I'm Almost There

I apologize for the lack of blog posts lately. I knew going in to this blogging thing that I would not be one of those bloggers who post daily, but I had hoped to put something together weekly. However, I’ve been busy, consumed is closer to the truth, with editing my third novel, Footprints of a Dancer, the 3^rd book in the Detective Elliot series. The book should have been published a year ago, but all kinds of things got in the way, not the least of which is my own procrastination. So a few weeks ago, I started an all-out editing blitz, working feverishly to get through the first editing pass.

It seems that, when it comes to writing, writers fall into two categories – those who outline and those who don’t. I fall into the latter bunch, which means my first drafts are… Well let’s just say the prose, the dialogue, the plot, and even the setting wander all over the place while I try to figure out where the story is going. That makes the first rewrite a nightmare, especially when it takes two years – or is that three – of interrupted starts and stops to wade through the first draft. One tends to lose continuity, which can be frustrating when dealing with a dynamic and quite non-linear beast to begin with.

If there is a bright side to my chaotic, though holistic, style of writing, it would be the tendency of my novels to be unpredictable. It’s tough for the reader to guess what’s going to happen next when I have to do the same while writing it.

But I’m almost there. I’m about 80% finished with the first rewrite. The second rewrite always goes much faster. I hope to have the book out within the next few months.

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If you would like the chance to read Twisted Perception for free on Kindle, please follow the link below:

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If you do not have a Kindle, a free Kindle app can be downloaded from Amazon for your pc, iPhone, smart phone, iPad, and possibly even your lawnmower. Just kidding about the lawnmower…  I think. Anyway, my publisher, AWOC Books, has included Twisted Perception in a special promotional campaign to spread the word about their wonderful books.

Twisted Perception, which is the first book in the Detective Elliot series, has picked up some great reviews, including a four star review from the Tulsa World, one of Oklahoma’s largest newspapers.

Please take this opportunity to read a fast-paced mystery that no one to date has been able to solve before the final page. But you must hurry. The offer is good only for Friday and Saturday, January 13, and 14.

–       Bob Avey, author of the Detective Elliot series

Twisted Perception -- Serialized Post # 10

Chapter Three

            Elliot grabbed a cup of coffee and a bagel from the break room then went to his desk. Beaumont still worried him. He couldn’t figure the captain’s fondness for Beaumont. Beaumont was sharp on theory, but he was no good in the field. He’d gotten them into trouble a few weeks back. He and Elliot had tracked down a meth lab operator who’d decided to take out the competition, his brother. When the suspect reached for his weapon, Beaumont hesitated just long enough for three of the guy’s associates to come rushing out of a back bedroom. Elliot had been forced to act, killing one of the suspects and dropping another. He wound up with a short hospital stay and a reprimand for using excessive force. He didn’t mention Beaumont’s error in the report.

            Tossing the bagel, Elliot picked up the coffee and leaned back in his chair. He sat in a cubicle that served as an office in the bull pen that played host to the homicide squad. To Elliot’s left was a computer monitor, and in front of him one of the half walls lined with notes he’d stuck there. There was a five-drawer filing cabinet on his right that served not only as a storage area, but a barrier as well. When he leaned back, the action left him exposed, outside the protective mass of the filing cabinet. Beaumont sat across the aisle in an identical, mirror-imaged cubicle. He glanced over only to see Beaumont leaning back as well, staring at him with a blank look on his face.

            Elliot sipped his coffee. Within a few blocks of the department, a victim of murder had been left in the street, but Elliot’s thoughts were elsewhere. The small town of Porter was in another lifetime, but from that murky past a cold finger had reached out and touched him. He closed his eyes, conjuring images of Carmen Garcia. The sight of her in that pale yellow dress with her dark eyes sparkling had nearly taken his breath away.

            My parents are gone, Kenny. Stay with me tonight.

            Nerves crawled in Elliot’s gut at the memory. He drained his coffee and crushed the cup. He looked up to see Captain William Dombrowski leaning against the filing cabinet, staring at him. “You got a minute?”

            Elliot followed Dombrowski into his office, stopping behind the chairs in front of the desk. Dombrowski gestured for Elliot to sit while he studied him with intense gray eyes.

“What’s on your mind, Captain?”

            Dombrowski lit a cigar then watched a stream of smoke curl toward the ceiling. “I hear you were pretty shaken up this morning.”

            “Who told you that?”

            “It doesn’t matter. I need my cops sharp, impartial. If you’ve got a problem, I need to know about it.”

            Elliot didn’t like what he was hearing. Dombrowski’s concern seemed way out of proportion. “I don’t have a problem. Maybe someone else does.”

            “This isn’t the first time I’ve had complaints about your behavior, and they’ve all been recent. This isn’t like you. What’s going on?”

            “There’s nothing going on.”

            Dombrowski pushed back from his desk, his chair protesting from the burden of his weight. “Come on, kid. It’s me you’re talking to.”

            Elliot rubbed his temples. He and Dombrowski had worked a couple of cases together when they were both detectives. Dombrowski had been captain for less than six months and he was probably just as uncomfortable as Elliot was. Elliot glanced at a bookcase by the wall. Alongside an array of law books sat a hand painted ceramic mug and a plaster imprint of a small hand, things Dombrowski’s kid had made him. “I haven’t been sleeping well,” he said. “Nightmares, that sort of thing.”

            “Work related?”

            Stay with me tonight, Kenny.

            “I’m not sure. Probably not.”

            “Well, I’m a little more inclined to think that it is. You had a close call last month.”

            “It wasn’t that bad.”

            “Jeez, Elliot. You were shot. There’s no shame in being shaken up over that. Maybe you should take some time off.”

What happened to Christmas

I don't usually repost the same content on various sites -- okay maybe I do at times -- but I like this one:

Dreaming of a White Christmas

A few days ago, on the way home from work, I was coerced into shopping. My wife, Kathi, had been scouring the town, looking for something to wear to our company Christmas party, (They now call it a Holiday party) and she wanted to check a certain discount store. Knowing that if given a choice between the two, I’d choose to suffer through reruns of I Love Lucy, Kathi had called her sister to share in the experience. However, since dear sister was unavailable, I was called to task.

I entered the domain of doom, clutching a copy of Writer’s Digest, hoping to sit with the magazine in the waiting area and pull myself into its pages. At best, it was an ill-fated attempt. As writers, we observe our surroundings, but for some of us, once the switch is thrown it’s difficult to turn off. I glanced at the smartphone in my hand and I was reminded of a conversation I’d had with a dear friend, Valerie Gawthrop. “So much has changed since I first began writing,” she’d said. Her elegant use of understatement overwhelmed me, and I removed my attention from the pages of the magazine.

Something in a language I could not understand, which, to me, more resembled chanting than music, played through the intercom system, echoing through the rows of shabby clothing, where shoppers, some with desperation in their faces, some with anger, and still others with indifference, searched through the rubble, hoping to find that rare gem, a blouse with its buttons intact, a dress with no missing sequins. An elderly lady scooted past with her shopping cart and smiled. It was all I could do to keep from crying.

Things have changed all right, Val. Who among us veterans of the pen would have ever, in our most outlandish imaginations, dreamed that in our country someone’s grandmother would be reduced to this, or that a store would be worried about or afraid to play the music of Christmas?

Merry Christmas everyone, and may God bless.

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It's the same address, but I've had it revamped. I think it looks pretty good. What do you think?

Twisted Perception - 9th Seralized Post

“Why do you suppose seeing you would bother him?”

            “Well for heavens sake, hon, I don’t know. But I can tell you this, when he started toward me, I near lost myself. He scared the wits out of me. I don’t know why I showed him my cell phone. I guess I was trying to let him know that I could call for help if I needed to. But that didn’t scare him. It seemed to be what he wanted. He started nodding his head and yelling through the glass that someone was inside that car, he thought she might be dead, and would I mind calling the police. Well, let me tell you, I was more than happy to do just that.”

            “Do you remember what time you made the call?”

            “It was before six. That’s about the time I usually get here, and I was running a little early.”

            Elliot closed his notepad and tucked it inside his jacket pocket. “Thank you, Mrs. Smith. That’ll be all for now.” He stood on the sidewalk for a moment then walked over to the Mercedes, where Beaumont was standing. “You about through here?”

            “It’s all yours,” Beaumont said. Then he surprised Elliot. He put a hand on his shoulder, and with an expression that looked almost personable he said, “You look a little rough around the edges, Elliot. What’s bothering you?”

            As if on cue, a wind kicked up, a cool and swirling breeze that carried the faint smell of pear blossoms coming from some of the few blooms that had managed to survive the up-and-down temperatures. “It’s nothing,” Elliot said, “Just a bad case of déjà vu.”

            Beaumont raised an eyebrow and cocked his head, putting his hands on his hips, an imitation John Wayne in a Park Avenue suit. “Probably not the words you were looking for, but I think I know what you’re getting at. The Stillwater murders right? The victims had their throats cut, and as I recall, at least one of them was found like this, in the passenger seat of her car.” He paused and rubbed his chin. “That was before your time, too. I must say I’m impressed, old boy.”

            Elliot wondered how Beaumont knew so much. The Stillwater murders had happened a long time ago, seven years at least, and with no apparent connection to Tulsa. It was a stretch even for a fanatic like Beaumont. Yet he’d brought it up immediately. But Elliot’s knowledge of the events hadn’t been acquired by studying old case files, as he suspected Beaumont’s had. He’d been a little closer to the source, attending classes at Oklahoma State during the murders and reading about them in the Stillwater Gazette. “Before your time, as well,” he added.

            “That it was. Seems there was more to it though, some sort of messages. ”

            “Written in blood,” Elliot said. “And the slitting of the throats wasn’t like this, a simple cut. They had a pattern, a definite design.” Elliot’s own words sent a chill through him, but he said nothing more. How could he tell Beaumont the memory that had nearly brought him to his knees hadn’t come from Stillwater, but from a time period when he was a high school senior in Porter, Oklahoma?

“Morning, gentlemen.”

A team from the medical examiner’s office had arrived, and one of them, Donald Carter, had made his way over to them. “Hey, Donnie,” Elliot said.

            Beaumont gave a curt nod.

            Donald Carter slipped on a pair of half-moon glasses and said, “Some crazy weather we’re having, huh?”

            Elliot smiled and started walking toward the Mercedes while Donald Carter and Detective Beaumont followed. Less than a week ago temperatures had hovered around the high eighties, spawning a tornado that had ripped through the outskirts of town. This morning most thermometers would have to struggle to get above forty: Springtime in Oklahoma. Elliot stopped beside the open passenger door of the vehicle. “How long would you say she’s been dead?”

            Donnie stepped forward and ducked his head inside the car, for a closer look. He already had his gloves on. He pushed the skin with his finger, observing its elasticity then lifted one of her arms “Several hours. Seven or eight, if I had to guess.” He pulled his head back and stood straight. “Looks like she was killed in the driver’s seat then somehow maneuvered over to this side.”

            Elliot nodded. “A hurried attempt to throw us off. The victim was dragged over the console. I think she was killed somewhere else and brought here.” He paused, intending to stop there, but before he knew it he was verbalizing his thoughts. “I’ve got a tip-of-the-iceberg feeling about all this.”

            The look on Donald Carter’s face said he was interested, but one of his team members had called out to him. He turned and walked away.

Beaumont muttered something that Elliot couldn’t quite make out, and then he said, “You might be onto something. There are a lot of similarities here, perhaps a little too many. You don’t suppose we have a copycat on our hands, do you?”

            “Maybe,” Elliot said. And again, what he’d only intended to think came out. “Worse yet, maybe not.”

            Beaumont arched an eyebrow. “Surely you don’t think…” He shook his head. “Christ, Elliot, some psycho could’ve run across it in an old newspaper or something.”

            Don’t do this, Kenny. We can work it out.

            “Yeah,” Elliot said. “You’re probably right.” He got some plastic bags from his car and went back to the Mercedes, where he picked up the cell phone and gathered some fibers that looked to be from duct tape. In the glove compartment, he found a book of matches from some bar. For the first time, he hoped Beaumont was right. However, when he slid the necklace off the mirror and dropped it into the bag, he again thought of Marcia Barnes, her blonde hair caked with blood, her petite body riddled with stab wounds.

            “You going to be all right?” Beaumont asked.

            “Why wouldn’t I be?”

             Beaumont shrugged. “What’s up with that fellow Sergeant Conley took in?”

 “His name’s Bill Morton. He found the body.”

            “You think he had something to do with it?”

            “I don’t know. He’s got a record, everything from petty burglary to exposing himself to the sisters at the cathedral over on Boulder, but nothing like this.”

            “The real cream of society,” Beaumont remarked.

            Elliot watched the medical examiner’s people remove the body.

            “How’s Molly?” Beaumont asked.

            Elliot found that curious as well. Molly worked at the district attorney’s office and she and Elliot had been dating, but he hadn’t been aware that Beaumont knew that. “She’s doing better.”

            Beaumont nodded. “I know what she’s going through. It’s tough to lose someone, especially when they’re family.”

            “Not much more we can do here,” Elliot said.

Let me know what you think. Feel free to comment or email me at bob@bobavey.com

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Twisted Perception -- 8th Serialized Post

The nervous man, who looked about forty, had long, graying hair pulled back in a ponytail. A tattoo of a snake ran up his left arm. The lady reminded Elliot of his second grade school teacher. “I apologize for the wait,” he said. “My name’s Detective Elliot. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

            Conley introduced Bill Morton as the man who discovered the body and Ella Mae Smith as the woman who had called the police. Elliot pulled the man aside first, and after a few steps, he flipped open his notepad. “Mr. Morton, how did you happen to discover the deceased?”

            Morton gestured toward the scene. “I was coming up through here, going to the park. The Mercedes was sitting by the dumpster, all crooked-like, so I noticed it right off. When I went past, I saw someone was in the car. She didn’t look right, wasn’t moving or anything, so I thought I’d better have a look.” Morton paused and cleared his throat. “Knew she was dead when I saw all the blood.”

            Elliot made a notation. “Do you recall what time that was?”

            “I don’t know, about five thirty, I guess.”

            “Do you work around here, Mr. Morton?”

            “Nah, nothing like that, I was just out getting a little exercise.”

            Elliot tapped his notepad. Morton was wearing athletic shoes, but the rest of his attire, blue denim jeans and a western shirt, didn’t seem to confirm his explanation. “Did you see anyone else nearby?”

            “No, but I wasn’t really looking.”

            “Any other cars in the area?”

            “Not that I noticed. Except for Mrs. Smith. She pulled in across the way and stopped. She used her phone to call you guys, after I asked her to.”

            “Why do you suppose she stopped?”

            Morton shrugged and reached into his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He lit up then tossed the match onto the tarmac. “I don’t know, Mr. Elliot. Maybe she saw something she didn’t like.”

            Elliot weighed the response. Morton wasn’t dressed for a night on the town any more than he was for jogging, but his clothes were free of bloodstains and had no rips or tears. He had no weapons on him, and none were found at the crime scene. It would be nearly impossible to inflict that kind of wound on someone without getting dirty. Of course he could have gotten rid of the weapon, but if he were the killer, why would he leave to ditch the weapon and change clothes, only to return to the scene and call the cops? It didn’t seem likely, but Elliot still got the impression Morton wasn’t being entirely truthful. “I’d like to ask you to come down to the station with us, Mr. Morton. You’re not under arrest. We just want to ask you a few more questions.”

            A streetwise look of understanding crossed Morton’s face. Elliot had seen the look before; Morton had a bit of experience with the police, knew something about their procedures. The last thing he wanted was to go downtown with a bunch of cops, but he figured he had no choice. If he refused it would indicate guilt. If he tried to turn and run, that would be probable cause. He took a draw on his cigarette. “This is exactly why people don’t want to get involved. I try to do a good deed and the first thing you know, I’m a suspect.”

            “Everyone’s a suspect, Mr. Morton.”

            “Yeah? Well, I bet you don’t take Mrs. Prissy over there.”

            “Don’t bet on it,” Elliot said. “I’d haul the Pope in if I thought he was connected to the case.”

            Morton shook his head. “You probably would, at that. Yeah, sure, I’ll go answer your questions. Not like I got much choice anyway.”

            After thanking Mr. Morton, Elliot went to the other witness. “Would you mind telling me why you were in the area this morning, Mrs. Smith?”

            Ella Mae Smith smiled, and began to speak. “It’s Monday. I come down on Mondays and Wednesdays to look after Edna Jones. She gets up with the chickens, if you know what I mean. We’re both members of the Presbyterian Church. I’ve been looking in on older folks who need it for ten years now, not that I wouldn’t mind taking a break from it for awhile…taking care of this and worrying about that…but just try and get someone else to do it. Everyone wants to help, so long as they don’t have to take responsibility for it. If you want to quiet down a congregation, just ask for volunteers. And Pastor Schaffer can be quite demanding.” She paused and shook her head, then continued, “It’s not like I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. Patricia Letterman, God rest her soul, tried to warn me. She did it for years, you know, until her health started to fail.”

             “I see,” Elliot said. “Could you tell me what caused you to pull up here?”

            “Well, it was that car.”

            “The Mercedes?”

            “Yes, sir. Pastor Schaffer has one just like it. Not that he’d park it there. I guess that’s what caught my attention. And that strange man lurking about, glancing up and down the sidewalk, all nervous and jittery, like a cat in a room full of dogs.”

            “You mean Mr. Morton?”

            “Yes, sir. I would’ve just driven on, because I’d figured out by then that it wasn’t Pastor Schaffer’s car. And that Morton man looked like he was about to leave, too. But then he stopped and pressed his face against the window of that car, like he was trying to get a better look at what was inside. Well, that didn’t last long. He backed away from there like he’d touched a hot stove, and I just figured he was going to take off running cause that’s what it looked like he wanted to do, but then he saw me.”

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7th Serialized post -- Twisted Perception

Elliot turned back to Sergeant Conley. “Yeah,” Elliot said. “I’m fine.”

Conley’s expression said he wasn’t buying it and Elliot wasn’t surprised. He was sure he looked as pale and lifeless as the corpse sitting in the car. He backed off a bit then began working his way around the scene, taking pictures to review later. When he came to the passenger side of the car, he lowered the camera and worked his hand into a latex glove, wincing as he opened the door, causing the air inside the car, thick with the scents of urine and blood, to flood his senses.

The victim, a female that Elliot guessed to be about thirty years of age, was in the passenger seat with her head tilted back and her hands in her lap. The deep gash across her throat still looked fresh. The expensive necklace had been removed to keep it from being damaged. Everything about her said money, but through the lens of the camera, the massive diamond on her left hand looked as cold and detached as a severed limb. The necklace that dangled from the rearview mirror matched her earrings.

Johnnie Boy was here.

“Sure is dressed nice,” Conley said.

Elliot nodded, noting that her handbag lay undisturbed on the seat beside her, near a smear of blood where it looked like the killer had wiped the knife clean. On the floorboard beneath the brake pedal was a cell phone. Elliot picked it up. It was still on, so he hit redial. The display showed the last call was to the Tulsa Police Department. He started to comment when the sound of an approaching car caught his attention. He knew it would be Beaumont, but he confirmed it, watching the detective pull up. How anyone could keep a car as clean as Beaumont did was a mystery to Elliot. Then again, he suspected that, much like its owner, the car’s highly maintained exterior merely masked an embarrassing need for dirty lubricants.

Beaumont climbed out of his car and started toward them, habitually straightening his already perfect tie while he walked around the Mercedes, surveying the scene before he joined Elliot and Conley. “I hope you haven’t touched anything,” he said.

Elliot shook his head.

He glanced at Conley.

“Not me,” Conley said.

Beaumont looked Elliot over, a thin smile crossing his lips.

“What do you think?” He asked. “Do we have a homicide?”

“Looks like it.”

Beaumont moved closer to the vehicle, observing the victim. “Looks pretty affluent. By the way, Elliot, where were you last night?”

A wave of regret went through Elliot. He was to have met Beaumont for a beer after work and he’d completely forgotten about it. “Sorry, I guess I fell asleep.”

“You must have been dead to the world. I called your house, but you didn’t answer.”

Conley had walked back to his squad car, where he held the door open, the radio microphone in his hand. When Elliot came over, he tilted his head toward the scene and lowered the mike. “Why’d the captain have to send that jerk?”

Elliot tried to hide his smile. Beaumont, who was already busy dusting for prints, wasn’t exactly popular with the patrol officers. He was sharp—real sharp—and he had an impressive way of remembering case details, but he didn’t mind letting you know it. “He’s pretty good at what he does,” Elliot said. “Got an ID on the victim yet?”

            Conley nodded. “Name’s Lagayle Zimmerman.”

            Elliot ran the name through his memory, but it didn’t register. As he scanned the crime scene, the sounds of traffic on Peoria Avenue wafting through his senses, he noticed two people standing beside another uniformed officer. To Conley, he said, “Any of these people see anything?”

            “None that will admit to it,” Conley said.

            “You question everybody?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Who found the body?”

            “Some wino,” Conley said. “Hang on. I’ll get him for you.” He signaled for the officer to bring the witnesses over.

More to come. Please leave a comment and let me know what you think of the book.

Twisted Perception

Sixth Serialized Blog Post -- Twisted Perception -- Chapter Two

Blood-smeared words flashed through his memory.

Johnnie Boy was here.

Johnnie Alexander and Marcia Barnes were inside the car, both covered in blood, both dead. Then he saw the class ring. The one he’d given to Marcia. She’d worn it suspended from a gold chain around her neck, though it now hung from the rearview mirror of Johnnie’s Mustang, where it twisted mockingly in the darkness, catching the light of the moon and sparkling like some distant star.

“Pretty fancy jewelry, huh, Elliot? Hey, man, you okay?”

Snapping back to the present, Elliot looked across the top of the Mercedes to see Sergeant Conley, his forehead wrinkled with concern. Elliot surveyed the condominiums. Several blocks of houses had been torn down to accommodate the construction of the two-story brick villas designed with wrought-iron railings and small balconies to emulate something from the New Orleans French Quarter. To the north was a park. A sign proclaimed it to be Centennial Park, though it was still thought of as Central Park by those who knew the place. It’d been nice once, playing host to family barbecues and games of badminton on the grass, but the area had deteriorated over the years and had fallen into disrepair, eventually being frequented by those who hid in its uncut bushes and eased their pain with wine and drugs. Recently, for the benefit of the condominiums, the bushes had been trimmed and the grass mowed. They even renamed it. But the shadowy homeless people could still be seen there, sitting in groups around picnic tables, clutching bottles of wine wrapped in brown paper bags.

A small crowd of neighbors had gathered to gawk at the taped-off crime scene. For the homeless

it was more of a curiosity, another constant reminder of their own mortality; but for those

unaccustomed to such things, like the fresh residents of the newly constructed condos, it was more

like a chapter torn from the pages of a horror novel.Twisted Perception $2.99 on Kindle

Christian Fiction and Twisted Perception

I’ve read several interesting and well thought posts, concerning the boundaries and purposes of Christian fiction. The posts and comments that follow invariably divide, for the most part, into two schools of thought on the subject:  1) those who believe Christian fiction should follow strict guidelines and be very family oriented and safe, and 2) those who feel the parameters should be relaxed to include stories written from a Christian point of view that might expand the envelope by delving into areas of fantasy.

As a relatively recent born-again Christian, and, therefore, a new arrival in the Christian fiction market, I’ve found myself a bit confused by it all. I empathize with the reasoning behind both points of view. However, I must confess to leaning more toward the expanded envelope crowd. I’ve been a published author in the secular market since 2006, and I didn’t just wake up one morning and decide to switch over to Christian fiction. I’ve always felt that I should use my skills, such as they are, in a positive way, but after my awakening the urge to take the writing further toward this goal increased dramatically. I’ve spent numerous hours praying about it. The message I keep receiving is that I should try to reach people, including those who have lost their faith, or never had it to begin with, and, the way I see it, in order to do that I would have to write outside the currently defined Christian market.

With this discussion, names such as C.S. Lewis, Madeleine L ‘ Engle, and J.R.R. Tolkien often come up as writers who are considered by some as Christian authors whose work falls outside the current guidelines of the genre, if that term can be appropriately applied here. I love Tolkien’s work, but I must admit it’s a stretch for me to think of it as Christian fiction. In his writing, good does triumph over evil. However, the same could be said about J.K. Rowling with her Harry Potter series, which leads to some interesting things I’ve run across.

Rowling’s first Potter book, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, was based in part on the life of a real person.

More on this in the next post.  

Twisted Perception Blog Post number 5

Chapter Two

As soon as Detective Kenny Elliot stepped out of his car, he knew he’d slowed, stumbled somewhere along the way, for it had finally caught up with him, and like a twenty-nine-year-old boxer who grows old in the third round of a title fight, he would never be the same. It was what he saw in the vehicle, a late model Mercedes left beside a trash dumpster. It was in the parking lot of the Village at Central Park, a bunch of upscale, newly constructed condominiums just off Peoria Avenue.

Elliot silently cursed Captain Dombrowski for dragging him into this on his day off. It’d been 6:00 a.m. when the phone rang, and Elliot had come out of his sleep in a fit, fighting to rid himself of the bed sheets that trapped his legs and torso like some kind of malignant ivy. He hadn’t been sleeping well. It was the dreams; they’d started again. They’d become intense, occurring more frequently and leaving in their wake unsettling thoughts that rambled through his head—burdensome notions that something wasn’t quite right in his world, a problem just below the surface that he couldn’t quite drag into consciousness.

Elliot had a pretty good idea why Dombrowski had called. Cunningham was on vacation somewhere in Montana and Mendez was out with the flu, but there were other detectives. Obviously, Dombrowski knew there would be more to it than a simple homicide, if “simple” can be used when talking about deliberate death. An informal understanding had begun to develop inside the department. Dombrowski had an instinct about unusual cases, knowing which ones would deviate from the norm, and Elliot had a knack for solving them.

Elliot approached the Mercedes, a knot forming in his gut, his usual calm behavior displaced by his progress like the smooth surface of a pond disrupted by gas bubbles escaping from something vile hidden beneath its depths. An image of Carmen Garcia blossomed in his mind.

Don’t do this, Kenny. We can work it out.

He thought about the report. He couldn’t write it up indicating the suspect was a ghost, an unseen demon, but as he approached the Mercedes that thought vibrated through his head. Then, as he drew near and confirmed that it was indeed a necklace dangling from the inside mirror, his legs nearly gave way and for a moment his thoughts were in another time and place.

Exciting Book Review for Twisted Perception

I just got a great review for Twisted Perception, the book I've been posting here on the blog, that I wanted to share.

Hello Bob.....I'm now an avid fan of Detective Kenny Elliot. Thoroughly enjoyed both of your books! Here's my review for Twisted Perception, Thanks for the chance to read your brilliant stories, Annie.

Review for Twisted Perception by Bob Avey.

Anyone who loves a good detective story with plenty twists and turns needs to buy a copy of Twisted Perception. Bob Avey grips you from the start. Main man Detective Kenny Elliot is called in to investigate the brutal murder of an upper-crust woman. (all isn't as it seems) Gut instincts lead him on a journey back in time that he isn't comfortable with for a number of reason (have to read it to find out!) More murders come and deepen the investigation that Elliot can't seem to leave to another. Not only is this story a great murder/mystery it is also one that will broaden your mind and open you up to Twisted Perception......

Annie Frame. Author of Imprint and TQR.  

Vivid Dreams and Twisted Perception

In this post, I’ll relate an unusual dreams, and include another installment of Twisted Perception. I believe the dreams that linger beyond our sleep are more than just a release of emotions or feelings. I call this one, The Devastated Conference.

I’m in a large hotel, attending a writers’ conference, and several of my friends and I have gathered in an atrium-like area near the lobby where a canopy of windows arches out from the main building. We are sitting in wicker chairs, watching the sky, which is becoming turbulent due to a thunderstorm, and the others are commenting on this, but laughing and having a good time. I seem to be the only one who is worried about the storm and my concern increases as I notice rotation of the clouds. I suspect the storm has escalated into a tornado, which will hit the hotel, so I stand and tell everyone that we should move away from the windows and go to the center of the lobby.

As soon as we reconvene in the lobby, the doors and windows of the hotel begin to shake and chaos breaks loose, with people screaming and running for their rooms. I see a brick alcove near the restaurant kitchen and, figuring this to be a place that would offer protection from falling debris, I take cover there.

A few minutes later, the winds calm and I step out of the alcove to find the hotel in utter devastation. All of the windows and doors have been blown away and large portions of the roof ripped off. Rain is pouring into the lobby. As I try to make my way to my room, I’m forced to climb over tree limbs and debris that block the stairway. At this point, I wake up.

Twisted Perception – Chapter One – Fourth serialized post

Michelle Baker felt the man’s warm breath fall across her face, and she thought it like the stale air that might be in a dark room where an electric chair was kept. He was going to kill her. She knew that. But it was not the details of her death that went through her head. She thought of her son, Michael. She could see him in the dirty little yard where he played, and she wondered if his diaper had been changed, and if he was hungry. She was not a good mother. She closed her eyes and prayed for God to forgive her for that, something she did quite often, though it did not show in her life. She regretted that now.

I realize this is a short post for the novel, but it’s the end of Chapter One. Next time I will begin with Chapter Two.

Thanks for reading. If you like my blog, please join as a follower. If you have any dreams, or anything else you’d like to talk about, send me an email at bob@bobavey.com

Dreams and another Episode of Twisted Perception

Are dreams nothing more than twisted reruns of the day’s events, built in safety valves to relieve pressure from our minds, or is it possible that God uses these mental holidays to communicate with us?

Not all dreams lend themselves to this concept, but I believe that some do. Please refer to Getting Personal, a prior post archived on this site for a good example. The majority of these brain-related information dumps trickle through our consciousness as vague, fuzzy images that are easily forgotten. However, occasionally a gem comes along, one with enough substance, if you will, to stick with us. Here is one that I had recently.

I’m walking through an antique shop, though it more resembles a warehouse, an expansive building with isles that disappear into the darkness and are lined with metal shelves, crammed to near capacity with miscellaneous items. I’m searching for kitchen utensils, such as pots and pans, when I come upon what appears to be a tiny teakettle. It’s made of metal and obviously quite old, an antique in fact. However, a closer examination reveals the object to be a tiny 35 millimeter camera, designed to look like a tea kettle. Pleased to have uncovered such a treasure, I discontinue shopping and head for the front of the store to check out.

As I am preparing to leave the store, I see an acquaintance, of mine, who in reality has passed away. This seems to be the case in the dream as well. However, my feelings are not of shock but of happiness to once again see my old friend. He’s sitting in a chair, which is part of a display of lawn furniture, and I quickly run over to join him.

I hand him the camera and say, “Isn’t that the cutest thing?”

Cute is a word that I rarely use, and it strikes me as odd that I would describe the camera that way.

My friend seems unimpressed and this bothers me. He hands the camera back and says, “You’ll never find film for it.”

That’s when I wake up. I have no idea what the dream means, if anything. However, when I have one as vivid as this, I always feel that it should.

Twisted Perception - Chapter One continued -

He sat forward in the car seat and stared in disbelief. She was there all right. There had been no mistake. And when she crossed the parking lot, she saw him as well, her lovely blue eyes piercing the night as if they carried their own source of illumination. She seemed to look right through him, but he knew that was just an act. A smile played across his lips. The parking lot was empty except for the two of them. He’d planned on following her, but it wouldn’t be necessary. He did have a bit of luck now and then. He worked his hands into surgical gloves and grabbed the roll of duct tape. He tore off a six- inch piece then ran his hand through the roll, wearing it like a bracelet. Next he retrieved the sock from the floorboard. It was lined with plastic and filled with wet sand.

Opening the car door, he stepped quietly onto the asphalt, sliding the black-handled knife into his back pocket. He did not intend to use it just yet, but he would if he had to. With the torn piece of tape readied in his hand, he came up behind her. She was completely unaware of his presence, and he paused as the sweet scent coming from her hair filled his senses. He wanted to touch her, to take her in his arms and love her, the way he had always loved her. It was then that he saw her the way she had been, lying on her bed, wearing only the top half of her see-through pajamas while she pulled the covers back and shifted ever so slightly. It was not unusual. She often stayed that way after it was over, even getting out of bed on occasion to walk around the room, stopping close where he could see her, watch her through the cracks in the door.

He thought about the small room that had been his prison, where dust particles would dance in the sunlight that showed through the broken window shade, giving an impression of substance to the beams, making it appear as if he could reach out and grab them. But that, like so much else, had been nothing more than an illusion. The dust was not only in the light. It had filled the room. He’d eaten mouthfuls of it with every breath. They were casualties of their own fates, and he thought she must surely understand what he had to do.

He raised the sock, swinging in a high arc to give it more velocity, and when he brought it down against the back of her head, he remembered how the light would catch her pretty necklace as she walked about the room. It was an enlightening moment, for she dropped quite readily to her knees, not unconscious, but dazed to the point of incoherence. He pressed the piece of tape over her mouth then slid the roll from his arm. He pulled her hands behind her and bound them with several revolutions, then tore off another piece and slapped it across her eyes as he brought her to her feet. She offered little resistance and a delightful urge to take her now ran through him, testing his resolve. He pushed the thoughts away and guided her across the parking lot toward the car. Once there, he shoved her into the backseat. The lot was still empty. He started the car and drove away, pulling onto 31^st Street.

When he reached Yale Avenue, he turned south, traveling until he found a suitable location, an old house that had lost the fight for survival. It stood in a neighborhood that had been suburban but was now a mixture of banks, retail outlets, and, ironically enough, real estate offices. Acting as a reminder of the house’s fate, an industrial trash bin sat in the front yard, boasting the name of some construction company on its side. He thought that a ridiculous notion. What they were up to was anything but constructive.

He pulled her from the car and walked her to the front of the house, pausing briefly to check the door. It wasn’t locked. They seldom were. He pushed her inside, his heart pounding with anticipation as he switched on the flashlight he’d doctored for just such occasions. Its dim red glow revealed an old mattress on the floor. Some things were just meant to be. She had begun to struggle, even as he’d pulled her from the car, and he had no choice but to use the sock again. With a small shove she fell onto the mattress.

Kneeling beside her, he removed the tape from her eyes and studied her face, so pretty and yet so lined with fear he hardly recognized it. She could not speak. He’d left the tape on her mouth, but she shook her head and pleaded with every expression she had available. It had been cold in that room, a chilling dampness understood only by those left alone, not for moments, but for eternities in an unforgiving and infinite darkness. He would not go back. She would die first.