Vampires!: A Maxwell Jackson Adventure

Contents

-1-

-2-

-3-

-4-

-5-

-6-

-7-

-8-

-9-

-10-

-11-

-12-

-13-

-14-

-15-

-16-

-17-

-18-

-19-

-20-

-21-

-22-

-23-

-24-

-25-

-26-

-27-

-28-

-29-

-30-

-31-

-32-

-33-

-34-

-35-

-36-

-37-

-38-

-39-

-40-

-41-

-42-

-43-

-44-

-45-

-46-

-47-

-48-

-49-

-50-

-51-

-52-

-53-

-54-

-55-

-56-

-57-

-58-

-59-

-60-

-61-

-62-

-63-

-64-

-65-

Acknowledgements

Glossary

 -1-

Roger DeHaviland stepped into the warm morning breeze that was rare in Seattle. He looked at the white roofing tiles of the Smith Tower under his feed and surveyed the downtown area. He stood awkwardly on the steep pitched roof. The hazards of this precarious situation were little more than a cloudy thought. He looked upward towards the peak of the roof, concentrating on the task at hand. It was a strange day in Seattle, in that the sun was showing itself. The entire Puget Sound was awash with bright sunlight and a few puffy white clouds floated lazily over the city skyline. It was about to get a lot stranger.

He began to climb higher onto the slippery ceramic tiles that formed the rooftop. Roger’s goal was the large greenish ball shaped light housing that adorned the very tip of the tower. He found himself driven by a compulsion he would not live to recognize. Roger simply knew that he had to get to a higher place. There was no ladder, no walkway, and no easy way to do it and the dew covered tiles felt cool

and slippery beneath his hands. He removed his dark sports jacket and let it fall like a slow shadow creeping across the white tiles. He wasn’t concerned as his wallet, bus pass and all the important things in his jacket pocket spilled onto the rooftop and scrabbled down the tiles, forsaken by their owner. The plastic bus pass with the image of a cheerful Orca whale on it had a credit of over $100 in its electronic chip as it chattered across the roof tiles. DeHaviland didn’t notice. He’d never use those credits. He’d never use any of the other items spilling out into the sunlight. They flashed in the sunlight, then slid over the edge to fall to the city streets below, cascading over the morning commuters on their way to work. A few looked up in response to the unusual form of Seattle rain, but failed to see the man seeking his quest for higher and higher altitude.

After a few minutes, Roger had reached his destination. He was at the copper base girder that held the light. That light, in a distant past, was once the highest point west of the Mississippi river. His mind was content as he wrapped his arms and legs around the steel and settled in. He watched the city below him, disconnected, as if through a fog. He was mesmerized, content with his dangerous perch as he waited for… for what? He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. Thoughts of his family, his co-workers, and the Seattle Mariners baseball team that he was passionate about just as few days ago were distant memories. He smiled a bit, just content to be here. It seemed to be his destiny. Minutes turned into hours as he sat there.

I was killing time on my way into Seattle from the suburbs, taking in the views of Pioneer Square and the Occidental Park near the train station. The route I took gave me a beautiful view of the Smith Tower. Historically, it had been the highest part of Seattle when it was built and its white tower stood guard 42 stories over the old part of Pioneer Square. It was built by the guy who owned the Smith Corona Typewriter Company as well as part of the gun team of Smith and Wesson. When it was built in 1914, it was the fourth tallest building in the world and its Washington Granite and terra cotta finish still gleam white after all the soggy years in Seattle. The top of the tower served as a penthouse for the owners’ daughter or something like that, I’d heard, with a special elevator to get there. The elevators are the original Otis elevators and are still operated by uniformed bellmen. The Smith Building had an observation deck that was open for tours on the weekend, but I hadn’t had the chance to take the tour. Still, I admired the building and its classic architecture each time I went past it. I had never seen any activity in the penthouse, so when I saw a figure atop the rooftop, it caught my attention. I watched the person scramble to catch a footing on the tiles and climb to the very top. Then to the light at the top where he simply sat cross legged and held on. I was seized by an uncontrollable urge to stop and watch what would happen next!

I pulled into the closest parking garage. The triangle garage, also known as the sinking ship garage was right across the street. I opened my trunk to get my binoculars. I keep a complete kit of ghost hunting equipment in the car. Yes, I’m a ghost hunter, just like you see on TV… In my trunk I keep digital thermometers, tape recorders, cameras, Electromagnetic frequency detectors and other test equipment that one might use to detect paranormal activity.

Through my binoculars I could see that it was a man. He took off his jacket and let it slide down the roof and then onto the people below. I watched a few people dodge his personal effects, and a couple of homeless people snatched his belongings as if they were a gift from the Gods. Back on the roof, the man just sat there. I decided to take a few pictures of this event, since it’s not every day Seattle has a pole sitter. We get a lot of strange things in Seattle, the naked bicyclists at the Fremont Solstice Parade, the Troll under Aurora Bridge, and the stuffed elephant on a building up on Aurora. But I can’t recall a pole sitter or even a protestor on top of one of our buildings. I got my camera from the trunk and snapped on the telephoto lens. I took a few pictures of the man sitting there.

Then the man rose, standing straight up. He reached for his neck with his right hand and seemed to stroke it a few times. Was that a knife in his hand? Or was it a rope? It was hard to see and I refocused the camera a few times. No rope, it wasn’t a knife. It seemed to be some type of white stick. I couldn’t tell if it was coming out of the neck of his shirt or if he was holding it there. I snapped a few pictures. The man wasn’t moving very quickly and it was easy to keep him in the viewfinder.

I heard a car pull up and park in the spot next to my car while I was watching the man through my camera. I’d stop once and a while and take a picture of the guy with my camera. I was vaguely aware of the driver getting out of the car next to me. I kept my attention focused on the guy on the roof and was startled when the newcomer asked me what I was doing there.

There’s a guy on the Smith Building. I mean, on the very top. I handed my binoculars to the newcomer absent mindedly, saying, Here, have a look. Just don’t run off with my bino’s. The man mumbled a polite thanks and took a position beside me.

Holy shit. What’s he doing there?

I don’t know, cool huh? He was sitting a minute ago. Now he’s got up and is standing there by the light. See him? He’s got one arm wrapped around the girder holding the light, and the other one is at his neck. I mentioned, not taking my eyes off the magnified image in my camera. Don’t know what he’s doing, but it’s interesting. He took his jacket off and tossed it to the folks below a few minutes ago. He’s not a jumper, just seems confused. I suppose someone really should contact the Seattle’s finest and let them know.

I heard the guys’ footsteps as he moves towards his car.

Don’t walk off with my bino’s, pal.

I got ’em, keep your pants on. He said in a friendly way. Seattle is such a friendly town I didn’t feel that he was going to run off with my equipment. There’s no way I’d let someone in Detroit get anywhere near their car with a set of my binoculars! I heard door to his car open.

Dispatch this is Hotel Four Eight. Has anyone reported a jumper on the Smith building? The radio crackled a reply and I snuck a peek at my binocular holding pal. He was talking on a radio in a Crown Victoria. That explained it. This was one of Seattle’s unmarked police cars that are easy to spot by the make, tax exempt license plate and the three antennas that stick off the roof. So… My fellow observer is a cop. I feel better about him not running off with my binoculars!

Affirmative Hotel four-eight. Someone at the hospital was watching a guy on the roof at the Smith Building and called it in. Traffic is checking it out The dispatcher informed everyone within fifty feet of the patrol car. Footsteps came back toward me as the cop raised the binoculars. As we watch the man I noticed that he seemed to be stroking his neck. I snapped a few more pictures. I don’t know what I’ll do with them. Perhaps I’ll send them in to the Seattle Times or that off beat newspaper, The Stranger. They are always looking for weird articles. And even for Seattle, this is weird!

I’m Larry, by the way A conversation begins. Neither of us is taking our eyes off the man on the roof. You probably surmise that I work for the city by that radio call.

Yeah, that was a dead giveaway I politely told him, avoiding the urge to say ‘and the marked unmarked car that you guys drive around in’.

So, what’s your interest in this? A friend of yours? Doing some inner city base jumping that you are documenting?

The police were usually suspicious of anything strange. If someone is around, it can’t be because they’re curious, they have to be part of a bigger conspiracy! Where were they when JFK and his brother got shot???

No, not really. If you look at the bino’s you’ll see my card taped to the lens cover. If I was filming a base jumper I’d have the video camera out.

I heard him jostle the eye cover. A paranormal investigator? Like the ghost hunters on television? Well this guy is not dead, is he?

Not yet. I joked. Then I realized that if this guy does do something crazy, he’ll think it I had something to do with it. So I tossed in another line.

But we all know that life is a temporary condition, don’t we?

I heard him chuckle and say something that sounded like ‘that’s good, I gotta remember that’.

So we watched this guy on the roof for another fifteen minutes in silence. Fifteen minutes may seem like a long time to watch a guy standing on a rooftop. Then again, I spend entire nights in cemeteries staring at a gravestone waiting for something to do as a ghost hunter, so maybe fifteen minutes isn’t that long a period of time to watch someone. I’m wondering what the stick like thing by the guys neck is, my partner isn’t saying anything. Through the viewfinder I see a splash of red shoot out of the man’s neck. My fellow watcher jogged to this car and I started snapping pictures as quickly as the camera can take them.

Dispatch, this is Hotel four-eight. The man on Smith Building appears to have been shot. Need medical and fire on scene. The radio squelches a reply and I hear other radio frequencies start to come to life.

I was taking pictures as quickly as I could. A red splash, like a line of red shot out of the man’s neck. He stood there. He dropped his arms to his side and just stood there. He didn’t fall. Neither did the blood that shot out of his neck. It floated as if it was suspended as a reddish line in front of him. The man stroked his neck a few more times more redness floated into the air. Then it began to thin out, as if it was a dispersing cloud. I kept snapping pictures at the dissipating cloud.

The cop jogged up next to me and raised the binoculars. He’s an average build guy with brown salt and pepper hair. About five foot ten, wearing slacks and loafers and a nice button down shirt under his jacket, this guy could lose himself in a crowd pretty easily. Why doesn’t he fall? If he’s been shot in the neck and lost that much blood, he should fall down.

As if on cue, the Smith man slowly sat down on the roof. Then he laid back and I watched with horror as he slid down the roof. It looked as if he was at the water slide at the amusement park. I captured as many images as I could as he eases over the edge and fell towards the sidewalk. Morbidly, I continued to snap images as he fell off the roof, feet first, to the sidewalk, where he hits the ground in front of the building with a crumpling, cracking sound that I could hear from where I was standing.

The morning commuters are used to rain falling out of the sky, and didn’t even seem bothered when a jacket fell on them, followed by pocket change, light rail passes and the contents of a man’s wallet. When the body fell in front of the two lawyer-looking guys on their way to the courthouse, all hell broke loose. They looked up, panic in their eyes, and looked around as if someone had dropped a house on their sister. This was the Emerald City, after all. Others just screamed and stared at the body on the ground. People in the coffee shop made funny faces and quietly placed their Danish rolls in the waste container as they stared through the window.

My observer and I slowly lowered our lenses and look at each other. His black jacket, white shirt and tie told me that he’s probably some sort of supervisor with the city. His brown eyes looked into mine as he sized me up. I’m not much to look at. Average build, average height a bit of a paunch, but that comes and goes, depending on how much time I get to spend at the gym. I have green eyes with some gold flecks in them. I haven’t seen too many people with gold flecks in their eyes. My mother told me that the flecks were important. She never told me why, but she told me that I should keep track of people who match that description. I keep my brown hair trimmed in what used to be known as a ‘forward brush’ haircut. Trimmed and tapered in the back, off the ears, sort of like an advertising executive from the 50’s.

That was weird I told him.

It was more weird than most of the unusual stuff that’s been in the paper lately. People have been acting strange around the nation for the last year with fatal results. I know. I keep track of that sort of thing. Here in Seattle our local authorities have been plagued with suicides and homicides that have made the paper with unusual events associated with them. But who am I to postulate? After all, my new found pal had just said ‘ghost hunter, huh?’ in a tone that let me know what he thought of my line of work. I look into his weathered, no nonsense face as he tells me the words I didn’t want to hear.

This is officially a homicide investigation and you’re a material witness. I’m Larry Chase, Supervisor of the Homicide Division. For the foreseeable future, your ass belongs to me. Keep by my side, I need your camera, we’ll do some statements when we get to the station… . He smiled and handed the binoculars to me…

And thanks for letting me use your binoculars. He fished around in his shirt pocket and handed me his business card. Put this under your windshield wiper incase a meter maid comes along and wants to tow your car. Grab your spook equipment, lock your car and come with me. We’re going to the scene of the crime.

 -2-

Death is highly over rated. Aside from the blinding flash of searing pain that encompasses the mind, followed by the mildly confused state that accompanies death, you’d hardly know that you’d passed on. Perhaps that’s why there are so many spirits hanging around this plane of existence that don’t realize that they’ve died. Perhaps life for them was just one big migraine headache.

As a ghost hunter I’ve seen my share of spooky things that involve death and the undead. I also spent over twenty years in the service of my nation, working for the Department of Defense, either arranging for someone to meet their maker or desperately trying to miss my personal appointment.

My name is Maxwell Houston Jackson and I’ve died three times that I know of… Apparently my mother was reading a book about the Alamo when she was carrying me, so my middle name is out of respect for Sam Houston, even though I’ve never lived in Texas! So my friends call me Max. Or Jack. Or sometimes they call me Max Jack.

I suppose that it could be worse. My brother’s name is John Jay Jackson. Seems when my older brother was born the nurse asked for his name and my parents hadn’t decided on a middle name for him. So she just said Put down J. She was thinking she’d have an initial there and later on they’d decide on a name… . So my brother’s John Jay… . Lots of sibling squabbles over that one and I usually ended up on the losing end of that stick!

I grew up on a small farm in Michigan that was built in the early 1800’s. Our family is a good Michigan Centennial family, meaning that someone from our family has been pushing Michigan dirt around for over 100 years. As the smallest boy on the farm, I wasn’t allowed to do many chores that require machinery. So I spent a lot of time by myself in the barn. I learned to play checkers with an old man who also spent a lot of time in the barn. I never thought much of him; he seemed to enjoy playing checkers with me when no one else was around. It wasn’t until my father found an old black and white photograph of the farm with the original builders sitting in front of the house that I had any thoughts about ghosts. There, in the 100 year old photograph, sat the guy I’d been playing checkers with for the last two years!

So the next time we were in the barn, and he and I were playing checkers, I asked him if he believed in ghosts. He smiled and said that there was no such thing as ghosts. Then he moved his piece on the checkerboard and vanished before my eyes! That was when I realized that some ghosts just refuse to believe that they are dead! I’ve been interested in the study of ghosts ever since.

As the war in Vietnam was winding down I volunteered to join the Army. I went through parachute training at Fort Benning and then went to work at the 82nd Airborne Division in North Carolina. Friends and family at the 82nd always enjoyed going to the drop zone to watch the paratroopers jump out of the airplanes. The silk parachutes filled the sky and the children got to play in the world’s largest sand box that made up the drop zone. Every once in a while they would witness a parachute fail and the poor man would hurtle to the ground. A small truck with medics would race to the impact area to treat him or just get the body out of the area. It was a strong superstition that paratroopers never let their friends watch them jump. I wasn’t superstitious.

So one day it was my turn to jump out of a perfectly good airplane at the drop zone. I didn’t realize it, but my friend thought it would be neat to get some pictures of me and my 300 closest friends as we sailed our silk canopies to the ground. Like I said, I was not superstitious. That brings up the first time I died, courtesy of Uncle Sam.

In perfect military precision, I walked out the back of an old C-130 airplane and watched it fly away from me. I was in a nice tight tucked position and the wind stream flipped me around so I could watch the plane and my fellow jumpers coming out. I counted to five and felt the reassuring tug of the static line as it pulled the parachute out of the pack I was wearing. I grasped the risers, looked up and saw that my parachute was doing its job and then looked at the ground to find the marshalling area. There it was, near a small bush. I steered towards it and checked the air around me for other jumpers so I wouldn’t get tangled in their lines.

Then I noticed something strange. They were all going UP. Must be a thermal inversion, I thought to myself. Then it dawned on me. If they were going UP… Then I was going DOWN… . Fast! I checked my parachute again to find that two of the silk panels had blown out of the canopy. As I watched, a third panel managed to shred itself, and a fourth was on its way. Looking down I saw the sandy impact zone rising quickly to meet me. Yes, it was an impact zone just for me! Quickly, I pulled out my reserve parachute and threw it to the left in a vain effort to get another canopy going for me. Too late… I hit the ground.

My friend, of course, knew nothing of my predicament. She did manage to get some nice photographs of some jumper who fell to the earth faster than his fellow paratroopers. She also got some nice shots of the medic wagon racing across the sand to revive or bag this poor devil. She was pretty happy that the pictures came out nicely!

My sergeant told me that the whole incident was pretty neat. It was like a Wiley Coyote cartoon. You must have had one of those new parachutes that open on impact! You hit the ground and your parachute inflated above you and settled over your body. Kind of like a shroud!

Like I said, I don’t remember any of that. I was out like a light. Through a pinkish gray haze I could hear the medics work on me. Nothing broken, but he’s not breathing either. They chatted among themselves.

Nothing, he’s gone.

Cause of death?

Uh, I dunno. Put down… . His heart stopped. I guess you could say that about anyone who died.

What’s his name? He started pulling out a beat up clipboard. The other medic pulled at my shirt.

Jackson. His name is Specialist Jackson.

I wondered who they were talking about. Then I tried to move. Nothing. Open my eyes? Nope. I couldn’t see them, but I could hear them. Hell, they were talking about me as if I was already gone. But I wasn’t dead!

Well he’s not breathing. Nothings broken that I can see. His heart’s not pumping anything. I suppose we can try CPR.

I just imagined this nasty, dirty medic (who was only here today pulling shitty drop zone medic duty because he pissed off his first sergeant) kissing me on the lips and pushing my chest. I felt violated! Next thing I knew, I was sort of floating outside myself, watching this thing from above. I couldn’t help but drift around as I watched these guys rip open my shirt and cut away my t shirt. Perverts! I thought. As I continued to drift upwards I couldn’t take my eyes away from the scene below me. I finally realized that these guys were trying to save my life. But it was too late, I was heading out. It was a warm, comfortable feeling. I felt disconnected with the world, sort of like I was watching life on a stage and I was in the orchestra pit.

Get those paddles and see if they can do anything. Huh. I’d never seen anyone do that. This should be interesting. I watched them squirt jelly on my chest, than they placed metal pads on my chest. Cool.

Clear Medic number two backed away as Medic number one pushed the buttons on the paddle. CRAP! A sharp pain lanced through my torso. It hurt like hell, like someone had taken a leather whip to me! And all my muscles tensed up and I felt the pain, I hurt like an old man with arthritis! I was no longer observing this scene with disinterest. I was floating above the Medic as he checked my neck for a pulse.

Nothing. Increase the amps and let’s try again. Instinctively my spectral arm reached out to smack this jerk! Not again, face it, pal, I’m dead! Let me go! My arm passed right through the bastard. I couldn’t even defend myself!

Clear and he pushed the buttons again.

A bullwhip snapped across my chest, my muscles squeezed the air out of me and my body jerked. I was no longer floating, and my eyes snapped open to look into the eyes of my savior. This time, my arm DID make contact with the medic as I slapped him across the face and sent him hurling to the deck of the truck. I jumped to my feet.

What the hell are you doing? I screamed.

Saving your life, Jackson the medic on the ground said, nursing his face.

Why do they always do that? the second medic asked. This is why I hate this duty!

And that was the first time I died. The US Army brought me back to life so I could pick up cigarette butts on police call, I guess. It just wasn’t my time to go. I had a new lease on life.

You look at the world differently after you’ve died. Things seem to fall into a different perspective. Some say you don’t sweat the small things any more. Death tends to be a liberating experience. It also piques your interest. Why me? Why didn’t I die? Is there a grand plan? What would have happened if that medic just let me die there? I’m convinced that there’s something on the other side. Heck, I can see them wander around! So I started to chat with them to learn what I could.

Naturally my family, friends and co-workers couldn’t see these spirits. They all thought I was going crazy. I also had a Secret clearance from the 82nd Airborne Division. After a 14 week stint at the Fort Benning Officer Candidate School it was upgraded to a Top Secret security clearance. As an Artillery Officer I’d be working with nuclear weapons. Of course, the US government doesn’t want crazy people who mutter to invisible pals to have their fingers anywhere near the nuclear trigger. I decided to keep my ability to myself.

I did join paranormal investigation organizations like the Fortean Society. Officially I’d tell people that I was doing research on unknown and unexplained mysteries. That seemed to satisfy most of the security officers at the airport when they found strange test equipment in my bags.

I began to see ghosts on a regular basis. They were everywhere. Some seemed to notice that I was watching them. It seemed that some were attracted to me. I thought at first that they wanted to make me a permanent club member, but that wasn’t the case. They had tales to tell. They didn’t want to be forgotten. I had a peculiar connection with the dead from that point on. I guess I had joined the club on a temporary basis and was happy about the temporary nature of it all. So as Larry and I pulled up to the scene of the crime that Seattle morning, each of us saw two very different scenes.

 -3-

It was a short walk to the base of the Smith Tower. We could already see a crowd of onlookers gathering around the body. They looked at the body, then up at the tower, then at each other. The people started to mill around as the Seattle Police Officers begin to usher them out of the area and set up their yellow police line-do not cross barriers.

We stepped over to the body and Larry started looking at a splattered body on the sidewalk. Like the old TV character, Columbo, he’d look at the body, kneel down for a closer look, then contort his body and try to look up at the roof where the guy was standing just before the plunge. He’d take out his notepad, scribble a few notes, then look at the roof again, squinting against the sunlight and holding his hand up to block the light.

I was watching for the recently disembodied soul of deceased. The gray image of the ghost was there, all right, wandering around, confused rubbing his neck. I watched him move in a daze past the police officers, then pass through their yellow barrier tape. It’s not unusual for them to be disoriented when they die. After all, this guy just got shot and fell over 40 stories to the sidewalk. That’s got to jog your mind a bit. I saw the path he was supposed to take, the emerging light that began as a low light, and then increased its intensity until the spirit normally notices it and says hey, maybe that’s the light everyone talks about. This time it was just around the corner from where we stood. The ghost didn’t seem to notice the dim light at first.

He’s dead, alright. Larry broke the silence.

Dead, but not departed, I mumbled, watching the ghost wander around.

What? He’s dead, gone, kaput, my friend. Whoever shot him sent him on to his happy hunting ground.

I looked at the wandering ghost. Usually, they see the light by now…

I’m not sure about that. I walked over to where the foggy spirit was. I tried to act nonchalant, as if I were searching for clues. Nobody else seemed to be able to see the gray colored ghost wandering around the scene. As I got closer to the ghost, the spirit froze and stared at me. He thrust his head towards me. Then he took a few steps towards me. His mouth formed words, but I didn’t hear anything. I stepped forward, towards him and raised my arm to point to the light around the corner of the building. He raised his hands towards his neck as if to let me know that he was choking. That’s when I saw the grayish tube like think sticking out of his spiritual neck. Even in the gray mist swirling around the spirit, it trailed a red powder through the air.

I turned and walked back to the body where Larry was using his pen to lift the cloth from the man’s shirt and peer under at the body until the mortician arrived. I knelt on the other side of the corpse from Larry. The spirit joined us, standing behind Larry and pointing at the neck on the body, then at his own neck. I looked past Larry and the ghost ripped the spectral tube out of his neck and thrust it at me so quickly I was shocked. I pulled back and slipped off my feet, landing on my butt on the sidewalk.

First time seeing a stiff kind of gets you, doesn’t it? Larry said. He offered me a hand and pulled me to my feet. He didn’t realize I wasn’t watching him as the ghost waved the tube in front of me. I looked at the ground near the body, and then cast my gaze across the sidewalk that was dotted with purple squares. The squares were left over from the Seattle Underground. Embedded in the sidewalk to let sunlight into the lower areas, they had changed color as the years had passed. Many people didn’t even know that Seattle had a small city beneath the one that currently stands in the Pacific Northwest rain. The ghost moved over the body, past me and stopped, pointing down, about ten feet from the body. There it was. The mortal tube that matched the one the ghost held in his invisible hand. Had someone shot the man with a tube of some type?

Holding the tube in one hand, I moved back to the body and stood over it, looking at the neck. This tube in my hand felt like the stem of a mushroom. I handed it to Larry. This might be interesting… I think it fits in the hole in the guys’ neck. I took a few steps north to the side of the Smith Tower. The light around the corner, closer to the homeless mission, was bright now, but I could see it was beginning to dim. I turned to the ghost, who looked at me with expectant eyes. He held his arms out as if to say ‘now what?’ I pointed over my shoulder to the light. The ghost finally saw it and scampered in a disheveled manner around the corner. The light flared, and then disappeared. That’s the way it goes, sometimes.

Larry saw me point to the corner of the building. Found it over there, eh? It’s evidence, so we should mark where you found it. He and I walked to the sidewalk and drew a chalk line around the purple square where I found the toadstool looking thing. Sprinkled on the sidewalk were very fine red dots, almost a powder.

You’re pretty observant. I’d like you to join me at headquarters tomorrow. You might be able to help us out. And we’ll pay you for the use of your binoculars and photo’s you took, too. Here’s my card.

He handed another business card to me. I placed it in my pocket. I was working free lance, and if the City of Seattle was going to pay me for some of my effort, I’d be happy to cash the check!

There was nothing else for me to do all day, so I finished up some routine chores and ran some errands around the city. Then I headed home and settled in for the last restful night I was going to have for quite some time.

 -4-

As night fell across the region, other creatures were stirring. One such creature considered himself to be a Purist and he slowly scanned the lobby of the casino. The creature was confident that he held a loftier place than those playing the games of chance. He had ethics and high morals, after all. The individuals he perused were much crasser, more common than he ever was. Still, they served their purpose in life. Or rather, they served his purpose in life, he smiled at the thought.

Then he spotted what he sought. He had learned to watch his prey, to memorize their movements. It was all part of the game. The agitation between these two was visible, even slightly audible from his lookout point in the main lobby. Over by the tinkling nickel slot machines a young lady dressed in a black mini skirt and shiny black blouse stood behind her boyfriend.

Come on, Harold. She whined. I’m all out of nickels and you said we’d go and do something fun when we’d spent our gambling money here. I’m ready, if you know what I mean. She pressed into him from behind, certain that the pressure of her nipples would be felt by him through the soft, clingy silk blouse she’d chosen for their night out. She moved back and forth across his flannel shirt covered back.

The Purist watched her vain attempts to get her mate to pay attention to her. It wasn’t working; her mate was