Chapter 16: A Murder of Crows

Saturday morning breakfast, Walker and Gregory in charge of provisioning.

Vanessa smiled at Pilar, “Is Walker still servicing himself?”

Sucking his own cock.

“Sometimes. Depends on what I’m in the mood for.”

Gregory turned to Vanessa, not one whit of embarrassment, “I can’t suck it yet, but I can lick the very tip. Pilar thinks I’ll be able to if I keep practicing.”

Vanessa gave him her glorious smile, ‘How often do you practice, honey?”

“Every night when I’m home.”

Pilar said, “I have other uses for him when he’s here.”

No doubt.

Walker, who once would have been mortified at the mere mention of the subject, told Gregory, “It took me quite a while; Mindy had me practicing almost every day.”

Pilar patted Gregory’s hand, “You’ll get there, honey; you’re really flexible.”

I tugged my maternal bonnet on, “Everybody is keeping up at school, right? There’s more to life than just sex.”

Walker said, “Teeeedious.”

Vanessa said, “When did these kids start drawing words out so much?”

I said, “It’s going around. Irritable vowel syndrome.”

So far, I haven’t had any Folsom nightmares. Which could mean Lindsay Conners and I are moving past the entire ordeal. Or, that I’m burying something really nasty somewhere deep in my subconscious...

The one memory, image, that pops into my mind every once in a while wasn’t the assaults — my helplessness, his power over me. Every time Folsom came down those steps to molest me, he was naked, freshly showered, freshly shaven. A fruity aftershave. And minty breath from, I assume, brushing his teeth.

But he had a quirk, a tic, and that’s what came visiting me late at night.

I had no idea of whether he was even aware of the fact that he yawned — often and spectacularly. Staring into that hateful maw, I was reminded of Hellmouth in Elizabethan dramas.

Well, if that’s my worst recurring takeaway...

Ash Collins himself called to invite me to DC. There was some amusement in his voice, “The rats from The Restoration would be deserting the ship, but we blocked all the exits.”

“They’re singing?”

“And yodeling and howling and pointing fingers. Betraying each other for stuff we didn’t even know about. Like illegal arms, drugs, extortion, blackmail. And the nine cell leaders have all identified Martin Folsom as the mastermind.”

Including Kansas City’s own Warren Hardmore.

“What about Sarah Meriwether?”

“Folsom is singing the loudest, but so far all we have is hearsay on Meriwether. We’re waiting on RightWorld search warrants for her office, for the entire building. May or may not get them. No arrest warrants either; we haven’t even tried for that yet — that’s a high hurdle with that family. And their friends in high places.”

A slightly childish, selfish part of me didn’t want the FBI to ace me out of nailing Meriwether. But really, I’d settle for seeing her behind bars no matter who clamped on the cuffs.

Ash and his team had closed Folsom’s law firm offices. As well as his private office at RightWorld. And now Ash was inviting me to examine the spoils from those two search warrants.

“Bring Clint along if you like.”

“Care to go for a spin, Winter? Like in the old days?”

God. That Monte Carlo lowrider, the one with the back seat.

“Actually, I would Duke, but I’m back in DC.”

“Another time.”

I wasn’t saying that I’d hop in the back seat again. Just go for a ride like we used to do in high school. Besides, he has a hotel room. No, what I mean is ... never mind.

I sometimes thought of my life as being divided — PV, pre-Vanessa and PM, post-marriage. Without saying a word, she changed my life in so many positive ways. One tiny example ... I used to set my alarm an hour early every morning just to maintain my beauty regimen. I look good, and know it, but I always worked at it, worked hard to maintain the face that I showed to the world.

After my morning exercises, I’d rub a creamy mask, usually blue, onto my cheeks and forehead. I’d stare into the mirror and see three small round holes for my eyes and mouth. I’d look almost ghostly in the harsh lights of my makeup mirror.

I’d cover my body with lotion and lie down waiting for the mask to dry. When it was time, I’d gently rub it off and then apply expensive moisturizer from the tiny jars I bought by the dozen.

It was just a daily routine, so common that Walker never even commented when he saw me fully masked up.

Vanessa ... well, she’d been truly beautiful all of her life. I’ve seen pictures of her when she was five years old, seven, twelve. She never talked about her looks, but I know that people had to have commented on her appearance every time she entered a room. Or looked at her in such a way that saying anything would be like mentioning it twice.

In the mornings, she simply scrubbed her face, dabbed on a little foundation, sometimes a touch of makeup, and was good to go. So, after living with her a few weeks, I gradually dropped my own extraneous morning routines and just left for the day. More confident of my looks than if I’d spent an hour getting myself ready.

But it wasn’t a one-way street. Vanessa saw how hard I worked out — hitting the gym three days a week, walking a minimum of five miles a day. And so she switched her own schedule to accommodate a more vigorous physical routine.

Plus, she started joining Pilar and Hobo and me for our self-defense lessons. So, we learned from each other. By example, the way I did growing up with Daddy.

Clint and I met Ash in Martin Folsom’s former office. Shuttered now; his firm dissolved. The authorities believed that the regular work the firm did was legitimate, or as legitimate as lawyer-work is. They didn’t believe his two partners and the rest of the staff were aware of The Restoration.

But the employees were all tainted, if not disgraced, by their association with the headline-generating bigot. Of course Constance would see that her own Madam X landed a good job. And had impeccable references.

It was a quite respectable eight-story office building, just off K Street. Folsom had leased half a floor on Seven with two corner offices, a conference room, cubicles, and a small kitchen. This morning it had a hollow, abandoned feeling and that wasn’t my wistful imagination at work.

Said imagination had been pretty much exhausted by Clint earlier that same morning in Matt’s apartment. Once he and I had realized that I didn’t have any intercourse-hangovers from my ordeal ... well, both of us were ready to cut loose.

Later, after a soapy shower, we glanced at each other and dropped our towels. He carried me, briskly, back to bed, his sudden tumescence pointing the way.

It was during our second hoochie-coochie of the morning that it occurred to me that Clint himself hadn’t had any performance problems post-Folsom. Some guys might have ... damaged goods and all. Clint didn’t. Better not.

At Folsom’s, Ash shook his head, “I have to admit that the Meriwethers schooled themselves after Charles and David were arrested.”

Clint said, “No direct evidence on Sarah?”

“No, not so far. She had no digital communications with Folsom, zero. Everything was face-to-face. And only in her office. He thinks she may have recorded the meetings, but good luck trying to find anything. Video or audio.”

I said, “So it’s his word against hers.”

“Yep. He’s charged with felony murder, knows he’s gone for life. Doesn’t matter that he didn’t administer the poison, didn’t drive the hit-and-run car. He’s an attorney, he knew what he was in for the second we arrested him.”

Ash smiled at me, “Probably knew on some level, the second you stilettoed his eyeball.”

I muttered, “Fucker.”

“In addition to meeting Folsom only face-to-face, in her own offices, Sarah had a witness present at each encounter. Another attorney, a woman who’s worked for the family for almost thirty years.”

Clint shook his head, “So she’ll corroborate Sarah’s version, deny everything Folsom says.”

I muttered, “Fucker,” again.

Ash said, “I promised Constance to show you Folsom’s inner sanctum. He’s a genuine sicko, not just The Restoration stuff. Interested?”

And how.

Since I seemed to be out of town every time Duke was in KC, it seemed only fair to chat with him once in a while. Not to keep him interested; no need for that. My late night calls to Vegas were more of a kindness, almost a charity thing on my part.

And, no sense in letting Le Wand lie idle when I was in DC. Although I also had a new companion to test drive. My bet is, my hope is, that Le Wand won’t become jealous.

I didn’t bother trying to keep quiet while I was conversing with Duke. Le Wand wouldn’t have put up with it anyway. I smiled, remembering how Matt and Clint had always been interested spectators when I was playing a duet with my vibrator. Then, my eyes would grow heavy, my face would slacken and I was no longer aware of anyone else in the room.

When the three of us first arrived on Folsom’s floor, Ash had pulled out a jangly set of keys and unlocked the hallway door to the attorney’s suite. We crossed the thick carpet to Folsom’s corner office; another door to unlock. Then over to a bookcase that swiveled open when Ash tapped a hidden touch-plate.

A third door, this one made of thick steel. Ash used three keys on it and we were in. Five keys altogether.

I said, “It’s like a bomb shelter.”

Steel walls, ceiling, and probably the floor under the carpet. No windows.

“This was ground zero. Folsom kept everything to do with The Restoration in here. We didn’t find a thing at his RightWorld office. This one is secure, fireproof; hell, you’re right, it would hold up against some bombs.”

Clint said, “Kind of him to preserve everything for you.”

“The forensic teams took all of his files to our lab. Then they made copies of everything and placed them back here in their original places. The inner sanctum looks just like it did when the investigators first came in.”

I was wondering why Ash didn’t just let us read the copies at J. Edgar. He read my mind, “Winter, I think you earned the right to see everything. You can understand why we’re doing it here. Since I shouldn’t be sharing this anyway...”

I said, “Of course. I appreciate it. We appreciate it. But it might be good to recreate the scene anyway. In case you want to bring the jury here?”

“That could be a possibility; be up to the prosecutor. But I doubt Folsom will even go to trial. No upside to a public spectacle. And the Meriwethers put the word out — no conservative, or even moderate right-leaning attorney of any standing in DC, will represent him.”

I said, law school-fresh, “But he is entitled to a full and fair defense.”

“Of course. And there’s plenty of talent out there who would take on the case just for the publicity after his money runs out. But Folsom isn’t dumb. Why squander his resources on a hopeless cause?”

Then Ash smiled grimly, “But maybe he doesn’t realize how little good that money will do him where he’s going.”

We looked at the three walls of shoulder-high file cabinets. The fourth wall, white, maybe twelve feet across, was blank. No windows anywhere.

Clint said, “What was he hiding?”

“You’ll see. A copy of everything is still here except for his desktop and a laptop. The tech team is drilling deep, hoping to find a Meriwether link. Those two devices and these files covered only two subjects — RightWorld, plus Folsom’s personal peccadilloes which is little girls.”

I said, “How little?”

Ash palmed another touch pad and the lights dimmed, a screen dropped silently down on the blank wall, and a hidden projector splashed a professionally shot video onto the screen.

Clint and I stared. I’d seen worse; I’m sure he had too. The three of us watched a few minutes of a compilation video featuring young girls posing, smiling, and talking to the camera.

I recognized the category — non-nude, or NN. Legal some places, not in others. Swimsuits, bikinis, short-shorts, g-strings. Each girl, apparently responding to off-camera instructions, struck a variety of poses — innocent, naughty, downright lewd.

I said, “No kiddy porn?”

Ash shook his head, “No. Folsom has what our shrink called a benign paraphilia — girls only, a narrow age range, nothing completely nude, no sexual acts. Smiling all the time. Talking to the camera in a pleasantly modulated voice. No hint of coercion. And no adult, certainly no man, is ever seen on screen.”

Clint said, “I recognized an America accent, then British, and then the part with subtitles — something in an Eastern European language.”

Ash nodded, “A lot of this stuff started surfacing after the Soviet Union collapsed. Of course streaming has made the product ubiquitous.”

In the elevator, I snaked my hand behind me for a second. Yep, Clint was erect. God, what a hound.

I had donated all of Matt’s clothes, his sheets and pillowcases, and blankets, a down comforter, to charity. It didn’t take psychoanalysis to figure out why I kept his kitchen stuff, but not the bedroom.

Clint was missionarying me, lying on top, with some considerable enthusiasm. Being a professional detective, licensed, I deduced that visions of little sugar plumb fairies were tap-dancing in his noggin.

I said, “The redhead?”

He didn’t pause, just shook his head, “Blondie.”

We were propped up in Matt’s bed, my sheets and pillows. Clint had his arm around my shoulders; I rested my head on his thick, solid chest.

“I don’t know why I’m still going after Sarah Meriwether. I just know she’s behind the Restoration, but there’s probably no way to tie it to her. Not directly, not legally.”

“Chicken.”

I did a twisty thing with my fingernails and his nipple.

“Ow!”

“Teach you to talk about chickens.”

SABBATH LOUISE ARMSTRONG

I hadn’t dipped into that HAVEN settlement money, so my finances were fine. But I was feeling a little antsy, a little restless. I’d worked all my life and wasn’t surprised to find that I was missing it. Not any specific job, but just the fact of getting up, going to work, earning some dinero.

My after-school crowd was growing, slowly, but pretty steadily. I rarely had fewer than twenty kids, sometimes more than thirty. Without planning it, one afternoon I had said, “Welcome to Haven.” And the name stuck. The kids began calling it Haven House and that’s fine with me.

There hadn’t yet been any complaints from the neighbors, but I felt a little awkward with all the foot traffic. So I began to consider buying my own building. Getting some sort of pastoral license, making everything official.

Winter told me she would put me in touch with her financial advisor, Gertie Oppenheimer. Who would know the ins and outs of real estate, nonprofit tax implications, everything that I’d been ignoring since I moved back to Kansas City. She’s the same woman who had indirectly advised Carol Sue Parker on how to invest that settlement money.

I had my daily routine — home, Pedro Morales, Haven House, the Sister Mary shelter, home. But I also had a lot of free time and lately I’d been thinking of Leisurely Lane.

Not that I’d try to resurrect the brand; that was beyond salvaging. But that idea — streaming — plus my database of over 200,000 former followers could be the start of something similar. I would bet that at least a third of those viewers would still be reachable.

If Winter would let me borrow her loft, that would be a spectacular setting to introduce a new lifestyle stream. If I gained even some modest traction, I’d consider spinning off an adult-access version for paying subscribers. I was still fine with how I looked, pleased with my body. And I never had been all that shy.

In a way, it amused me to contrast the doom and gloom of Holy Pentecostal with my new Northeast outreach mission. And I was especially titillated by the idea of funding my sort-of-church through R-rated streams. Maybe even X. Why not?

But first, I need to find a seeing eye dog, a guide dog, for Pedro. And I’ll start with Pilar Paloma.

WINTER JENNIFER JENNINGS

I refreshed Gertie’s Tanqueray and she smiled sympathetically across our kitchen table at Pilar, “How you doing, honey?”

Vanessa glanced at me; Pilar had never mentioned Trump’s impeachment acquittal in the Senate.

“Oh, fine. No surprise there, not after what McConnell announced at the start.”

Walker and Gregory didn’t follow politics the way Pilar did; Walker said, “What did McConnell say?”

Gertie, “He told Hannity that he was coordinating with the White House counsel and there would be no difference between the President’s position and the Senate’s.”

Walker frowned, “So it wasn’t even a real trial?”

Gertie said, “Oh, the Senate had a legal precedent for their process. Go reread “Alice in Wonderland.”

“Alice in Wonderland?”

Pilar made a note.

Gertie, “The King says, ‘let the jury consider their verdict.’ The Queen jumps in, ‘No, no! Sentence first — verdict afterwards’.”

The kids laughed; so did Vanessa and I.

Gertie said, “McConnell riffed on that theme — verdict first, trial afterwards, sentence never.”

Both Wrigley moves — to the fifth and sixth floors — were pretty seamless. Professional movers, that large freight elevator, and so much space to experiment with furniture groupings.

But what all of us enjoyed the most was the almost effortless blending of our two families. The Seavers often joined us for dinner; Walker and Pilar cooked, or ordered in, almost every night.

And the kids hung out down on the fifth floor too. Walker, always eager to talk sports. Pilar sopping up more gender-bender info from Caitlin; the woman was becoming a surrogate aunt. And Vanessa and Caitlin, already tight, were becoming closer than ever.

Vanessa and I held a series of housewarming parties — my parents, our friends, restaurant workers, my Irregulars. And my mother, surprisingly, gave us some good interior decoration advice.

“Have a party, a big, rousing party. Then wake up in the morning and see how the guests have rearranged your furniture groupings. The chairs and sofas will be where they belonged in the first place.”

And you know what? She was right. It wasn’t anywhere close to a complete makeover, but a couple of altered settings now made better sense. Encouraged conviviality and conversations.

The new living arrangements just felt right — us in the penthouse, the Severs our new neighbors.

In the rest of the Wrigley, life went on as usual. Four floors of hotel rooms, the restaurant, the speakeasy with its biweekly poker game. Our family now had a private entrance to the roof, which was still open to everyone in the hotel through the public stairway.

About the only downside to the Seaver’s move was that their co-op in the Robert Louis Stevenson became vacant. Less of a concern now than when we first bought the building. There were so many vacancies back then. But since Gertie had initiated an online marketing campaign featuring Vanessa and me ... well, there were only six unsold units. Seven now, counting the Seaver’s.

All in all, it was a good time. I’d received a surprise bonus — five thousand bucks — from Red Lonnigan. Envoy Assets paid my final invoice, and, mainly, the shelter lawsuit and The Restoration were history.

Just one nagging detail — that fucking Sarah Meriwether.

SABBATH LOUISE ARMSTRONG

Winter and Vanessa agreed to give me access to their new loft. I decided to start my video program at a very basic level. One half hour, maybe less, one day a week. I might grow it, might bring back some of my Leisurely Lane friends. Or I might just retain a narrow focus for “Sabbath’s Saturday”.

On the home front, I talked with Pedro’s landlady, Connie Ortiz, and she had no problem with me buying a guide dog for him. She winked, “Pedro’s a little sweetie pie when you get to know him.”

WINTER JENNIFER JENNINGS

Pilar and Gregory attended school in Brookside. Walker was at Pembroke Hill, a private school near the Plaza. All three kids approached Vanessa and me on a Saturday morning. Serious expressions.

Pilar, as she often did, spoke for the group, “A girl in Gregory’s class ... her father hit her yesterday. And he hits her mom too.”

Our round kitchen table was usually a place for jokes and teasing and laughter. Not this morning.

I said, “Who is it, honey?”

“Rebecca Crandal. Becky.”

Vanessa said, “She’s 14?”

“Just turned 15.”

Gregory handed his cell to me. There was a single photo of a young girl with a red welt across her chin and cheek. “He slapped her.”

Pilar and Walker and Gregory were staring at us. Anger at the rat-fuck father. Concern for Becky. Curiosity about what we would do.

Vanessa placed her palm on the back of my hand and spoke quietly, “Bear.”

I nodded, “That’s where we’ll have lunch. Today.”

Vanessa said, “I’ll call him, make sure he’ll be in.”

I moved to DC for at least a week. I told Vanessa and the kids, “Ash gave me the keys to Folsom’s office, to that inner sanctum. I’m going to go through every scrap of paper in the room. Some of it is about RightWorld. The Restoration.”

Walker said, “But the FBI is already doing the same thing.”

“They’re looking at the big picture. I’m looking for Sarah Meriwether.”

“Want any help?”

Vanessa and I exchanged a glance, kept our expressions neutral.

Pilar said, “Papi is dying to investigate that video.”

Walker turned red, but didn’t deny the obvious. First Clint, now the lad.

Men. Boys in this case, both of them.

Walker said, “Well?”

I put my fist up in front of my mouth, “As they enter the far turn, Insecurity is leading the pack — but wait! Immaturity is gaining, they’re neck and neck as they head to the straightaway...”

Herr Hesse, rigid posture, quick-marched us to my corner booth. Louie-Louie made a quiet ceremony of whisking away the ‘Reserved for Winter Jennings’ sign.

I smiled up at Herr Hesse, “We’re in your hands, Maestro.”

Stiff-necked nod, about-face to instruct the kitchen.

Bear ambled over, turned a chair around and sat, his massive arms resting on the back.

Vanessa said, “Pilar.”

She went into more detail for Bear. “His name is Mike Crandal. He’s a lawyer, downtown. Big guy, was in the Marines. He’s a boozer, gets ugly-drunk.”

Gregory said, “He used to just yell at Becky, but yesterday he slapped her so hard that she flew across the room, landed on her butt.”

Vanessa murmured, “He’s escalating.”

Gregory showed Bear the photo.

I said, “Didn’t the teacher say anything? They’re trained to watch for domestic violence. Child abuse.”

Pilar, “Becky told her that she tripped and fell down the steps. Plus, this was the first time.”

Gregory, “Becky told us he punches his wife in the stomach. Uses his fist.”

Vanessa muttered, “No visible bruises.”

I finished scrolling and handed Bear my cell. He read, “Fitzhugh and Fitzroy, 900 block of Main.”

He looked at me, “Want me to front Crandal at work or home or someplace neutral?”

“Not at home, there’s enough turmoil there already. Lemme think.”

Vanessa said, “He’d be the most mortified at work. In front of his colleagues.” Easy to see how she wanted it to go down.

Under the close scrutiny of Herr Hesse, Louie-Louie and two lesser waiters started delivering aromatic dishes. Herr Hesse looked at Vanessa and said, “Punjab.”

Punjab indeed. Dahi batata puri — crisp, fragile orbs made of fried dough and filled with mashed potato and dollops of cilantro and tamarin chutneys, sweetened yogurt, with chickpea noodles and a dusting of chili powder.

Herr Hesse said, “Kale pakoda, saag paneer, and matar paneer to come.”

I said, “We’ll be ready whenever you are.”

I turned to Bear, “I’ll pick you up at nine on Monday morning.”

Pilar nodded, “Good.” And she and Walker and Gregory started scarfing under the approving eye of Herr Hesse.

I provisioned up for my week in DC. Ben’s Chili Bowl for starters. Half-smokes being the foundation for any well-provisioned larder. Other groceries for the other basics. Booze and wine were already in good supply at Matt’s. Clint had his own Vanguard cases to work on, but would join me for the weekend.

I understood that my access to Folsom’s files was a genuine kindness from Ash. The originals had been dusted for prints, scoured for hair samples ... any physical evidence that might lead to Sarah Meriwether. Then they would have been copied and shared around the office for investigative analyses. And would be specifically studied for links to anyone else in addition to Sarah Meriwether.

That one set of the copies was back in Folsom’s inner sanctum meant that I was free to peruse his papers in complete privacy. No scrutiny — no awareness even — from anyone, including the FBI bureaucrats. Especially from the FBI.

A consideration, courtesy of Ash.

I went through the same routine that Ash had done with Clint and me. Unlocked the hallway door, crossed the room, unlocked Folsom’s door. Crossed that room, palmed the touch-pad, and unlocked the door to the private office. Unlike Ash, I locked all three doors behind me.

The only lighting was from overhead — harsh and unflattering. There were three walls of beige, shoulder-high file cabinets, but a quick survey showed me that about half had never held any paperwork. Never would, now. Still, I took out every single drawer, looking for hidden documents. Even turned the cabinets themselves upside down to see if anything had been taped to the bottoms. Nada. And, I knew — well, was pretty sure — that the FBI agents had already done that. But it would have nagged at me if I neglected such a rudimentary step.

I set up my yellow legal pads and several pens to chronicle everything of interest. I’d always liked making lists, even when, deep down, I knew my sense of progress, of being in control, was often only illusionary.

Double dose of panacea, please.

Then I leaped up, rolled Folsom’s chair into his regular office and brought in a different chair from one of the cubicles. I suddenly hadn’t wanted to sit in the chair where Folsom had watched his little girl videos. Got up again and applied hand sanitizer, rinsed my hands and dried them carefully.

I locked myself back in and started with the first file cabinet on my left. It was drudgery, mostly. But because it was, possibly, Meriwether business, it was my drudgery.

It went a little faster after I did an overall inventory, had a sense of what was in front of me. Because everything was just a copy, I didn’t have to worry about smudging fingerprints, finding a stray hair, any DNA clues involving Meriwether.

As I’d learned working for Gloria Allen, I zeroed in on the financials. Which were in the fourth and bottom drawer of the first file cabinet I opened.

RightWorld paid Folsom an annual retainer of $250,000. Which sort of justified, or at least explained, why he’d opened a little office in their building. But this bunker was obviously the nerve center of his joint operation with Sarah.

In addition to the monthly retainers that came to over $20,000 each, Folsom had received three bonuses in 2019. The first was for $10,000, then two more followed that were $45,000 each. Because the two larger checks had been issued shortly after the Houston and Albuquerque murders, I assumed there was a connection. Ash’s accountants would try to find a justification for each incentive payment, but I started my own financial calendar anyway.

Like with our Vanguard files, a lot of Folsom’s notations, memos, agreements, were composed of either vague or coded descriptions. And some projects were assigned names such as Witchcraft, Hummingbird, and the like. A surprising number of the entries were handwritten in Folsom’s Zaner-Bloser cursive. I made a note of everything I didn’t understand. Ash had told me I could check in with the agent he assigned to head up the Folsom task force — Mary Albers.

I’d wait until I’d been through everything, then organize my questions into as tight a document as I could. Ash was being generous in sharing intel and I wasn’t about to squander his or Mary’s time.

God, why did I go to law school? Reading file after file, I was reminded of how much attorneys pontificate, obfuscate, blur, muddle, and muddy. I’m a hard worker, conscientious, but this was so tedious that I found myself taking a midmorning break, going out for a long lunch, and needing a third breather in the afternoon. Reading this bumf was a hole in the small bowl of time we’re allotted in this life.

Just walking around the block was like being out on parole. Or maybe like recess in school. But I kept at it, kept motoring through Folsom’s files.

All the while, though, I had a vague sense I was listening to the wrong music. Missing something essential.