Dedicated to Terry and Michael, who

stood by me and didnt complain of the

many hours taken from them while I was
writing the manuscript for this novel.
Chris Marsh
10 January, 1984

t was just after nine when the phone in Mikes apartment

rang. Karen, his receptionist, was on the line. Mike put
the phone on loudspeaker and her voice came across as
loud as a firecracker as she filled him in on his new case.
He had heard about those two bodies found on the
mountainside from the news briefs on television and in the
newspaper. She said he was being asked to help out on the case.
Mike Thorn jumped out of bed, put on his eyeglasses first, then
his shirt, pants, and shoes, and headed to his office. He had a
sense that this was not going to be his day.
His car headed into the city just as snowflakes began to
fall. The drive from his apartment to his office was about a half
an hour long. If those snowflakes fell all day, the drive home
would take much longer. As the car radio played, Mike made a
mental note of the stops he had to make during the day.
His eyeglasses made his eyes sore, and, as Mike wiped
them with his handkerchief, he knew that they would have to be
looked at by his optometrist. His BMW hummed as Mike drove
it along Center City. He passed a drugstore, a bar, and a studio
owned by the citys top photographer. He had come to his
office. Mike parked the BMW making sure his lot permit decal
was placed in the window.
The decal had the permit number and an illustration of the
city flag on it. The last thing he needed was to have his car
towed away.
Mike moved with haste up the steps to his office on the
third floor. Well its about time, Karen said as she looked past
the television that showed the lobby on the floor below. Mike
had had his office broken into a number of times, so a camera
had been put in and a videocassette made of anyone who enters
or exits the lobbies. His receptionist gave him the once over. On
most days, she was rather fond of her bosss looks. Today, he
looked like he had risen from a graveyard. In her mind, Karen
saw an illustration of some ugly corpse.
1

You look awful, she said with a mixed sense of humor

and regard. I know. I should have made a stop at the drugstore
to see if they have a pill for this dull pain in my head.
Mike had been heavy into booze at one time. As a matter
of fact, his days as a bartender had led him to drink. The gin
from last night hadnt done a thing for him, except cause his
head to throb the day after. It felt like hed been hit by a metal
candlestick holder, or like he had a jackhammer going off in his
brain.
His office looked like the kind you would see on
television. A desk, files, a couple of chairs, and a sink. Mike was
every bit the single P.I. On the top of his desk were some notes,
an illustration, and what was left of the meal he had had the
night before.
The kitchenware needed to be washed badly. The
newspaper needed to be tossed out. His underwear, socks, and
T-shirt from the day before needed to be picked up and either
washed or thrown out. Here he was, a weightlifter in his spare
time, and yet he could not even pick up his own things.
He sank into his chair as he gazed out of the window at the
snowflakes coming from the sky. He had to admit they did look
pretty.
It made him think of an illustration he once owned. A
photographer could get a couple of nice shots around here.
Boston in the winter was rather cold, but he liked it just the
same. Hed rather have his own house, but his apartment suited
his style of life for now. He popped a videocassette in and
turned on the television. It was a tape of last nights news with
that story about the mountainside murder. There was a report
that the victim might be a bartender who had gotten in over his
head with loans.
Others said it was a photographer who was into making
sex films on videocassette. The news report talked about the
bloody handkerchief found at the scene, and womens
2

underwear found in the pocket of the victim. A member of the

police force would only say that the man, a male about forty
years of age, had been beaten with a blunt object, like a
candlestick holder; taken from his apartment, and dumped in
this mountainside graveyard.
The area where the body lay was so rocky that one would
need a jackhammer to dig a hole deep enough for the body.
Mike fixed his eyeglasses as he sat in front of the
television screen. This same news clip next showed his former
boss, Lt. Sam Poole, using a loudspeaker to keep people away
from the site. Just as Mike began to think about the case, his
receptionist called him.
Mike, a Lt. Poole would like to talk to you if you have the
time. He never had the time, but told Karen to tell him hed see
him within the hour.
A weary Michael Thorn made his way past his receptionist
and headed down the stairs and off to see his former boss. He
walked out into the snow and looked up at the snowflakes
coming down. They began to stick to his eyeglasses. He wiped
them with his handkerchief and headed for his car. His permit to
park was still in view. He turned the key to his BMW and
pumped the gas. It roared to life, popped like a firecracker, and
then he pulled out onto Broad Street and headed east.
Mike was hoping to have enough time later to go to the
gym. He was an avid weightlifter and runner. When he had been
a bartender, Mike always worked out after his shift. Once, a
photographer even asked him if hed like to make a muscle
videocassette. The money would have paid his apartment rent
for half a year, but the idea really didnt excite him too much.
Karen, his receptionist, had told him that he should do it, but
still he could not have cared less.
He did, though, pose for an illustration that was used in an
ad for the gym where he worked out.
As his car moved closer to the center of town, Mike used
3

his handkerchief to clean the fog off of the inside, of the

window. His breath still took shape on the window, and even his
eyeglasses had begun to fog up.
This snow and cold had the city in its grip. The
receptionist at Lt. Pooles office had her boss paged on the
loudspeaker after Mike showed her his I.D. He killed time with
her as she talked about her kids, a kitchenware party, and three
videocassettes of sexy underwear from one of the womens
shops on Fifth Avenue. All in all, Mike was bored out of his
mind. She was nice and pretty, but Mike just didnt care.
A woman like this with kids just meant that dating her
would be a hassle. Mike looked at an illustration on the wall
that was, no doubt, drawn by one of her kids. Just then the
office door shut with a bang. Mike and the receptionist both
jumped with a start. The bang was loud enough to be either a
firecracker, or even a gun.
Well, Mike. Long time no see. How have you been? Lt.
Poole was direct and filled Mike in on the last items of the
mountainside case. He even told Mike about things the
television and newspaper had not stated.
Wed like you to help us out, Mike. Mike took off his
eyeglasses and peered at his former boss. Whats in it for me?
he said. Your name in the newspaper and on the television. It
would be great for your name. Ever since the day Mike was
fired from the force and had turned in his badge and gun, he
swore he would never do a thing to help them. He was good as a
P.I. and told Sam that he needed time to think it over. Hed
always liked his ex-boss, and Mike knew that Sam wasnt guilty
of having him fired. Mike said hed be in touch, walked past the
receptionist, and headed for the local tavern.
The Crows Nest was Mikes choice as the place to have a
few drinks. The bartender got him a rum and coke, and Mike let
his mind drift. A newspaper lay on the bar, and Mike fixed his
eyeglasses, and looked over the latest news. Page one ran a
4

story on the mountainside case.

It said that the police had talked to people who had seen
the victim the day before the murder took place. A drugstore
worker had been called in to speak to the police about what he
knew. An expert optometrist, an underwear model, and the
owner of a videocassette store were also talked to as well. The
newspaper didnt say much else. Mike turned the pages.
An ad for kitchenware here. An ad for a cheap
photographer there. On the next page a weightlifter with a
handkerchief tied around his brow touted the latest gym. Mike
looked up at the television in the bar.
The man on T.V. said the snowflakes would fall late into
the night and that more snow was coming later in the week. He
had an illustration to point this out. More snow. Great.
Mike pulled out his I. D. and called the bartender over.
The man making the drinks behind the bar said his name was
Bill. and asked how he could be of help to Mike.
Mike said, What do you really think about this
mountainside murder thats been in the news? It looked like the
bartender hadnt really given it much of his time. To tell you
the truth, this place hasnt been as dead as a graveyard, and I
havent really had the time to pay much mind to the television. I
have looked in the newspaper, but mainly for a new apartment.
My lease is almost up on the one Im in now, and I need a
change. Just then the television blared like a loudspeaker. A
news report came on. There was Lt. Poole again. He spoke to
the media about a second murder. A photographer had been
found dead in his apartment early that same day.
He had been bound and gagged with a very strong
handkerchief. No I. D. was found on the body, but it was more
than likely Frank Nicci, a top photographer in Boston. The
television showed the inside of the bloody apartment. Then it
showed the body. Niccis eyeglasses were on his face, but
broken. And that wasnt all that was broken.
5

The body itself lay next to a candlestick, some books, a

camera, and a few drugs. On one wall inside the apartment, a
person had drawn an eerie symbol in blood. Mike fixed his
eyeglasses and took a closer look at the illustration.
Drawn in blood on the wall was a map of the mountainside
area. The graveyard was also marked. The television camera
panned around the apartment. In one corner were videocassette
tapes and womens underwear. Clues, Mike mused, or just part
of Niccis stock and trade.
The television camera panned back to Poole with
snowflakes coming down around him. As he summed up the
stance of the police on the case, one of the women from the city
newspaper asked him if this might be tied into the murder last
month of the citys number one crime boss, Pat Verde. He ran
what the police and newspaper called the drugstore. Verde had
been a drug lord in the truest sense of the word. Poole wiped his
brow with a handkerchief, and said the police were not able to
tie the two into each other at this point in time. He said it would
be a while before they would know if the deaths of the
photographer and Verde were linked.
As Mike sat there gazing at the television, he felt eyes on
the back of his head. He looked out the corner of his eye to find
the eyes of the piano player on him. The man at the keys had
once played in a number of music shows in the city. Mike was
aware of more than one story in the newspaper about him. He
was also able to recall an illustration of the man in a number of
ads around the city.
He had really been known around town for his talent in
music. Mike fixed his eyeglasses, made a mental note of this
guy, paid his tab, and left.
Moving out onto the street, Mike peered down the street as
the snowflakes fell. There was a chill in the air, and Mike got
into his car and headed off to the mountainside to visit the
graveyard site where the first body had been found. When he
6

got there, Mike took note of how rocky the area was.
A jackhammer would have been needed to dig into the
mountainside. Either a jackhammer, or maybe some TNT. A
large firecracker would not have had any effect on moving this
stone.
Mike eyed the area. Using his handkerchief to ensure his
prints would not be left in the area, Mike began to sift through
some of the debris.
Snowflakes had all but hidden most of the ground, but
Mike still was able to comb the mountainside murder scene. He
fixed his eyeglasses as he wished he had taken his tools from his
apartment to help with this course of action. Just then, Mike
heard a car pull up behind him. A voice on a loudspeaker asked
for I. D. Mike, blind from the cars lights, made an effort to
show his badge. The cars motor was turned off, and a figure got
out. It was Sam Poole. Find any clues yet, Mike? Hell, Sam,
you caught me off guard. What are you doing here? The
newspaper and television people said you were done here.
Sam told Mike about how the snowflakes had really cut
the mountainside probe short. Mike, the bureau photographer
found some clues in his shots, and I wanted to follow up on
them.
It seemed that some of those shots taken by the
photographer showed what looked to be a candlestick holder
and bones in the snow. These were next to a weird illustration
that was drawn there in the snow. There was talk that maybe this
graveyard murder was linked to some black magic ritual.
Mike didnt think much of magic and voodoo. He had
rented a videocassette one night about how people with no
social life and no ties to the real world took part in these
graveyard rites. This kind of stuff was also fodder for many of
the talk shows on television. Guests came onto these shows to
reveal how their rites were done, not only out in nature, but
even in their own apartment.
7

On one show the host played a videocassette of a grisly

ritual. It showed a young lady in just her underwear using what
looked like normal kitchenware to slash her wrists and allow her
blood to run into a silver cup. As the light from a candlestick
barely lit up the room of the small apartment, the young lady
spoke her ritual chant. Mike wasnt moved by it. The show
talked about how many people who took part in this stuff lead
normal lives.
There was a bartender, a photographer, and a receptionist
all saying how much they got out of this form of ritual. The host
even showed an illustration of one of the rites. To Mike, it
looked like some kind of cult. Of course, on the show the real
names of these people were never given. This type of show
always ran during the sweeps.
Mike cut his visit with Sam short and headed to the local
college. He knew hed find books about these kinds of rites
there. But first, hed make a quick stop at his apartment and
check in by phone with Karen, his receptionist.
She told him about the latest news on both the death of the
photographer and the graveyard cases. She filled Mike in about
some new things that were being looked at by the police: a
handkerchief with blood stains, a candlestick holder, a number
of kitchenware items, and womens underwear that were found
folded in a newspaper.
She also told Mike that no one knew who owned the pink
briefs; only that they had been found at the apartment that was
owned by the photographer who had been killed. Mike mulled
all of this over in his head as he gazed out the window at the
snowflakes coming down. He still needed to pick up a few
things at the drugstore and, as Karen had said, they had a dinner
date at his apartment later that night. Just then the loudspeaker
in his apartment came to life.
There was a UPS man with a box that needed to be signed
for. Mike signed for it as the snowflakes fell, and he went back
8

inside his apartment.

He wiped his eyeglasses with a handkerchief and looked
for the name of the sender. He found none. He placed the box
on the television set and slowly opened it. The snowflakes on
the box had begun to melt as Mike pried the box open.
On the top of the box was an illustration of some occult
symbol. Inside he found a videocassette, womens underwear, a
candlestick, and a photo of the last victim, the photographer.
There was also a note jotted on a copy of the newspaper from
the day this last victim died. It simply said: The graveyard on
the mountainside rocks. That was it. Mike was hoping the
videocassette that was in the box might supply more facts. He
stuffed the videocassette into his coat pocket and left his
apartment. He was aware that it was now known that he was a
player in the case. But who knew? And what did they know?
As Mike walked to his car, the snowflakes fell harder. He
heard a noise like a firecracker and saw an apartment tenant
begin to start his car. Boy, was Mike edgy.
You would not need a jackhammer to get his notice. He
really should not allow things to get to him. He knew how to
focus. He was a weightlifter, for crying out loud.
He knew how to block things out, and here he was, made
all edgy by some case. Go figure.
Drawn in the snow on the window of his car was the same
weird illustration that Mike had found on the box. It gave him
the creeps. He wiped the snowflakes off of his car and headed to
the college. The receptionist in the media center showed Mike
where he could find books on pagan rites.
There were many more than he thought there would be.
The titles and covers were enough to make his hair stand on
end. One book had a naked witch on an altar with a candlestick.
A second book showed a graveyard ritual. A third showed a
number of female pagans in underwear acting out a number of
their rites. Mike could tell that the photographer for these prints
9

must have liked his work.

Each book had at least one illustration on the inside that
seemed to match the symbol that Mike kept coming across.
Mike sat down, fixed his eyeglasses, and began his study. As he
turned these topics over in his mind, he linked them to what he
knew about the cases. Many of the rites talked about in the
books could be done in a forest, on a mountainside, in a
graveyard, or in a city apartment for that matter. Mike knew that
what he read was pretty much the same as that which he had
seen on television.
He wanted to know if the bartender he had spoken to
might know about these rites. Maybe even Karen, his
receptionist, might be able to help.
He made a note to ask her that night over dinner. It seemed
to Mike that this day would never end. He still had to stop by
the gym. He was the only weightlifter who never had the same
gym hours.
Plus, he had to stop off at the drugstore and go home to
view that videocassette that had come to him in the mail. Maybe
his receptionist would like to be filled in on the case. Mike
made it a habit to bounce ideas off of Karen. He was amazed at
just how smart his receptionist was.
She always made it a point to drop by Mikes apartment
when she had ideas that could be of help to him. The last time
she had helped out, she nearly made the newspaper.
As Mikes mind went adrift back to that night, the
loudspeaker in the town media center blared like a firecracker. A
voice said that the center was about to close for the day. Mike
used his media center card to check out a number of those books
and gave the cute receptionist behind the desk his thanks for her
help.
Mike left the college amid a flurry of snowflakes and
picked up a newspaper. He looked in the television guide to see
what was on the box that night. If his dinner date with his
10

receptionist was a bust, he could always watch a movie on

television or rent a videocassette.
No one saw the figure hiding in the night. The killer stood
in the dark in the alley next to an apartment. He gazed over at
the snowflakes as his grip on the candlestick holder became
tight. He liked the night. It was so dark and cold. He wiped his
eyeglasses with a handkerchief as he waited. He smiled as he
began to think about the body he had left on the mountainside,
and the illustration he had drawn in the snow.
The smile became even bigger when he mulled over what
he did to the other body in the graveyard.
That victim was young and pretty. She must have been
either a receptionist or a model who posed for a photographer.
She was a beauty. He began to think about the videocassette
tape he had made of her.
The only things she wore in the videocassette were her
eyeglasses and underwear. His mind raced.
Just then the door from the apartment house banged open.
The spring hinge of the door was broken, and the noise it made
when it hit the front of the wall was as loud as a firecracker. He
began to sweat and wiped his brow with his handkerchief.
A young man, a bartender by trade, exited the apartment
house. He only felt the first blow from the heavy candlestick
holder. His head ached like a jackhammer, but he was out before
he could feel the rest of the blows. The young mans eyeglasses
fell among the snowflakes as his body hit the ground.
This latest victim was lifted and put in the back of a van
that had an illustration of a tree and the moon on its side. The
slayer was a weightlifter and found it easy to drag the body of
the bartender into the van and slide the side door shut. He got
into the van with his victim and headed into the snowflakes
toward his own apartment.
It was now a little after dark and Mike had just arrived
home to his apartment. He had made a stop at his optometrist to
11

see if he could give him some drops for his eyes. After that he
went to the drugstore, got the drops, and went home. His health
plan card really saved him a lot of money.
He walked into his apartment and turned on the television.
There was a winter storm to watch that matched television. The
snowflakes that were coming down. He looked at the newspaper
for a short while, and then he began to get ready for his dinner
date. Karen, his able receptionist, would be by in a little while.
While the dinner cooked, Mike picked up things around
his apartment. He picked up his shorts, socks, and underwear
that were lying all about. Then he laid out the kitchenware. Just
then his loudspeaker buzzed. Mike, its Karen. Mike told her
to come on up.
Karen had only been to Mikes apartment a few times. She
was happy to see that Mike had laid out the nice kitchenware
and had placed a candlestick at each end of the table. You
know, Mike, Lt. Poole came by the office late today. He wanted
to share some ideas with you about both the mountainside and
graveyard cases.
Did he have any news about the bartender or the
photographer? Karen said that he did. She told Mike that Carol
Fine, the receptionist for the photographer, was on television
last night. She said she had seen a number of models who
worked for the photographers coming out of his apartment the
day he was killed. Mike made a note of all of this.
It was just after nine when the phone in Mikes apartment
rang. Karen, his receptionist, was on the line. Mike put the
phone on loudspeaker and her voice came across as loud as a
firecracker as she filled him in on his new case.
He had heard about those two bodies found on the
mountainside from the news briefs on television and in the
newspaper. She said he was being asked to help out on the case.
Mike Thorn jumped out of bed, put on his eyeglasses first, then
his shirt, pants, and shoes, and headed to his office. He had a
12

sense that this was not going to be his day.

His car headed into the city just as snowflakes began to
fall. The drive from his apartment to his office was about a half
an hour long. If those snowflakes fell all day, the drive home
would take much longer. As the car radio played, Mike made a
mental note of the stops he had to make during the day.
His eyeglasses made his eyes sore, and, as Mike wiped
them with his handkerchief, he knew that they would have to be
looked at by his optometrist. His BMW hummed as Mike drove
it along Center City. He passed a drugstore, a bar, and a studio
owned by the citys top photographer. He had come to his
office. Mike parked the BMW making sure his lot permit decal
was placed in the window.
The decal had the permit number and an illustration of the
city flag on it. The last thing he needed was to have his car
towed away.
Mike moved with haste up the steps to his office on the
third floor. Well its about time, Karen said as she looked past
the television that showed the lobby on the floor below. Mike
had had his office broken into a number of times, so a camera
had been put in and a videocassette made of anyone who enters
or exits the lobbies. His receptionist gave him the once over. On
most days, she was rather fond of her bosss looks. Today, he
looked like he had risen from a graveyard. In her mind, Karen
saw an illustration of some ugly corpse.
You look awful, she said with a mixed sense of humor
and regard. I know. I should have made a stop at the drugstore
to see if they have a pill for this dull pain in my head.
Mike had been heavy into booze at one time. As a matter
of fact, his days as a bartender had led him to drink. The gin
from last night hadnt done a thing for him, except cause his
head to throb the day after. It felt like hed been hit by a metal
candlestick holder, or like he had a jackhammer going off in his
brain.
13

His office looked like the kind you would see on

television. A desk, files, a couple of chairs, and a sink. Mike was
every bit the single P.I. On the top of his desk were some notes,
an illustration, and what was left of the meal he had had the
night before.
The kitchenware needed to be washed badly. The
newspaper needed to be tossed out. His underwear, socks, and
T-shirt from the day before needed to be picked up and either
washed or thrown out. Here he was, a weightlifter in his spare
time, and yet he could not even pick up his own things.
He sank into his chair as he gazed out of the window at the
snowflakes coming from the sky. He had to admit they did look
pretty.
It made him think of an illustration he once owned. A
photographer could get a couple of nice shots around here.
Boston in the winter was rather cold, but he liked it just the
same. Hed rather have his own house, but his apartment suited
his style of life for now. He popped a videocassette in and
turned on the television. It was a tape of last nights news with
that story about the mountainside murder. There was a report
that the victim might be a bartender who had gotten in over his
head with loans.
Others said it was a photographer who was into making
sex films on videocassette. The news report talked about the
bloody handkerchief found at the scene, and womens
underwear found in the pocket of the victim. A member of the
police force would only say that the man, a male about forty
years of age, had been beaten with a blunt object, like a
candlestick holder; taken from his apartment, and dumped in
this mountainside graveyard.
The area where the body lay was so rocky that one would
need a jackhammer to dig a hole deep enough for the body.
Mike fixed his eyeglasses as he sat in front of the
television screen. This same news clip next showed his former
15
14

boss, Lt. Sam Poole, using a loudspeaker to keep people away

from the site. Just as Mike began to think about the case, his
receptionist called him.
Mike, a Lt. Poole would like to talk to you if you have the
time. He never had the time, but told Karen to tell him hed see
him within the hour.
A weary Michael Thorn made his way past his receptionist
and headed down the stairs and off to see his former boss. He
walked out into the snow and looked up at the snowflakes
coming down. They began to stick to his eyeglasses. He wiped
them with his handkerchief and headed for his car. His permit to
park was still in view. He turned the key to his BMW and
pumped the gas. It roared to life, popped like a firecracker, and
then he pulled out onto Broad Street and headed east.
Mike was hoping to have enough time later to go to the
gym. He was an avid weightlifter and runner. When he had been
a bartender, Mike always worked out after his shift. Once, a
photographer even asked him if hed like to make a muscle
videocassette. The money would have paid his apartment rent
for half a year, but the idea really didnt excite him too much.
Karen, his receptionist, had told him that he should do it, but
still he could not have cared less.
He did, though, pose for an illustration that was used in an
ad for the gym where he worked out.
As his car moved closer to the center of town, Mike used
his handkerchief to clean the fog off of the inside, of the
window. His breath still took shape on the window, and even his
eyeglasses had begun to fog up.
This snow and cold had the city in its grip. The
receptionist at Lt. Pooles office had her boss paged on the
loudspeaker after Mike showed her his I.D. He killed time with
her as she talked about her kids, a kitchenware party, and three
videocassettes of sexy underwear from one of the womens
shops on Fifth Avenue. All in all, Mike was bored out of his
16

mind. She was nice and pretty, but Mike just didnt care.
A woman like this with kids just meant that dating her
would be a hassle. Mike looked at an illustration on the wall
that was, no doubt, drawn by one of her kids. Just then the
office door shut with a bang. Mike and the receptionist both
jumped with a start. The bang was loud enough to be either a
firecracker, or even a gun.
Well, Mike. Long time no see. How have you been? Lt.
Poole was direct and filled Mike in on the last items of the
mountainside case. He even told Mike about things the
television and newspaper had not stated.
Wed like you to help us out, Mike. Mike took off his
eyeglasses and peered at his former boss. Whats in it for me?
he said. Your name in the newspaper and on the television. It
would be great for your name. Ever since the day Mike was
fired from the force and had turned in his badge and gun, he
swore he would never do a thing to help them. He was good as a
P.I. and told Sam that he needed time to think it over. Hed
always liked his ex-boss, and Mike knew that Sam wasnt guilty
of having him fired. Mike said hed be in touch, walked past the
receptionist, and headed for the local tavern.
The Crows Nest was Mikes choice as the place to have a
few drinks. The bartender got him a rum and coke, and Mike let
his mind drift. A newspaper lay on the bar, and Mike fixed his
eyeglasses, and looked over the latest news. Page one ran a
story on the mountainside case.
It said that the police had talked to people who had seen
the victim the day before the murder took place. A drugstore
worker had been called in to speak to the police about what he
knew. An expert optometrist, an underwear model, and the
owner of a videocassette store were also talked to as well. The
newspaper didnt say much else. Mike turned the pages.
An ad for kitchenware here. An ad for a cheap
photographer there. On the next page a weightlifter with a
17

handkerchief tied around his brow touted the latest gym. Mike
looked up at the television in the bar.
The man on T.V. said the snowflakes would fall late into
the night and that more snow was coming later in the week. He
had an illustration to point this out. More snow. Great.
Mike pulled out his I. D. and called the bartender over.
The man making the drinks behind the bar said his name was
Bill. and asked how he could be of help to Mike.
Mike said, What do you really think about this
mountainside murder thats been in the news? It looked like the
bartender hadnt really given it much of his time. To tell you
the truth, this place hasnt been as dead as a graveyard, and I
havent really had the time to pay much mind to the television. I
have looked in the newspaper, but mainly for a new apartment.
My lease is almost up on the one Im in now, and I need a
change. Just then the television blared like a loudspeaker. A
news report came on. There was Lt. Poole again. He spoke to
the media about a second murder. A photographer had been
found dead in his apartment early that same day.
He had been bound and gagged with a very strong
handkerchief. No I. D. was found on the body, but it was more
than likely Frank Nicci, a top photographer in Boston. The
television showed the inside of the bloody apartment. Then it
showed the body. Niccis eyeglasses were on his face, but
broken. And that wasnt all that was broken.
The body itself lay next to a candlestick, some books, a
camera, and a few drugs. On one wall inside the apartment, a
person had drawn an eerie symbol in blood. Mike fixed his
eyeglasses and took a closer look at the illustration.
Drawn in blood on the wall was a map of the mountainside
area. The graveyard was also marked. The television camera
panned around the apartment. In one corner were videocassette
tapes and womens underwear. Clues, Mike mused, or just part
of Niccis stock and trade.
18

The television camera panned back to Poole with

snowflakes coming down around him. As he summed up the
stance of the police on the case, one of the women from the city
newspaper asked him if this might be tied into the murder last
month of the citys number one crime boss, Pat Verde. He ran
what the police and newspaper called the drugstore. Verde had
been a drug lord in the truest sense of the word. Poole wiped his
brow with a handkerchief, and said the police were not able to
tie the two into each other at this point in time. He said it would
be a while before they would know if the deaths of the
photographer and Verde were linked.
As Mike sat there gazing at the television, he felt eyes on
the back of his head. He looked out the corner of his eye to find
the eyes of the piano player on him. The man at the keys had
once played in a number of music shows in the city. Mike was
aware of more than one story in the newspaper about him. He
was also able to recall an illustration of the man in a number of
ads around the city.
He had really been known around town for his talent in
music. Mike fixed his eyeglasses, made a mental note of this
guy, paid his tab, and left.
Moving out onto the street, Mike peered down the street as
the snowflakes fell. There was a chill in the air, and Mike got
into his car and headed off to the mountainside to visit the
graveyard site where the first body had been found. When he
got there, Mike took note of how rocky the area was.
A jackhammer would have been needed to dig into the
mountainside. Either a jackhammer, or maybe some TNT. A
large firecracker would not have had any effect on moving this
stone.
Mike eyed the area. Using his handkerchief to ensure his
prints would not be left in the area, Mike began to sift through
some of the debris.
19

20

2 _______________
Snowflakes had all but hidden most of the ground, but
Mike still was able to comb the mountainside murder scene. He
fixed his eyeglasses as he wished he had taken his tools from his
apartment to help with this course of action. Just then, Mike
heard a car pull up behind him. A voice on a loudspeaker asked
for I. D. Mike, blind from the cars lights, made an effort to
show his badge. The cars motor was turned off, and a figure got
out. It was Sam Poole. Find any clues yet, Mike? Hell, Sam,
you caught me off guard. What are you doing here? The
newspaper and television people said you were done here.
Sam told Mike about how the snowflakes had really cut
the mountainside probe short. Mike, the bureau photographer
found some clues in his shots, and I wanted to follow up on
them.
It seemed that some of those shots taken by the
photographer showed what looked to be a candlestick holder
and bones in the snow. These were next to a weird illustration
that was drawn there in the snow. There was talk that maybe this
graveyard murder was linked to some black magic ritual.
Mike didnt think much of magic and voodoo. He had
rented a videocassette one night about how people with no
social life and no ties to the real world took part in these
graveyard rites. This kind of stuff was also fodder for many of
the talk shows on television. Guests came onto these shows to
reveal how their rites were done, not only out in nature, but
even in their own apartment.
On one show the host played a videocassette of a grisly
ritual. It showed a young lady in just her underwear using what
looked like normal kitchenware to slash her wrists and allow her
blood to run into a silver cup. As the light from a candlestick
barely lit up the room of the small apartment, the young lady
spoke her ritual chant. Mike wasnt moved by it. The show

talked about how many people who took part in this stuff lead
normal lives.
There was a bartender, a photographer, and a receptionist
all saying how much they got out of this form of ritual. The host
even showed an illustration of one of the rites. To Mike, it
looked like some kind of cult. Of course, on the show the real
names of these people were never given. This type of show
always ran during the sweeps.
Mike cut his visit with Sam short and headed to the local
college. He knew hed find books about these kinds of rites
there. But first, hed make a quick stop at his apartment and
check in by phone with Karen, his receptionist.
8
She told him about the latest news on both the death of the
photographer and the graveyard cases. She filled Mike in about
some new things that were being looked at by the police: a
handkerchief with blood stains, a candlestick holder, a number
of kitchenware items, and womens underwear that were found
folded in a newspaper.
She also told Mike that no one knew who owned the pink
briefs; only that they had been found at the apartment that was
owned by the photographer who had been killed. Mike mulled
all of this over in his head as he gazed out the window at the
snowflakes coming down. He still needed to pick up a few
things at the drugstore and, as Karen had said, they had a dinner
date at his apartment later that night. Just then the loudspeaker
in his apartment came to life.
There was a UPS man with a box that needed to be signed
for. Mike signed for it as the snowflakes fell, and he went back
inside his apartment.
He wiped his eyeglasses with a handkerchief and looked
for the name of the sender. He found none. He placed the box
on the television set and slowly opened it. The snowflakes on
the box had begun to melt as Mike pried the box open.
On the top of the box was an illustration of some occult
21

symbol. Inside he found a videocassette, womens underwear, a

candlestick, and a photo of the last victim, the photographer.
There was also a note jotted on a copy of the newspaper from
the day this last victim died. It simply said: The graveyard on
the mountainside rocks. That was it. Mike was hoping the
videocassette that was in the box might supply more facts. He
stuffed the videocassette into his coat pocket and left his
apartment. He was aware that it was now known that he was a
player in the case. But who knew? And what did they know?
As Mike walked to his car, the snowflakes fell harder. He
heard a noise like a firecracker and saw an apartment tenant
begin to start his car. Boy, was Mike edgy.
You would not need a jackhammer to get his notice. He
really should not allow things to get to him. He knew how to
focus. He was a weightlifter, for crying out loud.
He knew how to block things out, and here he was, made
all edgy by some case. Go figure.
Drawn in the snow on the window of his car was the same
weird illustration that Mike had found on the box. It gave him
the creeps. He wiped the snowflakes off of his car and headed to
the college. The receptionist in the media center showed Mike
where he could find books on pagan rites.
There were many more than he thought there would be.
The titles and covers were enough to make his hair stand on
end. One book had a naked witch on an altar with a candlestick.
A second book showed a graveyard ritual. A third showed a
number of female pagans in underwear acting out a number of
their rites. Mike could tell that the photographer for these prints
must have liked his work.
Each book had at least one illustration on the inside that
seemed to match the symbol that Mike kept coming across.
Mike sat down, fixed his eyeglasses, and began his study. As he
turned these topics over in his mind, he linked them to what he
knew about the cases. Many of the rites talked about in the
22

books could be done in a forest, on a mountainside, in a

graveyard, or in a city apartment for that matter. Mike knew that
what he read was pretty much the same as that which he had
seen on television.
He wanted to know if the bartender he had spoken to
might know about these rites. Maybe even Karen, his
receptionist, might be able to help.
He made a note to ask her that night over dinner. It seemed
to Mike that this day would never end. He still had to stop by
the gym. He was the only weightlifter who never had the same
gym hours.
Plus, he had to stop off at the drugstore and go home to
view that videocassette that had come to him in the mail. Maybe
his receptionist would like to be filled in on the case. Mike
made it a habit to bounce ideas off of Karen. He was amazed at
just how smart his receptionist was.
She always made it a point to drop by Mikes apartment
when she had ideas that could be of help to him. The last time
she had helped out, she nearly made the newspaper.
As Mikes mind went adrift back to that night, the
loudspeaker in the town media center blared like a firecracker. A
voice said that the center was about to close for the day. Mike
used his media center card to check out a number of those books
and gave the cute receptionist behind the desk his thanks for her
help.
Mike left the college amid a flurry of snowflakes and
picked up a newspaper. He looked in the television guide to see
what was on the box that night. If his dinner date with his
receptionist was a bust, he could always watch a movie on
television or rent a videocassette.
No one saw the figure hiding in the night. The killer stood
in the dark in the alley next to an apartment. He gazed over at
the snowflakes as his grip on the candlestick holder became
tight. He liked the night. It was so dark and cold. He wiped his
23

eyeglasses with a handkerchief as he waited. He smiled as he

began to think about the body he had left on the mountainside,
and the illustration he had drawn in the snow.
The smile became even bigger when he mulled over what
he did to the other body in the graveyard.
That victim was young and pretty. She must have been
either a receptionist or a model who posed for a photographer.
She was a beauty. He began to think about the videocassette
tape he had made of her.
The only things she wore in the videocassette were her
eyeglasses and underwear. His mind raced.
Just then the door from the apartment house banged open.
The spring hinge of the door was broken, and the noise it made
when it hit the front of the wall was as loud as a firecracker. He
began to sweat and wiped his brow with his handkerchief.
A young man, a bartender by trade, exited the apartment
house. He only felt the first blow from the heavy candlestick
holder. His head ached like a jackhammer, but he was out before
he could feel the rest of the blows. The young mans eyeglasses
fell among the snowflakes as his body hit the ground.
This latest victim was lifted and put in the back of a van
that had an illustration of a tree and the moon on its side. The
slayer was a weightlifter and found it easy to drag the body of
the bartender into the van and slide the side door shut. He got
into the van with his victim and headed into the snowflakes
toward his own apartment.
It was now a little after dark and Mike had just arrived
home to his apartment. He had made a stop at his optometrist to
see if he could give him some drops for his eyes. After that he
went to the drugstore, got the drops, and went home. His health
plan card really saved him a lot of money.
He walked into his apartment and turned on the television.
There was a winter storm to watch that matched television. The
snowflakes that were coming down. He looked at the newspaper
24

for a short while, and then he began to get ready for his dinner
date. Karen, his able receptionist, would be by in a little while.
While the dinner cooked, Mike picked up things around
his apartment. He picked up his shorts, socks, and underwear
that were lying all about. Then he laid out the kitchenware. Just
then his loudspeaker buzzed. Mike, its Karen. Mike told her
to come on up.
Karen had only been to Mikes apartment a few times. She
was happy to see that Mike had laid out the nice kitchenware
and had placed a candlestick at each end of the table. You
know, Mike, Lt. Poole came by the office late today. He wanted
to share some ideas with you about both the mountainside and
graveyard cases.
Did he have any news about the bartender or the
photographer? Karen said that he did. She told Mike that Carol
Fine, the receptionist for the photographer, was on television
last night. She said she had seen a number of models who
worked for the photographers coming out of his apartment the
day he was killed. Mike made a note of all of this.
t was just after nine when the phone in Mikes apartment rang.
Karen, his receptionist, was on
25 the line. Mike put the phone on
loudspeaker and her voice came across as loud as a firecracker
as she filled him in on his new case.
He had heard about those two bodies found on the
mountainside from the news briefs on television and in the
newspaper. She said he was being asked to help out on the case.
Mike Thorn jumped out of bed, put on his eyeglasses first, then
his shirt, pants, and shoes, and headed to his office. He had a
sense that this was not going to be his day.
His car headed into the city just as snowflakes began to
fall. The drive from his apartment to his office was about a half
an hour long. If those snowflakes fell all day, the drive home
would take much longer. As the car radio played, Mike made a
mental note of the stops he had to make during the day.
25

26

His eyeglasses made his eyes sore, and, as Mike wiped

them with his handkerchief, he knew that they would have to be
looked at by his optometrist. His BMW hummed as Mike drove
it along Center City. He passed a drugstore, a bar, and a studio
owned by the citys top photographer. He had come to his
office. Mike parked the BMW making sure his lot permit decal
was placed in the window.
The decal had the permit number and an illustration of the
city flag on it. The last thing he needed was to have his car
towed away.
Mike moved with haste up the steps to his office on the
third floor. Well its about time, Karen said as she looked past
the television that showed the lobby on the floor below. Mike
had had his office broken into a number of times, so a camera
had been put in and a videocassette made of anyone who enters
or exits the lobbies. His receptionist gave him the once over. On
most days, she was rather fond of her bosss looks. Today, he
looked like he had risen from a graveyard. In her mind, Karen
saw an illustration of some ugly corpse.
You look awful, she said with a mixed sense of humor
and regard. I know. I should have made a stop at the drugstore
to see if they have a pill for this dull pain in my head.
Mike had been heavy into booze at one time. As a matter
of fact, his days as a bartender had led him to drink. The gin
from last night hadnt done a thing for him, except cause his
head to throb the day after. It felt like hed been hit by a metal
candlestick holder, or like he had a jackhammer going off in his
brain.
His office looked like the kind you would see on
television. A desk, files, a couple of chairs, and a sink. Mike was
every bit the single P.I. On the top of his desk were some notes,
an illustration, and what was left of the meal he had had the
night before.
The kitchenware needed to be washed badly. The
26

newspaper needed to be tossed out. His underwear, socks, and

T-shirt from the day before needed to be picked up and either
washed or thrown out. Here he was, a weightlifter in his spare
time, and yet he could not even pick up his own things.
He sank into his chair as he gazed out of the window at the
snowflakes coming from the sky. He had to admit they did look
pretty.
It made him think of an illustration he once owned. A
photographer could get a couple of nice shots around here.
Boston in the winter was rather cold, but he liked it just the
same. Hed rather have his own house, but his apartment suited
his style of life for now. He popped a videocassette in and
turned on the television. It was a tape of last nights news with
that story about the mountainside murder. There was a report
that the victim might be a bartender who had gotten in over his
head with loans.
Others said it was a photographer who was into making
sex films on videocassette. The news report talked about the
bloody handkerchief found at the scene, and womens
underwear found in the pocket of the victim. A member of the
police force would only say that the man, a male about forty
years of age, had been beaten with a blunt object, like a
candlestick holder; taken from his apartment, and dumped in
this mountainside graveyard.
The area where the body lay was so rocky that one would
need a jackhammer to dig a hole deep enough for the body.
Mike fixed his eyeglasses as he sat in front of the
television screen. This same news clip next showed his former
boss, Lt. Sam Poole, using a loudspeaker to keep people away
from the site. Just as Mike began to think about the case, his
receptionist called him.
Mike, a Lt. Poole would like to talk to you if you have the
time. He never had the time, but told Karen to tell him hed see
him within the hour.
27

A weary Michael Thorn made his way past his receptionist

and headed down the stairs and off to see his former boss. He
walked out into the snow and looked up at the snowflakes
coming down. They began to stick to his eyeglasses. He wiped
them with his handkerchief and headed for his car. His permit to
park was still in view. He turned the key to his BMW and
pumped the gas. It roared to life, popped like a firecracker, and
then he pulled out onto Broad Street and headed east.
Mike was hoping to have enough time later to go to the
gym. He was an avid weightlifter and runner. When he had been
a bartender, Mike always worked out after his shift. Once, a
photographer even asked him if hed like to make a muscle
videocassette. The money would have paid his apartment rent
for half a year, but the idea really didnt excite him too much.
Karen, his receptionist, had told him that he should do it, but
still he could not have cared less.
He did, though, pose for an illustration that was used in an
ad for the gym where he worked out.
As his car moved closer to the center of town, Mike used
his handkerchief to clean the fog off of the inside, of the
window. His breath still took shape on the window, and even his
eyeglasses had begun to fog up.
This snow and cold had the city in its grip. The
receptionist at Lt. Pooles office had her boss paged on the
loudspeaker after Mike showed her his I.D. He killed time with
her as she talked about her kids, a kitchenware party, and three
videocassettes of sexy underwear from one of the womens
shops on Fifth Avenue. All in all, Mike was bored out of his
mind. She was nice and pretty, but Mike just didnt care.
A woman like this with kids just meant that dating her
would be a hassle. Mike looked at an illustration on the wall
that was, no doubt, drawn by one of her kids. Just then the
office door shut with a bang. Mike and the receptionist both
jumped with a start. The bang was loud enough to be either a
28

firecracker, or even a gun.

Well, Mike. Long time no see. How have you been? Lt.
Poole was direct and filled Mike in on the last items of the
mountainside case. He even told Mike about things the
television and newspaper had not stated.
Wed like you to help us out, Mike. Mike took off his
eyeglasses and peered at his former boss. Whats in it for me?
he said. Your name in the newspaper and on the television. It
would be great for your name. Ever since the day Mike was
fired from the force and had turned in his badge and gun, he
swore he would never do a thing to help them. He was good as a
P.I. and told Sam that he needed time to think it over. Hed
always liked his ex-boss, and Mike knew that Sam wasnt guilty
of having him fired. Mike said hed be in touch, walked past the
receptionist, and headed for the local tavern.
The Crows Nest was Mikes choice as the place to have a
few drinks. The bartender got him a rum and coke, and Mike let
his mind drift. A newspaper lay on the bar, and Mike fixed his
eyeglasses, and looked over the latest news. Page one ran a
story on the mountainside case.
It said that the police had talked to people who had seen
the victim the day before the murder took place. A drugstore
worker had been called in to speak to the police about what he
knew. An expert optometrist, an underwear model, and the
owner of a videocassette store were also talked to as well. The
newspaper didnt say much else. Mike turned the pages.
An ad for kitchenware here. An ad for a cheap
photographer there. On the next page a weightlifter with a
handkerchief tied around his brow touted the latest gym. Mike
looked up at the television in the bar.
The man on T.V. said the snowflakes would fall late into
the night and that more snow was coming later in the week. He
had an illustration to point this out. More snow. Great.
Mike pulled out his I. D. and called the bartender over.
29

The man making the drinks behind the bar said his name was
Bill. and asked how he could be of help to Mike.
Mike said, What do you really think about this
mountainside murder thats been in the news? It looked like the
bartender hadnt really given it much of his time. To tell you
the truth, this place hasnt been as dead as a graveyard, and I
havent really had the time to pay much mind to the television. I
have looked in the newspaper, but mainly for a new apartment.
My lease is almost up on the one Im in now, and I need a
change. Just then the television blared like a loudspeaker. A
news report came on. There was Lt. Poole again. He spoke to
the media about a second murder. A photographer had been
found dead in his apartment early that same day.
He had been bound and gagged with a very strong
handkerchief. No I. D. was found on the body, but it was more
than likely Frank Nicci, a top photographer in Boston. The
television showed the inside of the bloody apartment. Then it
showed the body. Niccis eyeglasses were on his face, but
broken. And that wasnt all that was broken.
The body itself lay next to a candlestick, some books, a
camera, and a few drugs. On one wall inside the apartment, a
person had drawn an eerie symbol in blood. Mike fixed his
eyeglasses and took a closer look at the illustration.
Drawn in blood on the wall was a map of the mountainside
area. The graveyard was also marked. The television camera
panned around the apartment. In one corner were videocassette
tapes and womens underwear. Clues, Mike mused, or just part
of Niccis stock and trade.
The television camera panned back to Poole with
snowflakes coming down around him. As he summed up the
stance of the police on the case, one of the women from the city
newspaper asked him if this might be tied into the murder last
month of the citys number one crime boss, Pat Verde. He ran
what the police and newspaper called the drugstore. Verde had
30

been a drug lord in the truest sense of the word. Poole wiped his
brow with a handkerchief, and said the police were not able to
tie the two into each other at this point in time. He said it would
be a while before they would know if the deaths of the
photographer and Verde were linked.
As Mike sat there gazing at the television, he felt eyes on
the back of his head. He looked out the corner of his eye to find
the eyes of the piano player on him. The man at the keys had
once played in a number of music shows in the city. Mike was
aware of more than one story in the newspaper about him. He
was also able to recall an illustration of the man in a number of
ads around the city.
He had really been known around town for his talent in
music. Mike fixed his eyeglasses, made a mental note of this
guy, paid his tab, and left.
Moving out onto the street, Mike peered down the street as
the snowflakes fell. There was a chill in the air, and Mike got
into his car and headed off to the mountainside to visit the
graveyard site where the first body had been found. When he
got there, Mike took note of how rocky the area was.
A jackhammer would have been needed to dig into the
mountainside. Either a jackhammer, or maybe some TNT. A
large firecracker would not have had any effect on moving this
stone.
Mike eyed the area. Using his handkerchief to ensure his
prints would not be left in the area, Mike began to sift through
some of the debris.
Snowflakes had all but hidden most of the ground, but
Mike still was able to comb the mountainside murder scene. He
fixed his eyeglasses as he wished he had taken his tools from his
apartment to help with this course of action. Just then, Mike
heard a car pull up behind him. A voice on a loudspeaker asked
for I. D. Mike, blind from the cars lights, made an effort to
show his badge. The cars motor was turned off, and a figure got
31

out. It was Sam Poole. Find any clues yet, Mike? Hell, Sam,
you caught me off guard. What are you doing here? The
newspaper and television people said you were done here.
Sam told Mike about how the snowflakes had really cut
the mountainside probe short. Mike, the bureau photographer
found some clues in his shots, and I wanted to follow up on
them.
It seemed that some of those shots taken by the
photographer showed what looked to be a candlestick holder
and bones in the snow. These were next to a weird illustration
that was drawn there in the snow. There was talk that maybe this
graveyard murder was linked to some black magic ritual.
Mike didnt think much of magic and voodoo. He had
rented a videocassette one night about how people with no
social life and no ties to the real world took part in these
graveyard rites. This kind of stuff was also fodder for many of
the talk shows on television. Guests came onto these shows to
reveal how their rites were done, not only out in nature, but
even in their own apartment.
On one show the host played a videocassette of a grisly
ritual. It showed a young lady in just her underwear using what
looked like normal kitchenware to slash her wrists and allow her
blood to run into a silver cup. As the light from a candlestick
barely lit up the room of the small apartment, the young lady
spoke her ritual chant. Mike wasnt moved by it. The show
talked about how many people who took part in this stuff lead
normal lives.
There was a bartender, a photographer, and a receptionist
all saying how much they got out of this form of ritual. The host
even showed an illustration of one of the rites. To Mike, it
looked like some kind of cult. Of course, on the show the real
names of these people were never given. This type of show
always ran during the sweeps.
Mike cut his visit with Sam short and headed to the local
33
32

college. He knew hed find books about these kinds of rites

there. But first, hed make a quick stop at his apartment and
check in by phone with Karen, his receptionist.
She told him about the latest news on both the death of the
photographer and the graveyard cases. She filled Mike in about
some new things that were being looked at by the police: a
handkerchief with blood stains, a candlestick holder, a number
of kitchenware items, and womens underwear that were found
folded in a newspaper.
She also told Mike that no one knew who owned the pink
briefs; only that they had been found at the apartment that was
owned by the photographer who had been killed. Mike mulled
all of this over in his head as he gazed out the window at the
snowflakes coming down. He still needed to pick up a few
things at the drugstore and, as Karen had said, they had a dinner
date at his apartment later that night. Just then the loudspeaker
in his apartment came to life.
There was a UPS man with a box that needed to be signed
for. Mike signed for it as the snowflakes fell, and he went back
inside his apartment.
He wiped his eyeglasses with a handkerchief and looked
for the name of the sender. He found none. He placed the box
on the television set and slowly opened it. The snowflakes on
the box had begun to melt as Mike pried the box open.
On the top of the box was an illustration of some occult
symbol. Inside he found a videocassette, womens underwear, a
candlestick, and a photo of the last victim, the photographer.
There was also a note jotted on a copy of the newspaper from
the day this last victim died. It simply said: The graveyard on
the mountainside rocks. That was it. Mike was hoping the
videocassette that was in the box might supply more facts. He
stuffed the videocassette into his coat pocket and left his
apartment. He was aware that it was now known that he was a
player in the case. But who knew? And what did they know?
34

34

As Mike walked to his car, the snowflakes fell harder. He

heard a noise like a firecracker and saw an apartment tenant
begin to start his car. Boy, was Mike edgy.
You would not need a jackhammer to get his notice. He
really should not allow things to get to him. He knew how to
focus. He was a weightlifter, for crying out loud.
He knew how to block things out, and here he was, made
all edgy by some case. Go figure.
Drawn in the snow on the window of his car was the same
weird illustration that Mike had found on the box. It gave him
the creeps. He wiped the snowflakes off of his car and headed to
the college. The receptionist in the media center showed Mike
where he could find books on pagan rites.
There were many more than he thought there would be.
The titles and covers were enough to make his hair stand on
end. One book had a naked witch on an altar with a candlestick.
A second book showed a graveyard ritual. A third showed a
number of female pagans in underwear acting out a number of
their rites. Mike could tell that the photographer for these prints
must have liked his work.
Each book had at least one illustration on the inside that
seemed to match the symbol that Mike kept coming across.
Mike sat down, fixed his eyeglasses, and began his study. As he
turned these topics over in his mind, he linked them to what he
knew about the cases. Many of the rites talked about in the
books could be done in a forest, on a mountainside, in a
graveyard, or in a city apartment for that matter. Mike knew that
what he read was pretty much the same as that which he had
seen on television.
He wanted to know if the bartender he had spoken to
might know about these rites. Maybe even Karen, his
receptionist, might be able to help.
He made a note to ask her that night over dinner. It seemed
to Mike that this day would never end. He still had to stop by
35

the gym. He was the only weightlifter who never had the same
gym hours.
Plus, he had to stop off at the drugstore and go home to
view that videocassette that had come to him in the mail. Maybe
his receptionist would like to be filled in on the case. Mike
made it a habit to bounce ideas off of Karen. He was amazed at
just how smart his receptionist was.
She always made it a point to drop by Mikes apartment
when she had ideas that could be of help to him. The last time
she had helped out, she nearly made the newspaper.
As Mikes mind went adrift back to that night, the
loudspeaker in the town media center blared like a firecracker. A
voice said that the center was about to close for the day. Mike
used his media center card to check out a number of those books
and gave the cute receptionist behind the desk his thanks for her
help.
Mike left the college amid a flurry of snowflakes and
picked up a newspaper. He looked in the television guide to see
what was on the box that night. If his dinner date with his
receptionist was a bust, he could always watch a movie on
television or rent a videocassette.
No one saw the figure hiding in the night. The killer stood
in the dark in the alley next to an apartment. He gazed over at
the snowflakes as his grip on the candlestick holder became
tight. He liked the night. It was so dark and cold. He wiped his
eyeglasses with a handkerchief as he waited. He smiled as he
began to think about the body he had left on the mountainside,
and the illustration he had drawn in the snow.
The smile became even bigger when he mulled over what
he did to the other body in the graveyard.
That victim was young and pretty. She must have been
either a receptionist or a model who posed for a photographer.
She was a beauty. He began to think about the videocassette
tape he had made of her.
36

The only things she wore in the videocassette were her

eyeglasses and underwear. His mind raced.
Just then the door from the apartment house banged open.
The spring hinge of the door was broken, and the noise it made
when it hit the front of the wall was as loud as a firecracker. He
began to sweat and wiped his brow with his handkerchief.
A young man, a bartender by trade, exited the apartment
house. He only felt the first blow from the heavy candlestick
holder. His head ached like a jackhammer, but he was out before
he could feel the rest of the blows. The young mans eyeglasses
fell among the snowflakes as his body hit the ground.
This latest victim was lifted and put in the back of a van
that had an illustration of a tree and the moon on its side. The
slayer was a weightlifter and found it easy to drag the body of
the bartender into the van and slide the side door shut. He got
into the van with his victim and headed into the snowflakes
toward his own apartment.
It was now a little after dark and Mike had just arrived
home to his apartment. He had made a stop at his optometrist to
see if he could give him some drops for his eyes. After that he
went to the drugstore, got the drops, and went home. His health
plan card really saved him a lot of money.
He walked into his apartment and turned on the television.
There was a winter storm to watch that matched television. The
snowflakes that were coming down. He looked at the newspaper
for a short while, and then he began to get ready for his dinner
date. Karen, his able receptionist, would be by in a little while.
While the dinner cooked, Mike picked up things around
his apartment. He picked up his shorts, socks, and underwear
that were lying all about. Then he laid out the kitchenware. Just
then his loudspeaker buzzed. Mike, its Karen. Mike told her
to come on up.
Karen had only been to Mikes apartment a few times. She
was happy to see that Mike had laid out the nice kitchenware
37

and had placed a candlestick at each end of the table. You

know, Mike, Lt. Poole came by the office late today. He wanted
to share some ideas with you about both the mountainside and
graveyard cases.
Did he have any news about the bartender or the
photographer? Karen said that he did. She told Mike that Carol
Fine, the receptionist for the photographer, was on television
last night. She said she had seen a number of models who
worked for the photographers coming out of his apartment the
day he was killed. Mike made a note of all of this.
t was just after nine when the phone in Mikes apartment rang.
Karen, his receptionist, was on the line. Mike put the phone on
loudspeaker and her voice came across as loud as a firecracker
as she filled him in on his new case.
He had heard about those two bodies found on the
mountainside from the news briefs on television and in the
newspaper. She said he was being asked to help out on the case.
Mike Thorn jumped out of bed, put on his eyeglasses first, then
his shirt, pants, and shoes, and headed to his office. He had a
sense that this was not going to be his day.
His car headed into the city just as snowflakes began to
fall. The drive from his apartment to his office was about a half
an hour long. If those snowflakes fell all day, the drive home
would take much longer. As the car radio played, Mike made a
mental note of the stops he had to make during the day.
His eyeglasses made his eyes sore, and, as Mike wiped
them with his handkerchief, he knew that they would have to be
looked at by his optometrist. His BMW hummed as Mike drove
it along Center City. He passed a drugstore, a bar, and a studio
owned by the citys top photographer. He had come to his
office. Mike parked the BMW making sure his lot permit decal
was placed in the window.
The decal had the permit number and an illustration of the
city flag on it. The last thing he needed was to have his car
38

towed away.
Mike moved with haste up the steps to his office on the
third floor. Well its about time, Karen said as she looked past
the television that showed the lobby on the floor below. Mike
had had his office broken into a number of times, so a camera
had been put in and a videocassette made of anyone who enters
or exits the lobbies. His receptionist gave him the once over. On
most days, she was rather fond of her bosss looks. Today, he
looked like he had risen from a graveyard. In her mind, Karen
saw an illustration of some ugly corpse.
You look awful, she said with a mixed sense of humor
and regard. I know. I should have made a stop at the drugstore
to see if they have a pill for this dull pain in my head.
Mike had been heavy into booze at one time. As a matter
of fact, his days as a bartender had led him to drink. The gin
from last night hadnt done a thing for him, except cause his
head to throb the day after. It felt like hed been hit by a metal
candlestick holder, or like he had a jackhammer going off in his
brain.
His office looked like the kind you would see on
television. A desk, files, a couple of chairs, and a sink. Mike was
every bit the single P.I. On the top of his desk were some notes,
an illustration, and what was left of the meal he had had the
night before.
The kitchenware needed to be washed badly. The
newspaper needed to be tossed out. His underwear, socks, and
T-shirt from the day before needed to be picked up and either
washed or thrown out. Here he was, a weightlifter in his spare
time, and yet he could not even pick up his own things.
He sank into his chair as he gazed out of the window at the
snowflakes coming from the sky. He had to admit they did look
pretty.
It made him think of an illustration he once owned. A
photographer could get a couple of nice shots around here.
39

Boston in the winter was rather cold, but he liked it just the
same. Hed rather have his own house, but his apartment suited
his style of life for now. He popped a videocassette in and
turned on the television. It was a tape of last nights news with
that story about the mountainside murder. There was a report
that the victim might be a bartender who had gotten in over his
head with loans.
Others said it was a photographer who was into making
sex films on videocassette. The news report talked about the
bloody handkerchief found at the scene, and womens
underwear found in the pocket of the victim. A member of the
police force would only say that the man, a male about forty
years of age, had been beaten with a blunt object, like a
candlestick holder; taken from his apartment, and dumped in
this mountainside graveyard.
The area where the body lay was so rocky that one would
need a jackhammer to dig a hole deep enough for the body.
Mike fixed his eyeglasses as he sat in front of the
television screen. This same news clip next showed his former
boss, Lt. Sam Poole, using a loudspeaker to keep people away
from the site. Just as Mike began to think about the case, his
receptionist called him.
Mike, a Lt. Poole would like to talk to you if you have the
time. He never had the time, but told Karen to tell him hed see
him within the hour.
A weary Michael Thorn made his way past his receptionist
and headed down the stairs and off to see his former boss. He
walked out into the snow and looked up at the snowflakes
coming down. They began to stick to his eyeglasses. He wiped
them with his handkerchief and headed for his car. His permit to
park was still in view. He turned the key to his BMW and
pumped the gas. It roared to life, popped like a firecracker, and
then he pulled out onto Broad Street and headed east.
Mike was hoping to have enough time later to go to the
40

gym. He was an avid weightlifter and runner. When he had been

a bartender, Mike always worked out after his shift. Once, a
photographer even asked him if hed like to make a muscle
videocassette. The money would have paid his apartment rent
for half a year, but the idea really didnt excite him too much.
Karen, his receptionist, had told him that he should do it, but
still he could not have cared less.
He did, though, pose for an illustration that was used in an
ad for the gym where he worked out.
As his car moved closer to the center of town, Mike used
his handkerchief to clean the fog off of the inside, of the
window. His breath still took shape on the window, and even his
eyeglasses had begun to fog up.

3 _______________
This snow and cold had the city in its grip. The
receptionist at Lt. Pooles office had her boss paged on the
loudspeaker after Mike showed her his I.D. He killed time with
her as she talked about her kids, a kitchenware party, and three
videocassettes of sexy underwear from one of the womens
shops on Fifth Avenue. All in all, Mike was bored out of his
mind. She was nice and pretty, but Mike just didnt care.
A woman like this with kids just meant that dating her
would be a hassle. Mike looked at an illustration on the wall
that was, no doubt, drawn by one of her kids. Just then the
office door shut with a bang. Mike and the receptionist both
jumped with a start. The bang was loud enough to be either a
firecracker, or even a gun.
Well, Mike. Long time no see. How have you been? Lt.
Poole was direct and filled Mike in on the last items of the
mountainside case. He even told Mike about things the
television and newspaper had not stated.
Wed like you to help us out, Mike. Mike took off his
eyeglasses and peered at his former boss. Whats in it for me?
41

he said. Your name in the newspaper and on the television. It

would be great for your name. Ever since the day Mike was
fired from the force and had turned in his badge and gun, he
swore he would never do a thing to help them. He was good as a
P.I. and told Sam that he needed time to think it over. Hed
always liked his ex-boss, and Mike knew that Sam wasnt guilty
of having him fired. Mike said hed be in touch, walked past the
receptionist, and headed for the local tavern.
The Crows Nest was Mikes choice as the place to have a
few drinks. The bartender got him a rum and coke, and Mike let
his mind drift. A newspaper lay on the bar, and Mike fixed his
eyeglasses, and looked over the latest news. Page one ran a
story on the mountainside case.
It said that the police had talked to people who had seen
the victim the day before the murder took place. A drugstore
worker had been called in to speak to the police about what he
knew. An expert optometrist, an underwear model, and the
owner of a videocassette store were also talked to as well. The
newspaper didnt say much else. Mike turned the pages.
An ad for kitchenware here. An ad for a cheap
photographer there. On the next page a weightlifter with a
handkerchief tied around his brow touted the latest gym. Mike
looked up at the television in the bar.
The man on T.V. said the snowflakes would fall late into
the night and that more snow
42 was coming later in the week. He
had an illustration to point this out. More snow. Great.
Mike pulled out his I. D. and called the bartender over.
The man making the drinks behind the bar said his name was
Bill. and asked how he could be of help to Mike.
Mike said, What do you really think about this
mountainside murder thats been in the news? It looked like the
bartender hadnt really given it much of his time. To tell you
the truth, this place hasnt been as dead as a graveyard, and I
havent really had the time to pay much mind to the television. I
42

have looked in the newspaper, but mainly for a new apartment.

My lease is almost up on the one Im in now, and I need a
change. Just then the television blared like a loudspeaker. A
news report came on. There was Lt. Poole again. He spoke to
the media about a second murder. A photographer had been
found dead in his apartment early that same day.
He had been bound and gagged with a very strong
handkerchief. No I. D. was found on the body, but it was more
than likely Frank Nicci, a top photographer in Boston. The
television showed the inside of the bloody apartment. Then it
showed the body. Niccis eyeglasses were on his face, but
broken. And that wasnt all that was broken.
The body itself lay next to a candlestick, some books, a
camera, and a few drugs. On one wall inside the apartment, a
person had drawn an eerie symbol in blood. Mike fixed his
eyeglasses and took a closer look at the illustration.
Drawn in blood on the wall was a map of the mountainside
area. The graveyard was also marked. The television camera
panned around the apartment. In one corner were videocassette
tapes and womens underwear. Clues, Mike mused, or just part
of Niccis stock and trade.
The television camera panned back to Poole with
snowflakes coming down around him. As he summed up the
stance of the police on the case, one of the women from the city
newspaper asked him if this might be tied into the murder last
month of the citys number one crime boss, Pat Verde. He ran
what the police and newspaper called the drugstore. Verde had
been a drug lord in the truest sense of the word. Poole wiped his
brow with a handkerchief, and said the police were not able to
tie the two into each other at this point in time. He said it would
be a while before they would know if the deaths of the
photographer and Verde were linked.
As Mike sat there gazing at the television, he felt eyes on
the back of his head. He looked out the corner of his eye to find
43

the eyes of the piano player on him. The man at the keys had
once played in a number of music shows in the city. Mike was
aware of more than one story in the newspaper about him. He
was also able to recall an illustration of the man in a number of
ads around the city.
He had really been known around town for his talent in
music. Mike fixed his eyeglasses, made a mental note of this
guy, paid his tab, and left.
Moving out onto the street, Mike peered down the street as
the snowflakes fell. There was a chill in the air, and Mike got
into his car and headed off to the mountainside to visit the
graveyard site where the first body had been found. When he
got there, Mike took note of how rocky the area was.
A jackhammer would have been needed to dig into the
mountainside. Either a jackhammer, or maybe some TNT. A
large firecracker would not have had any effect on moving this
stone.
Mike eyed the area. Using his handkerchief to ensure his
prints would not be left in the area, Mike began to sift through
some of the debris.
Snowflakes had all but hidden most of the ground, but
Mike still was able to comb the mountainside murder scene. He
fixed his eyeglasses as he wished he had taken his tools from his
apartment to help with this course of action. Just then, Mike
heard a car pull up behind him. A voice on a loudspeaker asked
for I. D. Mike, blind from the cars lights, made an effort to
show his badge. The cars motor was turned off, and a figure got
out. It was Sam Poole. Find any clues yet, Mike? Hell, Sam,
you caught me off guard. What are you doing here? The
newspaper and television people said you were done here.
Sam told Mike about how the snowflakes had really cut
the mountainside probe short. Mike, the bureau photographer
found some clues in his shots, and I wanted to follow up on
them.
44

It seemed that some of those shots taken by the

photographer showed what looked to be a candlestick holder
and bones in the snow. These were next to a weird illustration
that was drawn there in the snow. There was talk that maybe this
graveyard murder was linked to some black magic ritual.
Mike didnt think much of magic and voodoo. He had
rented a videocassette one night about how people with no
social life and no ties to the real world took part in these
graveyard rites. This kind of stuff was also fodder for many of
the talk shows on television. Guests came onto these shows to
reveal how their rites were done, not only out in nature, but
even in their own apartment.
On one show the host played a videocassette of a grisly
ritual. It showed a young lady in just her underwear using what
looked like normal kitchenware to slash her wrists and allow her
blood to run into a silver cup. As the light from a candlestick
barely lit up the room of the small apartment, the young lady
spoke her ritual chant. Mike wasnt moved by it. The show
talked about how many people who took part in this stuff lead
normal lives.
There was a bartender, a photographer, and a receptionist
all saying how much they got out of this form of ritual. The host
even showed an illustration of one of the rites. To Mike, it
looked like some kind of cult. Of course, on the show the real
names of these people were never given. This type of show
always ran during the sweeps.
Mike cut his visit with Sam short and headed to the local
college. He knew hed find books about these kinds of rites
there. But first, hed make a quick stop at his apartment and
check in by phone with Karen, his receptionist.
She told him about the latest news on both the death of the
photographer and the graveyard cases. She filled Mike in about
some new things that were being looked at by the police: a
handkerchief with blood stains, a candlestick holder, a number
45

of kitchenware items, and womens underwear that were found

folded in a newspaper.
She also told Mike that no one knew who owned the pink
briefs; only that they had been found at the apartment that was
owned by the photographer who had been killed. Mike mulled
all of this over in his head as he gazed out the window at the
snowflakes coming down. He still needed to pick up a few
things at the drugstore and, as Karen had said, they had a dinner
date at his apartment later that night. Just then the loudspeaker
in his apartment came to life.
There was a UPS man with a box that needed to be signed
for. Mike signed for it as the snowflakes fell, and he went back
inside his apartment.
He wiped his eyeglasses with a handkerchief and looked
for the name of the sender. He found none. He placed the box
on the television set and slowly opened it. The snowflakes on
the box had begun to melt as Mike pried the box open.
On the top of the box was an illustration of some occult
symbol. Inside he found a videocassette, womens underwear, a
candlestick, and a photo of the last victim, the photographer.
There was also a note jotted on a copy of the newspaper from
the day this last victim died. It simply said: The graveyard on
the mountainside rocks. That was it. Mike was hoping the
videocassette that was in the box might supply more facts. He
stuffed the videocassette into his coat pocket and left his
apartment. He was aware that it was now known that he was a
player in the case. But who knew? And what did they know?
As Mike walked to his car, the snowflakes fell harder. He
heard a noise like a firecracker and saw an apartment tenant
begin to start his car. Boy, was Mike edgy.
You would not need a jackhammer to get his notice. He
really should not allow things to get to him. He knew how to
focus. He was a weightlifter, for crying out loud.
He knew how to block things out, and here he was, made
46

all edgy by some case. Go figure.

Drawn in the snow on the window of his car was the same
weird illustration that Mike had found on the box. It gave him
the creeps. He wiped the snowflakes off of his car and headed to
the college. The receptionist in the media center showed Mike
where he could find books on pagan rites.
There were many more than he thought there would be.
The titles and covers were enough to make his hair stand on
end. One book had a naked witch on an altar with a candlestick.
A second book showed a graveyard ritual. A third showed a
number of female pagans in underwear acting out a number of
their rites. Mike could tell that the photographer for these prints
must have liked his work.
Each book had at least one illustration on the inside that
seemed to match the symbol that Mike kept coming across.
Mike sat down, fixed his eyeglasses, and began his study. As he
turned these topics over in his mind, he linked them to what he
knew about the cases. Many of the rites talked about in the
books could be done in a forest, on a mountainside, in a
graveyard, or in a city apartment for that matter. Mike knew that
what he read was pretty much the same as that which he had
seen on television.
He wanted to know if the bartender he had spoken to
might know about these rites. Maybe even Karen, his
receptionist, might be able to help.
He made a note to ask her that night over dinner. It seemed
to Mike that this day would never end. He still had to stop by
the gym. He was the only weightlifter who never had the same
gym hours.
Plus, he had to stop off at the drugstore and go home to
view that videocassette that had come to him in the mail. Maybe
his receptionist would like to be filled in on the case. Mike
made it a habit to bounce ideas off of Karen. He was amazed at
just how smart his receptionist was.
47

She always made it a point to drop by Mikes apartment

when she had ideas that could be of help to him. The last time
she had helped out, she nearly made the newspaper.
As Mikes mind went adrift back to that night, the
loudspeaker in the town media center blared like a firecracker. A
voice said that the center was about to close for the day. Mike
used his media center card to check out a number of those books
and gave the cute receptionist behind the desk his thanks for her
help.
Mike left the college amid a flurry of snowflakes and
picked up a newspaper. He looked in the television guide to see
what was on the box that night. If his dinner date with his
receptionist was a bust, he could always watch a movie on
television or rent a videocassette.
No one saw the figure hiding in the night. The killer stood
in the dark in the alley next to an apartment. He gazed over at
the snowflakes as his grip on the candlestick holder became
tight. He liked the night. It was so dark and cold. He wiped his
eyeglasses with a handkerchief as he waited. He smiled as he
began to think about the body he had left on the mountainside,
and the illustration he had drawn in the snow.
The smile became even bigger when he mulled over what
he did to the other body in the graveyard.
That victim was young and pretty. She must have been
either a receptionist or a model who posed for a photographer.
She was a beauty. He began to think about the videocassette
tape he had made of her.
The only things she wore in the videocassette were her
eyeglasses and underwear. His mind raced.
Just then the door from the apartment house banged open.
The spring hinge of the door was broken, and the noise it made
when it hit the front of the wall was as loud as a firecracker. He
began to sweat and wiped his brow with his handkerchief.
A young man, a bartender by trade, exited the apartment
49
48

house. He only felt the first blow from the heavy candlestick
holder. His head ached like a jackhammer, but he was out before
he could feel the rest of the blows. The young mans eyeglasses
fell among the snowflakes as his body hit the ground.
This latest victim was lifted and put in the back of a van
that had an illustration of a tree and the moon on its side. The
slayer was a weightlifter and found it easy to drag the body of
the bartender into the van and slide the side door shut. He got
into the van with his victim and headed into the snowflakes
toward his own apartment.
It was now a little after dark and Mike had just arrived
home to his apartment. He had made a stop at his optometrist to
see if he could give him some drops for his eyes. After that he
went to the drugstore, got the drops, and went home. His health
plan card really saved him a lot of money.
He walked into his apartment and turned on the television.
There was a winter storm to watch that matched television. The
snowflakes that were coming down. He looked at the newspaper
for a short while, and then he began to get ready for his dinner
date. Karen, his able receptionist, would be by in a little while.
While the dinner cooked, Mike picked up things around
his apartment. He picked up his shorts, socks, and underwear
that were lying all about. Then he laid out the kitchenware. Just
then his loudspeaker buzzed. Mike, its Karen. Mike told her
to come on up.
Karen had only been to Mikes apartment a few times. She
was happy to see that Mike had laid out the nice kitchenware
and had placed a candlestick at each end of the table. You
know, Mike, Lt. Poole came by the office late today. He wanted
to share some ideas with you about both the mountainside and
graveyard cases.
Did he have any news about the bartender or the
photographer? Karen said that he did. She told Mike that Carol
Fine, the receptionist for the photographer, was on television
50

last night. She said she had seen a number of models who
worked for the photographers coming out of his apartment the
day he was killed. Mike made a note of all of this.
t was just after nine when the phone in Mikes apartment rang.
Karen, his receptionist, was on the line. Mike put the phone on
loudspeaker and her voice came across as loud as a firecracker
as she filled him in on his new case.
He had heard about those two bodies found on the
mountainside from the news briefs on television and in the
newspaper. She said he was being asked to help out on the case.
Mike Thorn jumped out of bed, put on his eyeglasses first, then
his shirt, pants, and shoes, and headed to his office. He had a
sense that this was not going to be his day.
His car headed into the city just as snowflakes began to
fall. The drive from his apartment to his office was about a half
an hour long. If those snowflakes fell all day, the drive home
would take much longer. As the car radio played, Mike made a
mental note of the stops he had to make during the day.
His eyeglasses made his eyes sore, and, as Mike wiped
them with his handkerchief, he knew that they would have to be
looked at by his optometrist. His BMW hummed as Mike drove
it along Center City. He passed a drugstore, a bar, and a studio
owned by the citys top photographer. He had come to his
office. Mike parked the BMW making sure his lot permit decal
was placed in the window.
The decal had the permit number and an illustration of the
city flag on it. The last thing he needed was to have his car
towed away.
Mike moved with haste up the steps to his office on the
third floor. Well its about time, Karen said as she looked past
the television that showed the lobby on the floor below. Mike
had had his office broken into a number of times, so a camera
had been put in and a videocassette made of anyone who enters
or exits the lobbies. His receptionist gave him the once over. On
51

most days, she was rather fond of her bosss looks. Today, he
looked like he had risen from a graveyard. In her mind, Karen
saw an illustration of some ugly corpse.
You look awful, she said with a mixed sense of humor
and regard. I know. I should have made a stop at the drugstore
to see if they have a pill for this dull pain in my head.
Mike had been heavy into booze at one time. As a matter
of fact, his days as a bartender had led him to drink. The gin
from last night hadnt done a thing for him, except cause his
head to throb the day after. It felt like hed been hit by a metal
candlestick holder, or like he had a jackhammer going off in his
brain.
His office looked like the kind you would see on
television. A desk, files, a couple of chairs, and a sink. Mike was
every bit the single P.I. On the top of his desk were some notes,
an illustration, and what was left of the meal he had had the
night before.
The kitchenware needed to be washed badly. The
newspaper needed to be tossed out. His underwear, socks, and
T-shirt from the day before needed to be picked up and either
washed or thrown out. Here he was, a weightlifter in his spare
time, and yet he could not even pick up his own things.
He sank into his chair as he gazed out of the window at the
snowflakes coming from the sky. He had to admit they did look
pretty.
It made him think of an illustration he once owned. A
photographer could get a couple of nice shots around here.
Boston in the winter was rather cold, but he liked it just the
same. Hed rather have his own house, but his apartment suited
his style of life for now. He popped a videocassette in and
turned on the television. It was a tape of last nights news with
that story about the mountainside murder. There was a report
that the victim might be a bartender who had gotten in over his
head with loans.
52

Others said it was a photographer who was into making

sex films on videocassette. The news report talked about the
bloody handkerchief found at the scene, and womens
underwear found in the pocket of the victim. A member of the
police force would only say 52
that the man, a male about forty
years of age, had been beaten with a blunt object, like a
candlestick holder; taken from his apartment, and dumped in
this mountainside graveyard.
The area where the body lay was so rocky that one would
need a jackhammer to dig a hole deep enough for the body.
Mike fixed his eyeglasses as he sat in front of the
television screen. This same news clip next showed his former
boss, Lt. Sam Poole, using a loudspeaker to keep people away
from the site. Just as Mike began to think about the case, his
receptionist called him.
Mike, a Lt. Poole would like to talk to you if you have the
time. He never had the time, but told Karen to tell him hed see
him within the hour.
A weary Michael Thorn made his way past his receptionist
and headed down the stairs and off to see his former boss. He
walked out into the snow and looked up at the snowflakes
coming down. They began to stick to his eyeglasses. He wiped
them with his handkerchief and headed for his car. His permit to
park was still in view. He turned the key to his BMW and
pumped the gas. It roared to life, popped like a firecracker, and
then he pulled out onto Broad Street and headed east.
Mike was hoping to have enough time later to go to the
gym. He was an avid weightlifter and runner. When he had been
a bartender, Mike always worked out after his shift. Once, a
photographer even asked him if hed like to make a muscle
videocassette. The money would have paid his apartment rent
for half a year, but the idea really didnt excite him too much.
Karen, his receptionist, had told him that he should do it, but
still he could not have cared less.
53

He did, though, pose for an illustration that was used in an

ad for the gym where he worked out.
As his car moved closer to the center of town, Mike used
his handkerchief to clean the fog off of the inside, of the
window. His breath still took shape on the window, and even his
eyeglasses had begun to fog up.
This snow and cold had the city in its grip. The
receptionist at Lt. Pooles office had her boss paged on the
loudspeaker after Mike showed her his I.D. He killed time with
her as she talked about her kids, a kitchenware party, and three
videocassettes of sexy underwear from one of the womens
shops on Fifth Avenue. All in all, Mike was bored out of his
mind. She was nice and pretty, but Mike just didnt care.
A woman like this with kids just meant that dating her
would be a hassle. Mike looked at an illustration on the wall
that was, no doubt, drawn by one of her kids. Just then the
office door shut with a bang. Mike and the receptionist both
jumped with a start. The bang was loud enough to be either a
firecracker, or even a gun.
Well, Mike. Long time no see. How have you been? Lt.
Poole was direct and filled Mike in on the last items of the
mountainside case. He even told Mike about things the
television and newspaper had not stated.
Wed like you to help us out, Mike. Mike took off his
eyeglasses and peered at his former boss. Whats in it for me?
he said. Your name in the newspaper and on the television. It
would be great for your name. Ever since the day Mike was
fired from the force and had turned in his badge and gun, he
swore he would never do a thing to help them. He was good as a
P.I. and told Sam that he needed time to think it over. Hed
always liked his ex-boss, and Mike knew that Sam wasnt guilty
of having him fired. Mike said hed be in touch, walked past the
receptionist, and headed for the local tavern.
The Crows Nest was Mikes choice as the place to have a
54

few drinks. The bartender got him a rum and coke, and Mike let
his mind drift. A newspaper lay on the bar, and Mike fixed his
eyeglasses, and looked over the latest news. Page one ran a
story on the mountainside case.
It said that the police had talked to people who had seen
the victim the day before the murder took place. A drugstore
worker had been called in to speak to the police about what he
knew. An expert optometrist, an underwear model, and the
owner of a videocassette store were also talked to as well. The
newspaper didnt say much else. Mike turned the pages.
An ad for kitchenware here. An ad for a cheap
photographer there. On the next page a weightlifter with a
handkerchief tied around his brow touted the latest gym. Mike
looked up at the television in the bar.
The man on T.V. said the snowflakes would fall late into
the night and that more snow was coming later in the week. He
had an illustration to point this out. More snow. Great.
Mike pulled out his I. D. and called the bartender over.
The man making the drinks behind the bar said his name was
Bill. and asked how he could be of help to Mike.
Mike said, What do you really think about this
mountainside murder thats been in the news? It looked like the
bartender hadnt really given it much of his time. To tell you
the truth, this place hasnt been as dead as a graveyard, and I
havent really had the time to pay much mind to the television. I
have looked in the newspaper, but mainly for a new apartment.
My lease is almost up on the one Im in now, and I need a
change. Just then the television blared like a loudspeaker. A
news report came on. There was Lt. Poole again. He spoke to
the media about a second murder. A photographer had been
found dead in his apartment early that same day.
He had been bound and gagged with a very strong
handkerchief. No I. D. was found on the body, but it was more
than likely Frank Nicci, a top photographer in Boston. The
55

television showed the inside of the bloody apartment. Then it

showed the body. Niccis eyeglasses were on his face, but
broken. And that wasnt all that was broken.
The body itself lay next to a candlestick, some books, a
camera, and a few drugs. On one wall inside the apartment, a
person had drawn an eerie symbol in blood. Mike fixed his
eyeglasses and took a closer look at the illustration.
Drawn in blood on the wall was a map of the mountainside
area. The graveyard was also marked. The television camera
panned around the apartment. In one corner were videocassette
tapes and womens underwear. Clues, Mike mused, or just part
of Niccis stock and trade.
The television camera panned back to Poole with
snowflakes coming down around him. As he summed up the
stance of the police on the case, one of the women from the city
newspaper asked him if this might be tied into the murder last
month of the citys number one crime boss, Pat Verde. He ran
what the police and newspaper called the drugstore. Verde had
been a drug lord in the truest sense of the word. Poole wiped his
brow with a handkerchief, and said the police were not able to
tie the two into each other at this point in time. He said it would
be a while before they would know if the deaths of the
photographer and Verde were linked.
As Mike sat there gazing at the television, he felt eyes on
the back of his head. He looked out the corner of his eye to find
the eyes of the piano player on him. The man at the keys had
once played in a number of music shows in the city. Mike was
aware of more than one story in the newspaper about him. He
was also able to recall an illustration of the man in a number of
ads around the city.
He had really been known around town for his talent in
music. Mike fixed his eyeglasses, made a mental note of this
guy, paid his tab, and left.
Moving out onto the street, Mike peered down the street as
56

the snowflakes fell. There was a chill in the air, and Mike got
into his car and headed off to the mountainside to visit the
graveyard site where the first body had been found. When he
got there, Mike took note of how rocky the area was.
A jackhammer would have been needed to dig into the
mountainside. Either a jackhammer, or maybe some TNT. A
large firecracker would not have had any effect on moving this
stone.
Mike eyed the area. Using his handkerchief to ensure his
prints would not be left in the area, Mike began to sift through
some of the debris.
Snowflakes had all but hidden most of the ground, but
Mike still was able to comb the mountainside murder scene. He
fixed his eyeglasses as he wished he had taken his tools from his
apartment to help with this course of action. Just then, Mike
heard a car pull up behind him. A voice on a loudspeaker asked
for I. D. Mike, blind from the cars lights, made an effort to
show his badge. The cars motor was turned off, and a figure got
out. It was Sam Poole. Find any clues yet, Mike? Hell, Sam,
you caught me off guard. What are you doing here? The
newspaper and television people said you were done here.
Sam told Mike about how the snowflakes had really cut
the mountainside probe short. Mike, the bureau photographer
found some clues in his shots, and I wanted to follow up on
them.
It seemed that some of those shots taken by the
photographer showed what looked to be a candlestick holder
and bones in the snow. These were next to a weird illustration
that was drawn there in the snow. There was talk that maybe this
graveyard murder was linked to some black magic ritual.
Mike didnt think much of magic and voodoo. He had
rented a videocassette one night about how people with no
social life and no ties to the real world took part in these
graveyard rites. This kind of stuff was also fodder for many of
57

58

the talk shows on television. Guests came onto these shows to

reveal how their rites were done, not only out in nature, but
even in their own apartment.
On one show the host played a videocassette of a grisly
ritual. It showed a young lady in just her underwear using what
looked like normal kitchenware to slash her wrists and allow her
blood to run into a silver cup. As the light from a candlestick
barely lit up the room of the small apartment, the young lady
spoke her ritual chant. Mike wasnt moved by it. The show
talked about how many people who took part in this stuff lead
normal lives.
There was a bartender, a photographer, and a receptionist
all saying how much they got out of this form of ritual. The host
even showed an illustration of one of the rites. To Mike, it
looked like some kind of cult. Of course, on the show the real
names of these people were never given. This type of show
always ran during the sweeps.
Mike cut his visit with Sam short and headed to the local
college. He knew hed find books about these kinds of rites
there. But first, hed make a quick stop at his apartment and
check in by phone with Karen, his receptionist.
She told him about the latest news on both the death of the
photographer and the graveyard cases. She filled Mike in about
some new things that were being looked at by the police: a
handkerchief with blood stains, a candlestick holder, a number
of kitchenware items, and womens underwear that were found
folded in a newspaper.
She also told Mike that no one knew who owned the pink
briefs; only that they had been found at the apartment that was
owned by the photographer who had been killed. Mike mulled
all of this over in his head as he gazed out the window at the
snowflakes coming down. He still needed to pick up a few
things at the drugstore and, as Karen had said, they had a dinner
date at his apartment later that night. Just then the loudspeaker
58

in his apartment came to life.

There was a UPS man with a box that needed to be signed
for. Mike signed for it as the snowflakes fell, and he went back
inside his apartment.
He wiped his eyeglasses with a handkerchief and looked
for the name of the sender. He found none. He placed the box
on the television set and slowly opened it. The snowflakes on
the box had begun to melt as Mike pried the box open.
On the top of the box was an illustration of some occult
symbol. Inside he found a videocassette, womens underwear, a
candlestick, and a photo of the last victim, the photographer.
There was also a note jotted on a copy of the newspaper from
the day this last victim died. It simply said: The graveyard on
the mountainside rocks. That was it. Mike was hoping the
videocassette that was in the box might supply more facts. He
stuffed the videocassette into his coat pocket and left his
apartment. He was aware that it was now known that he was a
player in the case. But who knew? And what did they know?
As Mike walked to his car, the snowflakes fell harder. He
heard a noise like a firecracker and saw an apartment tenant
begin to start his car. Boy, was Mike edgy.
You would not need a jackhammer to get his notice. He
really should not allow things to get to him. He knew how to
focus. He was a weightlifter, for crying out loud.
He knew how to block things out, and here he was, made
all edgy by some case. Go figure.
Drawn in the snow on the window of his car was the same
weird illustration that Mike had found on the box. It gave him
the creeps. He wiped the snowflakes off of his car and headed to
the college. The receptionist in the media center showed Mike
where he could find books on pagan rites.
There were many more than he thought there would be.
The titles and covers were enough to make his hair stand on
end. One book had a naked witch on an altar with a candlestick.
59

A second book showed a graveyard ritual. A third showed a

number of female pagans in underwear acting out a number of
their rites. Mike could tell that the photographer for these prints
must have liked his work.
Each book had at least one illustration on the inside that
seemed to match the symbol that Mike kept coming across.
Mike sat down, fixed his eyeglasses, and began his study. As he
turned these topics over in his mind, he linked them to what he
knew about the cases. Many of the rites talked about in the
books could be done in a forest, on a mountainside, in a
graveyard, or in a city apartment for that matter. Mike knew that
what he read was pretty much the same as that which he had
seen on television.
He wanted to know if the bartender he had spoken to
might know about these rites. Maybe even Karen, his
receptionist, might be able to help.
He made a note to ask her that night over dinner. It seemed
to Mike that this day would never end. He still had to stop by
the gym. He was the only weightlifter who never had the same
gym hours.
Plus, he had to stop off at the drugstore and go home to
view that videocassette that had come to him in the mail. Maybe
his receptionist would like to be filled in on the case. Mike
made it a habit to bounce ideas off of Karen. He was amazed at
just how smart his receptionist was.
She always made it a point to drop by Mikes apartment
when she had ideas that could be of help to him. The last time
she had helped out, she nearly made the newspaper.
As Mikes mind went adrift back to that night, the
loudspeaker in the town media center blared like a firecracker. A
voice said that the center was about to close for the day. Mike
used his media center card to check out a number of those books
and gave the cute receptionist behind the desk his thanks for her
help.
60

Mike left the college amid a flurry of snowflakes and

picked up a newspaper. He looked in the television guide to see
what was on the box that night. If his dinner date with his
receptionist was a bust, he could always watch a movie on
television or rent a videocassette.
No one saw the figure hiding in the night. The killer stood
in the dark in the alley next to an apartment. He gazed over at
the snowflakes as his grip on the candlestick holder became
tight. He liked the night. It was so dark and cold. He wiped his
eyeglasses with a handkerchief as he waited. He smiled as he
began to think about the body he had left on the mountainside,
and the illustration he had drawn in the snow.
The smile became even bigger when he mulled over what
he did to the other body in the graveyard.
That victim was young and pretty. She must have been
either a receptionist or a model who posed for a photographer.
She was a beauty. He began to think about the videocassette
tape he had made of her.
The only things she wore in the videocassette were her
eyeglasses and underwear. His mind raced.
Just then the door from the apartment house banged open.
The spring hinge of the door was broken, and the noise it made
when it hit the front of the wall was as loud as a firecracker. He
began to sweat and wiped his brow with his handkerchief.
A young man, a bartender by trade, exited the apartment
house. He only felt the first blow from the heavy candlestick
holder. His head ached like a jackhammer, but he was out before
he could feel the rest of the blows. The young mans eyeglasses
fell among the snowflakes as his body hit the ground.
This latest victim was lifted and put in the back of a van
that had an illustration of a tree and the moon on its side. The
slayer was a weightlifter and found it easy to drag the body of
the bartender into the van and slide the side door shut. He got
into the van with his victim and headed into the snowflakes
61

toward his own apartment.

It was now a little after dark and Mike had just arrived
home to his apartment. He had made a stop at his optometrist to
see if he could give him some drops for his eyes. After that he
went to the drugstore, got the drops, and went home. His health
plan card really saved him a lot of money.
He walked into his apartment and turned on the television.
There was a winter storm to watch that matched television. The
snowflakes that were coming down. He looked at the newspaper
for a short while, and then he began to get ready for his dinner
date. Karen, his able receptionist, would be by in a little while.
While the dinner cooked, Mike picked up things around
his apartment. He picked up his shorts, socks, and underwear
that were lying all about. Then he laid out the kitchenware. Just
then his loudspeaker buzzed. Mike, its Karen. Mike told her
to come on up.
Karen had only been to Mikes apartment a few times. She
was happy to see that Mike had laid out the nice kitchenware
and had placed a candlestick at each end of the table. You
know, Mike, Lt. Poole came by the office late today. He wanted
to share some ideas with you about both the mountainside and
graveyard cases.
Did he have any news about the bartender or the
photographer? Karen said that he did. She told Mike that Carol
Fine, the receptionist for the photographer, was on television
last night. She said she had seen a number of models who
worked for the photographers coming out of his apartment the
day he was killed. Mike made a note of all of this.
t was just after nine when the phone in Mikes apartment rang.
Karen, his receptionist, was on the line. Mike put the phone on
loudspeaker and her voice came across as loud as a firecracker
as she filled him in on his new case.
He had heard about those two bodies found on the
mountainside from the news briefs on television and in the
62

newspaper. She said he was being asked to help out on the case.
Mike Thorn jumped out of bed, put on his eyeglasses first, then
his shirt, pants, and shoes, and headed to his office. He had a
sense that this was not going to be his day.
His car headed into the city just as snowflakes began to
fall. The drive from his apartment to his office was about a half
an hour long. If those snowflakes fell all day, the drive home
would take much longer. As the car radio played, Mike made a
mental note of the stops he had to make during the day.
His eyeglasses made his eyes sore, and, as Mike wiped
them with his handkerchief, he knew that they would have to be
looked at by his optometrist. His BMW hummed as Mike drove
it along Center City. He passed a drugstore, a bar, and a studio
owned by the citys top photographer. He had come to his
office. Mike parked the BMW making sure his lot permit decal
was placed in the window.
The decal had the permit number and an illustration of the
city flag on it. The last thing he needed was to have his car
towed away.
Mike moved with haste up the steps to his office on the
third floor. Well its about time, Karen said as she looked past
the television that showed the lobby on the floor below. Mike
had had his office broken into a number of times, so a camera
had been put in and a videocassette made of anyone who enters
or exits the lobbies. His receptionist gave him the once over. On
most days, she was rather fond of her bosss looks. Today, he
looked like he had risen from a graveyard. In her mind, Karen
saw an illustration of some ugly corpse.
You look awful, she said with a mixed sense of humor
and regard. I know. I should have made a stop at the drugstore
to see if they have a pill for this dull pain in my head.
Mike had been heavy into booze at one time. As a matter
of fact, his days as a bartender had led him to drink. The gin
from last night hadnt done a thing for him, except cause his
63

64

head to throb the day after. It felt like hed been hit by a metal
candlestick holder, or like he had a jackhammer going off in his
brain.
His office looked like the kind you would see on
television. A desk, files, a couple of chairs, and a sink. Mike was
every bit the single P.I. On the top of his desk were some notes,
an illustration, and what was left of the meal he had had the
night before.
The kitchenware needed to be washed badly. The
newspaper needed to be tossed out. His underwear, socks, and
T-shirt from the day before needed to be picked up and either
washed or thrown out. Here he was, a weightlifter in his spare
time, and yet he could not even pick up his own things.
He sank into his chair as he gazed out of the window at the
snowflakes coming from the sky. He had to admit they did look
pretty.
It made him think of an illustration he once owned. A
photographer could get a couple of nice shots around here.
Boston in the winter was rather cold, but he liked it just the
same. Hed rather have his own house, but his apartment suited
his style of life for now. He popped a videocassette in and
turned on the television. It was a tape of last nights news with
that story about the mountainside murder. There was a report
that the victim might be a bartender who had gotten in over his
head with loans.
Others said it was a photographer who was into making
sex films on videocassette. The news report talked about the
bloody handkerchief found at the scene, and womens
underwear found in the pocket of the victim. A member of the
police force would only say that the man, a male about forty
years of age, had been beaten with a blunt object, like a
candlestick holder; taken from his apartment, and dumped in
this mountainside graveyard.
The area where the body lay was so rocky that one would

need a jackhammer to dig a hole deep enough for the body.

Mike fixed his eyeglasses as he sat in front of the
television screen. This same news clip next showed his former
boss, Lt. Sam Poole, using a loudspeaker to keep people away
from the site. Just as Mike began to think about the case, his
receptionist called him.
Mike, a Lt. Poole would like to talk to you if you have the
time. He never had the time, but told Karen to tell him hed see
him within the hour.
A weary Michael Thorn made his way past his receptionist
and headed down the stairs and off to see his former boss. He
walked out into the snow and looked up at the snowflakes
coming down. They began to stick to his eyeglasses. He wiped
them with his handkerchief and headed for his car. His permit to
park was still in view. He turned the key to his BMW and
pumped the gas. It roared to life, popped like a firecracker, and
then he pulled out onto Broad Street and headed east.
Mike was hoping to have enough time later to go to the
gym. He was an avid weightlifter and runner. When he had been
a bartender, Mike always worked out after his shift. Once, a
photographer even asked him if hed like to make a muscle
videocassette. The money would have paid his apartment rent
for half a year, but the idea really didnt excite him too much.
Karen, his receptionist, had told him that he should do it, but
still he could not have cared less.
He did, though, pose for an illustration that was used in an
ad for the gym where he worked out.
As his car moved closer to the center of town, Mike used
his handkerchief to clean the fog off of the inside, of the
window. His breath still took shape on the window, and even his
eyeglasses had begun to fog up.
This snow and cold had the city in its grip. The
receptionist at Lt. Pooles office had her boss paged on the
loudspeaker after Mike showed her his I.D. He killed time with
66
65

66

her as she talked about her kids, a kitchenware party, and three
videocassettes of sexy underwear from one of the womens
shops on Fifth Avenue. All in all, Mike was bored out of his
mind. She was nice and pretty, but Mike just didnt care.
A woman like this with kids just meant that dating her
would be a hassle. Mike looked at an illustration on the wall
that was, no doubt, drawn by one of her kids. Just then the
office door shut with a bang. Mike and the receptionist both
jumped with a start. The bang was loud enough to be either a
firecracker, or even a gun.
Well, Mike. Long time no see. How have you been? Lt.
Poole was direct and filled Mike in on the last items of the
mountainside case. He even told Mike about things the
television and newspaper had not stated.
Wed like you to help us out, Mike. Mike took off his
eyeglasses and peered at his former boss. Whats in it for me?
he said. Your name in the newspaper and on the television. It
would be great for your name. Ever since the day Mike was
fired from the force and had turned in his badge and gun, he
swore he would never do a thing to help them. He was good as a
P.I. and told Sam that he needed time to think it over. Hed
always liked his ex-boss, and Mike knew that Sam wasnt guilty
of having him fired. Mike said hed be in touch, walked past the
receptionist, and headed for the local tavern.
The Crows Nest was Mikes choice as the place to have a
few drinks. The bartender got him a rum and coke, and Mike let
his mind drift. A newspaper lay on the bar, and Mike fixed his
eyeglasses, and looked over the latest news. Page one ran a
story on the mountainside case.
It said that the police had talked to people who had seen
the victim the day before the murder took place. A drugstore
worker had been called in to speak to the police about what he
knew. An expert optometrist, an underwear model, and the
owner of a videocassette store were also talked to as well. The

newspaper didnt say much else. Mike turned the pages.

An ad for kitchenware here. An ad for a cheap
photographer there. On the next page a weightlifter with a
handkerchief tied around his brow touted the latest gym. Mike
looked up at the television in the bar.
The man on T.V. said the snowflakes would fall late into
the night and that more snow was coming later in the week. He
had an illustration to point this out. More snow. Great.
Mike pulled out his I. D. and called the bartender over.
The man making the drinks behind the bar said his name was
Bill. and asked how he could be of help to Mike.
Mike said, What do you really think about this
mountainside murder thats been in the news? It looked like the
bartender hadnt really given it much of his time. To tell you
the truth, this place hasnt been as dead as a graveyard, and I
havent really had the time to pay much mind to the television. I
have looked in the newspaper, but mainly for a new apartment.
My lease is almost up on the one Im in now, and I need a
change. Just then the television blared like a loudspeaker. A
news report came on. There was Lt. Poole again. He spoke to
the media about a second murder. A photographer had been
found dead in his apartment early that same day.
He had been bound and gagged with a very strong
handkerchief. No I. D. was found on the body, but it was more
than likely Frank Nicci, a top photographer in Boston. The
television showed the inside of the bloody apartment. Then it
showed the body. Niccis eyeglasses were on his face, but
broken. And that wasnt all that was broken.
The body itself lay next to a candlestick, some books, a
camera, and a few drugs. On one wall inside the apartment, a
person had drawn an eerie symbol in blood. Mike fixed his
eyeglasses and took a closer look at the illustration.
Drawn in blood on the wall was a map of the mountainside
area. The graveyard was also marked. The television camera
67
68

68

panned around the apartment. In one corner were videocassette

tapes and womens underwear. Clues, Mike mused, or just part
of Niccis stock and trade.
The television camera panned back to Poole with
snowflakes coming down around him. As he summed up the
stance of the police on the case, one of the women from the city
newspaper asked him if this might be tied into the murder last
month of the citys number one crime boss, Pat Verde. He ran
what the police and newspaper called the drugstore. Verde had
been a drug lord in the truest sense of the word. Poole wiped his
brow with a handkerchief, and said the police were not able to
tie the two into each other at this point in time. He said it would
be a while before they would know if the deaths of the
photographer and Verde were linked.
As Mike sat there gazing at the television, he felt eyes on
the back of his head. He looked out the corner of his eye to find
the eyes of the piano player on him. The man at the keys had
once played in a number of music shows in the city. Mike was
aware of more than one story in the newspaper about him. He
was also able to recall an illustration of the man in a number of
ads around the city.
He had really been known around town for his talent in
music. Mike fixed his eyeglasses, made a mental note of this
guy, paid his tab, and left.
Moving out onto the street, Mike peered down the street as
the snowflakes fell. There was a chill in the air, and Mike got
into his car and headed off to the mountainside to visit the
graveyard site where the first body had been found. When he
got there, Mike took note of how rocky the area was.
A jackhammer would have been needed to dig into the
mountainside. Either a jackhammer, or maybe some TNT. A
large firecracker would not have had any effect on moving this
stone.
Mike eyed the area. Using his handkerchief to ensure his
69

prints would not be left in the area, Mike began to sift through
some of the debris.
Snowflakes had all but hidden most of the ground, but
Mike still was able to comb the mountainside murder scene. He
fixed his eyeglasses as he wished he had taken his tools from his
apartment to help with this course of action. Just then, Mike
heard a car pull up behind him. A voice on a loudspeaker asked
for I. D. Mike, blind from the cars lights, made an effort to
show his badge. The cars motor was turned off, and a figure got
out. It was Sam Poole. Find any clues yet, Mike? Hell, Sam,
you caught me off guard. What are you doing here? The
newspaper and television people said you were done here.
Sam told Mike about how the snowflakes had really cut
the mountainside probe short. Mike, the bureau photographer
found some clues in his shots, and I wanted to follow up on
them.
It seemed that some of those shots taken by the
photographer showed what looked to be a candlestick holder
and bones in the snow. These were next to a weird illustration
that was drawn there in the snow. There was talk that maybe this
graveyard murder was linked to some black magic ritual.
Mike didnt think much of magic and voodoo. He had
rented a videocassette one night about how people with no
social life and no ties to the real world took part in these
graveyard rites. This kind of stuff was also fodder for many of
the talk shows on television. Guests came onto these shows to
reveal how their rites were done, not only out in nature, but
even in their own apartment.
On one show the host played a videocassette of a grisly
ritual. It showed a young lady in just her underwear using what
looked like normal kitchenware to slash her wrists and allow her
blood to run into a silver cup. As the light from a candlestick
barely lit up the room of the small apartment, the young lady
spoke her ritual chant. Mike wasnt moved by it. The show
70

talked about how many people who took part in this stuff lead
normal lives.
There was a bartender, a photographer, and a receptionist
all saying how much they got out of this form of ritual. The host
even showed an illustration of one of the rites. To Mike, it
looked like some kind of cult. Of course, on the show the real
names of these people were never given. This type of show
always ran during the sweeps.
Mike cut his visit with Sam short and headed to the local
college. He knew hed find books about these kinds of rites
there. But first, hed make a quick stop at his apartment and
check in by phone with Karen, his receptionist.
She told him about the latest news on both the death of the
photographer and the graveyard cases. She filled Mike in about
some new things that were being looked at by the police: a
handkerchief with blood stains, a candlestick holder, a number
of kitchenware items, and womens underwear that were found
folded in a newspaper.
She also told Mike that no one knew who owned the pink
briefs; only that they had been found at the apartment that was
owned by the photographer who had been killed. Mike mulled
all of this over in his head as he gazed out the window at the
snowflakes coming down. He still needed to pick up a few
things at the drugstore and, as Karen had said, they had a dinner
date at his apartment later that night. Just then the loudspeaker
in his apartment came to life.
There was a UPS man with a box that needed to be signed
for. Mike signed for it as the snowflakes fell, and he went back
inside his apartment.
He wiped his eyeglasses with a handkerchief and looked
for the name of the sender. He found none. He placed the box
on the television set and slowly opened it. The snowflakes on
the box had begun to melt as Mike pried the box open.
On the top of the box was an illustration of some occult
71

symbol. Inside he found a videocassette, womens underwear, a

candlestick, and a photo of the last victim, the photographer.
There was also a note jotted on a copy of the newspaper from
the day this last victim died. It simply said: The graveyard on
the mountainside rocks. That was it. Mike was hoping the
videocassette that was in the box might supply more facts. He
stuffed the videocassette into his coat pocket and left his
apartment. He was aware that it was now known that he was a
player in the case. But who knew? And what did they know?
As Mike walked to his car, the snowflakes fell harder. He
heard a noise like a firecracker and saw an apartment tenant
begin to start his car. Boy, was Mike edgy.
You would not need a jackhammer to get his notice. He
really should not allow things to get to him. He knew how to
focus. He was a weightlifter, for crying out loud.
He knew how to block things out, and here he was, made
all edgy by some case. Go figure.
Drawn in the snow on the window of his car was the same
weird illustration that Mike had found on the box. It gave him
the creeps. He wiped the snowflakes off of his car and headed to
the college. The receptionist in the media center showed Mike
where he could find books on pagan rites.
There were many more than he thought there would be.
The titles and covers were enough to make his hair stand on
end. One book had a naked witch on an altar with a candlestick.
A second book showed a graveyard ritual. A third showed a
number of female pagans in underwear acting out a number of
their rites. Mike could tell that the photographer for these prints
must have liked his work.
Each book had at least one illustration on the inside that
seemed to match the symbol that Mike kept coming across.
Mike sat down, fixed his eyeglasses, and began his study. As he
turned these topics over in his72mind, he linked them to what he
knew about the cases. Many of the rites talked about in the
72

books could be done in a forest, on a mountainside, in a

graveyard, or in a city apartment for that matter. Mike knew that
what he read was pretty much the same as that which he had
seen on television.
He wanted to know if the bartender he had spoken to
might know about these rites. Maybe even Karen, his
receptionist, might be able to help.
He made a note to ask her that night over dinner. It seemed
to Mike that this day would never end. He still had to stop by
the gym. He was the only weightlifter who never had the same
gym hours.
Plus, he had to stop off at the drugstore and go home to
view that videocassette that had come to him in the mail. Maybe
his receptionist would like to be filled in on the case. Mike
made it a habit to bounce ideas off of Karen. He was amazed at
just how smart his receptionist was.
She always made it a point to drop by Mikes apartment
when she had ideas that could be of help to him. The last time
she had helped out, she nearly made the newspaper.
As Mikes mind went adrift back to that night, the
loudspeaker in the town media center blared like a firecracker. A
voice said that the center was about to close for the day. Mike
used his media center card to check out a number of those books
and gave the cute receptionist behind the desk his thanks for her
help.
Mike left the college amid a flurry of snowflakes and
picked up a newspaper. He looked in the television guide to see
what was on the box that night. If his dinner date with his
receptionist was a bust, he could always watch a movie on
television or rent a videocassette.
No one saw the figure hiding in the night. The killer stood
in the dark in the alley next to an apartment. He gazed over at
the snowflakes as his grip on the candlestick holder became
tight. He liked the night. It was so dark and cold. He wiped his
73

eyeglasses with a handkerchief as he waited. He smiled as he

began to think about the body he had left on the mountainside,
and the illustration he had drawn in the snow.
The smile became even bigger when he mulled over what
he did to the other body in the graveyard.
That victim was young and pretty. She must have been
either a receptionist or a model who posed for a photographer.
She was a beauty. He began to think about the videocassette
tape he had made of her.
The only things she wore in the videocassette were her
eyeglasses and underwear. His mind raced.
Just then the door from the apartment house banged open.
The spring hinge of the door was broken, and the noise it made
when it hit the front of the wall was as loud as a firecracker. He
began to sweat and wiped his brow with his handkerchief.
A young man, a bartender by trade, exited the apartment
house. He only felt the first blow from the heavy candlestick
holder. His head ached like a jackhammer, but he was out before
he could feel the rest of the blows. The young mans eyeglasses
fell among the snowflakes as his body hit the ground.
This latest victim was lifted and put in the back of a van
that had an illustration of a tree and the moon on its side. The
slayer was a weightlifter and found it easy to drag the body of
the bartender into the van and slide the side door shut. He got
into the van with his victim and headed into the snowflakes
toward his own apartment.
It was now a little after dark and Mike had just arrived
home to his apartment. He had made a stop at his optometrist to
see if he could give him some
74 drops for his eyes. After that he
went to the drugstore, got the drops, and went home. His health
plan card really saved him a lot of money.
He walked into his apartment and turned on the television.
There was a winter storm to watch that matched television. The
snowflakes that were coming down. He looked at the newspaper
74

for a short while, and then he began to get ready for his dinner
date. Karen, his able receptionist, would be by in a little while.
While the dinner cooked, Mike picked up things around
his apartment. He picked up his shorts, socks, and underwear
that were lying all about. Then he laid out the kitchenware. Just
then his loudspeaker buzzed. Mike, its Karen. Mike told her
to come on up.
Karen had only been to Mikes apartment a few times. She
was happy to see that Mike had laid out the nice kitchenware
and had placed a candlestick at each end of the table. You
know, Mike, Lt. Poole came by the office late today. He wanted
to share some ideas with you about both the mountainside and
graveyard cases.
Did he have any news about the bartender or the
photographer? Karen said that he did. She told Mike that Carol
Fine, the receptionist for the photographer, was on television
last night. She said she had seen a number of models who
worked for the photographers coming out of his apartment the
day he was killed. Mike made a note of all of this.
t was just after nine when the phone in Mikes apartment rang.
Karen, his receptionist, was on the line. Mike put the phone on
loudspeaker and her voice came across as loud as a firecracker
as she filled him in on his new case.
He had heard about those two bodies found on the
mountainside from the news briefs on television and in the
newspaper. She said he was being asked to help out on the case.
Mike Thorn jumped out of bed, put on his eyeglasses first, then
his shirt, pants, and shoes, and headed to his office. He had a
sense that this was not going to be his day.
His car headed into the city just as snowflakes began to
fall. The drive from his apartment to his office was about a half
an hour long. If those snowflakes fell all day, the drive home
would take much longer. As the car radio played, Mike made a
mental note of the stops he had to make during the day.
75

His eyeglasses made his eyes sore, and, as Mike wiped

them with his handkerchief, he knew that they would have to be
looked at by his optometrist. His BMW hummed as Mike drove
it along Center City. He passed a drugstore, a bar, and a studio
owned by the citys top photographer. He had come to his
office. Mike parked the BMW making sure his lot permit decal
was placed in the window.
The decal had the permit number and an illustration of the
city flag on it. The last thing he needed was to have his car
towed away.
Mike moved with haste up the steps to his office on the
third floor. Well its about time, Karen said as she looked past
the television that showed the lobby on the floor below. Mike
had had his office broken into a number of times, so a camera
had been put in and a videocassette made of anyone who enters
or exits the lobbies. His receptionist gave him the once over. On
most days, she was rather fond of her bosss looks. Today, he
looked like he had risen from a graveyard. In her mind, Karen
saw an illustration of some ugly corpse.
You look awful, she said with a mixed sense of humor
and regard. I know. I should have made a stop at the drugstore
to see if they have a pill for this dull pain in my head.
Mike had been heavy into booze at one time. As a matter
of fact, his days as a bartender had led him to drink. The gin
from last night hadnt done a 76thing for him, except cause his
head to throb the day after. It felt like hed been hit by a metal
candlestick holder, or like he had a jackhammer going off in his
brain.
His office looked like the kind you would see on
television. A desk, files, a couple of chairs, and a sink. Mike was
every bit the single P.I. On the top of his desk were some notes,
an illustration, and what was left of the meal he had had the
night before.
The kitchenware needed to be washed badly. The
76

newspaper needed to be tossed out. His underwear, socks, and

T-shirt from the day before needed to be picked up and either
washed or thrown out. Here he was, a weightlifter in his spare
time, and yet he could not even pick up his own things.
He sank into his chair as he gazed out of the window at the
snowflakes coming from the sky. He had to admit they did look
pretty.
It made him think of an illustration he once owned. A
photographer could get a couple of nice shots around here.
Boston in the winter was rather cold, but he liked it just the
same. Hed rather have his own house, but his apartment suited
his style of life for now. He popped a videocassette in and
turned on the television. It was a tape of last nights news with
that story about the mountainside murder. There was a report
that the victim might be a bartender who had gotten in over his
head with loans.
Others said it was a photographer who was into making
sex films on videocassette. The news report talked about the
bloody handkerchief found at the scene, and womens
underwear found in the pocket of the victim. A member of the
police force would only say that the man, a male about forty
years of age, had been beaten with a blunt object, like a
candlestick holder; taken from his apartment, and dumped in
this mountainside graveyard.
The area where the body lay was so rocky that one would
need a jackhammer to dig a hole deep enough for the body.
Mike fixed his eyeglasses as he sat in front of the
television screen. This same news clip next showed his former
boss, Lt. Sam Poole, using a loudspeaker to keep people away
from the site. Just as Mike began to think about the case, his
receptionist called him.
Mike, a Lt. Poole would like to talk to you if you have the
time. He never had the time, but told Karen to tell him hed see
him within the hour.
77

A weary Michael Thorn made his way past his receptionist

and headed down the stairs and off to see his former boss. He
walked out into the snow and looked up at the snowflakes
coming down. They began to stick to his eyeglasses. He wiped
them with his handkerchief and headed for his car. His permit to
park was still in view. He turned the key to his BMW and
pumped the gas. It roared to life, popped like a firecracker, and
then he pulled out onto Broad Street and headed east.
Mike was hoping to have enough time later to go to the
gym. He was an avid weightlifter and runner. When he had been
a bartender, Mike always worked out after his shift. Once, a
photographer even asked him if hed like to make a muscle
videocassette. The money would have paid his apartment rent
for half a year, but the idea really didnt excite him too much.
Karen, his receptionist, had told him that he should do it, but
still he could not have cared less.
He did, though, pose for an illustration that was used in an
ad for the gym where he worked out.
As his car moved closer to the center of town, Mike used
his handkerchief to clean the fog off of the inside, of the
window. His breath still took shape on the window, and even his
eyeglasses had begun to fog up.

4 _______________
This snow and cold had the city in its grip. The
receptionist at Lt. Pooles office had her boss paged on the
loudspeaker after Mike showed her his I.D. He killed time with
her as she talked about her kids, a kitchenware party, and three
videocassettes of sexy underwear from one of the womens
shops on Fifth Avenue. All in all, Mike was bored out of his
mind. She was nice and pretty, but Mike just didnt care.
A woman like this with kids just meant that dating her
would be a hassle. Mike looked at an illustration on the wall
that was, no doubt, drawn by one of her kids. Just then the
78

office door shut with a bang. Mike and the receptionist both
jumped with a start. The bang was loud enough to be either a
firecracker, or even a gun.
Well, Mike. Long time no see. How have you been? Lt.
Poole was direct and filled Mike in on the last items of the
mountainside case. He even told Mike about things the
television and newspaper had not stated.
Wed like you to help us out, Mike. Mike took off his
eyeglasses and peered at his former boss. Whats in it for me?
he said. Your name in the newspaper and on the television. It
would be great for your name. Ever since the day Mike was
fired from the force and had turned in his badge and gun, he
swore he would never do a thing to help them. He was good as a
P.I. and told Sam that he needed time to think it over. Hed
always liked his ex-boss, and Mike knew that Sam wasnt guilty
of having him fired. Mike said hed be in touch, walked past the
receptionist, and headed for the local tavern.
The Crows Nest was Mikes choice as the place to have a
few drinks. The bartender got him a rum and coke, and Mike let
his mind drift. A newspaper lay on the bar, and Mike fixed his
eyeglasses, and looked over the latest news. Page one ran a
story on the mountainside case.
It said that the police had talked to people who had seen
the victim the day before the murder took place. A drugstore
worker had been called in to speak to the police about what he
knew. An expert optometrist, an underwear model, and the
owner of a videocassette store were also talked to as well. The
newspaper didnt say much else. Mike turned the pages.
An ad for kitchenware here. An ad for a cheap
photographer there. On the next page a weightlifter with a
handkerchief tied around his brow touted the latest gym. Mike
looked up at the television in the bar.
The man on T.V. said the snowflakes would fall late into
the night and that more snow was coming later in the week. He
79

had an illustration to point this out. More snow. Great.

Mike pulled out his I. D. and called the bartender over.
The man making the drinks behind the bar said his name was
Bill. and asked how he could be of help to Mike.
Mike said, What do you really think about this
mountainside murder thats been in the news? It looked like the
bartender hadnt really given it much of his time. To tell you
the truth, this place hasnt been as dead as a graveyard, and I
havent really had the time to pay much mind to the television. I
have looked in the newspaper, but mainly for a new apartment.
My lease is almost up on the one Im in now, and I need a
change. Just then the television blared like a loudspeaker. A
news report came on. There was Lt. Poole again. He spoke to
the media about a second murder. A photographer had been
found dead in his apartment early that same day.
He had been bound and gagged with a very strong
handkerchief. No I. D. was found on the body, but it was more
than likely Frank Nicci, a top photographer in Boston. The
television showed the inside of
80 the bloody apartment. Then it
showed the body. Niccis eyeglasses were on his face, but
broken. And that wasnt all that was broken.
The body itself lay next to a candlestick, some books, a
camera, and a few drugs. On one wall inside the apartment, a
person had drawn an eerie symbol in blood. Mike fixed his
eyeglasses and took a closer look at the illustration.
Drawn in blood on the wall was a map of the mountainside
area. The graveyard was also marked. The television camera
panned around the apartment. In one corner were videocassette
tapes and womens underwear. Clues, Mike mused, or just part
of Niccis stock and trade.
The television camera panned back to Poole with
snowflakes coming down around him. As he summed up the
stance of the police on the case, one of the women from the city
newspaper asked him if this might be tied into the murder last
80

month of the citys number one crime boss, Pat Verde. He ran
what the police and newspaper called the drugstore. Verde had
been a drug lord in the truest sense of the word. Poole wiped his
brow with a handkerchief, and said the police were not able to
tie the two into each other at this point in time. He said it would
be a while before they would know if the deaths of the
photographer and Verde were linked.
As Mike sat there gazing at the television, he felt eyes on
the back of his head. He looked out the corner of his eye to find
the eyes of the piano player on him. The man at the keys had
once played in a number of music shows in the city. Mike was
aware of more than one story in the newspaper about him. He
was also able to recall an illustration of the man in a number of
ads around the city.
He had really been known around town for his talent in
music. Mike fixed his eyeglasses, made a mental note of this
guy, paid his tab, and left.
Moving out onto the street, Mike peered down the street as
the snowflakes fell. There was a chill in the air, and Mike got
into his car and headed off to the mountainside to visit the
graveyard site where the first body had been found. When he
got there, Mike took note of how rocky the area was.
A jackhammer would have been needed to dig into the
mountainside. Either a jackhammer, or maybe some TNT. A
large firecracker would not have had any effect on moving this
stone.
Mike eyed the area. Using his handkerchief to ensure his
prints would not be left in the area, Mike began to sift through
some of the debris.
Snowflakes had all but hidden most of the ground, but
Mike still was able to comb the mountainside murder scene. He
fixed his eyeglasses as he wished he had taken his tools from his
apartment to help with this course of action. Just then, Mike
heard a car pull up behind him. A voice on a loudspeaker asked
81

for I. D. Mike, blind from the cars lights, made an effort to

show his badge. The cars motor was turned off, and a figure got
out. It was Sam Poole. Find any clues yet, Mike? Hell, Sam,
you caught me off guard. What are you doing here? The
newspaper and television people said you were done here.
Sam told Mike about how the snowflakes had really cut
the mountainside probe short. Mike, the bureau photographer
found some clues in his shots, and I wanted to follow up on
them.
It seemed that some of those shots taken by the
photographer showed what looked to be a candlestick holder
and bones in the snow. These were next to a weird illustration
that was drawn there in the snow. There was talk that maybe this
graveyard murder was linked to some black magic ritual.
Mike didnt think much of magic and voodoo. He had
rented a videocassette one night about how people with no
social life and no ties to the real world took part in these
graveyard rites. This kind of stuff was also fodder for many of
the talk shows on television. Guests came onto these shows to
reveal how their rites were done, not only out in nature, but
even in their own apartment.
On one show the host played a videocassette of a grisly
ritual. It showed a young lady in just her underwear using what
looked like normal kitchenware to slash her wrists and allow her
blood to run into a silver cup. As the light from a candlestick
barely lit up the room of the small apartment, the young lady
spoke her ritual chant. Mike wasnt moved by it. The show
talked about how many people who took part in this stuff lead
normal lives.
There was a bartender, a photographer, and a receptionist
all saying how much they got out of this form of ritual. The host
even showed an illustration of one of the rites. To Mike, it
looked like some kind of cult. Of course, on the show the real
names of these people were never given. This type of show
82

always ran during the sweeps.

Mike cut his visit with Sam short and headed to the local
college. He knew hed find books about these kinds of rites
there. But first, hed make a quick stop at his apartment and
check in by phone with Karen, his receptionist.
She told him about the latest news on both the death of the
photographer and the graveyard cases. She filled Mike in about
some new things that were being looked at by the police: a
handkerchief with blood stains, a candlestick holder, a number
of kitchenware items, and womens underwear that were found
folded in a newspaper.
She also told Mike that no one knew who owned the pink
briefs; only that they had been found at the apartment that was
owned by the photographer who had been killed. Mike mulled
all of this over in his head as he gazed out the window at the
snowflakes coming down. He still needed to pick up a few
things at the drugstore and, as Karen had said, they had a dinner
date at his apartment later that night. Just then the loudspeaker
in his apartment came to life.
There was a UPS man with a box that needed to be signed
for. Mike signed for it as the snowflakes fell, and he went back
inside his apartment.
He wiped his eyeglasses with a handkerchief and looked
for the name of the sender. He found none. He placed the box
on the television set and slowly opened it. The snowflakes on
the box had begun to melt as Mike pried the box open.
On the top of the box was an illustration of some occult
symbol. Inside he found a videocassette, womens underwear, a
candlestick, and a photo of the last victim, the photographer.
There was also a note jotted on a copy of the newspaper from
the day this last victim died. It simply said: The graveyard on
the mountainside rocks. That was it. Mike was hoping the
videocassette that was in the box might supply more facts. He
stuffed the videocassette into his coat pocket and left his
83

apartment. He was aware that it was now known that he was a

player in the case. But who knew? And what did they know?
As Mike walked to his car, the snowflakes fell harder. He
heard a noise like a firecracker and saw an apartment tenant
begin to start his car. Boy, was Mike edgy.
You would not need a jackhammer to get his notice. He
really should not allow things to get to him. He knew how to
focus. He was a weightlifter, for crying out loud.
He knew how to block things out, and here he was, made
all edgy by some case. Go figure.
Drawn in the snow on the window of his car was the same
weird illustration that Mike had found on the box. It gave him
the creeps. He wiped the snowflakes off of his car and headed to
the college. The receptionist in the media center showed Mike
where he could find books on pagan rites.
There were many more than he thought there would be.
The titles and covers were enough to make his hair stand on
end. One book had a naked witch on an altar with a candlestick.
A second book showed a graveyard ritual. A third showed a
number of female pagans in underwear acting out a number of
their rites. Mike could tell that the photographer for these prints
must have liked his work.
Each book had at least one illustration on the inside that
seemed to match the symbol that Mike kept coming across.
Mike sat down, fixed his eyeglasses, and began his study. As he
turned these topics over in his mind, he linked them to what he
knew about the cases. Many of the rites talked about in the
books could be done in a forest, on a mountainside, in a
graveyard, or in a city apartment for that matter. Mike knew that
what he read was pretty much the same as that which he had
seen on television.
He wanted to know if the bartender he had spoken to
might know about these rites. Maybe even Karen, his
receptionist, might be able to help.
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85

He made a note to ask her that night over dinner. It seemed

to Mike that this day would never end. He still had to stop by
the gym. He was the only weightlifter who never had the same
gym hours.
Plus, he had to stop off at the drugstore and go home to
view that videocassette that had come to him in the mail. Maybe
his receptionist would like to be filled in on the case. Mike
made it a habit to bounce ideas off of Karen. He was amazed at
just how smart his receptionist was.
She always made it a point to drop by Mikes apartment
when she had ideas that could be of help to him. The last time
she had helped out, she nearly made the newspaper.
As Mikes mind went adrift back to that night, the
loudspeaker in the town media center blared like a firecracker. A
voice said that the center was about to close for the day. Mike
used his media center card to check out a number of those books
and gave the cute receptionist behind the desk his thanks for her
help.
Mike left the college amid a flurry of snowflakes and
picked up a newspaper. He looked in the television guide to see
what was on the box that night. If his dinner date with his
receptionist was a bust, he could always watch a movie on
television or rent a videocassette.
No one saw the figure hiding in the night. The killer stood
in the dark in the alley next to an apartment. He gazed over at
the snowflakes as his grip on the candlestick holder became
tight. He liked the night. It was so dark and cold. He wiped his
eyeglasses with a handkerchief as he waited. He smiled as he
began to think about the body he had left on the mountainside,
and the illustration he had drawn in the snow.
The smile became even bigger when he mulled over what
he did to the other body in the graveyard.
That victim was young and pretty. She must have been
either a receptionist or a model who posed for a photographer.
86

She was a beauty. He began to think about the videocassette

tape he had made of her.
The only things she wore in the videocassette were her
eyeglasses and underwear. His mind raced.
Just then the door from the apartment house banged open.
The spring hinge of the door was broken, and the noise it made
when it hit the front of the wall was as loud as a firecracker. He
began to sweat and wiped his brow with his handkerchief.
A young man, a bartender by trade, exited the apartment
house. He only felt the first blow from the heavy candlestick
holder. His head ached like a jackhammer, but he was out before
he could feel the rest of the blows. The young mans eyeglasses
fell among the snowflakes as his body hit the ground.
This latest victim was lifted and put in the back of a van
that had an illustration of a tree and the moon on its side. The
slayer was a weightlifter and found it easy to drag the body of
the bartender into the van and slide the side door shut. He got
into the van with his victim and headed into the snowflakes
toward his own apartment.
It was now a little after dark and Mike had just arrived
home to his apartment. He had made a stop at his optometrist to
see if he could give him some drops for his eyes. After that he
went to the drugstore, got the drops, and went home. His health
plan card really saved him a lot of money.
He walked into his apartment and turned on the television.
There was a winter storm to watch that matched television. The
snowflakes that were coming down. He looked at the newspaper
for a short while, and then he began to get ready for his dinner
date. Karen, his able receptionist, would be by in a little while.
While the dinner cooked, Mike picked up things around
his apartment. He picked up his shorts, socks, and underwear
that were lying all about. Then he laid out the kitchenware. Just
then his loudspeaker buzzed. Mike, its Karen. Mike told her
to come on up.

87

Karen had only been to Mikes apartment a few times. She

was happy to see that Mike had laid out the nice kitchenware
and had placed a candlestick at each end of the table. You
know, Mike, Lt. Poole came by the office late today. He wanted
to share some ideas with you about both the mountainside and
graveyard cases.
Did he have any news about the bartender or the
photographer? Karen said that he did. She told Mike that Carol
Fine, the receptionist for the photographer, was on television
last night. She said she had seen a number of models who
worked for the photographers coming out of his apartment the
day he was killed. Mike made a note of all of this.
t was just after nine when the phone in Mikes apartment rang.
Karen, his receptionist, was on the line. Mike put the phone on
loudspeaker and her voice came across as loud as a firecracker
as she filled him in on his new case.
He had heard about those two bodies found on the
mountainside from the news briefs on television and in the
newspaper. She said he was being asked to help out on the case.
Mike Thorn jumped out of bed, put on his eyeglasses first, then
his shirt, pants, and shoes, and headed to his office. He had a
sense that this was not going to be his day.
His car headed into the city just as snowflakes began to
fall. The drive from his apartment to his office was about a half
an hour long. If those snowflakes fell all day, the drive home
would take much longer. As the car radio played, Mike made a
mental note of the stops he had to make during the day.
His eyeglasses made his eyes sore, and, as Mike wiped
them with his handkerchief, he knew that they would have to be
looked at by his optometrist. His BMW hummed as Mike drove
it along Center City. He passed a drugstore, a bar, and a studio
owned by the citys top photographer. He had come to his
office. Mike parked the BMW making sure his lot permit decal
was placed in the window.
88

The decal had the permit number and an illustration of the

city flag on it. The last thing he needed was to have his car
towed away.
Mike moved with haste up the steps to his office on the
third floor. Well its about time, Karen said as she looked past
the television that showed the lobby on the floor below. Mike
had had his office broken into a number of times, so a camera
had been put in and a videocassette made of anyone who enters
or exits the lobbies. His receptionist gave him the once over. On
most days, she was rather fond of her bosss looks. Today, he
looked like he had risen from a graveyard. In her mind, Karen
saw an illustration of some ugly corpse.
You look awful, she said with a mixed sense of humor
and regard. I know. I should have made a stop at the drugstore
to see if they have a pill for this dull pain in my head.
Mike had been heavy into booze at one time. As a matter
of fact, his days as a bartender had led him to drink. The gin
from last night hadnt done a thing for him, except cause his
head to throb the day after. It felt like hed been hit by a metal
candlestick holder, or like he had a jackhammer going off in his
brain.
His office looked like the kind you would see on
television. A desk, files, a couple of chairs, and a sink. Mike was
every bit the single P.I. On the top of his desk were some notes,
an illustration, and what was left of the meal he had had the
night before.
The kitchenware needed to be washed badly. The
newspaper needed to be tossed out. His underwear, socks, and
T-shirt from the day before needed to be picked up and either
washed or thrown out. Here he was, a weightlifter in his spare
time, and yet he could not even pick up his own things.
He sank into his chair as he gazed out of the window at the
snowflakes coming from the sky. He had to admit they did look
pretty.
89

It made him think of an illustration he once owned. A

photographer could get a couple of nice shots around here.
Boston in the winter was rather cold, but he liked it just the
same. Hed rather have his own house, but his apartment suited
his style of life for now. He popped a videocassette in and
turned on the television. It was a tape of last nights news with
that story about the mountainside murder. There was a report
that the victim might be a bartender who had gotten in over his
head with loans.
Others said it was a photographer who was into making
sex films on videocassette. The news report talked about the
bloody handkerchief found at the scene, and womens
underwear found in the pocket of the victim. A member of the
police force would only say that the man, a male about forty
years of age, had been beaten with a blunt object, like a
candlestick holder; taken from his apartment, and dumped in
this mountainside graveyard.
The area where the body lay was so rocky that one would
need a jackhammer to dig a hole deep enough for the body.
Mike fixed his eyeglasses as he sat in front of the
television screen. This same news clip next showed his former
boss, Lt. Sam Poole, using a loudspeaker to keep people away
from the site. Just as Mike began to think about the case, his
receptionist called him.
Mike, a Lt. Poole would like to talk to you if you have the
time. He never had the time, but told Karen to tell him hed see
him within the hour.
A weary Michael Thorn made his way past his receptionist
and headed down the stairs and off to see his former boss. He
walked out into the snow and looked up at the snowflakes
coming down. They began to stick to his eyeglasses. He wiped
them with his handkerchief and headed for his car. His permit to
park was still in view. He turned the key to his BMW and
pumped the gas. It roared to life, popped like a firecracker, and
90

then he pulled out onto Broad Street and headed east.

Mike was hoping to have enough time later to go to the
gym. He was an avid weightlifter and runner. When he had been
a bartender, Mike always worked out after his shift. Once, a
photographer even asked him if hed like to make a muscle
videocassette. The money would have paid his apartment rent
for half a year, but the idea really didnt excite him too much.
Karen, his receptionist, had told him that he should do it, but
still he could not have cared less.
He did, though, pose for an illustration that was used in an
ad for the gym where he worked out.
As his car moved closer to the center of town, Mike used
his handkerchief to clean the fog off of the inside, of the
window. His breath still took shape on the window, and even his
eyeglasses had begun to fog up.
This snow and cold had the city in its grip. The
receptionist at Lt. Pooles office had her boss paged on the
loudspeaker after Mike showed her his I.D. He killed time with
her as she talked about her kids, a kitchenware party, and three
videocassettes of sexy underwear from one of the womens
shops on Fifth Avenue. All in all, Mike was bored out of his
mind. She was nice and pretty, but Mike just didnt care.
A woman like this with kids just meant that dating her
would be a hassle. Mike looked at an illustration on the wall
that was, no doubt, drawn by one of her kids. Just then the
office door shut with a bang. Mike and the receptionist both
jumped with a start. The bang was loud enough to be either a
firecracker, or even a gun.
Well, Mike. Long time no see. How have you been? Lt.
Poole was direct and filled Mike in on the last items of the
mountainside case. He even told Mike about things the
television and newspaper had not stated.
Wed like you to help us out, Mike. Mike took off his
eyeglasses and peered at his former boss. Whats in it for me?
91

he said. Your name in the newspaper and on the television. It

would be great for your name. Ever since the day Mike was
fired from the force and had turned in his badge and gun, he
swore he would never do a thing to help them. He was good as a
P.I. and told Sam that he needed time to think it over. Hed
always liked his ex-boss, and Mike knew that Sam wasnt guilty
of having him fired. Mike said hed be in touch, walked past the
receptionist, and headed for the local tavern.
The Crows Nest was Mikes choice as the place to have a
few drinks. The bartender got him a rum and coke, and Mike let
his mind drift. A newspaper lay on the bar, and Mike fixed his
eyeglasses, and looked over the latest news. Page one ran a
story on the mountainside case.
It said that the police had talked to people who had seen
the victim the day before the murder took place. A drugstore
worker had been called in to speak to the police about what he
knew. An expert optometrist, an underwear model, and the
owner of a videocassette store were also talked to as well. The
newspaper didnt say much else. Mike turned the pages.
An ad for kitchenware here. An ad for a cheap
photographer there. On the next page a weightlifter with a
handkerchief tied around his brow touted the latest gym. Mike
looked up at the television in the bar.
The man on T.V. said the snowflakes would fall late into
the night and that more snow was coming later in the week. He
had an illustration to point this out. More snow. Great.
Mike pulled out his I. D. and called the bartender over.
The man making the drinks behind the bar said his name was
Bill. and asked how he could be of help to Mike.
Mike said, What do you really think about this
mountainside murder thats been in the news? It looked like the
bartender hadnt really given it much of his time. To tell you
the truth, this place hasnt been as dead as a graveyard, and I
havent really had the time to pay much mind to the television. I
92

have looked in the newspaper, but mainly for a new apartment.

My lease is almost up on the one Im in now, and I need a
change. Just then the television blared like a loudspeaker. A
news report came on. There was Lt. Poole again. He spoke to
the media about a second murder. A photographer had been
found dead in his apartment early that same day.
He had been bound and gagged with a very strong
handkerchief. No I. D. was found on the body, but it was more
than likely Frank Nicci, a top photographer in Boston. The
television showed the inside of the bloody apartment. Then it
showed the body. Niccis eyeglasses were on his face, but
broken. And that wasnt all that was broken.
The body itself lay next to a candlestick, some books, a
camera, and a few drugs. On one wall inside the apartment, a
person had drawn an eerie symbol in blood. Mike fixed his
eyeglasses and took a closer look at the illustration.
Drawn in blood on the wall was a map of the mountainside
area. The graveyard was also marked. The television camera
panned around the apartment. In one corner were videocassette
tapes and womens underwear. Clues, Mike mused, or just part
of Niccis stock and trade.
The television camera panned back to Poole with
snowflakes coming down around him. As he summed up the
stance of the police on the case, one of the women from the city
newspaper asked him if this might be tied into the murder last
month of the citys number one crime boss, Pat Verde. He ran
what the police and newspaper called the drugstore. Verde had
been a drug lord in the truest sense of the word. Poole wiped his
brow with a handkerchief, and said the police were not able to
tie the two into each other at this point in time. He said it would
be a while before they would know if the deaths of the
photographer and Verde were linked.
As Mike sat there gazing at the television, he felt eyes on
the back of his head. He looked out the corner of his eye to find
93

93

the eyes of the piano player on him. The man at the keys had
once played in a number of music shows in the city. Mike was
aware of more than one story in the newspaper about him. He
was also able to recall an illustration of the man in a number of
ads around the city.
He had really been known around town for his talent in
music. Mike fixed his eyeglasses, made a mental note of this
guy, paid his tab, and left.
Moving out onto the street, Mike peered down the street as
the snowflakes fell. There was a chill in the air, and Mike got
into his car and headed off to the mountainside to visit the
graveyard site where the first body had been found. When he
got there, Mike took note of how rocky the area was.
A jackhammer would have been needed to dig into the
mountainside. Either a jackhammer, or maybe some TNT. A
large firecracker would not have had any effect on moving this
stone.
Mike eyed the area. Using his handkerchief to ensure his
prints would not be left in the area, Mike began to sift through
some of the debris.
Snowflakes had all but hidden most of the ground, but
Mike still was able to comb the mountainside murder scene. He
fixed his eyeglasses as he wished he had taken his tools from his
apartment to help with this course of action. Just then, Mike
heard a car pull up behind him. A voice on a loudspeaker asked
for I. D. Mike, blind from the cars lights, made an effort to
show his badge. The cars motor was turned off, and a figure got
out. It was Sam Poole. Find any clues yet, Mike? Hell, Sam,
you caught me off guard. What are you doing here? The
newspaper and television people said you were done here.
Sam told Mike about how the snowflakes had really cut
the mountainside probe short. Mike, the bureau photographer
found some clues in his shots, and I wanted to follow up on
them.
94

It seemed that some of those shots taken by the

photographer showed what looked to be a candlestick holder
and bones in the snow. These were next to a weird illustration
that was drawn there in the snow. There was talk that maybe this
graveyard murder was linked to some black magic ritual.
Mike didnt think much of magic and voodoo. He had
rented a videocassette one night about how people with no
social life and no ties to the real world took part in these
graveyard rites. This kind of stuff was also fodder for many of
the talk shows on television. Guests came onto these shows to
reveal how their rites were done, not only out in nature, but
even in their own apartment.
On one show the host played a videocassette of a grisly
ritual. It showed a young lady in just her underwear using what
looked like normal kitchenware to slash her wrists and allow her
blood to run into a silver cup. As the light from a candlestick
barely lit up the room of the small apartment, the young lady
spoke her ritual chant. Mike wasnt moved by it. The show
talked about how many people who took part in this stuff lead
normal lives.
There was a bartender, a photographer, and a receptionist
all saying how much they got out of this form of ritual. The host
even showed an illustration of one of the rites. To Mike, it
looked like some kind of cult. Of course, on the show the real
names of these people were never given. This type of show
always ran during the sweeps.
Mike cut his visit with Sam short and headed to the local
college. He knew hed find books about these kinds of rites
there. But first, hed make a quick stop at his apartment and
check in by phone with Karen, his receptionist.
She told him about the latest news on both the death of the
photographer and the graveyard cases. She filled Mike in about
some new things that were being looked at by the police: a
handkerchief with blood stains, a candlestick holder, a number
95

of kitchenware items, and womens underwear that were found

folded in a newspaper.
She also told Mike that no one knew who owned the pink
briefs; only that they had been found at the apartment that was
owned by the photographer who had been killed. Mike mulled
all of this over in his head as he gazed out the window at the
snowflakes coming down. He still needed to pick up a few
things at the drugstore and, as Karen had said, they had a dinner
date at his apartment later that night. Just then the loudspeaker
in his apartment came to life.
There was a UPS man with a box that needed to be signed
for. Mike signed for it as the snowflakes fell, and he went back
inside his apartment.
He wiped his eyeglasses with a handkerchief and looked
for the name of the sender. He found none. He placed the box
on the television set and slowly opened it. The snowflakes on
the box had begun to melt as Mike pried the box open.
On the top of the box was an illustration of some occult
symbol. Inside he found a videocassette, womens underwear, a
candlestick, and a photo of the last victim, the photographer.
There was also a note jotted on a copy of the newspaper from
the day this last victim died. It simply said: The graveyard on
the mountainside rocks. That was it. Mike was hoping the
videocassette that was in the box might supply more facts. He
stuffed the videocassette into his coat pocket and left his
apartment. He was aware that it was now known that he was a
player in the case. But who knew? And what did they know?

5 _______________
As Mike walked to his car, the snowflakes fell harder. He
heard a noise like a firecracker and saw an apartment tenant
begin to start his car. Boy, was Mike edgy.
You would not need a jackhammer to get his notice. He
really should not allow things to get to him. He knew how to
79

97 96

focus. He was a weightlifter, for crying out loud.

He knew how to block things out, and here he was, made
all edgy by some case. Go figure.
Drawn in the snow on the window of his car was the same
weird illustration that Mike had found on the box. It gave him
the creeps. He wiped the snowflakes off of his car and headed to
the college. The receptionist in the media center showed Mike
where he could find books on pagan rites.
There were many more than he thought there would be.
The titles and covers were enough to make his hair stand on
end. One book had a naked witch on an altar with a candlestick.
A second book showed a graveyard ritual. A third showed a
number of female pagans in underwear acting out a number of
their rites. Mike could tell that the photographer for these prints
must have liked his work.
Each book had at least one illustration on the inside that
seemed to match the symbol that Mike kept coming across.
Mike sat down, fixed his eyeglasses, and began his study. As he
turned these topics over in his mind, he linked them to what he
knew about the cases. Many of the rites talked about in the
books could be done in a forest, on a mountainside, in a
graveyard, or in a city apartment for that matter. Mike knew that
what he read was pretty much the same as that which he had
seen on television.
He wanted to know if the bartender he had spoken to
might know about these rites. Maybe even Karen, his
receptionist, might be able to help.
He made a note to ask her that night over dinner. It seemed
to Mike that this day would never end. He still had to stop by
the gym. He was the only weightlifter who never had the same
gym hours.
Plus, he had to stop off at the drugstore and go home to
view that videocassette that had come to him in the mail. Maybe
his receptionist would like to be filled in on the case. Mike

made it a habit to bounce ideas off of Karen. He was amazed at

just how smart his receptionist was.
She always made it a point to drop by Mikes apartment
when she had ideas that could be of help to him. The last time
she had helped out, she nearly made the newspaper.
As Mikes mind went adrift back to that night, the
loudspeaker in the town media center blared like a firecracker. A
voice said that the center was about to close for the day. Mike
used his media center card to check out a number of those books
and gave the cute receptionist behind the desk his thanks for her
help.
Mike left the college amid a flurry of snowflakes and
picked up a newspaper. He looked in the television guide to see
what was on the box that night. If his dinner date with his
receptionist was a bust, he could always watch a movie on
television or rent a videocassette.
No one saw the figure hiding in the night. The killer stood
in the dark in the alley next to an apartment. He gazed over at
the snowflakes as his grip on the candlestick holder became
tight. He liked the night. It was so dark and cold. He wiped his
eyeglasses with a handkerchief as he waited. He smiled as he
began to think about the body he had left on the mountainside,
and the illustration he had drawn in the snow.
The smile became even bigger when he mulled over what
he did to the other body in the graveyard.
That victim was young and pretty. She must have been
either a receptionist or a model who posed for a photographer.
She was a beauty. He began to think about the videocassette
tape he had made of her.
The only things she wore in the videocassette were her
eyeglasses and underwear. His mind raced.
Just then the door from the apartment house banged open.
The spring hinge of the door was broken, and the noise it made
when it hit the front of the wall was as loud as a firecracker. He
98

began to sweat and wiped his brow with his handkerchief.

A young man, a bartender by trade, exited the apartment
house. He only felt the first blow from the heavy candlestick
holder. His head ached like a jackhammer, but he was out before
he could feel the rest of the blows. The young mans eyeglasses
fell among the snowflakes as his body hit the ground.
This latest victim was lifted and put in the back of a van
that had an illustration of a tree and the moon on its side. The
slayer was a weightlifter and found it easy to drag the body of
the bartender into the van and slide the side door shut. He got
into the van with his victim and headed into the snowflakes
toward his own apartment.
It was now a little after dark and Mike had just arrived
home to his apartment. He had made a stop at his optometrist to
see if he could give him some drops for his eyes. After that he
went to the drugstore, got the drops, and went home. His health
plan card really saved him a lot of money.
He walked into his apartment and turned on the television.
There was a winter storm to watch that matched television. The
snowflakes that were coming down. He looked at the newspaper
for a short while, and then he began to get ready for his dinner
date. Karen, his able receptionist, would be by in a little while.
While the dinner cooked, Mike picked up things around
his apartment. He picked up his shorts, socks, and underwear
that were lying all about. Then he laid out the kitchenware. Just
then his loudspeaker buzzed. Mike, its Karen. Mike told her
to come on up.
Karen had only been to Mikes apartment a few times. She
was happy to see that Mike had laid out the nice kitchenware
and had placed a candlestick at each end of the table. You
know, Mike, Lt. Poole came by the office late today. He wanted
to share some ideas with you about both the mountainside and
graveyard cases.
Did he have any news about the bartender or the
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100

photographer? Karen said that he did. She told Mike that Carol
Fine, the receptionist for the photographer, was on television
last night. She said she had seen a number of models who
worked for the photographers coming out of his apartment the
day he was killed. Mike made a note of all of this.
t was just after nine when the phone in Mikes apartment rang.
Karen, his receptionist, was on the line. Mike put the phone on
loudspeaker and her voice came across as loud as a firecracker
as she filled him in on his new case.
He had heard about those two bodies found on the
mountainside from the news briefs on television and in the
newspaper. She said he was being asked to help out on the case.
Mike Thorn jumped out of bed, put on his eyeglasses first, then
his shirt, pants, and shoes, and headed to his office. He had a
sense that this was not going to be his day.
His car headed into the city just as snowflakes began to
fall. The drive from his apartment to his office was about a half
an hour long. If those snowflakes fell all day, the drive home
would take much longer. As the car radio played, Mike made a
mental note of the stops he had to make during the day.
His eyeglasses made his eyes sore, and, as Mike wiped
them with his handkerchief, he knew that they would have to be
looked at by his optometrist. His BMW hummed as Mike drove
it along Center City. He passed a drugstore, a bar, and a studio
owned by the citys top photographer. He had come to his
office. Mike parked the BMW making sure his lot permit decal
was placed in the window.
The decal had the permit number and an illustration of the
city flag on it. The last thing he needed was to have his car
towed away.
Mike moved with haste up the steps to his office on the
third floor. Well its about time, Karen said as she looked past
the television that showed the lobby on the floor below. Mike
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had had his office broken into a number of times, so a camera

had been put in and a videocassette made of anyone who enters
or exits the lobbies. His receptionist gave him the once over. On
most days, she was rather fond of her bosss looks. Today, he
looked like he had risen from a graveyard. In her mind, Karen
saw an illustration of some ugly corpse.
You look awful, she said with a mixed sense of humor
and regard. I know. I should have made a stop at the drugstore
to see if they have a pill for this dull pain in my head.
Mike had been heavy into booze at one time. As a matter
of fact, his days as a bartender had led him to drink. The gin
from last night hadnt done a thing for him, except cause his
head to throb the day after. It felt like hed been hit by a metal
candlestick holder, or like he had a jackhammer going off in his
brain.
His office looked like the kind you would see on
television. A desk, files, a couple of chairs, and a sink. Mike was
every bit the single P.I. On the top of his desk were some notes,
an illustration, and what was left of the meal he had had the
night before.
The kitchenware needed to be washed badly. The
newspaper needed to be tossed out. His underwear, socks, and
T-shirt from the day before needed to be picked up and either
washed or thrown out. Here he was, a weightlifter in his spare
time, and yet he could not even pick up his own things.
He sank into his chair as he gazed out of the window at the
snowflakes coming from the sky. He had to admit they did look
pretty.
It made him think of an illustration he once owned. A
photographer could get a couple of nice shots around here.
Boston in the winter was rather cold, but he liked it just the
same. Hed rather have his own house, but his apartment suited
his style of life for now. He popped a videocassette in and
turned on the television. It was a tape of last nights news with
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that story about the mountainside murder. There was a report

that the victim might be a bartender who had gotten in over his
head with loans.
Others said it was a photographer who was into making
sex films on videocassette. The news report talked about the
bloody handkerchief found at the scene, and womens
underwear found in the pocket of the victim. A member of the
police force would only say that the man, a male about forty
years of age, had been beaten with a blunt object, like a
candlestick holder; taken from his apartment, and dumped in
this mountainside graveyard.
The area where the body lay was so rocky that one would
need a jackhammer to dig a hole deep enough for the body.
Mike fixed his eyeglasses as he sat in front of the
television screen. This same news clip next showed his former
boss, Lt. Sam Poole, using a loudspeaker to keep people away
from the site. Just as Mike began to think about the case, his
receptionist called him.
Mike, a Lt. Poole would like to talk to you if you have the
time. He never had the time, but told Karen to tell him hed see
him within the hour.
A weary Michael Thorn made his way past his receptionist
and headed down the stairs and off to see his former boss. He
walked out into the snow and looked up at the snowflakes
coming down. They began to stick to his eyeglasses. He wiped
them with his handkerchief and headed for his car. His permit to
park was still in view. He turned the key to his BMW and
pumped the gas. It roared to life, popped like a firecracker, and
then he pulled out onto Broad Street and headed east.
Mike was hoping to have enough time later to go to the
gym. He was an avid weightlifter and runner. When he had been
a bartender, Mike always worked out after his shift. Once, a
photographer even asked him if hed like to make a muscle
videocassette. The money would have paid his apartment rent
103

for half a year, but the idea really didnt excite him too much.
Karen, his receptionist, had told him that he should do it, but
still he could not have cared less.
He did, though, pose for an illustration that was used in an
ad for the gym where he worked out.
As his car moved closer to the center of town, Mike used
his handkerchief to clean the fog off of the inside, of the
window. His breath still took shape on the window, and even his
eyeglasses had begun to fog up.
This snow and cold had the city in its grip. The
receptionist at Lt. Pooles office had her boss paged on the
loudspeaker after Mike showed her his I.D. He killed time with
her as she talked about her kids, a kitchenware party, and three
videocassettes of sexy underwear from one of the womens
shops on Fifth Avenue. All in all, Mike was bored out of his
mind. She was nice and pretty, but Mike just didnt care.
A woman like this with kids just meant that dating her
would be a hassle. Mike looked at an illustration on the wall
that was, no doubt, drawn by one of her kids. Just then the
office door shut with a bang. Mike and the receptionist both
jumped with a start. The bang was loud enough to be either a
firecracker, or even a gun.
Well, Mike. Long time no see. How have you been? Lt.
Poole was direct and filled Mike in on the last items of the
mountainside case. He even told Mike about things the
television and newspaper had not stated.
Wed like you to help us out, Mike. Mike took off his
eyeglasses and peered at his former boss. Whats in it for me?
he said. Your name in the newspaper and on the television. It
would be great for your name. Ever since the day Mike was
fired from the force and had turned in his badge and gun, he
swore he would never do a thing to help them. He was good as a
P.I. and told Sam that he needed time to think it over. Hed
always liked his ex-boss, and Mike knew that Sam wasnt guilty
104

of having him fired. Mike said hed be in touch, walked past the
receptionist, and headed for the local tavern.
The Crows Nest was Mikes choice as the place to have a
few drinks. The bartender got him a rum and coke, and Mike let
his mind drift. A newspaper lay on the bar, and Mike fixed his
eyeglasses, and looked over the latest news. Page one ran a
story on the mountainside case.
It said that the police had talked to people who had seen
the victim the day before the murder took place. A drugstore
worker had been called in to speak to the police about what he
knew. An expert optometrist, an underwear model, and the
owner of a videocassette store were also talked to as well. The
newspaper didnt say much else. Mike turned the pages.
An ad for kitchenware here. An ad for a cheap
photographer there. On the next page a weightlifter with a
handkerchief tied around his brow touted the latest gym. Mike
looked up at the television in the bar.
The man on T.V. said the snowflakes would fall late into
the night and that more snow was coming later in the week. He
had an illustration to point this out. More snow. Great.
Mike pulled out his I. D. and called the bartender over.
The man making the drinks behind the bar said his name was
Bill. and asked how he could be of help to Mike.
Mike said, What do you really think about this
mountainside murder thats been in the news? It looked like the
bartender hadnt really given it much of his time. To tell you
the truth, this place hasnt been as dead as a graveyard, and I
havent really had the time to pay much mind to the television. I
have looked in the newspaper, but mainly for a new apartment.
My lease is almost up on the one Im in now, and I need a
change. Just then the television blared like a loudspeaker. A
news report came on. There was Lt. Poole again. He spoke to
the media about a second murder. A photographer had been
found dead in his apartment early that same day.
105

He had been bound and gagged with a very strong

handkerchief. No I. D. was found on the body, but it was more
than likely Frank Nicci, a top photographer in Boston. The
television showed the inside of the bloody apartment. Then it
showed the body. Niccis eyeglasses were on his face, but
broken. And that wasnt all that was broken.
The body itself lay next to a candlestick, some books, a
camera, and a few drugs. On one wall inside the apartment, a
person had drawn an eerie symbol in blood. Mike fixed his
eyeglasses and took a closer look at the illustration.
Drawn in blood on the wall was a map of the mountainside
area. The graveyard was also marked. The television camera
panned around the apartment. In one corner were videocassette
tapes and womens underwear. Clues, Mike mused, or just part
of Niccis stock and trade.
The television camera panned back to Poole with
snowflakes coming down around him. As he summed up the
stance of the police on the case, one of the women from the city
newspaper asked him if this might be tied into the murder last
month of the citys number one crime boss, Pat Verde. He ran
what the police and newspaper called the drugstore. Verde had
been a drug lord in the truest sense of the word. Poole wiped his
brow with a handkerchief, and said the police were not able to
tie the two into each other at this point in time. He said it would
be a while before they would know if the deaths of the
photographer and Verde were linked.
As Mike sat there gazing at the television, he felt eyes on
the back of his head. He looked out the corner of his eye to find
the eyes of the piano player on him. The man at the keys had
once played in a number of music shows in the city. Mike was
aware of more than one story in the newspaper about him. He
was also able to recall an illustration of the man in a number of
ads around the city.
He had really been known around town for his talent in
106

music. Mike fixed his eyeglasses, made a mental note of this

guy, paid his tab, and left.
Moving out onto the street, Mike peered down the street as
the snowflakes fell. There was a chill in the air, and Mike got
into his car and headed off to the mountainside to visit the
graveyard site where the first body had been found. When he
got there, Mike took note of how rocky the area was.
A jackhammer would have been needed to dig into the
mountainside. Either a jackhammer, or maybe some TNT. A
large firecracker would not have had any effect on moving this
stone.
Mike eyed the area. Using his handkerchief to ensure his
prints would not be left in the area, Mike began to sift through
some of the debris.
Snowflakes had all but hidden most of the ground, but
Mike still was able to comb the mountainside murder scene. He
fixed his eyeglasses as he wished he had taken his tools from his
apartment to help with this course of action. Just then, Mike
heard a car pull up behind him. A voice on a loudspeaker asked
for I. D. Mike, blind from the cars lights, made an effort to
show his badge. The cars motor was turned off, and a figure got
out. It was Sam Poole. Find any clues yet, Mike? Hell, Sam,
you caught me off guard. What are you doing here? The
newspaper and television people said you were done here.
Sam told Mike about how the snowflakes had really cut
the mountainside probe short. Mike, the bureau photographer
found some clues in his shots, and I wanted to follow up on
them.
It seemed that some of those shots taken by the
photographer showed what looked to be a candlestick holder
and bones in the snow. These were next to a weird illustration
that was drawn there in the snow. There was talk that maybe this
graveyard murder was linked to some black magic ritual.
Mike didnt think much of magic and voodoo. He had
107

rented a videocassette one night about how people with no

social life and no ties to the real world took part in these
graveyard rites. This kind of stuff was also fodder for many of
the talk shows on television. Guests came onto these shows to
reveal how their rites were done, not only out in nature, but
even in their own apartment.
On one show the host played a videocassette of a grisly
ritual. It showed a young lady in just her underwear using what
looked like normal kitchenware to slash her wrists and allow her
blood to run into a silver cup. As the light from a candlestick
barely lit up the room of the small apartment, the young lady
spoke her ritual chant. Mike wasnt moved by it. The show
talked about how many people who took part in this stuff lead
normal lives.
There was a bartender, a photographer, and a receptionist
all saying how much they got out of this form of ritual. The host
even showed an illustration of one of the rites. To Mike, it
looked like some kind of cult. Of course, on the show the real
names of these people were never given. This type of show
always ran during the sweeps.
Mike cut his visit with Sam short and headed to the local
college. He knew hed find books about these kinds of rites
there. But first, hed make a quick stop at his apartment and
check in by phone with Karen, his receptionist.
She told him about the latest news on both the death of the
photographer and the graveyard cases. She filled Mike in about
some new things that were being looked at by the police: a
handkerchief with blood stains, a candlestick holder, a number
of kitchenware items, and womens underwear that were found
folded in a newspaper.
She also told Mike that no one knew who owned the pink
briefs; only that they had been found at the apartment that was
owned by the photographer who had been killed. Mike mulled
all of this over in his head as he gazed out the window at the
108

snowflakes coming down. He still needed to pick up a few

things at the drugstore and, as Karen had said, they had a dinner
date at his apartment later that night. Just then the loudspeaker
in his apartment came to life.
There was a UPS man with a box that needed to be signed
for. Mike signed for it as the snowflakes fell, and he went back
inside his apartment.
He wiped his eyeglasses with a handkerchief and looked
for the name of the sender. He found none. He placed the box
on the television set and slowly opened it. The snowflakes on
the box had begun to melt as Mike pried the box open.
On the top of the box was an illustration of some occult
symbol. Inside he found a videocassette, womens underwear, a
candlestick, and a photo of the last victim, the photographer.
There was also a note jotted on a copy of the newspaper from
the day this last victim died. It simply said: The graveyard on
the mountainside rocks. That was it. Mike was hoping the
videocassette that was in the box might supply more facts. He
stuffed the videocassette into his coat pocket and left his
apartment. He was aware that it was now known that he was a
player in the case. But who knew? And what did they know?
As Mike walked to his car, the snowflakes fell harder. He
heard a noise like a firecracker and saw an apartment tenant
begin to start his car. Boy, was Mike edgy.
You would not need a jackhammer to get his notice. He
really should not allow things to get to him. He knew how to
focus. He was a weightlifter, for crying out loud.
He knew how to block things out, and here he was, made
all edgy by some case. Go figure.
Drawn in the snow on the window of his car was the same
weird illustration that Mike had found on the box. It gave him
the creeps. He wiped the snowflakes off of his car and headed to
the college. The receptionist in the media center showed Mike
where he could find books on pagan rites.
109
110

There were many more than he thought there would be.

The titles and covers were enough to make his hair stand on
end. One book had a naked witch on an altar with a candlestick.
A second book showed a graveyard ritual. A third showed a
number of female pagans in underwear acting out a number of
their rites. Mike could tell that the photographer for these prints
must have liked his work.
Each book had at least one illustration on the inside that
seemed to match the symbol that Mike kept coming across.
Mike sat down, fixed his eyeglasses, and began his study. As he
turned these topics over in his mind, he linked them to what he
knew about the cases. Many of the rites talked about in the
books could be done in a forest, on a mountainside, in a
graveyard, or in a city apartment for that matter. Mike knew that
what he read was pretty much the same as that which he had
seen on television.
He wanted to know if the bartender he had spoken to
might know about these rites. Maybe even Karen, his
receptionist, might be able to help.
He made a note to ask her that night over dinner. It seemed
to Mike that this day would never end. He still had to stop by
the gym. He was the only weightlifter who never had the same
gym hours.
Plus, he had to stop off at the drugstore and go home to
view that videocassette that had come to him in the mail. Maybe
his receptionist would like to be filled in on the case. Mike
made it a habit to bounce ideas off of Karen. He was amazed at
just how smart his receptionist was.
She always made it a point to drop by Mikes apartment
when she had ideas that could be of help to him. The last time
she had helped out, she nearly made the newspaper.
As Mikes mind went adrift back to that night, the
loudspeaker in the town media center blared like a firecracker. A
voice said that the center was about to close for the day. Mike
102

used his media center card to check out a number of those books
and gave the cute receptionist behind the desk his thanks for her
help.
Mike left the college amid a flurry of snowflakes and
picked up a newspaper. He looked in the television guide to see
what was on the box that night. If his dinner date with his
receptionist was a bust, he could always watch a movie on
television or rent a videocassette.
No one saw the figure hiding in the night. The killer stood
in the dark in the alley next to an apartment. He gazed over at
the snowflakes as his grip on the candlestick holder became
tight. He liked the night. It was so dark and cold. He wiped his
eyeglasses with a handkerchief as he waited. He smiled as he
began to think about the body he had left on the mountainside,
and the illustration he had drawn in the snow.
The smile became even bigger when he mulled over what
he did to the other body in the graveyard.
That victim was young and pretty. She must have been
either a receptionist or a model who posed for a photographer.
She was a beauty. He began to think about the videocassette
tape he had made of her.
The only things she wore in the videocassette were her
eyeglasses and underwear. His mind raced.
Just then the door from the apartment house banged open.
The spring hinge of the door was broken, and the noise it made
when it hit the front of the wall was as loud as a firecracker. He
began to sweat and wiped his brow with his handkerchief.
A young man, a bartender by trade, exited the apartment
house. He only felt the first blow from the heavy candlestick
holder. His head ached like a jackhammer, but he was out before
he could feel the rest of the blows. The young mans eyeglasses
fell among the snowflakes as his body hit the ground.
This latest victim was lifted and put in the back of a van
that had an illustration of a tree and the moon on its side. The
111

slayer was a weightlifter and found it easy to drag the body of

the bartender into the van and slide the side door shut. He got
into the van with his victim and headed into the snowflakes
toward his own apartment.
It was now a little after dark and Mike had just arrived
home to his apartment. He had made a stop at his optometrist to
see if he could give him some drops for his eyes. After that he
went to the drugstore, got the drops, and went home. His health
plan card really saved him a lot of money.
He walked into his apartment and turned on the television.
There was a winter storm to watch that matched television. The
snowflakes that were coming down. He looked at the newspaper
for a short while, and then he began to get ready for his dinner
date. Karen, his able receptionist, would be by in a little while.
While the dinner cooked, Mike picked up things around
his apartment. He picked up his shorts, socks, and underwear
that were lying all about. Then he laid out the kitchenware. Just
then his loudspeaker buzzed. Mike, its Karen. Mike told her
to come on up.
Karen had only been to Mikes apartment a few times. She
was happy to see that Mike had laid out the nice kitchenware
and had placed a candlestick at each end of the table. You
know, Mike, Lt. Poole came by the office late today. He wanted
to share some ideas with you about both the mountainside and
graveyard cases.
Did he have any news about the bartender or the
photographer? Karen said that he did. She told Mike that Carol
Fine, the receptionist for the photographer, was on television
last night. She said she had seen a number of models who
worked for the photographers coming out of his apartment the
day he was killed. Mike made a note of all of this.
t was just after nine when the phone in Mikes apartment rang.
Karen, his receptionist, was on the line. Mike put the phone on
loudspeaker and her voice came across as loud as a firecracker
112

as she filled him in on his new case.

He had heard about those two bodies found on the
mountainside from the news briefs on television and in the
newspaper. She said he was being asked to help out on the case.
Mike Thorn jumped out of bed, put on his eyeglasses first, then
his shirt, pants, and shoes, and headed to his office. He had a
sense that this was not going to be his day.
His car headed into the city just as snowflakes began to
fall. The drive from his apartment to his office was about a half
an hour long. If those snowflakes fell all day, the drive home
would take much longer. As the car radio played, Mike made a
mental note of the stops he had to make during the day.
His eyeglasses made his eyes sore, and, as Mike wiped
them with his handkerchief, he knew that they would have to be
looked at by his optometrist. His BMW hummed as Mike drove
it along Center City. He passed a drugstore, a bar, and a studio
owned by the citys top photographer. He had come to his
office. Mike parked the BMW making sure his lot permit decal
was placed in the window.
The decal had the permit number and an illustration of the
city flag on it. The last thing he needed was to have his car
towed away.
Mike moved with haste up the steps to his office on the
third floor. Well its about time, Karen said as she looked past
the television that showed the lobby on the floor below. Mike
had had his office broken into a number of times, so a camera
had been put in and a videocassette made of anyone who enters
or exits the lobbies. His receptionist gave him the once over. On
most days, she was rather fond of her bosss looks. Today, he
looked like he had risen from a graveyard. In her mind, Karen
saw an illustration of some ugly corpse.
You look awful, she said with a mixed sense of humor
and regard. I know. I should have made a stop at the drugstore
to see if they have a pill for this dull pain in my head.
113

Mike had been heavy into booze at one time. As a matter

of fact, his days as a bartender had led him to drink. The gin
from last night hadnt done a thing for him, except cause his
head to throb the day after. It felt like hed been hit by a metal
candlestick holder, or like he had a jackhammer going off in his
brain.
His office looked like the kind you would see on
television. A desk, files, a couple of chairs, and a sink. Mike was
every bit the single P.I. On the top of his desk were some notes,
an illustration, and what was left of the meal he had had the
night before.
The kitchenware needed to be washed badly. The
newspaper needed to be tossed out. His underwear, socks, and
T-shirt from the day before needed to be picked up and either
washed or thrown out. Here he was, a weightlifter in his spare
time, and yet he could not even pick up his own things.
He sank into his chair as he gazed out of the window at the
snowflakes coming from the sky. He had to admit they did look
pretty.
It made him think of an illustration he once owned. A
photographer could get a couple of nice shots around here.
Boston in the winter was rather cold, but he liked it just the
same. Hed rather have his own house, but his apartment suited
his style of life for now. He popped a videocassette in and
turned on the television. It was a tape of last nights news with
that story about the mountainside murder. There was a report
that the victim might be a bartender who had gotten in over his
head with loans.
Others said it was a photographer who was into making
sex films on videocassette. The news report talked about the
bloody handkerchief found at the scene, and womens
underwear found in the pocket of the victim. A member of the
police force would only say that the man, a male about forty
years of age, had been beaten with a blunt object, like a
114

candlestick holder; taken from his apartment, and dumped in

this mountainside graveyard.
The area where the body lay was so rocky that one would
need a jackhammer to dig a hole deep enough for the body.
Mike fixed his eyeglasses as he sat in front of the
television screen. This same news clip next showed his former
boss, Lt. Sam Poole, using a loudspeaker to keep people away
from the site. Just as Mike began to think about the case, his
receptionist called him.
Mike, a Lt. Poole would like to talk to you if you have the
time. He never had the time, but told Karen to tell him hed see
him within the hour.
A weary Michael Thorn made his way past his receptionist
and headed down the stairs and off to see his former boss. He
walked out into the snow and looked up at the snowflakes
coming down. They began to stick to his eyeglasses. He wiped
them with his handkerchief and headed for his car. His permit to
park was still in view. He turned the key to his BMW and
pumped the gas. It roared to life, popped like a firecracker, and
then he pulled out onto Broad Street and headed east.
Mike was hoping to have enough time later to go to the
gym. He was an avid weightlifter and runner. When he had been
a bartender, Mike always worked out after his shift. Once, a
photographer even asked him if hed like to make a muscle
videocassette. The money would have paid his apartment rent
for half a year, but the idea really didnt excite him too much.
Karen, his receptionist, had told him that he should do it, but
still he could not have cared less.
He did, though, pose for an illustration that was used in an
ad for the gym where he worked out.
As his car moved closer to the center of town, Mike used
his handkerchief to clean the fog off of the inside, of the
window. His breath still took shape on the window, and even his
eyeglasses had begun to fog up.
116
115

This snow and cold had the city in its grip. The
receptionist at Lt. Pooles office had her boss paged on the
loudspeaker after Mike showed her his I.D. He killed time with
her as she talked about her kids, a kitchenware party, and three
videocassettes of sexy underwear from one of the womens
shops on Fifth Avenue. All in all, Mike was bored out of his
mind. She was nice and pretty, but Mike just didnt care.
A woman like this with kids just meant that dating her
would be a hassle. Mike looked at an illustration on the wall
that was, no doubt, drawn by one of her kids. Just then the
office door shut with a bang. Mike and the receptionist both
jumped with a start. The bang was loud enough to be either a
firecracker, or even a gun.

6 _______________
Well, Mike. Long time no see. How have you been? Lt.
Poole was direct and filled Mike in on the last items of the
mountainside case. He even told Mike about things the
television and newspaper had not stated.
Wed like you to help us out, Mike. Mike took off his
eyeglasses and peered at his former boss. Whats in it for me?
he said. Your name in the newspaper and on the television. It
would be great for your name. Ever since the day Mike was
fired from the force and had turned in his badge and gun, he
swore he would never do a thing to help them. He was good as a
P.I. and told Sam that he needed time to think it over. Hed
always liked his ex-boss, and Mike knew that Sam wasnt guilty
of having him fired. Mike said hed be in touch, walked past the
receptionist, and headed for the local tavern.
The Crows Nest was Mikes choice as the place to have a
few drinks. The bartender got him a rum and coke, and Mike let
his mind drift. A newspaper lay on the bar, and Mike fixed his
eyeglasses, and looked over the latest news. Page one ran a
story on the mountainside case.
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It said that the police had talked to people who had seen
the victim the day before the murder took place. A drugstore
worker had been called in to speak to the police about what he
knew. An expert optometrist, an underwear model, and the
owner of a videocassette store were also talked to as well. The
newspaper didnt say much else. Mike turned the pages.
An ad for kitchenware here. An ad for a cheap
photographer there. On the next page a weightlifter with a
handkerchief tied around his brow touted the latest gym. Mike
looked up at the television in the bar.
The man on T.V. said the snowflakes would fall late into
the night and that more snow was coming later in the week. He
had an illustration to point this out. More snow. Great.
Mike pulled out his I. D. and called the bartender over.
The man making the drinks behind the bar said his name was
Bill. and asked how he could be of help to Mike.
Mike said, What do you really think about this
mountainside murder thats been in the news? It looked like the
bartender hadnt really given it much of his time. To tell you
the truth, this place hasnt been as dead as a graveyard, and I
havent really had the time to pay much mind to the television. I
have looked in the newspaper, but mainly for a new apartment.
My lease is almost up on the one Im in now, and I need a
change. Just then the television blared like a loudspeaker. A
news report came on. There was Lt. Poole again. He spoke to
the media about a second murder. A photographer had been
found dead in his apartment early that same day.
He had been bound and gagged with a very strong
handkerchief. No I. D. was found on the body, but it was more
than likely Frank Nicci, a top photographer in Boston. The
television showed the inside of the bloody apartment. Then it
showed the body. Niccis eyeglasses were on his face, but
broken. And that wasnt all that was broken.
The body itself lay next to a candlestick, some books, a
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camera, and a few drugs. On one wall inside the apartment, a

person had drawn an eerie symbol in blood. Mike fixed his
eyeglasses and took a closer look at the illustration.
Drawn in blood on the wall was a map of the mountainside
area. The graveyard was also marked. The television camera
panned around the apartment. In one corner were videocassette
tapes and womens underwear. Clues, Mike mused, or just part
of Niccis stock and trade.
The television camera panned back to Poole with
snowflakes coming down around him. As he summed up the
stance of the police on the case, one of the women from the city
newspaper asked him if this might be tied into the murder last
month of the citys number one crime boss, Pat Verde. He ran
what the police and newspaper called the drugstore. Verde had
been a drug lord in the truest sense of the word. Poole wiped his
brow with a handkerchief, and said the police were not able to
tie the two into each other at this point in time. He said it would
be a while before they would know if the deaths of the
photographer and Verde were linked.
As Mike sat there gazing at the television, he felt eyes on
the back of his head. He looked out the corner of his eye to find
the eyes of the piano player on him. The man at the keys had
once played in a number of music shows in the city. Mike was
aware of more than one story in the newspaper about him. He
was also able to recall an illustration of the man in a number of
ads around the city.
He had really been known around town for his talent in
music. Mike fixed his eyeglasses, made a mental note of this
guy, paid his tab, and left.
Moving out onto the street, Mike peered down the street as
the snowflakes fell. There was a chill in the air, and Mike got
into his car and headed off to the mountainside to visit the
graveyard site where the first body had been found. When he
got there, Mike took note of how rocky the area was.

A jackhammer would have been needed to dig into the

mountainside. Either a jackhammer, or maybe some TNT. A
large firecracker would not have had any effect on moving this
stone.
Mike eyed the area. Using his handkerchief to ensure his
prints would not be left in the area, Mike began to sift through
some of the debris.
Snowflakes had all but hidden most of the ground, but
Mike still was able to comb the mountainside murder scene. He
fixed his eyeglasses as he wished he had taken his tools from his
apartment to help with this course of action. Just then, Mike
heard a car pull up behind him. A voice on a loudspeaker asked
for I. D. Mike, blind from the cars lights, made an effort to
show his badge. The cars motor was turned off, and a figure got
out. It was Sam Poole. Find any clues yet, Mike? Hell, Sam,
you caught me off guard. What are you doing here? The
newspaper and television people said you were done here.
Sam told Mike about how the snowflakes had really cut
the mountainside probe short. Mike, the bureau photographer
found some clues in his shots, and I wanted to follow up on
them.
It seemed that some of those shots taken by the
photographer showed what looked to be a candlestick holder
and bones in the snow. These were next to a weird illustration
that was drawn there in the snow. There was talk that maybe this
graveyard murder was linked to some black magic ritual.
Mike didnt think much of magic and voodoo. He had
rented a videocassette one night about how people with no
social life and no ties to the real world took part in these
graveyard rites. This kind of stuff was also fodder for many of
the talk shows on television. Guests came onto these shows to
reveal how their rites were done, not only out in nature, but
even in their own apartment.
On one show the host played a videocassette of a grisly
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119

ritual. It showed a young lady in just her underwear using what

looked like normal kitchenware to slash her wrists and allow her
blood to run into a silver cup. As the light from a candlestick
barely lit up the room of the small apartment, the young lady
spoke her ritual chant. Mike wasnt moved by it. The show
talked about how many people who took part in this stuff lead
normal lives.
There was a bartender, a photographer, and a receptionist
all saying how much they got out of this form of ritual. The host
even showed an illustration of one of the rites. To Mike, it
looked like some kind of cult. Of course, on the show the real
names of these people were never given. This type of show
always ran during the sweeps.
Mike cut his visit with Sam short and headed to the local
college. He knew hed find books about these kinds of rites
there. But first, hed make a quick stop at his apartment and
check in by phone with Karen, his receptionist.
She told him about the latest news on both the death of the
photographer and the graveyard cases. She filled Mike in about
8
some new things that were being looked at by the police: a
handkerchief with blood stains, a candlestick holder, a number
of kitchenware items, and womens underwear that were found
folded in a newspaper.
She also told Mike that no one knew who owned the pink
briefs; only that they had been found at the apartment that was
owned by the photographer who had been killed. Mike mulled
all of this over in his head as he gazed out the window at the
snowflakes coming down. He still needed to pick up a few
things at the drugstore and, as Karen had said, they had a dinner
date at his apartment later that night. Just then the loudspeaker
in his apartment came to life.
There was a UPS man with a box that needed to be signed
for. Mike signed for it as the snowflakes fell, and he went back
inside his apartment.
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121

He wiped his eyeglasses with a handkerchief and looked

for the name of the sender. He found none. He placed the box
on the television set and slowly opened it. The snowflakes on
the box had begun to melt as Mike pried the box open.
On the top of the box was an illustration of some occult
symbol. Inside he found a videocassette, womens underwear, a
candlestick, and a photo of the last victim, the photographer.
There was also a note jotted on a copy of the newspaper from
the day this last victim died. It simply said: The graveyard on
the mountainside rocks. That was it. Mike was hoping the
videocassette that was in the box might supply more facts. He
stuffed the videocassette into his coat pocket and left his
apartment. He was aware that it was now known that he was a
player in the case. But who knew? And what did they know?
As Mike walked to his car, the snowflakes fell harder. He
heard a noise like a firecracker and saw an apartment tenant
begin to start his car. Boy, was Mike edgy.
You would not need a jackhammer to get his notice. He
really should not allow things to get to him. He knew how to
focus. He was a weightlifter, for crying out loud.
He knew how to block things out, and here he was, made
all edgy by some case. Go figure.
Drawn in the snow on the window of his car was the same
weird illustration that Mike had found on the box. It gave him
the creeps. He wiped the snowflakes off of his car and headed to
the college. The receptionist in the media center showed Mike
where he could find books on pagan rites.
There were many more than he thought there would be.
The titles and covers were enough to make his hair stand on
end. One book had a naked witch on an altar with a candlestick.
A second book showed a graveyard ritual. A third showed a
number of female pagans in underwear acting out a number of
their rites. Mike could tell that the photographer for these prints
must have liked his work.
122

Each book had at least one illustration on the inside that

seemed to match the symbol that Mike kept coming across.
Mike sat down, fixed his eyeglasses, and began his study. As he
turned these topics over in his mind, he linked them to what he
knew about the cases. Many of the rites talked about in the
books could be done in a forest, on a mountainside, in a
graveyard, or in a city apartment for that matter. Mike knew that
what he read was pretty much the same as that which he had
seen on television.
He wanted to know if the bartender he had spoken to
might know about these rites. Maybe even Karen, his
receptionist, might be able to help.
He made a note to ask her that night over dinner. It seemed
to Mike that this day would never end. He still had to stop by
the gym. He was the only weightlifter who never had the same
gym hours.
Plus, he had to stop off at the drugstore and go home to
view that videocassette that had come to him in the mail. Maybe
his receptionist would like to be filled in on the case. Mike
made it a habit to bounce ideas off of Karen. He was amazed at
just how smart his receptionist was.
She always made it a point to drop by Mikes apartment
when she had ideas that could be of help to him. The last time
she had helped out, she nearly made the newspaper.
As Mikes mind went adrift back to that night, the
loudspeaker in the town media center blared like a firecracker. A
voice said that the center was about to close for the day. Mike
used his media center card to check out a number of those books
and gave the cute receptionist behind the desk his thanks for her
help.
Mike left the college amid a flurry of snowflakes and
picked up a newspaper. He looked in the television guide to see
what was on the box that night. If his dinner date with his
receptionist was a bust, he could always watch a movie on
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102

television or rent a videocassette.

No one saw the figure hiding in the night. The killer stood
in the dark in the alley next to an apartment. He gazed over at
the snowflakes as his grip on the candlestick holder became
tight. He liked the night. It was so dark and cold. He wiped his
eyeglasses with a handkerchief as he waited. He smiled as he
began to think about the body he had left on the mountainside,
and the illustration he had drawn in the snow.
The smile became even bigger when he mulled over what
he did to the other body in the graveyard.
That victim was young and pretty. She must have been
either a receptionist or a model who posed for a photographer.
She was a beauty. He began to think about the videocassette
tape he had made of her.
The only things she wore in the videocassette were her
eyeglasses and underwear. His mind raced.
Just then the door from the apartment house banged open.
The spring hinge of the door was broken, and the noise it made
when it hit the front of the wall was as loud as a firecracker. He
began to sweat and wiped his brow with his handkerchief.
A young man, a bartender by trade, exited the apartment
house. He only felt the first blow from the heavy candlestick
holder. His head ached like a jackhammer, but he was out before
he could feel the rest of the blows. The young mans eyeglasses
fell among the snowflakes as his body hit the ground.
This latest victim was lifted and put in the back of a van
that had an illustration of a tree and the moon on its side. The
slayer was a weightlifter and found it easy to drag the body of
the bartender into the van and slide the side door shut. He got
into the van with his victim and headed into the snowflakes
toward his own apartment.
It was now a little after dark and Mike had just arrived
home to his apartment. He had made a stop at his optometrist to
see if he could give him some drops for his eyes. After that he

went to the drugstore, got the drops, and went home. His health
plan card really saved him a lot of money.
He walked into his apartment and turned on the television.
There was a winter storm to watch that matched television. The
snowflakes that were coming down. He looked at the newspaper
for a short while, and then he began to get ready for his dinner
date. Karen, his able receptionist, would be by in a little while.
While the dinner cooked, Mike picked up things around
his apartment. He picked up his shorts, socks, and underwear
that were lying all about. Then he laid out the kitchenware. Just
then his loudspeaker buzzed. Mike, its Karen. Mike told her
to come on up.
Karen had only been to Mikes apartment a few times. She
was happy to see that Mike had laid out the nice kitchenware
and had placed a candlestick at each end of the table. You
know, Mike, Lt. Poole came by the office late today. He wanted
to share some ideas with you about both the mountainside and
graveyard cases.
Did he have any news about the bartender or the
photographer? Karen said that he did. She told Mike that Carol
Fine, the receptionist for the photographer, was on television
last night. She said she had seen a number of models who
worked for the photographers coming out of his apartment the
day he was killed. Mike made a note of all of this.
t was just after nine when the phone in Mikes apartment rang.
Karen, his receptionist, was on the line. Mike put the phone on
loudspeaker and her voice came across as loud as a firecracker
as she filled him in on his new case.
He had heard about those two bodies found on the
mountainside from the news briefs on television and in the
newspaper. She said he was being asked to help out on the case.
Mike Thorn jumped out of bed, put on his eyeglasses first, then
his shirt, pants, and shoes, and headed to his office. He had a
sense that this was not going to be his day.
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102

His car headed into the city just as snowflakes began to

fall. The drive from his apartment to his office was about a half
an hour long. If those snowflakes fell all day, the drive home
would take much longer. As the car radio played, Mike made a
mental note of the stops he had to make during the day.
His eyeglasses made his eyes sore, and, as Mike wiped
them with his handkerchief, he knew that they would have to be
looked at by his optometrist. His BMW hummed as Mike drove
it along Center City. He passed a drugstore, a bar, and a studio
owned by the citys top photographer. He had come to his
office. Mike parked the BMW making sure his lot permit decal
was placed in the window.
The decal had the permit number and an illustration of the
city flag on it. The last thing he needed was to have his car
towed away.
Mike moved with haste up the steps to his office on the
third floor. Well its about time, Karen said as she looked past
the television that showed the lobby on the floor below. Mike
had had his office broken into a number of times, so a camera
had been put in and a videocassette made of anyone who enters
or exits the lobbies. His receptionist gave him the once over. On
most days, she was rather fond of her bosss looks. Today, he
looked like he had risen from a graveyard. In her mind, Karen
saw an illustration of some ugly corpse.
You look awful, she said with a mixed sense of humor
and regard. I know. I should have made a stop at the drugstore
to see if they have a pill for this dull pain in my head.
Mike had been heavy into booze at one time. As a matter
of fact, his days as a bartender had led him to drink. The gin
from last night hadnt done a thing for him, except cause his
head to throb the day after. It felt like hed been hit by a metal
candlestick holder, or like he had a jackhammer going off in his
brain.
His office looked like the kind you would see on

television. A desk, files, a couple of chairs, and a sink. Mike was

every bit the single P.I. On the top of his desk were some notes,
an illustration, and what was left of the meal he had had the
night before.
The kitchenware needed to be washed badly. The
newspaper needed to be tossed out. His underwear, socks, and
T-shirt from the day before needed to be picked up and either
washed or thrown out. Here he was, a weightlifter in his spare
time, and yet he could not even pick up his own things.
He sank into his chair as he gazed out of the window at the
snowflakes coming from the sky. He had to admit they did look
pretty.
It made him think of an illustration he once owned. A
photographer could get a couple of nice shots around here.
Boston in the winter was rather cold, but he liked it just the
same. Hed rather have his own house, but his apartment suited
his style of life for now. He popped a videocassette in and
turned on the television. It was a tape of last nights news with
that story about the mountainside murder. There was a report
that the victim might be a bartender who had gotten in over his
head with loans.
Others said it was a photographer who was into making
sex films on videocassette. The news report talked about the
bloody handkerchief found at the scene, and womens
underwear found in the pocket of the victim. A member of the
police force would only say that the man, a male about forty
years of age, had been beaten with a blunt object, like a
candlestick holder; taken from his apartment, and dumped in
this mountainside graveyard.
The area where the body lay was so rocky that one would
need a jackhammer to dig a hole deep enough for the body.
Mike fixed his eyeglasses as he sat in front of the
television screen. This same news clip next showed his former
boss, Lt. Sam Poole, using a loudspeaker to keep people away
127

from the site. Just as Mike began to think about the case, his
receptionist called him.
Mike, a Lt. Poole would like to talk to you if you have the
time. He never had the time, but told Karen to tell him hed see
him within the hour.
A weary Michael Thorn made his way past his receptionist
and headed down the stairs and off to see his former boss. He
walked out into the snow and looked up at the snowflakes
coming down. They began to stick to his eyeglasses. He wiped
them with his handkerchief and headed for his car. His permit to
park was still in view. He turned the key to his BMW and
pumped the gas. It roared to life, popped like a firecracker, and
then he pulled out onto Broad Street and headed east.
Mike was hoping to have enough time later to go to the
gym. He was an avid weightlifter and runner. When he had been
a bartender, Mike always worked out after his shift. Once, a
photographer even asked him if hed like to make a muscle
videocassette. The money would have paid his apartment rent
for half a year, but the idea really didnt excite him too much.
Karen, his receptionist, had told him that he should do it, but
still he could not have cared less.
He did, though, pose for an illustration that was used in an
ad for the gym where he worked out.
As his car moved closer to the center of town, Mike used
his handkerchief to clean the fog off of the inside, of the
window. His breath still took shape on the window, and even his
eyeglasses had begun to fog up.
This snow and cold had the city in its grip. The
receptionist at Lt. Pooles office had her boss paged on the
loudspeaker after Mike showed her his I.D. He killed time with
her as she talked about her kids, a kitchenware party, and three
videocassettes of sexy underwear from one of the womens
shops on Fifth Avenue. All in all, Mike was bored out of his
mind. She was nice and pretty, but Mike just didnt care.
128

A woman like this with kids just meant that dating her
would be a hassle. Mike looked at an illustration on the wall
that was, no doubt, drawn by one of her kids. Just then the
office door shut with a bang. Mike and the receptionist both
jumped with a start. The bang was loud enough to be either a
firecracker, or even a gun.
Well, Mike. Long time no see. How have you been? Lt.
Poole was direct and filled Mike in on the last items of the
mountainside case. He even told Mike about things the
television and newspaper had not stated.
Wed like you to help us out, Mike. Mike took off his
eyeglasses and peered at his former boss. Whats in it for me?
he said. Your name in the newspaper and on the television. It
would be great for your name. Ever since the day Mike was
fired from the force and had turned in his badge and gun, he
swore he would never do a thing to help them. He was good as a
P.I. and told Sam that he needed time to think it over. Hed
always liked his ex-boss, and Mike knew that Sam wasnt guilty
of having him fired. Mike said hed be in touch, walked past the
receptionist, and headed for the local tavern.
The Crows Nest was Mikes choice as the place to have a
few drinks. The bartender got him a rum and coke, and Mike let
his mind drift. A newspaper lay on the bar, and Mike fixed his
eyeglasses, and looked over the latest news. Page one ran a
story on the mountainside case.
It said that the police had talked to people who had seen
the victim the day before the murder took place. A drugstore
worker had been called in to speak to the police about what he
knew. An expert optometrist, an underwear model, and the
owner of a videocassette store were also talked to as well. The
newspaper didnt say much else. Mike turned the pages.
An ad for kitchenware here. An ad for a cheap
photographer there. On the next page a weightlifter with a
handkerchief tied around his brow touted the latest gym. Mike
129

looked up at the television in the bar.

The man on T.V. said the snowflakes would fall late into
the night and that more snow was coming later in the week. He
had an illustration to point this out. More snow. Great.
Mike pulled out his I. D. and called the bartender over.
The man making the drinks behind the bar said his name was
Bill. and asked how he could be of help to Mike.
Mike said, What do you really think about this
mountainside murder thats been in the news? It looked like the
bartender hadnt really given it much of his time. To tell you
the truth, this place hasnt been as dead as a graveyard, and I
havent really had the time to pay much mind to the television. I
have looked in the newspaper, but mainly for a new apartment.
My lease is almost up on the one Im in now, and I need a
change. Just then the television blared like a loudspeaker. A
news report came on. There was Lt. Poole again. He spoke to
the media about a second murder. A photographer had been
found dead in his apartment early that same day.
He had been bound and gagged with a very strong
handkerchief. No I. D. was found on the body, but it was more
than likely Frank Nicci, a top photographer in Boston. The
television showed the inside of the bloody apartment. Then it
showed the body. Niccis eyeglasses were on his face, but
broken. And that wasnt all that was broken.
The body itself lay next to a candlestick, some books, a
camera, and a few drugs. On one wall inside the apartment, a
person had drawn an eerie symbol in blood. Mike fixed his
eyeglasses and took a closer look at the illustration.
Drawn in blood on the wall was a map of the mountainside
area. The graveyard was also marked. The television camera
panned around the apartment. In one corner were videocassette
tapes and womens underwear. Clues, Mike mused, or just part
of Niccis stock and trade.
The television camera panned back to Poole with
130

snowflakes coming down around him. As he summed up the

stance of the police on the case, one of the women from the city
newspaper asked him if this might be tied into the murder last
month of the citys number one crime boss, Pat Verde. He ran
what the police and newspaper called the drugstore. Verde had
been a drug lord in the truest sense of the word. Poole wiped his
brow with a handkerchief, and said the police were not able to
tie the two into each other at this point in time. He said it would
be a while before they would know if the deaths of the
photographer and Verde were linked.
As Mike sat there gazing at the television, he felt eyes on
the back of his head. He looked out the corner of his eye to find
the eyes of the piano player on him. The man at the keys had
once played in a number of music shows in the city. Mike was
aware of more than one story in the newspaper about him. He
was also able to recall an illustration of the man in a number of
ads around the city.
He had really been known around town for his talent in
music. Mike fixed his eyeglasses, made a mental note of this
guy, paid his tab, and left.
Moving out onto the street, Mike peered down the street as
the snowflakes fell. There was a chill in the air, and Mike got
into his car and headed off to the mountainside to visit the
graveyard site where the first body had been found. When he
got there, Mike took note of how rocky the area was.
A jackhammer would have been needed to dig into the
mountainside. Either a jackhammer, or maybe some TNT. A
large firecracker would not have had any effect on moving this
stone.
Mike eyed the area. Using his handkerchief to ensure his
prints would not be left in the area, Mike began to sift through
some of the debris.
Snowflakes had all but hidden most of the ground, but
Mike still was able to comb the mountainside murder scene. He
131

fixed his eyeglasses as he wished he had taken his tools from his
apartment to help with this course of action. Just then, Mike
heard a car pull up behind him. A voice on a loudspeaker asked
for I. D. Mike, blind from the cars lights, made an effort to
show his badge. The cars motor was turned off, and a figure got
out. It was Sam Poole. Find any clues yet, Mike? Hell, Sam,
you caught me off guard. What are you doing here? The
newspaper and television people said you were done here.
Sam told Mike about how the snowflakes had really cut
the mountainside probe short. Mike, the bureau photographer
found some clues in his shots, and I wanted to follow up on
them.
It seemed that some of those shots taken by the
photographer showed what looked to be a candlestick holder
and bones in the snow. These were next to a weird illustration
that was drawn there in the snow. There was talk that maybe this
graveyard murder was linked to some black magic ritual.
Mike didnt think much of magic and voodoo. He had
rented a videocassette one night about how people with no
social life and no ties to the real world took part in these
graveyard rites. This kind of stuff was also fodder for many of
the talk shows on television. Guests came onto these shows to
reveal how their rites were done, not only out in nature, but
even in their own apartment.
On one show the host played a videocassette of a grisly
ritual. It showed a young lady in just her underwear using what
looked like normal kitchenware to slash her wrists and allow her
blood to run into a silver cup. As the light from a candlestick
barely lit up the room of the small apartment, the young lady
spoke her ritual chant. Mike wasnt moved by it. The show
talked about how many people who took part in this stuff lead
normal lives.
There was a bartender, a photographer, and a receptionist
all saying how much they got out of this form of ritual. The host
132

even showed an illustration of one of the rites. To Mike, it

looked like some kind of cult. Of course, on the show the real
names of these people were never given. This type of show
always ran during the sweeps.
Mike cut his visit with Sam short and headed to the local
college. He knew hed find books about these kinds of rites
there. But first, hed make a quick stop at his apartment and
check in by phone with Karen, his receptionist.
She told him about the latest news on both the death of the
photographer and the graveyard cases. She filled Mike in about
some new things that were being looked at by the police: a
handkerchief with blood stains, a candlestick holder, a number
of kitchenware items, and womens underwear that were found
folded in a newspaper.
She also told Mike that no one knew who owned the pink
briefs; only that they had been found at the apartment that was
owned by the photographer who had been killed. Mike mulled
all of this over in his head as he gazed out the window at the
snowflakes coming down. He still needed to pick up a few
things at the drugstore and, as Karen had said, they had a dinner
date at his apartment later that night. Just then the loudspeaker
in his apartment came to life.
There was a UPS man with a box that needed to be signed
for. Mike signed for it as the snowflakes fell, and he went back
inside his apartment.
He wiped his eyeglasses with a handkerchief and looked
for the name of the sender. He found none. He placed the box
on the television set and slowly opened it. The snowflakes on
the box had begun to melt as Mike pried the box open.
On the top of the box was an illustration of some occult
symbol. Inside he found a videocassette, womens underwear, a
candlestick, and a photo of the last victim, the photographer.
There was also a note jotted on a copy of the newspaper from
the day this last victim died. It simply said: The graveyard on
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134

the mountainside rocks. That was it. Mike was hoping the
videocassette that was in the box might supply more facts. He
stuffed the videocassette into his coat pocket and left his
apartment. He was aware that it was now known that he was a
player in the case. But who knew? And what did they know?
As Mike walked to his car, the snowflakes fell harder. He
heard a noise like a firecracker and saw an apartment tenant
begin to start his car. Boy, was Mike edgy.
You would not need a jackhammer to get his notice. He
really should not allow things to get to him. He knew how to
focus. He was a weightlifter, for crying out loud.
He knew how to block things out, and here he was, made
all edgy by some case. Go figure.
Drawn in the snow on the window of his car was the same
weird illustration that Mike had found on the box. It gave him
the creeps. He wiped the snowflakes off of his car and headed to
the college. The receptionist in the media center showed Mike
where he could find books on pagan rites.
There were many more than he thought there would be.
The titles and covers were enough to make his hair stand on
end. One book had a naked witch on an altar with a candlestick.
A second book showed a graveyard ritual. A third showed a
number of female pagans in underwear acting out a number of
their rites. Mike could tell that the photographer for these prints
must have liked his work.
Each book had at least one illustration on the inside that
seemed to match the symbol that Mike kept coming across.
Mike sat down, fixed his eyeglasses, and began his study. As he
turned these topics over in his mind, he linked them to what he
knew about the cases. Many of the rites talked about in the
books could be done in a forest, on a mountainside, in a
graveyard, or in a city apartment for that matter. Mike knew that
what he read was pretty much the same as that which he had
seen on television.

He wanted to know if the bartender he had spoken to

might know about these rites. Maybe even Karen, his
receptionist, might be able to help.
He made a note to ask her that night over dinner. It seemed
to Mike that this day would never end. He still had to stop by
the gym. He was the only weightlifter who never had the same
gym hours.
Plus, he had to stop off at the drugstore and go home to
view that videocassette that had come to him in the mail. Maybe
his receptionist would like to be filled in on the case. Mike
made it a habit to bounce ideas off of Karen. He was amazed at
just how smart his receptionist was.
She always made it a point to drop by Mikes apartment
when she had ideas that could be of help to him. The last time
she had helped out, she nearly made the newspaper.
As Mikes mind went adrift back to that night, the
loudspeaker in the town media center blared like a firecracker. A
voice said that the center was about to close for the day. Mike
used his media center card to check out a number of those books
and gave the cute receptionist behind the desk his thanks for her
help.
Mike left the college amid a flurry of snowflakes and
picked up a newspaper. He looked in the television guide to see
what was on the box that night. If his dinner date with his
receptionist was a bust, he could always watch a movie on
television or rent a videocassette.
No one saw the figure hiding in the night. The killer stood
in the dark in the alley next to an apartment. He gazed over at
the snowflakes as his grip on the candlestick holder became
tight. He liked the night. It was so dark and cold. He wiped his
eyeglasses with a handkerchief as he waited. He smiled as he
began to think about the body he had left on the mountainside,
and the illustration he had drawn in the snow.
The smile became even bigger when he mulled over what
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102

he did to the other body in the graveyard.

That victim was young and pretty. She must have been
either a receptionist or a model who posed for a photographer.
She was a beauty. He began to think about the videocassette
tape he had made of her.
The only things she wore in the videocassette were her
eyeglasses and underwear. His mind raced.
Just then the door from the apartment house banged open.
The spring hinge of the door was broken, and the noise it made
when it hit the front of the wall was as loud as a firecracker. He
began to sweat and wiped his brow with his handkerchief.
A young man, a bartender by trade, exited the apartment
house. He only felt the first blow from the heavy candlestick
holder. His head ached like a jackhammer, but he was out before
he could feel the rest of the blows. The young mans eyeglasses
fell among the snowflakes as his body hit the ground.
This latest victim was lifted and put in the back of a van
that had an illustration of a tree and the moon on its side. The
slayer was a weightlifter and found it easy to drag the body of
the bartender into the van and slide the side door shut. He got
into the van with his victim and headed into the snowflakes
toward his own apartment.
It was now a little after dark and Mike had just arrived
home to his apartment. He had made a stop at his optometrist to
see if he could give him some drops for his eyes. After that he
went to the drugstore, got the drops, and went home. His health
plan card really saved him a lot of money.
He walked into his apartment and turned on the television.
There was a winter storm to watch that matched television. The
snowflakes that were coming down. He looked at the newspaper
for a short while, and then he began to get ready for his dinner
date. Karen, his able receptionist, would be by in a little while.
While the dinner cooked, Mike picked up things around
his apartment. He picked up his shorts, socks, and underwear
137

that were lying all about. Then he laid out the kitchenware. Just
then his loudspeaker buzzed. Mike, its Karen. Mike told her
to come on up.
Karen had only been to Mikes apartment a few times. She
was happy to see that Mike had laid out the nice kitchenware
and had placed a candlestick at each end of the table. You
know, Mike, Lt. Poole came by the office late today. He wanted
to share some ideas with you about both the mountainside and
graveyard cases.
Did he have any news about the bartender or the
photographer? Karen said that he did. She told Mike that Carol
Fine, the receptionist for the photographer, was on television
last night. She said she had seen a number of models who
worked for the photographers coming out of his apartment the
day he was killed. Mike made a note of all of this.
t was just after nine when the phone in Mikes apartment rang.
Karen, his receptionist, was on the line. Mike put the phone on
loudspeaker and her voice came across as loud as a firecracker
as she filled him in on his new case.
He had heard about those two bodies found on the
mountainside from the news briefs on television and in the
newspaper. She said he was being asked to help out on the case.
Mike Thorn jumped out of bed, put on his eyeglasses first, then
his shirt, pants, and shoes, and headed to his office. He had a
sense that this was not going to be his day.
His car headed into the city just as snowflakes began to
fall. The drive from his apartment to his office was about a half
an hour long. If those snowflakes fell all day, the drive home
would take much longer. As the car radio played, Mike made a
mental note of the stops he had to make during the day.
His eyeglasses made his eyes sore, and, as Mike wiped
them with his handkerchief, he knew that they would have to be
looked at by his optometrist. His BMW hummed as Mike drove
it along Center City. He passed a drugstore, a bar, and a studio
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owned by the citys top photographer. He had come to his

office. Mike parked the BMW making sure his lot permit decal
was placed in the window.
The decal had the permit number and an illustration of the
city flag on it. The last thing he needed was to have his car
towed away.
Mike moved with haste up the steps to his office on the
third floor. Well its about time, Karen said as she looked past
the television that showed the lobby on the floor below. Mike
had had his office broken into a number of times, so a camera
had been put in and a videocassette made of anyone who enters
or exits the lobbies. His receptionist gave him the once over. On
most days, she was rather fond of her bosss looks. Today, he
looked like he had risen from a graveyard. In her mind, Karen
saw an illustration of some ugly corpse.
You look awful, she said with a mixed sense of humor
and regard. I know. I should have made a stop at the drugstore
to see if they have a pill for this dull pain in my head.
Mike had been heavy into booze at one time. As a matter
of fact, his days as a bartender had led him to drink. The gin
from last night hadnt done a thing for him, except cause his
head to throb the day after. It felt like hed been hit by a metal
candlestick holder, or like he had a jackhammer going off in his
brain.
His office looked like the kind you would see on
television. A desk, files, a couple of chairs, and a sink. Mike was
every bit the single P.I. On the top of his desk were some notes,
an illustration, and what was left of the meal he had had the
night before.
The kitchenware needed to be washed badly. The
newspaper needed to be tossed out. His underwear, socks, and
T-shirt from the day before needed to be picked up and either
washed or thrown out. Here he was, a weightlifter in his spare
time, and yet he could not even pick up his own things.
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7 _______________
He sank into his chair as he gazed out of the window at the
snowflakes coming from the sky. He had to admit they did look
pretty.
It made him think of an illustration he once owned. A
photographer could get a couple of nice shots around here.
Boston in the winter was rather cold, but he liked it just the
same. Hed rather have his own house, but his apartment suited
his style of life for now. He popped a videocassette in and
turned on the television. It was a tape of last nights news with
that story about the mountainside murder. There was a report
that the victim might be a bartender who had gotten in over his
head with loans.
Others said it was a photographer who was into making
sex films on videocassette. The news report talked about the
bloody handkerchief found at the scene, and womens
underwear found in the pocket of the victim. A member of the
police force would only say that the man, a male about forty
years of age, had been beaten with a blunt object, like a
candlestick holder; taken from his apartment, and dumped in
this mountainside graveyard.
The area where the body lay was so rocky that one would
need a jackhammer to dig a hole deep enough for the body.
Mike fixed his eyeglasses as he sat in front of the
television screen. This same news clip next showed his former
boss, Lt. Sam Poole, using a loudspeaker to keep people away
from the site. Just as Mike began to think about the case, his
receptionist called him.
Mike, a Lt. Poole would like to talk to you if you have the
time. He never had the time, but told Karen to tell him hed see
him within the hour.
A weary Michael Thorn made his way past his receptionist
and headed down the stairs and off to see his former boss. He
140

walked out into the snow and looked up at the snowflakes

coming down. They began to stick to his eyeglasses. He wiped
them with his handkerchief and headed for his car. His permit to
park was still in view. He turned the key to his BMW and
pumped the gas. It roared to life, popped like a firecracker, and
then he pulled out onto Broad Street and headed east.
Mike was hoping to have enough time later to go to the
gym. He was an avid weightlifter and runner. When he had been
a bartender, Mike always worked out after his shift. Once, a
photographer even asked him if hed like to make a muscle
videocassette. The money would have paid his apartment rent
for half a year, but the idea really didnt excite him too much.
Karen, his receptionist, had told him that he should do it, but
still he could not have cared less.
He did, though, pose on behalf of an illustration that was
used in an ad for the gym where he worked out.
As his car moved closer to the center of town, Mike used
his handkerchief to clean the fog off of the inside, of the
window. His breath still took shape on the window, and even his
eyeglasses had begun to fog up.
This snow and cold had the city in its grip. The
receptionist at Lt. Pooles office had her boss paged on the
loudspeaker after Mike showed her his I.D. He killed time with
her as she talked about her kids, a kitchenware party, and three
videocassettes of sexy underwear from one of the womens
shops on Fifth Avenue. All in all, Mike was bored out of his
mind. She was nice and pretty, but Mike just didnt care.
A woman like this with kids just meant that dating her
would be a hassle. Mike looked at an illustration on the wall
that was, no doubt, drawn by one of her kids. Just then the
office door shut with a bang. Mike and the receptionist both
jumped with a start. The bang was loud enough to be either a
firecracker, or even a gun.
Well, Mike. Long time no see. How have you been? Lt.
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141

Poole was direct and filled Mike in on the last items of the
mountainside case. He even told Mike about things the
television and newspaper had not stated.
Wed like you to help us out, Mike. Mike took off his
eyeglasses and peered at his former boss. Whats in it for me?
he said. Your name in the newspaper and on the television. It
would be great for your name. Ever since the day Mike was
fired from the force and had turned in his badge and gun, he
swore he would never do a thing to help them. He was good as a
P.I. and told Sam that he needed time to think it over. Hed
always liked his ex-boss, and Mike knew that Sam wasnt guilty
of having him fired. Mike said hed be in touch, walked past the
receptionist, and headed for the local tavern.
The Crows Nest was Mikes choice as the place to have a
few drinks. The bartender got him a rum and coke, and Mike let
his mind drift. A newspaper lay on the bar, and Mike fixed his
eyeglasses, and looked over the latest news. Page one ran a
story on the mountainside case.
It said that the police had talked to people who had seen
the victim the day before the murder took place. A drugstore
worker had been called in to speak to the police about what he
knew. An expert optometrist, an underwear model, and the
owner of a videocassette store were also talked to as well. The
newspaper didnt say much else. Mike turned the pages.
An ad for kitchenware here. An ad for a cheap
photographer there. On the next page a weightlifter with a
handkerchief tied around his brow touted the latest gym. Mike
looked up at the television in the bar.
The man on T.V. said the snowflakes would fall late into
the night and that more snow was coming later in the week. He
had an illustration to point this out. More snow. Great.
Mike pulled out his I. D. and called the bartender over.
The man making the drinks behind the bar said his name was
Bill. and asked how he could be of help to Mike.
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Mike said, What do you really think about this

mountainside murder thats been in the news? It looked like the
bartender hadnt really given it much of his time. To tell you
the truth, this place hasnt been as dead as a graveyard, and I
havent really had the time to pay much mind to the television. I
have looked in the newspaper, but mainly for a new apartment.
My lease is almost up on the one Im in now, and I need a
change. Just then the television blared like a loudspeaker. A
news report came on. There was Lt. Poole again. He spoke to
the media about a second murder. A photographer had been
found dead in his apartment early that same day.
He had been bound and gagged with a very strong
handkerchief. No I. D. was found on the body, but it was more
than likely Frank Nicci, a top photographer in Boston. The
television showed the inside of the bloody apartment. Then it
showed the body. Niccis eyeglasses were on his face, but
broken. And that wasnt all that was broken.
The body itself lay next to a candlestick, some books, a
camera, and a few drugs. On one wall inside the apartment, a
person had drawn an eerie symbol in blood. Mike fixed his
eyeglasses and took a closer look at the illustration.
Drawn in blood on the wall was a map of the mountainside
area. The graveyard was also marked. The television camera
panned around the apartment. In one corner were videocassette
tapes and womens underwear. Clues, Mike mused, or just part
of Niccis stock and trade.
The television camera panned back to Poole with
snowflakes coming down around him. As he summed up the
stance of the police on the case, one of the women from the city
newspaper asked him if this might be tied into the murder last
month of the citys number one crime boss, Pat Verde. He ran
what the police and newspaper called the drugstore. Verde had
been a drug lord in the truest sense of the word. Poole wiped his
brow with a handkerchief, and143
said the police were not able to
144

tie the two into each other at this point in time. He said it would
be a while before they would know if the deaths of the
photographer and Verde were linked.
As Mike sat there gazing at the television, he felt eyes on
the back of his head. He looked out the corner of his eye to find
the eyes of the piano player on him. The man at the keys had
once played in a number of music shows in the city. Mike was
aware of more than one story in the newspaper about him. He
was also able to recall an illustration of the man in a number of
ads around the city.
He had really been known around town for his talent in
music. Mike fixed his eyeglasses, made a mental note of this
guy, paid his tab, and left.
Moving out onto the street, Mike peered down the street as
the snowflakes fell. There was a chill in the air, and Mike got
into his car and headed off to the mountainside to visit the
graveyard site where the first body had been found. When he
got there, Mike took note of how rocky the area was.
A jackhammer would have been needed to dig into the
mountainside. Either a jackhammer, or maybe some TNT. A
large firecracker would not have had any effect on moving this
stone.
Mike eyed the area. Using his handkerchief to ensure his
prints would not be left in the area, Mike began to sift through
some of the debris.
Snowflakes had all but hidden most of the ground, but
Mike still was able to comb the mountainside murder scene. He
fixed his eyeglasses as he wished he had taken his tools from his
apartment to help with this course of action. Just then, Mike
heard a car pull up behind him. A voice on a loudspeaker asked
for I. D. Mike, blind from the cars lights, made an effort to
show his badge. The cars motor was turned off, and a figure got
out. It was Sam Poole. Find any clues yet, Mike? Hell, Sam,
you caught me off guard. What are you doing here? The
102

newspaper and television people said you were done here.

Sam told Mike about how the snowflakes had really cut
the mountainside probe short. Mike, the bureau photographer
found some clues in his shots, and I wanted to follow up on
them.
It seemed that some of those shots taken by the
photographer showed what looked to be a candlestick holder
and bones in the snow. These were next to a weird illustration
that was drawn there in the snow. There was talk that maybe this
graveyard murder was linked to some black magic ritual.
Mike didnt think much of magic and voodoo. He had
rented a videocassette one night about how people with no
social life and no ties to the real world took part in these
graveyard rites. This kind of stuff was also fodder for many of
the talk shows on television. Guests came onto these shows to
reveal how their rites were done, not only out in nature, but
even in their own apartment.
On one show the host played a videocassette of a grisly
ritual. It showed a young lady in just her underwear using what
looked like normal kitchenware to slash her wrists and allow her
blood to run into a silver cup. As the light from a candlestick
barely lit up the room of the small apartment, the young lady
spoke her ritual chant. Mike wasnt moved by it. The show
talked about how many people who took part in this stuff lead
normal lives.
There was a bartender, a photographer, and a receptionist
all saying how much they got out of this form of ritual. The host
even showed an illustration of one of the rites. To Mike, it
looked like some kind of cult. Of course, on the show the real
names of these people were never given. This type of show
always ran during the sweeps.
Mike cut his visit with Sam short and headed to the local
college. He knew hed find books about these kinds of rites
there. But first, hed make a quick stop at his apartment and
146
145

check in by phone with Karen, his receptionist.

She told him about the latest news on both the death of the
photographer and the graveyard cases. She filled Mike in about
some new things that were being looked at by the police: a
handkerchief with blood stains, a candlestick holder, a number
of kitchenware items, and womens underwear that were found
folded in a newspaper.
She also told Mike that no one knew who owned the pink
briefs; only that they had been found at the apartment that was
owned by the photographer who had been killed. Mike mulled
all of this over in his head as he gazed out the window at the
snowflakes coming down. He still needed to pick up a few
things at the drugstore and, as Karen had said, they had a dinner
date at his apartment later that night. Just then the loudspeaker
in his apartment came to life.
There was a UPS man with a box that needed to be signed
for. Mike signed for it as the snowflakes fell, and he went back
inside his apartment.
He wiped his eyeglasses with a handkerchief and looked
for the name of the sender. He found none. He placed the box
on the television set and slowly opened it. The snowflakes on
the box had begun to melt as Mike pried the box open.
On the top of the box was an illustration of some occult
symbol. Inside he found a videocassette, womens underwear, a
candlestick, and a photo of the last victim, the photographer.
There was also a note jotted on a copy of the newspaper from
the day this last victim died. It simply said: The graveyard on
the mountainside rocks. That was it. Mike was hoping the
videocassette that was in the box might supply more facts. He
stuffed the videocassette into his coat pocket and left his
apartment. He was aware that it was now known that he was a
player in the case. But who knew? And what did they know?
As Mike walked to his car, the snowflakes fell harder. He
heard a noise like a firecracker and saw an apartment tenant
102

begin to start his car. Boy, was Mike edgy.

You would not need a jackhammer to get his notice. He
really should not allow things to get to him. He knew how to
focus. He was a weightlifter, for crying out loud.
He knew how to block things out, and here he was, made
all edgy by some case. Go figure.
Drawn in the snow on the window of his car was the same
weird illustration that Mike had found on the box. It gave him
the creeps. He wiped the snowflakes off of his car and headed to
the college. The receptionist in the media center showed Mike
where he could find books on pagan rites.
There were many more than he thought there would be.
The titles and covers were enough to make his hair stand on
end. One book had a naked witch on an altar with a candlestick.
A second book showed a graveyard ritual. A third showed a
number of female pagans in underwear acting out a number of
their rites. Mike could tell that the photographer for these prints
must have liked his work.
Each book had at least one illustration on the inside that
seemed to match the symbol that Mike kept coming across.
Mike sat down, fixed his eyeglasses, and began his study. As he
turned these topics over in his mind, he linked them to what he
knew about the cases. Many of the rites talked about in the
books could be done in a forest, on a mountainside, in a
graveyard, or in a city apartment for that matter. Mike knew that
what he read was pretty much the same as that which he had
seen on television.
He wanted to know if the bartender he had spoken to
might know about these rites. Maybe even Karen, his
receptionist, might be able to help.
He made a note to ask her that night over dinner. It seemed
to Mike that this day would never end. He still had to stop by
the gym. He was the only weightlifter who never had the same
gym hours.
148
147

Plus, he had to stop off at the drugstore and go home to

view that videocassette that had come to him in the mail. Maybe
his receptionist would like to be filled in on the case. Mike
made it a habit to bounce ideas off of Karen. He was amazed at
just how smart his receptionist was.
She always made it a point to drop by Mikes apartment
when she had ideas that could be of help to him. The last time
she had helped out, she nearly made the newspaper.
As Mikes mind went adrift back to that night, the
loudspeaker in the town media center blared like a firecracker. A
voice said that the center was about to close for the day. Mike
used his media center card to check out a number of those books
and gave the cute receptionist behind the desk his thanks for her
help.
Mike left the college amid a flurry of snowflakes and
picked up a newspaper. He looked in the television guide to see
what was on the box that night. If his dinner date with his
receptionist was a bust, he could always watch a movie on
television or rent a videocassette.
No one saw the figure hiding in the night. The killer stood
in the dark in the alley next to an apartment. He gazed over at
the snowflakes as his grip on the candlestick holder became
tight. He liked the night. It was so dark and cold. He wiped his
eyeglasses with a handkerchief as he waited. He smiled as he
began to think about the body he had left on the mountainside,
and the illustration he had drawn in the snow.
The smile became even bigger when he mulled over what
he did to the other body in the graveyard.
That victim was young and pretty. She must have been
either a receptionist or a model who posed for a photographer.
She was a beauty. He began to think about the videocassette
tape he had made of her.
The only things she wore in the videocassette were her
eyeglasses and underwear. His mind raced.
102

Just then the door from the apartment house banged open.
The spring hinge of the door was broken, and the noise it made
when it hit the front of the wall was as loud as a firecracker. He
began to sweat and wiped his brow with his handkerchief.
A young man, a bartender by trade, exited the apartment
house. He only felt the first blow from the heavy candlestick
holder. His head ached like a jackhammer, but he was out before
he could feel the rest of the blows. The young mans eyeglasses
fell among the snowflakes as his body hit the ground.
This latest victim was lifted and put in the back of a van
that had an illustration of a tree and the moon on its side. The
slayer was a weightlifter and found it easy to drag the body of
the bartender into the van and slide the side door shut. He got
into the van with his victim and headed into the snowflakes
toward his own apartment.

8 _______________
It was now a little after dark and Mike had just arrived
home to his apartment. He had made a stop at his optometrist to
see if he could give him some drops for his eyes. After that he
went to the drugstore, got the drops, and went home. His health
plan card really saved him a lot of money.
He walked into his apartment and turned on the television.
There was a winter storm to watch that matched television. The
snowflakes that were coming down. He looked at the newspaper
for a short while, and then he began to get ready for his dinner
date. Karen, his able receptionist, would be by in a little while.
While the dinner cooked, Mike picked up things around
his apartment. He picked up his shorts, socks, and underwear
that were lying all about. Then he laid out the kitchenware. Just
then his loudspeaker buzzed. Mike, its Karen. Mike told her
to come on up.
Karen had only been to Mikes apartment a few times. She
was happy to see that Mike had laid out the nice kitchenware
149

and had placed a candlestick at each end of the table. You

know, Mike, Lt. Poole came by the office late today. He wanted
to share some ideas with you about both the mountainside and
graveyard cases.
Did he have any news about the bartender or the
photographer? Karen said that he did. She told Mike that Carol
Fine, the receptionist for the photographer, was on television
last night. She said she had seen a number of models who
worked for the photographers coming out of his apartment the
day he was killed. Mike made a note of all of this.
As Mikes mind went adrift back to that night, the
loudspeaker in the town media center blared like a firecracker. A
voice said that the center was about to close for the day. Mike
used his media center card to check out a number of those books
and gave the cute receptionist behind the desk his thanks for her
help.
Mike left the college amid a flurry of snowflakes and
picked up a newspaper. He looked in the television guide to see
what was on that night. If his dinner date with his receptionist
was a bust. He could always watch a movie on television or rent
a videocassette. No one saw the figure hiding in the night. The
killer stood in the dark in an alley next to the apartment. He
gazed at the snowflakes as his grip on the candlestick holder
became tight. He liked the night. It was so dark and cold.
He wiped his eyeglasses with a handkerchief as he waited.
He smiled as he began to think about the body he had left on the
mountainside, and the illustration he had drawn in the snow.
His job was over. Time to head home and go to sleep. The
day had at last come to an end.

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