THE VIOLET CROW
by Michael Sheldon
How do you solve the ultimate mystery, where the murder victim has no identity and there’s no physical evidence? You go psychic—deep psychic—and hire Bruno X. Sure, you’re going to have to put up with some Yiddish trash talk and recycled borsht belt shtick. But he’s the only one who can who can stop the crime spree in the ordinarily placid Quaker community of Gardenfield, New Jersey.
Follow Bruno X in Michael Sheldon's fictional debut, THE VIOLET CROW as he fends off rabid journalists and feckless politicians; untangles webs of deceit in Professor Littlejohn’s Deviant Behavior 101 class; reveals why the Quakers are still fighting over decades-old military medical experiments; and finally, uncovers the secrets of the biotechnology firm whose symbol is The Violet Crow.
Bruno works the crime scene
“Show me where you found her.”
The Chief paced off a certain number of rows. He pointed to a spot at the far end of the row. Bruno frowned. There was no crime scene tape to protect the spot.
“Any sign of how they got it in?”
“No. There was an hour between the time the building was unlocked for school to start and when the classes came in for the monthly meeting.”
“Pretty risky, breaking in in broad daylight,” Bruno mused out loud.
Chief Black nodded in agreement. “Except there was no sign of a break-in. No picked locks. No broken windows. No footprints in the snow, tire tracks, or anything like that.”
Bruno shuffled over to the spot where the body was found. He stood behind it, leaning forward with both hands on the back of the wooden bench.
“Everything you know about physical evidence is also true for psychic evidence. If the crime scene is disturbed I can’t do my job.” Bruno sat down in the spot where the victim was found. He slumped over, attempting to imitate the girl’s posture. He sat that way in silence for several minutes. “Nothing here,” he said finally, without moving or opening his eyes. “Normally there are powerful emotions associated with a violent crime. Both from the victim and the perpetrator. They leave behind residues of those emotions on things they’re in contact with during the event. Just like fingerprints. Blood. Fibers. Candy wrappers. I can pick up traces of fear, pain, panic, anger, or lust. The intensity of emotion leaves psychic clues that I can retrieve…” He stood up abruptly and walked toward the Chief, “But not when the crime scene’s been trampled on like this one has.”
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AUTHOR Bio and Links:
Michael was born in Philadelphia and grew up in Haddonfield, New Jersey. His father was a dentist, which accounts for his sense of humor. His mother, a Jewish mother without peer, instilled in him the idea that the world doesn’t owe you a living—and a love of raw oysters and dry martinis. His training in the craft of storytelling came from reading the masters beginning with Chaucer and Rabelais, through Sterne, to MacDonald and Westlake.