Month: April 2024

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Stenographer, written in 2018, is my fourth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

Walt Shepherd, a 35 year veteran of the White House’s stenographic team, is fired by President Andrew Kane for refusing to lie.

Walt returns to his hometown of Boaz, Alabama and renews his relationship with Regina Gillan, his high school sweetheart, who he had ditched right before graduation to marry the daughter of a prominent local businessman.  Regina has recently moved back to Boaz after forty years in Chicago working at the Tribune.  She is now editor of the Sand Mountain Reporter, a local newspaper.

Walt and Regina’s relationship transforms into a once in life love at the same time they are being immersed in a growing local and national divide between Democrats and traditional Republicans, and extremist Republicans (known as Kanites) who are becoming more dogmatic about the revolution that began during President Kanes campaign.

Walt accepts two part-time jobs.  One as a stenography instructor at Snead State Community College in Boaz, and one as an itinerant stenographer with Rains & Associates out of Birmingham.

Walt later learns the owner of Rains & Associates  is also one of five men who created the Constitution Foundation and is involved in a sinister plot to destroy President Kane, but is using an unorthodox method to achieve its objective.  The Foundation is doing everything it can to prevent President Kane from being reelected in 2020, and is scheming to initiate a civil war that will hopefully restore allegiance to the U.S. Constitution.

While Walt is writing a book, The Coming Civil War, he is, unwittingly, gathering key information for the Constitution Foundation.

Will Walt discover a connection between the Foundation  and the deaths of three U.S. Congressmen in time to save his relationship with Regina, prevent President Kane from being reelected as the defacto head of a Christian theocracy, and the eruption of a civil war that could destroy the Nation ?

Chapter 42

We didn’t return for our luggage until nearly midnight.   The king size bed was simply too comfortable.  Around 7:30 we thought about a food run but decided against the remaining fried chicken and horseradish salad in the cooler in the back of the truck.  Instead we opted for room service. A huge chef’s salad we shared, along with a double serving of homemade black walnut ice-cream.

Monday morning came too quickly.  I wish now I hadn’t watched Nicolas Sparks’ movie, “The Best of You.”  The bittersweet feeling, I had gone to sleep with was still lodged in the center of my subconscious.  It amplified as I took the elevator down to the lobby and out to the truck for our luggage.  By the time I finished my shower and dressed, my thoughts of how love and tragedy seemed to travel together, needed a break.  It came with today’s stenography assignment.

I arrived at Cushions, Bankston, and Livingston at 8:30 a.m. sharp.  I had hoped it would be a thirty-minute drive but should have realized that unlikely given the size of Tifton.  A young receptionist, maybe a year out of high school, led me to the conference room where I met Charles Bankston pouring a cup of coffee from a table that appeared to have been brought in for today’s occasion.  I chose a Diet Coke over ice instead of coffee.

Bankston and his firm were defending head football coach Keith Coles, and Tift County High School against a lawsuit brought by Jay Brulinski of the American Center for Constitutional Allegiance, a public interest law firm based in Chicago.  The Plaintiffs were Grant Randolph and his son Tyler who is a football star at Tift County High School.  His father, Dr. Grant Randolph, is the Director of Graduate Studies in Plant Breeding, Genetics & Genomics at the Tifton branch of the University of Georgia’s College of Agricultural & Environmental Sciences.  

Dr. Randolph, on Tyler’s behalf, had sued the high school and Coach Coles for violating the U.S. Constitution’s First Amendment prohibition against the establishment of religion.  Coles has a long-time practice of proselytizing and praying with his players and assistant coaches.  The lawsuit was filed last Fall, but the case had stalled when it was dismissed by an Atlanta Federal District Court.  It took nearly six months for the Appellate Court to issue its ruling overturning the District Court and reinstating the lawsuit.

By 9:00 a.m., all parties were present.  Only Attorney Jay Brulinski was absent.  Shortly after I arrived, Bankston had received a call from Brulinski saying he was running thirty minutes behind.  Something about a mix-up in his rental car at Hartsfield International Airport.  One would think the attorney could have arrived late yesterday afternoon to be on time this morning.

As we waited, Bankston and Coach Coles left the conference room and I talked with Dr. Randolph and his son.   They both were pleasant, cordial, professional, and respectful.  I was particularly impressed with Tyler who had nothing but praise for Coach Coles, except for “his religion.”  Tyler said, “It’s like Coach carries two completely different people around with him.  He can be pure coach for two hours during practice but turn into pure preacher on the way back into the field house.  I’m there to play football and hopefully earn a scholarship.  If I want church, I can go to church.”

It was nearly 10:00 before Brulinski arrived.  He was a tall and thin middle-aged man with thick and curly black hair.  He was impeccably dressed in a dark woolen suit.  Apparently, he had never been to Tifton, Georgia in the middle of summer.  He quickly shed his suit coat and asked if he could have a few minutes with his clients.  I exited the room and walked back to the front desk to chat with Angie the receptionist.  She had graduated last year from Tyler’s high school and only knew him as a super football player in the tenth grade, now eleventh grade.  Angie said, “I don’t know what’s the big deal.  Everyone around here is a Christian.  I wouldn’t think the Randolph’s need money.  I don’t see the point.”

Finally, at 10:20, the depositions started.  First up was Coach Coles.  Attorney Brulinski spent nearly half an hour asking background questions: where he grew up, his schooling including college, his work history, including teaching and coaching, and his religion.  Brulinski camped out with Coles’ religion for the next hour, blending his questions with inquiries about his relationships with his players at Tift County High School and how he conducts his practices.  

Coach Coles had been a Christian all his life.  He grew up in Southern Baptist Churches all over South Georgia.  He believed the Bible was written by God through men inspired by the Holy Ghost.  Coles had no doubt that it was his job to spread the gospel, to evangelize every player, “God placed in his care.”  Brulinski spent his final twenty minutes quizzing Coles about the U.S. Constitution.  It was clear he had little interest in the law.  In response to Brulinski’s question on how he, the coach, would feel if his son played for a Muslim coach who preached Islam to his parents, Coles responded, “that’ll never happen in the South, so I don’t have to worry about that.”

Since we were running behind, Attorney Bankston had sandwiches brought in and we took only a fifteen-minute lunch break.  It also seemed like we made up some time when Bankston had only a few questions for his client.  Coles stated that he never pressured any of his players to agree with him.  He said that at the beginning of each school year he had his players sign a waiver of sorts, a document he described as an acknowledgment that I am a Christian and that you agree you don’t have to play for me.  Coach emphasized that he cared for each one of his players and wanted only what was best for them.

Next up was Tyler Randolph.  He told Brulinski that he was shocked two years ago when he and his family moved to Tifton from Boston.  His father, a scientist and educator, had accepted the job with the University of Georgia to work in Athens, but at the last minute, the former director at the Tifton Center quit after a pancreatic cancer diagnosis.  What shocked Tyler was how infected, that was his actual word, how infected the whole community was with Christianity.  Tyler went on to say that almost every teacher at the high school is pretty much like Coach Coles.  They inject God and Christ into everything, including examples they use in class.  Tyler said if he had wanted to go to a Christian school then that’s what he would have done.  Tyler, very bright, was persuasive in sharing how he wanted to learn about reality.  He, no doubt influenced by his father, was curious, and wanted the truth, no matter where it led.

Attorney Bankston spent nearly an hour cross-examining Tyler.  Why he spent most of his time on Tyler’s religious background I’m not sure.  It seemed to me Bankston knew his clients were in trouble and simply had to go through the motions of conducting an acceptable deposition.  However, he didn’t have any questions for Dr. Randolph, apparently accepting the answers he provided to fifty minutes of questioning by Jay Brulinski.

Before Bankston informed Brulinski that he didn’t have any questions, he called for a break and left the conference room with Coach Coles.  They didn’t return for nearly thirty minutes.  During this time, the Randolph’s stood and walked to the far end of the conference room and chatted quietly.  I poured another Diet Coke and sat back down.  It dawned on me that what I perceived was happening in Alabama, particularly Boaz, was happening here in Tifton, and most likely, all over the South, maybe this ‘infection,’ as Tyler called it, was engulfing the clear majority throughout the entire country.  It seemed the problem was Christianity.  I couldn’t help but feel a great sense of pride in my teenage decision to abandon the religion of my father, my family, and my friends.  I believed I was a better person for it.  But, that didn’t mean all Christians were bad people.  Most were not.  Most were good, decent, hard-working folks.  How on earth could these people not question their faith?  They seemingly were smart and skeptical in every other area of life.  What made them swallow the Bible and the preaching without question?  

Did they really want a theocracy?  Did they realize what that meant?  What if America became a Muslim theocracy?  Christians would fight to the death to prevent that from happening.  A Civil War of untold proportions would break out if our Congressmen leaned one degree in that direction.  Christians were 100% sold that they possessed the truth, the only truth from all the thousands of religions.  They rejected (probably without even knowing the basic claims) the Hindu, the Muslim, the Buddist, and on and on, yet they believed Christ was born of a virgin, was crucified, and was resurrected to life three days later.  They believed this without any real evidence, other than the Bible, which, once one looks under the hood, it falls to shreds because it is man-made.

I was glad Ginger had given me this assignment.  It would be good evidence for my book.  I now was convinced that Christianity and Kane were made for each other.  Why?  The very life blood of both depended, in full, on lies, and their followers believing a train load of lies.  Now, more clearly than at any time, I could see why Evangelicals voted overwhelmingly for Kane.  And, why most of them said he was God’s man, a man who had been put in the White House by God himself.  I think I will start referring to President Kane as Moses.  The man who will lead God’s chosen people to the promised land.

Coach Coles and Bankston returned with him announcing he had no questions for Dr. Randolph.  The depositions were over.  Mine and Regina’s vacation could begin.

I drove back to the Hilton Garden Inn and found Regina’s note on the bed that she was at the pool.  I changed into my swim trunks, glad I had lost that argument, and took the stairs to the ground floor.  I have never in my life seen a more beautiful woman.  She looked wonderful in pink.  I’m blessed that she loves pink and dislikes one-piece bathing suits.

---

 Help a starving artist.

 

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Stenographer, written in 2018, is my fourth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

Walt Shepherd, a 35 year veteran of the White House’s stenographic team, is fired by President Andrew Kane for refusing to lie.

Walt returns to his hometown of Boaz, Alabama and renews his relationship with Regina Gillan, his high school sweetheart, who he had ditched right before graduation to marry the daughter of a prominent local businessman.  Regina has recently moved back to Boaz after forty years in Chicago working at the Tribune.  She is now editor of the Sand Mountain Reporter, a local newspaper.

Walt and Regina’s relationship transforms into a once in life love at the same time they are being immersed in a growing local and national divide between Democrats and traditional Republicans, and extremist Republicans (known as Kanites) who are becoming more dogmatic about the revolution that began during President Kanes campaign.

Walt accepts two part-time jobs.  One as a stenography instructor at Snead State Community College in Boaz, and one as an itinerant stenographer with Rains & Associates out of Birmingham.

Walt later learns the owner of Rains & Associates  is also one of five men who created the Constitution Foundation and is involved in a sinister plot to destroy President Kane, but is using an unorthodox method to achieve its objective.  The Foundation is doing everything it can to prevent President Kane from being reelected in 2020, and is scheming to initiate a civil war that will hopefully restore allegiance to the U.S. Constitution.

While Walt is writing a book, The Coming Civil War, he is, unwittingly, gathering key information for the Constitution Foundation.

Will Walt discover a connection between the Foundation  and the deaths of three U.S. Congressmen in time to save his relationship with Regina, prevent President Kane from being reelected as the defacto head of a Christian theocracy, and the eruption of a civil war that could destroy the Nation ?

Chapter 41

We had packed for our Tifton trip the night before.  Sunday morning, July 1st, was the first day of the second half of 2018.  Last night, before going to bed, Regina and I had toasted our sixth month anniversary.  We both were surprised how much each of our lives had changed since we saw each other last December at the Boaz Walmart.  In a way, it seemed like we had been together all our lives, and that the nearly fifty years since high school, and us being apart, had never occurred.  

At 9:50 a.m., we pulled away from Shepherd’s Cove in my trusty 2007 Ford F150 with our luggage in the truck’s bed under a nearly new camper shell.  I hadn’t removed the standard stuff I kept back there, including my tool-box and a chain saw.  But, we had added a few extra things, such as lawn chairs and a cooler filled with a traditional Southern picnic.  Regina, not wanting to appear as a cocky and sophisticated Chicagoan, spent over three hours last night frying chicken and making potato salad that I hoped I someway could avoid. Surprisingly, her baked beans turned out well.  I won’t say anything about her homemade rolls fearing she might read my mind.  I will say, to my regret, Regina wholly failed to acquire the cooking skills her mother had had all through Regina’s growing up years.

During the first leg of our drive. we didn’t talk much.  I drove us to Anniston just enjoying the sweet smell of Regina’s Flowerbomb perfume I had bought her at Nordstrom’s at Riverchase Galleria in Birmingham.  We almost stopped at Books a Million on South Quintard in Oxford but we both agreed if we yielded to the temptation it would consume us for hours.  We resisted.  As soon as we headed east on I-20, Regina turned on the radio and found a local NPR station.  We learned how one family in Brady, Virginia had experienced three generations of coal mining.  It was depressing to hear how a grandfather, his son, and his grandson, three generations of Dickson’s, had died from coal dust.  It wasn’t until we passed through Villa Rica, Georgia that Regina asked about my picnic plans.

Twenty miles later we exited at Lithia Springs, Georgia and drove south to the Sweetwater Creek State Park.  Last night I had researched a place for our picnic.  Online, this appeared to be a private, well-kept park centered around the George H. Sparks Reservoir.  The Park’s bait shop also served as an information center, so we found it first and were directed to a sandy area just north of the parking lot that contained four picnic tables surrounded by a grove of loblolly pines. We were not disappointed with the Park.  We were the only ones using the picnic area.  We enjoyed a quiet lunch and I was doubly surprised that Regina’s potato salad had someway transformed during the night and the drive to the Park.  After eating, we strolled around the marina for a half hour dreaming of owing a thirty-foot schooner and sailing from Gulf Shores to the coast of Maine and back.  We ditched that idea when Regina reminded me of the time we took my father’s canoe out on our own pond, lake as he called it, and I tipped us over at the deep end.  The hot sun drove away our memories and dreams and lured us back to my truck and air-conditioning.  We drove away agreeing that we would come back some day and rent one of the cabins the nice lady in the bait shop had told us about.

From Lithia Springs to just north of College Park, south of Atlanta on I-85, we talked about Felicia and Emma.  Regina had brought up the subject saying Felicia had mentioned mine and her talk the other night after our stenography class.  I now felt a little ashamed that I had not conducted any research that I had promised Felicia.  I shared this with Regina and she said, “what little Conner has experienced has to be inherited, the way he was born.  Sorry, I meant Emma.  It’s still hard for me to call him, her, Emma.”  

“I’m sure it is, but you need to be consistent in what you call Emma, don’t call him Conner.”  I said.

“I agree.  You know, it truly pisses me off that society gets so bent out of shape over these biological issues, including homosexuality.”  Regina said, turning off the radio.

“For most Americans, and probably ninety percent of Southerners, it’s not about biology at all.  You know that.  They think it’s simply a matter of sin.”  

“You’re right, but that makes me want to support Felicia that much more.  Maybe we could tease out a column on this.”

“Sounds good.  Look.  The plane, the plane.”  I said pointing to a huge 747 crossing in front of us heading to Hartsfeld International Airport.  I was trying to imitate Tatoo from the 1970’s TV program, Fantasy Island.

“I see.  I see.  Gosh, I haven’t thought of that since, forever.  I never really liked it.  The program made me think of you.  I knew that my fantasy, being with you, could never happen.  I knew even if Mr. Roarke could make it happen that I couldn’t afford it.”  Regina said, our eyes meeting at a glance.  I could tell she was genuinely sad.

“Baby, I think you know that if I could unbreak your heart that I would.  But, I can’t.  What I can do is love you today, in every way, even tell you how much I enjoyed your potato salad.”

“I knew it.  I could tell last night you didn’t understand or appreciate my knowledge of cider vinegar, lemon juice, pickle juice, horseradish, paprika, hot pepper sauce, and Dijon mustard.”

“I think you used too much horseradish.  I hate that stuff.”  I said trying to gently but honestly mend a beautiful heart.

“The hotel.  The hotel.”  Regina said sliding over next to me.

“I see.  I see.  It is ahead.  Two hours at least.  I see my favorite fantasy.”

“It is me or your dinner will be my potato salad.”

“Don’t worry, you are my dream come true.”

“That’s right Fido.”

For the next two hours we returned to a discussion of Regina’s article, “Russian Suspect Kills Kip Brewer?”  After it had been published we had talked briefly about it, but the discussion hadn’t ended well.  Regina thought I was attacking her journalistic integrity when I relayed my opinion that a lot of reporters seem to hide behind an anonymous tip or source.  Today, she brought it up and was more pleasant, but I stayed away from my opinion.  Regina didn’t.  She shared how she believed that Pastor Warren, Justin Adams, and all of Club Eden was up to something.  She said she feared they were directly tied to President Kane’s yet undiscovered connections to the Russians.  

“I don’t think the special prosecutor will ever complete his task. 

He has been investigating since early 2017 and hasn’t found anything yet.  Or, at least he hasn’t disclosed any discoveries.”  I said turning down the temperature on the air-conditioning feeling a little hot from Regina’s bare leg pressed against mine.

“What else can it be?  You saw my photograph of the Russian guy.  He was at Club Eden.  He was shooting targets with the very rifle that killed Kip Brewer.  I don’t see how anyone could conclude that Club Eden had nothing to do with that.”  Regina said, removing her left hand from my leg and turning down the air-conditioning three more degrees.

“Might not be so simple.  Most things are usually not what they seem on the surface.”

We bantered back and forth during the remainder of our drive.  The only thing we both totally agreed on was the next four months until the mid-term elections, was going to be interesting and intriguing, possibly even more deadly than the past few months.  At 4:35 p.m., we pulled into the parking lot of the Hilton Garden Inn.  

“Let’s go check out our room.  We can come back later for our luggage.”  I said pulling into the nearest parking spot next to the front doors.

“Sounds good.  I’m feeling like a massage.”  Regina said elbowing me and pushing me out my door.

“Always glad to be of service.”

---

 Help a starving artist.

 

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Stenographer, written in 2018, is my fourth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

Walt Shepherd, a 35 year veteran of the White House’s stenographic team, is fired by President Andrew Kane for refusing to lie.

Walt returns to his hometown of Boaz, Alabama and renews his relationship with Regina Gillan, his high school sweetheart, who he had ditched right before graduation to marry the daughter of a prominent local businessman.  Regina has recently moved back to Boaz after forty years in Chicago working at the Tribune.  She is now editor of the Sand Mountain Reporter, a local newspaper.

Walt and Regina’s relationship transforms into a once in life love at the same time they are being immersed in a growing local and national divide between Democrats and traditional Republicans, and extremist Republicans (known as Kanites) who are becoming more dogmatic about the revolution that began during President Kanes campaign.

Walt accepts two part-time jobs.  One as a stenography instructor at Snead State Community College in Boaz, and one as an itinerant stenographer with Rains & Associates out of Birmingham.

Walt later learns the owner of Rains & Associates  is also one of five men who created the Constitution Foundation and is involved in a sinister plot to destroy President Kane, but is using an unorthodox method to achieve its objective.  The Foundation is doing everything it can to prevent President Kane from being reelected in 2020, and is scheming to initiate a civil war that will hopefully restore allegiance to the U.S. Constitution.

While Walt is writing a book, The Coming Civil War, he is, unwittingly, gathering key information for the Constitution Foundation.

Will Walt discover a connection between the Foundation  and the deaths of three U.S. Congressmen in time to save his relationship with Regina, prevent President Kane from being reelected as the defacto head of a Christian theocracy, and the eruption of a civil war that could destroy the Nation ?

Chapter 40

Saturday morning was the perfect day to stay in bed.  It was raining outside, pouring buckets.  It was romantic inside.  Regina had stayed over, and we had been awake since a little before three.  The power had gone off, along with the steady hum of a floor fan that I had been addicted to since my college days.  Like any heart-connected couple who was weeks into ‘going steady,’ we took advantage of the early hour by making love.  

The power had come back on just as the post-play was running out of ideas.  Instead of dozing back off, Regina got up, took a shower, and went downstairs.  At 7:30, I attempted to join her but all I found was a note on the bar: “something came up at the Reporter.  Will call later. 

Read paper.  Sorry I’ve kept mum.”

I hadn’t noticed that her note was laying on top of today’s Sand Mountain Reporter.  Regina must have driven to town to buy a copy. 

Mine, in the mailbox, wouldn’t arrive for another four or five hours.

I poured a cup of coffee and retired to my chair in the den.  The subject article was easy to find.  It was on the front page, above the fold.  “Russian Suspect Kills Kip Brewer?”  The title did its job, although the writer, Regina Gillan, was a draw.  I had no choice but to dive in. 

Just as I started to read, my phone vibrated on the end table beside my chair.  It was Ginger.

“Good morning.  I hope I’m not calling too early on a Saturday.” “Not at all.”

“I just wanted to confirm your trip to Tifton, Georgia for the Connor deposition.”

“I think you said it was on Monday, July 2nd.  Right?”  I said sipping my coffee.

“That’s correct.  I’m about to email you the details.  I figure you and Regina will drive down on Sunday.  You spend Monday morning at work, and then you guys rest, relax, and kick around Tifton for a few days.  At least until Thursday, Friday morning at the latest.  By the way, I may have you a quick job for Friday afternoon, but it’s in Albertville, at 3:30, just a single, short deposition in a little fender-bender auto accident.

So, you gotta be back before then.”

“Ginger.  Regina and I really do appreciate this, but I don’t think I deserve such an extra benefit no longer than I’ve been on board.”

“Ridiculous.  It’s already a done deal.  You have reservations beginning Sunday, July 1st, at the Hilton Garden Inn in Tifton.  They are booked through Thursday.”  Ginger said as I heard her typing on a keyboard.

“Regina is excited about getting away.  It’s our first trip together.  Actually, I think she’s more excited about some furniture shopping than anything.”

“Is she looking for anything in particular?”

“Possibly a bedroom suite.  For me.”

“Tell her there are several great antique furniture stores right off the square.  I’ve walked through most of them, even bought a little curio cabinet in the one on the corner of Main and something, I can’t remember.  Listen, I must run.  If you have any questions after reading my email, just give me a buzz.  Thanks Walt.”

“You’re welcome.  Have a nice day.”  

“You too.”

After we hung up I wondered why Ginger had been in Tifton but realized she hadn’t said when she was there.  It might have been twenty or thirty years ago.”

I took another sip of coffee and returned my gaze to the Sand Mountain Reporter.  Regina started off stating that there appears to be an explanation why Frankie Olinger’s fingerprints were on the murder weapon, the Springfield 30-06.  He, along with Warren Tillman, Justin Adams, Ryan Radford, Fulton Billingsley, Danny Ericson, and an unidentified Russian, had met at Club Eden on Aurora Lake two weeks before Kip Brewer was murdered.  Frankie had brought the 30-06 to participate in target shooting, and had left the gun there, inside the cabin.  He was unclear as how the rifle had made its way back to the gun case in his house.  Regina also said that she had learned, from an anonymous source, that the FBI’s crime lab had discovered a second set of fingerprints on the rifle but had been unable to connect them with a suspect.

The heart of the article was, of course, the Russian mystery man. 

Regina had included a grainy photograph of a man caught on camera.  She described him as around six feet tall and weighing around 175 pounds.  Regina confessed the photo was from a service station and convenience store security camera in Snead, Alabama.  She didn’t say how she had discovered the photo.  A closer inspection of the photo appeared to show the man had a long scar across his right cheek, stretching from the corner of his mouth up towards his right ear.  But, the more I looked, the more I thought it might be an illusion since the quality of the photo was rather poor.

Regina bolstered her case when she disclosed information she had obtained from Frankie Olinger.  He stated that the unidentified man at Club Eden two weeks before the murder appeared to be the same man in the photo.  Frankie had stated that he didn’t talk to the man but had watched him shoot across the lake.  Apparently, the only place to practice long shots at Club Eden is to set up a target on the dam, a foot or so below the top, to have a backstop for the bullets.  Frankie said the seven men had each taken turns laying on the ground on the east end of the lake and shooting west to the dam over a half-mile away.  ‘Dead-aim, never missed his target’ as Frankie recalled how Justin Adams described him.  In fact, every shot, no matter which gun he was using, centered the target and layered bullet after bullet on top of the previous one.  Frankie stated that ‘Dead-aim’ had shot his 30-06 several times and had described it as, “bloody reliable.”  

Regina ended her article with a short paragraph about Kip Brewer and a meeting he had had just a few days before he and his wife Darla had gone on their two-week Town Hall journey right before he was shot.  Another anonymous source had told Regina that Kip had his own unnamed source.  This genderless person worked at the White House but was no friend of the President.  It seems X (how Regina identified this person) had described to Kip that there are rumblings around the White House that Kane is looking for a diversionary opportunity, something to distract Americans from all the bad publicity he is experiencing.  X indicated that a confrontation with North Korea or a series of terrorist attacks on American soil are the two things being considered.  Finally, X shared that it appeared likely that someone from the White House staff had met with Russian operatives, Putin’s men, during the recent G-7 Summit in Italy.  Regina ended, stating that Kip Brewer had met with the Senate Judiciary Committee before leaving town in early February.

Some readers might conclude Regina’s article was simply a show of support for her brother-in-law Frankie Olinger.  I read it differently.  After two detailed readings, I, at first, was a little angry at Regina for not confiding in me about what she was working on.  My second cup of coffee helped.  I pondered that she may have thought I might have said something, even something innocuous to say, that might have discouraged her from taking her information public.

By now Sandi kept nudging my left arm wanting me to take her out for a walk.  Before we were both off the porch, a perplexing thought raced into my mind.  How on earth had Regina discovered all this?  This article was the type that almost always originates in the New York Times or the Washington Post.  Before we reached the end of the pier I had my answer.  Regina was just as much a big-league reporter as anyone working for a national paper.  Duh, she had spent almost forty years with the Chicago Tribune.

I was proud of Regina and couldn’t wait to see her and her expression as I bragged on the quality of “Russian Suspect Kills Kip Brewer?”