Crazy Kymm."

Beardsly was right, Steven Shaffer was in the Dauphin County jail. He'd broken into a woman's home and assaulted her, but he snitched on one of his friends, so he'd only gotten 30 days. Evans figured that a scumbag like Shaffer was a likely killer. Once, he'd almost beaten his mother to death when she wouldn't (or couldn't) give him money to buy dope.

Ervis still had connections at the county jail. He got in to see Shaffer in an interview room where he could bully the prisoner. Prison is Pennsylvania's only growing industry. It educates crooks, turning little criminals into big ones, one of society's true follies.

Steven Shaffer was a scrawny drug addict. He had long hair and looked like a girl, almost pretty. He was completely unscrupulous and untrustworthy. He could certainly be a killer, but it seemed unlikely that he'd go to the trouble of using a bow and arrow. A length of pipe was more his style.

After some prodding, he admitted that he'd been with Fallgood and that they'd had sex. "Even looking at my ass, he had trouble getting it up," Shaffer said. "I had to help him. He was clumsy and pissed me off so I slapped him around. I took his money. I left about ten o'clock. He was getting dressed. Like a lot of old fairies, he liked having sex naked."

Evans was very suspicious of the story. It sounded to him like Shaffer was the killer, but it wouldn't be easy to prove. Even if semen had been found in Fallgood, it hadn't been collected or tested. Shaffer might get away with it.

"Let me see your feet," Ervis demanded. Steven's feet were of a normal size. They didn't seem to fit the sneakers seen outside the bar. Evans wasn't sure this was the right man.

"Who do you think killed Fallgood?" Evans asked, "Steve Reid?"

"I don't know who killed him," the prisoner answered. "I don't care, but it wasn't Reid. He's a pussy without the nerve to kill anybody. It was a ritual murder by somebody who hated him. God knows, there ware plenty of them!"

Evans realized that it was time to consult his client and get some more money. Before going home to his pregnant wife, Ervis stopped at Steve Reid's house. He reported that he'd developed some good leads and ruled out a few suspects such as Randy Lancer. He still had a number of people to talk to. "Right now, my best bet seems to be that Steven Shaffer guy. He's a killer type and was the last one who was with Fallgood."

"That's no good," the bar owner protested. "If it was him it's a direct link to the bar. The Liquor Control Board would never give my license back if he should be the murderer."

"Well," Evans continued. "At this point I'm not really sure. I have some other good leads. Some people think it was you. Of course we could always frame somebody."

Ervis went on to briefly summarize the people he'd seen and what he'd learned. He demanded more money, another thousand dollars to continue the investigation. "I think it might take a few more days, maybe a week. Let me have some more of that weed, too. My wife won't give out without inducement."

• Wife and Strife

Ervis Evans' wife, Luwanda, was a bitch. The great majority of women are bitches. They make no sense. They criticize men instead of encouraging and praising them. The bottom line is that your average Luwanda doesn't like men. They think men are "wrong," foul and sexually obsessive.

Men, for their part, don't like women. They like sex. Women are where they get sex. But women are inscrutable, uncooperative and defiant bitches. If there really had been a God, He, She or It would have been smart enough to put cunts on classy Dodge pickup trucks instead of on women. Men like trucks. Trucks actually do what you intend for them to do. Women don't.

Someday a genius will make himself Bill-Gates-rich by developing an android to take womam's place. The android will always say yes and will do what's expected of it. It will be pleasant, encouraging and understanding.

Queers don't dislike women. Most of them actually like women. They simply don't seek sex with them. It's like having six fingers, they're born that way. Ervis sometimes thought that that was the best way to be. Then, just looking at a man, he realized that it wasn't.

Ervis went home horny, bearing prime grade marijuana. Luwanda wouldn't have sex. He decided that if the bitch would just do everything he wanted, he wouldn't have to get sex other places. Maybe he wouldn't even have to rape or ravish. - Well, maybe not.

Mrs. Caroline Fallgood, the widow of the murdered television evangelist had to be coaxed to let Evans see her. She wasn't what he was expecting. Yes, she was a drunk and seemed to be lesbian, but she was damn smart. Although she admitted hating the Extremely Reverend Fallgood, she seemed genuinely sad that he'd been killed.

Before the detective could even start his questioning, Caroline offered that she was convinced that Bill O'Day, a crackpot from the Fox News Channel had murdered her husband. "They had helped arrange a scheme with the Republican National Committee in which my husband preached against liberals and Democrats. He also promoted and supported Fox News and its lies. They'd taken out a huge insurance policy on my husband, $5,000,000. Those people will do anything for money. They found out he was homosexual. I'm sure they felt they had to get rid of him to prevent the scandal from tainting their politics."

That was one of the best leads Evans had so far. If he could prove that Bill O'Day had killed Fallgood for money and to escape a scandal, he would have done his job. The only problem was that it would bring out the fact that Fallgood was a fag. That might not be so good.

Ervis couldn't help but notice that Mrs. Fallgood was a good looking woman, much younger than her husband. Had circumstances been different, he would have raped her. He was horny enough.

"How do you survive?" he inquired. "Your husband didn't leave you anything."

"I have this estate and Zion Castle," she said laying aside a half knitted sweater. "I have quite a bit of money that was left to me by my father. That's why Pat married me in the first place. He used my father's money to get started in his racket."

"Didn't you buy into his religion?" Evans wanted to know.

"My husband was a fake and a cheat, just like most Christians. But he was charming and deviously clever. He wasn't really interest in religion. He was too smart for mythology. He was interested in money and politics, Nazi politics."

"How about his sex life. Didn't that bother you?"

"Believe it or not," Mrs. Fallgood said, "I loved Pat in my own way even though I didn't like him. I didn't want sex with him and didn't care who screwed him or who he sucked on. He hated being queer, but I didn't hate him for it. It was just dangerous and hypocritical. I hated that."

"How about this Dark woman who got the ten million dollar inheritance? What do you think about her?"

"Yes, I know all about her and her daughter. She's a whore, or she used to be. Pat seems to have hired her to provide perverse sexual services, stuff most decent women wouldn't be very willing to do. He seemed to want to believe that the child was his. So I suppose they had sex, but he certainly didn't love her. His only real loves were himself and the power of money. For sex, the closest thing to a lover was his assistant, Randy Lancer."

"Do you think Elain Dark could have killed him, or maybe her pimp, Michael Freedman?"

Caroline looked like she might cry. Thinking about her husband's death was not easy for her. "I doubt it," she managed to mutter. "I really think it was O'Day or one of his extremist cronies. Nothing is beyond what those people will do."

Before leaving, Evans pretended to be thirsty. While the widow was getting water, he went through drawers and lifted a few things; a nice silver letter opener and even two gold coins. He also took some papers from her broker. They might offer useful investment tips.

Poilce Captain Bonny "Boobs" Delay had been married to a real estate salesman before she made her rank. He was a pretty decent guy, but naive and foolishly trusting. After the first year, he realized that he didn't care much for her. Like all cops, she was a bully and an egotist. She degraded him and called him names. When he complained, she framed him for molesting their cocker spaniel. It was lies, but, like the rest of America, Harrisburg was sexually obsessed.

The American society has become insane. Sex is the great demon while killing is no big deal. Sex is more important than life. That's what Christian conservatives have done to our morality. The president who got a blow job was a monster. The killer who started a murderous and pointless war for no reason was a hero." The androids can't come too soon.

Evans wanted to talk with Boobs about the case now that he had some pretty good suspects; would she arrest a Fox News agent?

Boobs didn't like it, not at all. She would only arrest a person for murder if there was strong evidence or if strong evidence could be invented. The Fox News people weren't to be trifled with. "Don't you realize that propaganda is there business? They contrive stories everyday?" she snarled at Ervis. "They'd talk their way out of a Black Maria. My God, they convinced the saps that it was good that the big oil companies were gouging us. Beside, you don't have any real evidence. A $5,000,000 insurance payoff is only motive. You need a lot more than that."

"What I was saying," Evans back-pedaled, "was, will you bust someone, anyone, if I can get enough on him? I need to solve this case in order for Reid to get his liquor license back."

"Why do you want to help a queer?" Captain Delay sneered. - "Aren't you afraid you'll catch it? Most men think that homosexuality is contagious like mumps."

Ervis shrugged, "he's paying me. Being queer has nothing to do with it. Who cares? It's like child molesters. The only reason for the hysterical uproar is that people sense some of it in themselves."

While the pair resorted to making raunchy fag and child molester jokes, Evans tried to grope the Captain's thigh. She was not amused. He couldn't help that he was so horny.

Ed MacIntosh wouldn't buy the gold coins. As a gift, he accepted the silver letter opener that Ervis had taken from the widow Fallgood. For supposedly being such a smart guy, Ed wasn't much interested even after the detective related all the information he'd gathered.

"You don't have it, yet," he told Evans. "None of these people fits the bill. Why don't you talk to that Dark woman? Ten million dollars is a lot of motive."

"Don't you think it could have been that Bill O'Day guy or even Steven Shaffer? He's a real low life."

The Wizard couldn't help but think that the pot was calling the kettle black. "The point is," MacIntosh pontificated, "would Shaffer strip his victim and shoot him with an arrow? Would a Fox fanatic do that? No, there's something you're missing. And, after all this time, I frankly think you're going to have a hard time proving it, whoever it was."

• Pony Bologna

With part of her inheritance, Elain Dark had bought a nice place out beyond Lingelstown. She hadn't done what the Extremely Reverend Fallgood had intended. He wanted her to get out of the area to a secluded island in Lake Superior and take her bastard daughter with her. Ervis Evans found her without much difficulty, a whore with a mansion is sure to elicit (no pun intended) comment - sex, you know!

"I suppose you're here to accuse me of killing Pat Fallgood," Elain Dark growled defiantly as soon as Evans introduced himself at the door. "Well, forget it. I didn't do it."

Ervis explained that all he wanted was to ask a few questions to ease his client's mind. "The police reported it as a suicide, you know, but my client knows it was murder. He may be afraid that he'll be next."

Reluctantly Elain led Evans to the kitchen where she was preparing lunch although it was the middle of the afternoon. She was't only belligerent, but it was clear that she'd had experience dealing with cops. "The night Pat died I wasn't even in Harrisburg," she offered. "I was working at the big truck stop near Carlisle. I was there until almost dawn. It was a busy night."

Elain wasn't young and she had more than a few extra pounds, but she had heavy tits and a broad aft. He understood how she could be a successful prostitute. "I'm sure you have people who saw you there," he coached.

"You must know that I was still a working girl then. Lots of guys saw me. It was a Friday and I spent quite a while with a regular, Dave Hable, but he might not want to admit it."

"Was Michael Freedman with you? He was your pimp, wasn't he?"

"Not exactly a pimp," Elaine said glaring disapprovingly at the detective. "He's a friend and more like a bodyguard to make sure I'm safe."

"So, was he with you or not?" Ervis insisted.

"Not on Friday nights," the woman explained. "He has religious duties. He's a rabbi. He's always home on Friday nights."

Evans liked that. Rabbi or not, the pimp could be the killer. Religious fanatics of all stripes are phonies. He figured that he had a new prime suspect.

"How'd you and Fallgood get along?" Ervis probed.

Elain explained that she seldom saw Fallgood and that they hadn't had a sexual relationship for many years. About once a month or so, he liked to stop in to look at Frolic, her daughter. "It was like a duty," she explained, "not a pleasure. Sometimes he'd talk to her, but she made no secret that she despised him. She'd just ask for money or presents. Pat used to say that she took after her mother. Really, she takes after him."

"So the girl really was his daughter?" Ervis inquired.

Elain averred that she was. "Yeah. He was gay," she acknowledged, "but he used to hire me sometimes for special, kinky stuff. For some reason he decided he wanted to have a kid. He said he'd pay a thousand dollars a week. We made a bargain. He always paid up."

"Where were you living at that time?"

"WhenI got pregnant I lived in Marysville along the railroad yards. When Frolic was born, he bought me a duplex on Green Street in Harrisburg. I was still living there when he was killed." After a vexed pause she added, "yes, it's not very far from the Twin Towers Tavern, but I wasn't home and didn't have anything to do with Pat's death."

"You must admit though that it's a little suspicious," Evans insisted. "A ten million dollar inheritance makes a lot of motive."

"I had no idea that I'd get an inheritance," the woman said in self defense. "He always said that he'd take care of Frolic, but never mentioned anything for me."

Looking over his notes, Evans asked, "why didn't you move out to the island you inherited, Lotus Eater, wasn't it?"

"My daughter has friends here and insisted on staying. Besides, Mike didn't want us to go," she answered.

"Mike?"

"Michael Friedman, the rabbi. We're close now."

As he was about to leave, from the wide porch, he saw two young girls coming up the driveway. Seeing a heavy set blackman on her porch, the larger child picked up a hefty rock from the side of the drive. Her expression said that she was quite willing to use it. Mrs. Dark explained that it was her daughter, Frolic, and her best friend Teresa Good. They were returning from school.

People, especially men, think that little girls are sweet and innocent, good, cute and ideal. In reality, most little girls are malicious predators, evil and unscrupulous. Frolic Dark was even worse that most. She'd intended to bash the visitor with a rock, but relented when her mother smiled.

Like any male sucker, Ervis Evans smiled at the children and greeted them warmly. "I suppose you're going to play with that swell pony that you inherited from Reverend Fallgood," Evans offered, blithely.

"I hated Fallgood! I still hate him!" the girl announced with a roar. "I killed the pony. I shot the stinking beast with my crossbow! What's it to you, darky?" Chuckling like deranged crones, the girls skipped into the house.

The detective was stunned. Could it be true that the little girl had a crossbow? Could she have killed a father she hated? Before he regained his composure, Mrs. Dark closed the door.

Evans had been thinking that rabbi Freedman was his new prime suspect. Now he wasn't so sure, but he had to talk to him all the same. He didn't realize that for all intents and purposes, Michael Freedman lived in the Dark Home. For appearances sake, he still maintained his old residence in Harrisburg. As fortune would have it, that's where the detective found him.

Freedman was expecting Evans. Mrs. Dark had obviously phoned him. He wasn't cordial, but he admitted him and tolerated a few questions. "You're here to ask if I had anything to do with Pat Fallgood's death. I didn't. I can't say I'm sorry that he's dead and I'm delighted that Elain got a big inheritance, but I know nothing about his death."

Ervis asked how the two men got along. Freedman claimed that they'd only met a few times although, years ago, he used to see the Extremely Reverend when he hired Elain for his freaky sexual trysts. "I didn't hate the man. I just thought that he was absurd, pathetic and a phony, but he had plenty of money and never mistreated the woman."

"Who do you think killed him? Evans asked.

Freedman claimed to have no idea. "You know that he associated with some really dangerous, unsavory people, fundamentalists, Republicans, Christians and killers. He once tried to have me beaten-up."

Evans wanted to hear about that. It might mean that Freedman would take revenge. "Why would Reverend Fallgood want to have you hurt?"

"It was years ago when he wanted to knock up Elain. That wouldn't be good for business. A pregnant prostitute doesn't sell well. I wouldn't let her do it. He had his bodyguard, a thick-headed thug named P. Brown come around to strong-arm me. The guy used to be a state prison guard, so he was nasty."

"I guess that that made you pretty mad," Evans prompted. "Did you want revenge?"

"Nothing much came of it," Michael claimed. "Brown brought, a couple guys to my home. I wasn't there. When they painted a swastika on the house, several young Jewish fellows from the neighborhood saw what was going on. They had a forceful chat with the men and they left. I didn't have anymore trouble with P. Brown or his Gestapo."

Evans was disappointed that there wasn't more violence. Next to sex, violence is best. "You must have changed your mind about the woman having a baby, though," he observed.

"Desecration is always the better part of valor," the rabbi admitted. "Fallgood made appropriate financial arrangements and Elain wanted a baby, although I'm damned if I can see why."

"What about that child?" Evans asked without tipping off that he suspected her of the killing. "What's she like?"

Screwing up his face in distaste, Michael sneered. "She's like her father, maybe worse, evil, a bad seed. She's just a greedy, nasty brat. She even hates her mother no matter what Elain does for her. She's not even pretty."

• Kill if You Will

With the advice of Wizard MacIntosh, Ervis Evans cooked up a scheme. It now seemed pretty likely that the Dark girl, Frolic, had somehow killed her father. It was a far-fetched premise because how would a little girl commit such a heinous crime and could a child really do such a thing? Everybody knows that little girls are sugar and everything nice.

Even Ed MacIntosh came around. A child might hate intensely enough to kill somebody, especially a father she felt neglected her, but she'd have to be a demonic kid. A crossbow would be an ideal weapon. A ten year-old girl could manage it. She might want her victim naked in order to humiliate him or for some personal vengeful motive. It's well understood that girls are extremely vindictive. They'll happily lie, maybe even kill just to get revenge. Nothing a little girl says should ever be trusted.

What wasn't clear was how Frolic could have gotten Fallgood undressed. "Maybe he never got dressed after he had sex with Shaffer," MacIntosh suggested. "Didn't Shaffer say he was naked when he left? Perhaps the girl got there before her father dressed."

Evans was unsure. "Even if he was naked, he wouldn't have been outside. He was in the ladies room. How could she get him outdoors?"

Ed agreed with Ervis that what they needed was to talk to Frolic. She might slip up with her story. A ten year-old ought to be easy to manipulate. "Take her a present," he suggested. "If she's as greedy as you say, a gift ought to win her confidence; something expensive."

Evens had just the thing and it wouldn't cost him a nickel, the gold coins he'd stolen from Mrs. Fallgood. "The real problem," he observed, "is how to get her to talk when her mother isn't around to censor her. I've got to see her alone."

"You'll have to stake out her home," the Wizard counseled. "When you see her alone, just talk to her."

Ervis didn't care much for that approach. "A black man hanging around someone's suburban house is bound to bring a drove of cops," he said stating the obvious. "A strange man approaching a little girl is an invitation to catastrophe. It's almost a crime just to talk to a child."

"Use a wireless webcam and watch the place on your notebook," Ed suggested. "You could do it from a store parking lot. Talk to her when there's nobody to see."

It sounded expensive, but it was easy enough to secrete the camera at night. He planted it at the edge of the property. Ervis could see the front and the side of the house in full color on his notebook computer from blocks away, even while driving if he wanted to take the chance. It paid off almost at once.

The following afternoon, almost as soon as the school bus had delivered them, Frolic Dark was out in the pasture beside her home. There was another girl with her, the one Evans had seen her with on the first day. In a few minutes they went into a large playhouse. At almost the same time Elain, the mother, drove away.

Evans didn't squander the opportunity. Leaving his motorcycle in a thicket, he quick-stepped it across the lawn calling to the girls as he approached their playhouse. They both poked their heads out of the door. Neither was secure enough to come all the way outside.

"You remember me," Ervis said. "I met both of you the other day. I've brought presents for you." He produced the shiny gold pieces. "May I come in for a moment? Your mother doesn't seem to be here right now."

Frolic was wiley, but the gold convinced her. "Is this real gold?" she inquired. "How much is it worth?"

"Oh, it's gold, alright. It's called a Canadian Maple Leaf. It's worth a few hundred dollars."

The other child, Teresa Good, accepted her coin, but wouldn't let Evans close the playhouse door after he'd ducked inside. She was clearly uneasy about the big black man. She hadn't been around many of them.

After a little small talk about how nice the girls were and how nice the playhouse was, Evans asked about the crossbow. "You said you had a crossbow, could I see it?"

"It's in the shed" Frolic said with a tone of pride, but she was suspicious, too. "It's a special kind that can shoot four arrows, they're called bolts, by turning it over."

In the shed, the child produced the ingenious crossbow. It was unlike any that Evans had seen before. There was a bow on each of the four sides of the stock. An arrow could be loaded into each bow. By turning the weapon, one arrow could be fired right after the other without reloading. It was a formidable instrument - and it was loaded when the girl picked it up.

She didn't let Ervis touch the weapon, but she pointed it in his direction until he insisted that she be careful and put it down. "Did you ever use it?" the detective asked cautiously.

The girl's face grew dark and ominous. "I told you already. I killed the pony with it. I shoot it everyday. I'm a very good aim. Do you want to see?"

"NO, that's alright." Ervis actually felt unsafe being with the girl with the crossbow so close. He stepped outside before he probed any deeper. "You didn't like reverent Fallgood, did you?" he asked.

The child grinned a maniacal leer. "You think I killed him, don't you?" she sneered. "Well, I did! And Teresa helped. And there's nothing you can do about it. If you tell, we'll say that you made us have sex. Who will they believe?"

Okay, Evans realized that this was a good place to be away from, but he couldn't help himself. He wanted to have more details. "How'd you do it?" he asked almost afraid to stay around - long enough to hear the answer.

"I told you already. Are you as dumb as you look? I shot him with my crossbow. We rode our bikes to the bar. I'd often seen him there on Fridays, all dressed up like a lady - silly faggot! I sneaked in the back door and found him in the ladies room. He was undressed and looked really disgusting. He rushed outside with me when I told him a man was after me. He never was very smart."

"Then what?" Evans asked edging away.

"I can tell you everything and there's still nothing you can ever do about it," the girl sneered, baring he teeth. "He was trying to hide himself behind that ugly dress. Teresa snatched it away and I shot him right in the chest. He fell like a rock. Then I shot him in the testicles from up close. That would make people think that it was sexual and one of his boyfriends had killed him."

"We both laughed a lot," Teresa interjected. "He looked really funny, his little thing flopping around, all hairy and he smelled bad, like dead flowers."

"I'd brought along some big sneakers to wear like rubbers so I wouldn't get blood on me," Frolic continued. "Teresa emptied her juice box on him just for good measure. It looked like pee. The only bad things was that he didn't have any money in his purse. We took it home with his dress. I used it for the cat."

Evans didn't need to hear any more. He jogged back to his motorcycle and was back in Harrisburg in record time. If the devil ever had a daughter, he'd found her. But the child was right, there was nothing he could do with the story. He'd found the killer and she'd get away with it!

• Hair Underwear

steve Reid didn't take the news very well. The detective had found the killer, but to expose her would directly involve the Twin Towers Tavern from which she'd lured her victim. They agreed that they needed to find somebody else, someone to frame. "But it must be somebody who's not associated with the bar, not even a patron," Reid insisted. "It would be best if the whole gay theme and sex itself were kept out of it."

"I think we have to make it a religious motive," Evans mused. "It shouldn't be very hard. He had hundreds of enemies."

Ervis Evans saw it as two problems. First they had to pick the best patsy to frame. Then they had to find the most effective way to frame him. Evans had been a state cop so he was used to framing people. They do it all the time.

"I don't think the frame has to really stick," Steve offered with a pang of ethics. "It just has to be convincing enough so that the Liquor Board gives me back my license. In fact, I'd feel a lot better if the guy got off. I'd hate to see an innocent man go to prison."

"Don't worry about that," Ervis assured his client. "It happens all the time. One out of every seven prisoners is actually not guilty of the crime he's locked up for. We frame people everyday. It's our trade."

After talking a little longer, Reid suggested the policewoman, "Crazy" Kymm Paddy. "Jeff Beardsly said she was outside on the night of the murder. It's well known that she hated Fallgood because he cheated her mother out of her saving. He ruined her and sent her to an early grave."

Evans was not too impressed with that approach. "Doesn't that associate the murder with the Twin Towers?" he asked. "Let me think about it. I'll find the right guy. In fact, I want to talk it over with the Wizard. He might have some good ideas."

Reid was shocked. He insisted that nobody else be brought into the plot. "This is strictly between us," he ordered Evans. "No one else is to know anything about it."

"That's not going to be possible," Ervis confided. "I'll keep the Wizard out of it, but we'll need some help rigging the evidence. I won't involve you, don't worry."

They talked a little longer and Evans demanded more money. "This is a whole new case, now," he insisted. "As you hired me to do, I found the killer. Now I have to make it look like it was somebody else. That's going to be expensive."

Stevie Reid paid, but he wasn't pleased. He told Ervis that he was nearly broke and couldn't invest much more in the case.

Luwanda, Evans' wife, was one of the thousands of drones employed in state government jobs. She worked for the Pennsylvania Department of Revenue. That meant that she spent little time working and a lot of time snooping into other people's private affairs. He was meeting Luwanda for lunch, so his mind was on sex even more than usual. That made him recall the nurse who'd hit him in the balls to avoid being raped. He was still irate about that. It occurred to him that she might be the perfect person to frame for Fallgood's murder. That would teach her a lesson! He'd have to figure out the most effective approach.

As he anticipated, Luwanda refused to come home with him for a quick tumble in the sack. She even refused to give him a blow job in her car. Sourly, he was convinced that women needed to be replaced with pretty androids who were always agreeable. If he could get what he needed at home, would he have to take it by force from strangers? - well, perhaps.

But Luwanda had found something interesting online while she was snooping. At the restaurant she showed him on his laptop. His client, Stevie Reid, had once been in business with the victim, Pat Fallgood. For a brief time twelve years ago they'd operated a hunting farm up in the mountains where people killed game for a fee. A gun happy Republican politician shot somebody there, so that had to close down.

While Evans thought it was a strange, coincidence, he didn't see how that had a bearing on the case. Almost by accident, he checked the webcam at the Dark's place.

The camera was still operating thanks to really expensive batteries. He had to remember to charge Reid for them. He could make out several cops around the house and the playhouse. They seemed to be collecting evidence and taking fingerprints.

He realized that the girls had accused him for sexing them. Now he'd have to deal with that problem. It's almost impossible to get out of a child's false charges especially if sex is involved in the slightest. They can claim anything and people believe them. Little girls should never be trusted!

Since Ervis couldn't be positive what the girls may have said about him, he reasoned that a direct approach would be a good ploy. He'd behave like an innocent, honest man. At the same time he'd find out exactly what trouble was confronting him.

Using his car, he drove out to the Dark home. On the way, he retrieved the webcam from its hiding place. It wouldn't be good if it were discovered. He went right to the front door. The police were leaving and passed him on the driveway.

"I saw the police," he said innocently to Mrs. Dark when she answered the door. "Did you have trouble?"

"You," the woman replied hostilely, refusing to admit him to the house.

"How could I have been trouble for you?" Ervis asked with a playful twist of his head.

"The girls said you were here yesterday, snooping around. You frightened them. They said you were stalking them. They thought you might hurt them."

So it wasn't nearly as bad as he'd feared. The girls hadn't risked actually accusing him of assaulting them, just of being there. "I'm sorry I frightened. the children," he offered. "I was here yesterday looking for you, but you were out. I certainly wasn't stalking or endangering the children."

"I never want to see you here again," the mother hissed "and don't ever talk to my daughter again. What did you want yesterday?" She wasn't comfortable with the man and wanted rid of him as soon as possible.

Evans said that he just wanted to tell her that her alibi checked out and he wondered if she'd ever heard the Extremely Reverend mention a woman named Roberta Dow. "I have reason to believe she may have been involved in the murder."

Of course, the woman had never heard of Roberta and closed the door as soon as there was a pause in the conversation. The trip was a relief. It was a standoff. He wouldn't expose the girls and, apparently, they weren't going to accuse him. After all, he hadn't done anything. He couldn't understand why he felt guilt. Little girls didn't interest him in the slightest. That was for perverts.

He'd been thinking of how to frame Roberta Dow. He'd need to cook up some evidence, but maybe not too much. Cops never need much in the way of real evidence to go after someone.

Ervis' first step would be to give cops what they like best, "trace evidence," hair, fibers, that kind of bullshit. On the way back to the city he stopped in Colonial Park. He bought some underwear, the most expensive kind in a size big enough to fit the dead Pat Gardner Fallgood. He took his purchase directly uptown to the Twin Towers Tavern. He wanted to make it look like the boxers had been worn by Fallgood the night he was murdered.

Evans wet the underwear with a little bottled water and rubbed them around on the ground to pick up some soil and trace evidence. There were still some traces of blood in cracks in the cement. He mopped them up, too. When he was finished, any lab could easily connect the trunks to the murder scene. Now he had only to plant them on his victim, Roberta Dow.

The detective figured that arrows shot from a crossbow had to be different from the regular kind fired from an ordinary bow. The chances were that the cops had kept the arrows that had killed Fallgood and could tell that a crossbow was involved. So, now he needed to buy a crossbow. He found them for sale online. They were expensive, so he ordered the cheapest one. His intention was to conceal it in some hiding place in Roberta's home. That should seal her fate.

• Drug Smug

Detective Ervis Evans had pretty nearly finalized his plan to frame the nurse Roberta Dow. It would be sweet revenge. He wasn't able to rape her, but he could sure screw her all the same. He needed just a few more pieces to make his plan gel.

His client, Stevie Reid was squeamish. He didn't like the idea of an innocent person going to jail. "Believe me," Evans assured him, "she's not innocent. I caught her with stolen drugs and she's a pervert." Like so many Americans, Evans liked the word "pervert." Sometime he pronounced it "pre-vert." It sounded so damning and so vile; sick-o.

Ervis went on to explain; "we'll make it look like she killed Fallgood someplace else and just dumped his body at the Twin Towers. It will get the bar completely off the hook. It wasn't involved at all. That way it should be easy to get your license back. You were an innocent bystander."

When the crossbow arrived, Ervis did a little second story work. The state police academy had trained him how to break in to places. All cops like doing it. They are snoops at heart. Roberta Dow lived alone in a tiny apartment in the quiet residential neighborhood of New Cumberland. It was no problem to break into the place without being seen, but to be on the safe side, he dressed up as a TV cable repairmen. He planted his invented evidence.

In the reservoir behind the toilet, he planted some crack cocaine in a plastic bag. The crossbow he hid on a shelf in a kitchen closet. He'd gotten a signed picture of the Extremely Reverend Fallgood from the Conquest Fund that he planted under clothes in a bedroom drawer. It would establish a connection between the victim and the patsy. For all he knew, the two had never met. To make a murder plausible, they had to at least be connected somehow.

Being in the girl's apartment and going through her personal things, sexually aroused Evans. Many things sexually aroused him. He was aroused just about all the time. Some people seem to possess the "turned-on" gene. If he could have, he'd have hunted up some woman to ravish, or at the very least, he would have masturbated. To his great frustration, it had to wait. He could hear people moving around in the hall and he couldn't afford to be caught there.

Hurriedly, Evans collected some hair from the woman's brush. He also took a handkerchief and, strictly for himself, he retrieved a pair of slightly soiled panties from the bathroom floor. As soon as circumstances allowed, he used them to sexually arouse himself to beat off. Women smell good.

Having gotten safely out of the apartment, Ervis had only two more things to plant, the underwear and a plastic tarpaulin. In Evans' frame, the tarp was what the girl used to carry the body to be dumped. He had to put it and the boxer shorts in the trunk of her car. That would be a little harder than planting stuff in the apartment.

Since the unfortunate incident at the doctor's office, everyone kept an eye out the back. That's where the cars were parked so Evans couldn't get into it there. He had to follow her around until she parked at the mall. Fortunately women spend more time in stores than making love. (And they think men are perverse!)

It wasn't difficult for Evans to pop the trunk of the woman's car. He stuffed the tarp into the wheel well and hid the boxers behind the spare. He'd been keeping it in a small plastic bag. Ervis was almost set to spring the trap.

Steven Shaffer was the real key to the detective's scheme, but before putting that low life to work, Evans had to plant the suggestion that Roberta was the killer. For that he'd use policewoman Bonny Delay. He showed Captain Boobs the hankie he's stolen from Roberta's apartment. He'd taken the trouble to doctor it up a little bit first with dirt and debris from the murder scene. "I figured I better turn in this evidence to the police," he told her handing over the hankie in an envelope. "I found this close to where Reverend body was discovered. It must have blown up into a bush and been missed."

Boobs was willing to accept the story since the Harrisburg police hadn't really done much at the crime scene. She was satisfied that they missed a lot of evidence.

"I think it may belong to a nurse. It smells of medicines," the detective added. "My investigations have led me to suspect that a woman named Dow might be involved in the killing. She's a nurse."

The captain wanted to know what kind of investigations had turned up nurse Dow. She'd never heard of her.

"Hearsay," Ervis said. "Several people told me that Dow had it in for Fallgood because he'd cheater her somehow. She may even have been stalking him."

When Boobs seemed to buy into the fairy tale, Ervis dropped the other shoe. "I also found some hair," the told the Captain. "Do you want it, or should I give it to the State Police crime laboratory?"

Bonny accepted the baggy with a few strands of the hair that Evans had collected from Roberta's brush. "Where'd this come from?" the cop wanted to know. She was getting a little suspicious; a hankie and hair was a little much.

"It was out along the alley stuck in a crevice in the macadam, maybe off a shoe," Evans told the woman. "I don't think Fallgood was killed at Twin Towers. I think the body was dumped there, probably from a car. There simply wasn't enough blood.

Bonny Delay was skeptical, but Evans had succeeded in his aim. He'd planted the suggestion that Roberta Dow was the killer and provided a little "seed evidence. That would start the cops thinking in the direction he wanted them to go. Cops aren't bright and when an idea is planted in their minds, they seldom rethink it regardless of later developments. Bullies don't question themselves.

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania is an unfriendly place, unfriendly and indecent, indecent in a humanitarian way, not a sexual way. With the rest of America, it's obsessed with sex and other people's pleasures, jealous. Mayor Dicks' city is a bully, dying under its own folly and neurosis. In that way, Harrisburg is an archetype of the whole country. America has become unfriendly and a bully, an evil nation. It's what happens in a police state. The city and the nation mimic the ways of the police.

Ervis Evans understood the police mentality because he'd been one himself. He would have been a great success if his pecker hadn't gotten the best of him. He knew how to manipulate the police mentality. For his frame-up scheme to succeed, it mattered who told the cops the Roberts Dow lie and how. steven Shaffer was the ideal choice.

The Harrisburg cops had a long experience with Shaffer. They detested him, but recognized that he was a snitch. When he told them a tale, they figured it was true enough to act upon.

When Evans visited the Dauphin County jail again, he took cash. He explained to Shaffer that he could shorten his 30 day sentence and win the appreciation of the authorities by telling them about Roberta Dow. I'll tell them you have information. You'll give it to them in exchange for parole from your sentence."

Steven listened intently, but skeptically. Getting off a few days of jail time was no big deal. For an AC-DC guy like Shaffer, jail wasn't so bad. What he wanted was a little profit.

Evans went on the explain the plan. "Tell the cops that Dow is a nurse and she's selling drugs. You also have reason to believe that she may have killed Pat Garnar Fallgood. He cheated her out of an inheritance."

The prisoner looked nonplus. He wanted to know why Ervis didn't tell them the story himself, but he realized that it might get him some favors from the cops in the future. A drug dealer and petty crook can always use friends on the force. The Harrisburg cops had long been accepting payoffs from the bigger pushers. "What's in it for me?" steve demanded.

Evans produced a wad of bills. "A hundred and a half now, an other hundred and a half after they buy the story. I'll even throw in a few grams of crack."

It's a testament to what kind of low life Shaffer was that three hundred dollars could buy his services. A snitch is a kind of prostitute. Shaffer was a damn cheap one.

• Bitch Twitch

Ervis Evans thought his frame was certain to work. He told his client to just wait a few days. "See what happens. I'll back off my investigation. I don't want to make the cops skittish." They waited for nature - cop nature - to take its course.

In a few days Evans got the call he was expecting. Steve Shaffer was out of jail. He wanted the dope and money that had been promised to him. He'd told his story to both the Harrisburg and the state cops. They were delighted with it. Cops like to catch people, even innocent people. Guilt is secondary to making a bust. Cops are basically predators.

The following Monday Mayor Reeve Dicks announced a break in the Extremely Reverend Pat Garnar Fallgood case. Mayor Dicks liked to make a elaborate production of such announcements. It was a full-scale, televised news conference. It was good politics. At all other times, Mayor Dicks completely censored the crime news. He wanted it to seem as if Harrisburg was a crime-free paradise. In fact, it was (and is) an unfriendly place.

Stevie Reid, the owner of the Twin Towers Tavern was basically a decent person. He felt very guilty that an innocent woman, a hard working nurse, had been arrested for the murder.

"She's not really 'innocent,' you know," Evans assure him. "Don't forget the drugs she was stealing. She's a crook, okay!"

Reid realized that none of us is truly innocent. We've each done criminal things of some stripe, even if it's just stealing pencils or cheating on taxes. "She said the drugs she took were for cancer treatment for her father," Reid said. "Maybe it's a crime, but it's a small one."

To Evans, crime was crime. He was just happy that the bitch was suffering. That would teach her to resist his sexual demands.

There was a lot ef evidence against the girl. She was bound to spend the rest of her life in prison. They'd teach her about sex in prison! She'd be lapping pussy in no time.

Even before Roberta's trial, the Pennsylvania Liquor Control Board decided, in it's wisdom, that Stevie Reid and his Twin Towers Tavern was not involved in the murder of Reverend Fallgoed. They weren't a dangerous nuisance after all, so they got their license back. When Reid reopened, there was more business than ever. The murder gave the place both fame and a mystique.

But the case against Roberta Dow started to fall apart. First there was a second murder. A rabbi, Michael Freedman, was found shot through the chest with an arrow. His girfriend's young daughter said that she'd seen a black man do it. Her description matched Ervis Evans to a tee.

Even the state cops thought it was a strange coincidence that two persons should be murdered in the same unusual way. Making it an even stranger coincidence was the fact that the two victims were associated with the same heiress. Their excuse was that it must be a copycat.

As Roberta's trial approached her defense attorney, a newcomer named Morris Royce, got the report from the State Police lab. It said that the blood found on the underwear taken from Roberta's car matched the victim's blood. It was damning DNA evidence.

The lawyer was clever enough not to trust anything from a police laboratory. Only a fool would do that. He wasn't a public defender whose job it was to get his client into prison as cheaply as possible. Morris was actually trying to help his client. That's almost unheard of with criminal defense lawyers.

The lawyer had the evidence checked by an independent lab. It was blood, alright, but chicken blood. The victim's wife said that her husband had never worn that kind of boxer shorts. He wore Jockey briefs. The supposedly strong case against nurse Dow was starting to look pretty weak.

Nancy Face, the obnoxious prosecutor, tried to save her case by offering Roberta a deal. If she'd plead guilty to involuntary manslaughter for a three year sentence, she'd drop the murder charge. The nurse said she hadn't killed Reverend Fallgood. She'd never even met him. How was she supposed to accept such a deal. It was untrue. Guilty or not, most defendants accept deals rather than risk getting a long sentence if the jury decides the case wrong.

Privately, the district attorney realized that the girl wasn't guilty. The DA is supposed to seek justice, but in reality she sought convictions. She didn't care if the defendant was innocent. She cared that she could make the defendant seem guilty.

The crossbow was the next piece of evidence to fall. Attorney Royce had it tested. It turned out that the crossbow was little more than a toy, a cheap toy. It fired a bolt, but with very little force. It couldn't drive the arrow into a man's chest as had happened to Pat Fallgood. It couldn't be the murder weapon.

The cops tested the crossbow too. It failed to make an arrow penetrate. The prosecutor, Nancy Face, told them to simply replace it with a more powerful model. Like cops, prosecutors routinely tamper with evidence, or simply create it. On this occasion it couldn't be done. The defense had already seen the real crossbow.

While Roberta admitted to taking a few cancer drugs from the office where she worked, she insisted that the crack cocaine found in her toilet wasn't hers. Her lawyer argued that it was obvious that it had been planted. The other so-called evidence had proven to be fake and had clearly been planted. Mr. Royce said that his client would plead guilty to theft by unlawful taking for a suspended sentence if everything else was dropped.

When he heard about the development, Stevie Reid was sincerely delighted that the girl was getting off. He'd gotten his license back. That was all he wanted. He didn't want Miss Dow to go to prison. That's a horror not deserved even by the guilty.

Ervis Evans, on the other hand, was anything but pleased. He'd wanted the bitch to twist painfully in the breeze. Now she'd gotten off. Where was the revenge in that? Now he'd be on the spot. The cops would want to know why their evidence went sour. They blamed the defense lawyer, of course, but Ervis was also in their sights. He didn't know at the time how much.

• Law and Order / Lawn Daughter

With the rest of the unfriendly nation, Harrisburg was a place of hate-television. It really started way back in the 1930s. Then it was radio and just religious haters. Religion has always been the brooding nest for hatred. The Christians cultivate it with their vitriol. The Catholic "Father" of the Little Flower preached Nazi hatred during the Great Depression. His Christians gobbled it up. In the present day, Pat Garner Fallgood and his brethren still preached Nazi hatred, but they call it something different, fundamentalism, conservatism, nonsense. Their Christians still gobble it up. Hatred is religion's way of life.

The strangest things is the public's appetite for hatred. As if it were chocolate or apricot Danish, Americans love to hate other people. Hate is easier than help.

In Harrisburg as in the rest of the unfriendly nation, hatred became a commodity sold on television by conservative "social" commentators. Not content with their own hates, they want others to join the mob. There's always somebody to look down on and despise. Hatred gives the illusion of superiority.

The Harrisburg pundits hated Roberta Dow. She'd gotten away with murder on a technicality (being not guilty). She was hated for being a Hispanic, for being a woman and just for being there. Every decent person knows that if the cops charge you with a crime you're guilty. The hate-mongers were appalled that a killer should get off with probation.

The cops were no less outraged. They'd exhausted themselves putting together an airtight case only to have it wrecked by truth. Cops detest truth as Christians detest freedom.

But the cops weren't idle. They were busy investigating the murder of rabbi Michael Freedman. It wasn't the Harrisburg cops this time, either. First the township police and then the state police conducted the investigation. Unlike Reverend Fallgood's killing, this time the cops had witnesses.

Detective Evans continued about his questionable business. He got a case to checkup on a cheating wife. There are always plenty of them; farts stink, wives cheat. In the week following Miss Dow's release from jail Evans raped a woman down in Steelton. The truth was that he liked to force women into sex. It made him feel less helpless to their power. Why should a woman have that kind of control over a man's life?

He blamed it on his pregnant wife, Luwanda. He was very horny, but as so often happened, she refused to do the things he wanted or needed. What were women for if it wasn't sex? Frustrated and angry, Ervis went to a bar in hilly Steelton.

When a broad-bottomed white woman left the cafe alone, he followed her. Ervis didn't care for white pussy very much. However, white women think they're so high and mighty that raping them was a special pleasure. It made them powerless to him and showed them what that pussy was really for.

Evans followed his prey down to Front Street staying out of sight and well behind her. Women who walk around alone at night They want to be raped. They're asking for it. Grabbing her by an arm and covering her mouth, Ervis dragged the woman down by the old canal. He threw her up over the trunk of an abandoned car and mounted her from behind like an animal. At some point the bitch fainted. She was pretty drunk. He liked it better when they begged and bawled.

Like a rage, it was all over too quickly. At home he told Luwanda about it. She didn't believe him. Women have a unique reality, a bent prism through which they distort things to their own tastes. with them, sex is nothing like it is with men.

The couple were no sooner in bed than there were cops at the door. They didn't arrest him, but made him go with them. He couldn't believe that his victim could have reported her assault and he could have been picked up so quickly. Somebody must have snitched on him.

But they were state cops, not Steelton cops. They took him to the barracks and put him into a cell without saying why he was being held. He was kept there all night. Not until after nine o'clock the next morning was he taken to an interrogation room. A state police detective came in with a piece of paper. "Did you buy this crossbow?" he asked.

So it wasn't about the rape, after all. It was about planting the evidence. He realized they'd have an awfully hard time proving such a charge, so he denied everything. "I don't know what your talking about," he answered. "Why am I here and what's going on? I have nothing to say without a lawyer."

Evans was no scholar, but he was right to refuse to talk to cops. Never, ever, under any circumstances talk to the cops. It can never do you any good. No matter, what you say, cops will twist it and make it what they want it to be. They are cops because they like to hurt people.

The state cop took Evans into a room with several other large black men. It was a kind of line up. After a few minutes the others were ushered out. Obviously someone on the other side of the mirror was making an identification. The state cop came back with some others. One of them read Ervis his rights. "You're under arrest for the murder of rabbi Michael Freedman," the first cop told him. "We've got two girls who saw you do it. We know you were there weeks ago casing the place. Your fingerprints were even found even in the playhouse. Is that where you waited for him? Was it an ambush?"

The murder of rabbi Freedman?! Evans was no place close to the Dark home. He tried to explain that he hadn't killed anybody. "It was those little girls," he said in a panic. "They're the killers. It was them who killed Fallgood, too. It wasn't me."

"Little girls don't lie," one of the cops said, laughing. "They saw you do it."

"How could 11 year-old girls kill anybody and why would they want to?"

"You'll have to cook up something better that that."

Ervis Evans almost got the death penalty, but the judge sentenced him to life in prison. He became one of the thousands of Pennsylvania prisoners who were not guilty of the crimes for which they were convicted. The children whose testimony convicted him, Frolic Dark and her friend, Teresa Good, were hailed as heroines, courageous and strong, examples to other young girls.

Luwanda Evans, Ervis' wife, divorced him as soon as he was sentenced. She wanted a new man with more money and fewer sexual demands. Except in the most rare of situations, prisoners lose their families soon after they're imprisoned.

After she had her baby and gave it to her mother to rear, she went back to work for the Pennsylvania Department of Revenue. It gave her plenty of free time to snoop into valuable personal records. She found out who had the real money. Using the web, she developed details about where they lived and what they did. Was their treasure at home or socked away in banks? The idle state employee fed those useful secrets to her new boyfriend, Barry Jones. He in turn, knew who to burglarize. He was quite successful, too.

Human males have very few differences from male beasts of any other species. In spite of the religious crazies, the truth is that people are just another flavor of creature, cousin to the salamander and kin to the coral reef. One of the few differences between men and the males of their relative critters is drunkenness. For some unfathomable reason a great many humans, primarily men, get drunk. What can be the biological good of that? Perhaps other animals would get drunk if they could, but they never had a woman smart enough to invent fermentation. Perhaps other species don't need to rid themselves of inhibitions to enjoy sex. More likely, it's the human self-destruct button.

During one big burglary job Barry Jones was both blind stoned on dope and staggering drunk on vodka. He accidentally locked his partner, a florist named Ed, in a basement storage closet. To make matters worse, he'd locked his keys in the getaway car. Of all human males, burglars should strive for sobriety.

Barry was arrested. He went to prison. Luwanda didn't. She just got a new paramour. That's the way it is with women. Mates are interchangeable like CDs.

When Mayor Reeve Dicks proudly announced the arrest of Barry Jones, he labeled him one of the worst burglars in Harrisburg's annals of crime. As always, Flabby Dicks was excited to make the public announcement. He craved the cameras, the limelight and the illusion that people liked him. Secretly, his honor was greatly relieved that the burglar had been put out of business and slapped into prison for 80 years. He should have gotten more.

Jones and his partner had once broken into the Mayor's mansion. The burglary threatened disaster for his honor. It was only the greatest good fortune which saved Mayor Dicks. He had a lot of stuff hidden in his home. If the public or the law found out, Reeve would be in prison himself. It wasn't just the drugs and porn, but much more interesting treasures.

The mayoral home was equipped with state-of-the-art security, high tech wonders. Barry's partner, the florist Ed, unplugged the system as easily as changing a computer password. A truth of technology is that the more elaborate and complex systems become, the more easily they can be defeated. Everything that's conceived must be operated by a secretary named Mary. The Marys run the world, so every system must accommodate the Mary mentality and experience. What good is a system, any system, that Mary can't use practically and efficiently before her coffee break?

While Mayor Dicks and his friend, Fat Floyd, were sleeping on the second floor, the burglars went through everything. In a locked chest, they found the porn collection. It was mostly just photos of the Mayor doing unseemly things to Republican men, and them doing unseemly things to him, nothing of interest to either Ed or Barry. They left it behind.

They took the drugs, however, two large caches, one from the desk, one from the night stand beside which the mayor and his boyfriend rested in prescription induced stupor. The well-to-do can legally get all the drugs they want from doctors and prescriptions. The poor people must buy illegally from pushers for three times as much money. The rich party. The poor go to jail. In America that's called justice.

Barry and Ed gathered up sacks of cash and valuables. The mayor had a lot of really nice valuables; bribes, payoffs, kickbacks, things like that. In the den they discovered a large collection of antiques and costly artifacts.

Reeve Dicks was a crook. That goes without saying since he - was a politician. Many of the things bought with tax money supposedly for his many museums, were actually perks for himself. Hundreds of them were in his den, office and other parts of his house. Phallic mezzo-American figurines, ancient pistols and guns (the mayor had a special fondness for guns, they're so much like cocks), early American clothes, especially women's dresses with a cunning blue bonnet and so forth, cluttered every corner of the den.

The burglars took some of the junk that they though they could sell, but much of it they left behind. They took a thousand dollar stamp collection and a $60 string of antique beads, but left behind a hundred thousand dollar Indian blanket. When you're a burglar, it's wise to be familiar with what stuff's really worth.

While the pair were looting the den, Luwanda, Barry's girlfriend, called on his cell phone. She wanted to chat about money. Money is the fascination, addiction, joy and fear of women. It's amazing and deeply disturbing that women are so enamored of money. It's simply unnatural. As much as men are obsessed with sex, women are even more obsessed with money. It's one of the few things they actually use their brains for.

Luwanda wanted to complain about how much she'd paid for a shirt and to tell Barry about how high the babysitter's bill was. Barry thought they might be better able to discuss it at a later time.

Luwanda became furious. Women spend most of their lives angry. She complained that Barry never wanted to listen when she wanted to talk about money. He agreed that she had few other interests and apologized for being so un-feeling and lacking in understanding. "Right now," he offered, "it's 2 AM and I'm in the Mayor's house. We'll talk about it when I get home."

Before hanging up, Luwanda insisted that he bring her something nice, "some gold would be best," she insisted.

In the basement the burglars found two safes. One they couldn't open. They took it with them even though it was a noisy and clumsy project with a hefty dolly. It was a treasure throve. When they finally drilled the safe open it contained not just cash and jewelry, but gold for Luwanda, bonds and other goodies.

The second safe was larger and older. With a little effort, the burglars were able to open it. Inside were only books and papers. Account books seemed to record bribes and payoffs. Reeve Dicks had collected a lot of money and had interests in all sorts of enterprises, some legal, many illegal. He was part of the mob in Harrisburg. It was nothing Barry or Ed could sell so they left it strewed on the floor.

One small book from the safe was different. It was bound in plush crimson and embossed "The Charles Coughlin Freedom and Liberty Society." This was the book that the Mayor was most concerned would get out.

Charles E. Coughlin was the Catholic radio priest from the "Little Flower" who, during the 1930s, preached the Nazi philosophy of hatred and oppression. He was almost as nasty as the Christian crazies of today. Of course, neither Barry or Ed knew that, so they dropped the book in the pile with the other discards.

Where any group calls itself "liberty," you can be sure they're the opposite. Where they boast "freedom," they really mean loss of liberty. Those who tout being patriots are always really oppressors. Certainly that was the case with the Charles Coughlin Freedom and Liberty Society.

Had Barry and Ed been a little more inquisitive, they would have uncovered a dangerous secret. The Charles Coughlin Freedom and Liberty Society was really a kind of bund, a secret religious and political organization of the darkest kind. Mayor Dicks was a member. So was Pat Garner Fallgood, but so were most of the other Christian television and radio evangelists. In addition, the most powerful Republican leaders were officers of the group. It was a huge conspiracy to dominate and control people and wealth.

The crimson book revealed a much more delicate story. On a regular schedule, officers of the society met in one of three places, Lynchburg, Virginia, Crawford, Texas or an unnamed place in South Carolina, perhaps the state capitol building. The meetings were top secret planing sessions.

The most curious detail was that on the night of his murder, Pat Garner Fallgood was not in Harrisburg at all. He was at a meeting in South Carolina. When he snuck off to secret society meetings, a double took his place. It hadn't been Pat Garner Fallgood who'd been murdered after all. It had been his double.