Tag Archives: murder

The Accidents (funny how they can happen…)

THE ACCIDENTS

By  Betty J. Matney/Aya Walksfar

Services were supposed to start at two o’clock. Here it was ten minutes after and folks still coming in. I didn’t dare turn around and look, but I could hear them in the aisle behind me. Seemed like everybody in the whole county decided to pack themselves into this church. Like this funeral was the social event of the season or something. I guess that was because it wasn’t a natural funeral. If there is such a thing. But you know what I mean. Natural’s when the person is really really old or has some real bad sickness and everybody is sort of expecting them to die.

We sat in the front pew and nobody tried to come sit with us.  Didn’t help me none with Dr. Mike on one side and Aunt Rose on the other, I felt squished. Between the heavy perfume from the large spray of yellow roses standing at the head of the casket just a few feet away and sweat making my clothes stick to me, miserable didn’t come close to how I felt. I hadn’t wanted to come. Aunt Rose said I had to. Said folks would think it odd if I missed my own momma’s funeral. Aunt Rose pays a lot of attention to what folks think. She reminded me that morning that even little girls of eight had to act like ladies. Even little girls who’d become orphans.

Relief run through me when Reverend Baker came down the aisle and mounted the steps to the podium.

The good reverend had stopped by the house last evening. To bring us comfort and pray with us he said. So we’d all joined hands and he started praying. He didn’t waste any time before he had my mama being cradled in the Lord’s arms. About then I had all I could do to keep from upchucking. Mama didn’t go to heaven. Mama went straight to hell.

I know ’cause I was there the night my daddy died.

For the service though he started in right after the first prayer talking about what a happy marriage my parents had. I didn’t know what that had to do with my momma laying in that casket and pretty soon, my eyes started getting heavy. Well, they popped right back open when he began talking about my daddy drowning last summer. I could feel myself getting a bit huffy because he kept calling it an accident. It wasn’t. I know how my daddy died. Like I said before, I was there that night.

Then Reverend Baker started talking about how Mama had been so miserable and unhappy after my daddy’s accident.

After that the minister talked a lot about Mama’s slipping and falling over the side of the bluff. He kept calling it an accident, too; but you could tell he really thought she committed suicide. She didn’t jump. I know. I was there then, too.

Instead of stopping here like I thought he would, he went back to talking about my parents’ happy marriage. That’s when I shut my eyes and stopped listening and started remembering for myself. Remembering my life before my daddy died.

My memories always start in my special room. The room between Daddy’s den and the living room. My playroom.

Every day, Daddy’d come there and play with me. He’d sometimes toss me high in the air, almost to the ceiling. Time after time, he’d toss me until my long black hair pulled loose from its ribbons and streamed across my face. I’d squeal with laughter until I started hiccuping, then Mama’d start scolding and he’d stop. He’d laugh and sweep us both up into his arms and hug us. I’d stop hiccuping and Mama’d stop scolding and smile up at him. A crooked little smile that seemed to hold a secret only the two of them knew.

There were special days, too, like my fifth birthday. I was recovering from pneumonia; and Daddy wrapped me in a pink fuzzy blanket and carried me downstairs to the playroom to open my presents.

While I sat on the floor at his feet and carefully slid the paper off the boxes, Mama sat on the arm of the chair and ran her fingers through Daddy’s thick black hair. I’d steal a look up at her and Daddy and catch her shaking a finger and scolding him for spoiling me.

Daddy leaned down and hugged me close. “Daddies are supposed to spoil their best ladies,” and he’d laughed. Momma’d smiled at him with that special crooked smile.

My special room was a noisy, laughing room. Until that night in August a year ago. That night just a week after my seventh birthday. The night of the storm.

I remember the day started off cool and a little cloudy. I had to play inside because I had a cold. Mama went to town that afternoon to shop and have dinner with her sister, Aunt Rose. By the time Daddy got home from his office, the sky had turned almost black. I stood at the window, watching the wind dance wildly through the trees down by the lake.

Daddy’d already changed into jeans and a sweat shirt when he joined me at the window. I snuggled up against him; such a cozy feeling to have Daddy’s arms around me as we watched the clouds chasing each other across the sky. He said he thought the storm would pass us by, but the sky looked awfully black to me.

Daddy got a little fire crackling in the fireplace and Nellie, our day maid, set up a card table with a red and white checkered tablecloth and two folding chairs. When I wrinkled my forehead at Daddy, he smiled real big. “Thought me and my best girl might have a little picnic.” Mrs. Haggarty, our housekeeper, brought in hot dogs and french fries and lemonade. She winked at me when she placed a plate of peanut butter cookies–my favorite–on the table.

Later in the evening, after my bath, I dressed in my nightie and dragged a blanket to the room so I could keep Daddy company while he waited for Momma. Nellie and Cook left for the day, and Mrs. Haggarty left for choir rehearsal, but none of them mattered. Daddy let me curl up on his lap as he read to me, but I noticed he kept looking at his watch.

The last of the cedar logs in the fireplace had become nothing more than glowing red lumps, when we heard the first clap of thunder.  The storm hadn’t passed us by. Great drops of rain splattered on the floor behind us; and my daddy’s white deck shoes made squeaky sounds as he hurried across the room. He muttered as he slammed the window down. Daddy hated it when it got too stormy for him to go sailing.

Once a week, he took our boat out to sail by himself on the dark deserted lake. He took my mama and me sailing a lot, too. But never at night.

Now heavy gusts of wind drove the rain, slashing it across the windows, and whipping the tall azalea bushes just outside the glass into a frenzy until the branches tore at the glass between us and the bushes. The lights flickered, and I caught my breath. My heart pounded and I shivered.

Daddy rubbed circles on my back and reminded me that we had plenty of candles. He put a pillow from the sofa on the floor and had me lay down while he tucked the blanket in around me. In spite of the storm, I fell asleep curled up in the shadows alongside his chair.

Angry voices woke me.

I rolled over and looked up. Daddy and Mama stood in front of the fireplace. Daddy stood half turned away, one hand shoved in his pants’ pocket and the other gripping the mantle. Head bent, he appeared to be staring into the fire. Momma stood a couple of steps back facing him, her hands clenched into fists at her side.

Her voice shook as it rose and fell. I only caught snatches of what she yelled as she stormed back and forth in front of Daddy. “All those nights….sailed by yourself….Alice….not stupid….across the lake….divorce….”

Daddy’s voice sounded cold, like the winter. “Your sister should mind her tongue.” He lifted his face and the look on it made me tremble. “I don’t expect you to understand, but a man needs his freedom.”

I squeezed my eyes shut again, pulled the blanket over my head. Hands over my ears, I hummed softly. I’d never seen my parents made at each other.

A few minutes later, I stopped humming and pulled the blanket down. The room had gotten quiet. I peeked around the legs of the chair. No one in the room but me. I scrambled to my feet, pulled my nightgown up around my knees and rushed out.

At the end of the hall, Daddy yanked his jacket from the closet. He had only one arm in his jacket when he jerked open the front door and strode out into the storm. Mama, her heavy sandals with their high, square heels thumping on the tile floor, didn’t even reach for a jacket as she darted out after him.

By the time I reached the front porch, my parents had disappeared. I thought I’d lost them in the darkness when lightning flashed across the sky. Daddy’s blue windbreaker billowed out behind him as he headed for the strip of sandy beach at the far edge of our lawn. Momma ran after him, but her yellow skirt kept wrapping around her legs. She stopped and stepped out of her sandals. She clutched them in one hand and hiked up her skirt with her other hand then took out after Daddy.  The glow from the lightning faded and darkness closed in again.

I raced after them, felt the grass turn to sand beneath my feet. Lightning flashed again as I reached our pier. Daddy stood in the back of our small sailboat tied to the end of the pier. My bare feet skidded on the wet boards of the dock. My long hair whipped across my face. I stopped and pushed it back. Thunder cracked and lightning flashed. I squinted into the rain.

My breath got caught in my chest and I covered my mouth with both hands. Daddy had untied the boat from the dock.  He couldn’t really mean to go out on that black water! A gust of wind slapped me and my foot hit a slick spot on the boards. I flailed my arms, but still slammed down on the dock.

Thunder cracked in a nearly continuous roll while lightning sizzled and crackled like some terrible monster across the sky. Gasping for air, I watched as Momma dropped her sandals then grabbed the rope Daddy had untied. The wind shoved our little boat sideways against the dock.

Momma yelled something, but I couldn’t hear. Daddy yanked the rope from her hands.  As her gripped broke, she stumbled and fell to her knees, knocking one of her sandals into the water.

Daddy bent over the little motor on the back of the boat as Momma stood up. Flashes of lightning and rolling thunder turned Momma’s face into a devil’s mask as she lifted her arm high over her head and stepped closer to Daddy. With a downward swing, she slammed the thick heel of her sandal against Daddy’s head.

I screamed as Daddy’s legs crumpled and he fell face down into the boat. Momma bent and shoved the boat. It hesitated then the churning water pulled it away from the dock.  Momma watched as the boat twisted and spun beneath the force of wind and wave.

Frozen, eyes wide as lightning shattered the darkness, I watched my Daddy’s boat as I fought to stand up.

Momma’s shoe slipped from her fingers and fell into the cold, black water. I  scrambled to my feet as the wild water lifted Daddy’s little boat and the wind snatched it, slammed it into the black boulders just beyond the beach.

As the lightning faded, Momma turned and walked across the beach, toward the house. In the sudden blackness, I stumbled from the dock and found my way home, too.  I don’t think she ever saw me.

Nightgown clinging to my wet body, and teeth chattering, I climbed into bed, curled into a ball deep under the covers. A wispy shadow of fear nibbled at my stomach. It was scary to hate my momma so much.

I drifted in and out of sleep. I couldn’t get warm and it became harder and harder to breath.

I have only two clear memories of the next few days. One is of Mrs. Haggarty slipping warmed socks over my ice cold feet, and me being too tired to tell her thank you. The other is of crying for my daddy, and Dr. Mike holding me close, surprising me with his tears wet against my hot face.

When I finally came fully awake, the late afternoon sunshine filtered through the open venetian blinds making zebra stripes across the dark blue quilt of my bed. I lay quietly, weak and exhausted from pneumonia.

My bedroom door opened, but I kept my eyes shut until Dr. Mike sat down on the edge of my bed. He pulled me up close to him, and rocked me slowly back and forth. When he began to speak, I could hear the words rumble deep in his chest.

Leaning my cheek into the hollow of his shoulder, I listened to the murmur of his voice. I was so warm and cozy that for a few moments I didn’t really listen. He’d used the word “accident” a couple of times before I realized he was talking about my daddy.

I shook my head violently, struggling in his arms. “Mama. Mama,” I croaked. My voice came out scratchy and my throat hurt. Before I could explain further, he put a finger against my lips and hushed me.

Carefully, he held me away from him by the shoulders and looked closely into my face. He said I’d been very sick for over a week, and that Mama was very sick, too. He said I’d been sick in the body, but Mama was sick in her spirit; and sometimes spirit sickness took longer to get over than the body kind.

He shushed me again when I tried to speak.

After a few minutes, Dr. Mike stood up and, while he was tucking the covers around me, he spoke again. “Your mother took your daddy’s…accident…very hard. I’m sure she’ll be okay eventually. It’s just going to take awhile, and for now the best place for her is in a special hospital where they understand this kind of sickness. But I’ll be here for you and so will your Aunt Rose.”

He leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. I heard him muttering as he walked across to the door, “Too young. Too young. Not even sure she understands her daddy’s dead.”

Dr. Mike was wrong. I’d known my daddy must be dead before I left the dock that night. And I understood about Mama. Maybe better than he did. She did just what I’d done the night of the storm. She pulled the blanket over her head and hid.

When I got well enough to go downstairs, Mrs. Haggarty put a big soft chair in front of the windows in my playroom. I spent hours curled up in it looking out the window. Looking at the lake. Watching the sailboats. Thinking.

At first, I pretended I was out there with my daddy. Then it’d come to me that we’d never go sailing again, and I’d remember why. I got so mad I’d hug myself real hard for fear the anger would leak out and lay like a puddle of dirty water on the rug.

The first couple of days when Mrs. Haggarty brought me lunch she did a lot of patting me on the head and sniffling. She kept acting like she wanted to say something, but it wasn’t until the third day that she managed to stammer out that if I wanted to talk about anything she’d be there to listen. I looked down at the floor and mumbled thanks, and after a minute or two, she left the room. That was the only time anyone even came close to asking me about that night. Even Dr. Mike only gave me reports on how well my mama was doing. He never asked me if I wanted to talk. That was okay. I’d wait. Momma had to come home sometime.

Aunt Rose moved into our house to take care of me and manage things until Momma could get well. We’d never liked each other much and this arrangement didn’t change anything. At dinner she’d ask about my day. I’d say it’d been fine. She’d ask if I’d done my homework. I’d say yes. And that was that.

At school, the teachers sort of walked and talked around me. Now and then, I’d catch them giving me a sorrowful look and shaking their heads. Even the kids gave me space. No teasing. No shoving. No getting in my face. Nothing. And no one ever mentioned my parents.

Late spring Aunt Rose brought Momma home. Momma kept to her room and Doctor Mike came every morning to see her. I started to go in one morning, but Aunt Rose stopped me. Said I looked too much like my daddy and it might upset my mother. Aunt Rose said she’d let me know when it was time for me to see Momma.

A couple of weeks after Momma came home, I passed her bedroom on my day down to breakfast when I heard her laughing. I stopped. When I heard it again, I cracked the door and peeked in.

My heart started beating so fast I thought it was going to jump right out of my chest.

There was my momma, looking up at Dr. Mike with that crooked little smile she’d always kept just for my daddy. My stomach twisted and bile filled my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut and swallowed as hard as I could. It didn’t matter that my daddy was dead. It should still have been his special smile.

A couple of days later that Mama had her tragic accident.

There’d been a heavy fog that morning. The kind of fog that left everything dripping. I probably would have stayed inside except I heard Dr. Mike’s car pull in to the driveway. I didn’t know what I’d do if I saw Mama smiling at him again, so I grabbed my toast and slipped out the back door before Mrs. Haggarty could stop me. I headed up the path towards the top of the bluff where I could sit on a stump and wait for the fog to finish lifting.

The fog clung like a blanket across the trees that surrounded the path, muting the normal morning noises. Wrapped in a soft cocoon of silence, I puffed around the last curve. Someone else stood on the edge of the bluff ahead of me. At first, I thought it was Aunt Rose then she pushed the hood of the yellow slicker back. Momma stood staring down at the boulder strewn beach below.

I walked toward her and just kept walking. I don’t know why she didn’t hear me. If only she turned around…

A few steps from her, I lunged. My arms straight out, the flat of my hands hit her just below the shoulder blades. I threw myself backward as Momma teetered on the edge. Her left hand grasped at the boulder next to her, but fog had slicked it. Her fingers slipped off the rock. She windmilled her arms then fell forward into the air.

She didn’t scream. At least, I don’t think she did. All I heard was the silence echoing around me.

The silence in my head sent me scurrying when folks reached for their hymnals. The minister’s wife began to play the piano. Dr. Mike nudged me with his elbow and I stood up.

The minister led the procession out of church. As it passed my pew, I suddenly felt all clean and empty inside. Dr. Mike laid his hand on my shoulder. It lay there a couple of moments before he removed it and sort of nudged me to move on out into the aisle. I stepped out and then half turned to tuck my hand into his only to find another hand already there before mine. Aunt Rose’s hand. And she was smiling up at him. I felt my face freezing over. How dare she! She got my daddy into trouble. Her and that woman named Alice.

It’s been a few weeks since Momma’s funeral. I look out the window to where the hill dips down and the green lawn ends at the lake’s edge.

Alice.

Across the blue water, a stiff breeze fills white sails and sends the small boats skimming the still surface. Aunt Rose nudges me. I smile up at her as I wonder what kind of accident she will have.

I glance back out at the lake. Maybe Alice was out there right now. Sailing with some other little girl’s daddy. That was all right. I think I already know what kind of accident she’s going to have.

The End

Betty was an older woman, and a writer, who lived with my wife and I until her death a number of years ago. I know she would be as pleased as I to share this story with you.

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Book Release Daily #Censorship of Street Harvest!

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Book Release Daily, a site that features new releases, refuses to feature a book that exposes the plight of #missing #children! In Street Harvest, Book 2, Special #Crimes Team series, I wrote about street kids kidnapped by human traffickers. Book Release Daily feels that my book exploits children.

Here are some examples of what is objectionable:

Chapter 4

“Floater down on the waterfront at Ivar’s.” He rubbed a hand back and forth across his short-cropped, kinky hair, a habitual gesture whenever he was frustrated or worried.

As she waited to hear the rest of what brought him to her office door, she wondered if he was even aware of the gesture.

“A boy. Dr. Hutchinson thinks he’s around eleven, maybe twelve.” His lips thinned to a slash.

She knew it was more than a dead kid. The Special Crimes Team might feel bad about a dead kid, but they wouldn’t be involved in the investigation unless it was like little Jane Doe, an obvious victim of a sicker-than-usual pervert. Whatever it was had to be nasty. That was the only type of crimes with which they dealt. The crimes that made veteran cops question their choice of career. Hell, being in SCaT even had her sometimes questioning her career choice, though she didn’t know what she would be if she wasn’t a cop.

A bone-deep sadness shadowed Mike’s black-brown eyes. “He was naked. There were several rings of bruises around the boy’s neck. Bite marks on the backs of his shoulders.”

Her insides twisted into knots. Another one. She shut down her laptop, stuffed it in the middle desk drawer, and locked it. With her cane in hand, she pushed to her feet, grabbed her jacket, and headed for the door. “Damn it! I was hoping little Jane Doe was just the random victim of some perv gone too far.”

Without replying, Mike stepped into the hallway and waited for her to lock up. As they headed to the elevator at the end of the corridor she noticed how heavily he moved, like an old man

God, he’s not that old, probably around my dad’s age. Quickly she shut down that line of thought. She refused to give a moment’s consideration to the man who had deserted her when she was just eleven, and right after Chelsea’s death. There had been a time when she wondered if her father had left because of Chelsea’s death, if he blamed her as much as she blamed herself.

Forcefully, she returned her mind to the present.

No, Mike wasn’t that old, but the day little Jane Doe’s body had shown up, the years had gathered on his face. Focused on the autopsy, he hadn’t noticed her watching as his body had clenched, and his shoulders had hunched up around his ears as if he expected a sudden blow from somewhere. A suspicious sheen had gathered in his eyes. He had glanced around, but she’d pretended to be intent on the small body on the stainless steel table. From the corner of her eye, she’d seen him swipe at his eyes then settle his face into an impassive mask.

Chapter 5

“Are we assuming that all of the children, both missing and dead, are ultimately victims of a #sexual #predator?” Frederick crossed his forearms on the table and leaned on them. His eyes swept around the group until they finally settled on Mike.

Detective O’Hara squirmed in her seat. Her lips twisted like she’d taken a big drink of soured milk. “We know the dead kids are. Jane Doe was raped, sodomized, and tortured. There’s evidence that the rapist used a condom. Prelim report says the boy’s injuries were similar, if not identical. This time the rapist used dropping the body in Puget Sound to get rid of the evidence.” She bit her lip and frowned like she just couldn’t understand the monster they were hunting. “According to Dr. Hutchinson’s report, both children died from asphyxiation after being manually strangled multiple times. There was so much bruising he couldn’t even get a clear size on the handprints. Why would anyone strangle a child one time, much less multiple times?”

“Sexual arousal.” Nita grimaced. “Choke your partner until he, or she, blacks out. Supposedly enhances the sexual high for both parties.”

Mike was glad no one cracked any jokes about the asphyxiation angle. Even cop humor couldn’t dull the anger over what had happened to those two kids. Damn! I’m going to have to get past this or I’m not going to be able to do anyone any good.

Chapter 13

“How did you know it was a police van?” Dr. Nelson asked gently.

“It was black, like they are sometimes, and on the side it had the logo for the Seattle police, and when they threw me inside, there was…there was a heavy wire mesh between the back and the front, like the cages in cop cars.”

“Were there seats?”

He shook his head, and blinked rapidly several times. A tear leaked from one eye and his chin quivered. He pulled in a shaky breath. “They…they took me way out in the woods, to this house. I was…locked…in a room and…” Arms tight around his bent legs, he rocked back and forth.

Grease recounted a string of sexual attacks by men who hid behind Halloween masks. At the end, he sniffed and rubbed his red nose on his jean-clad knee. Forehead dropped to his knees, he sat stiffly, as if he might shatter into jagged shards if he breathed too hard.

“Grease,” Irene waited until the boy raised his red-rimmed eyes to her. “I realize your ordeal has been very painful, but there are a few things we need you to do.”

“Yeah, I know. You wanna poke at me and take pictures and do one of them rape kits, doncha?” Belligerence born of hurt and helplessness and anger ripped the bitter words from the thirteen-year-old’s mouth.

In a soft voice, Irene said, “I would like to examine you to be sure you don’t have unmet medical needs. And, yes, it would be good to have photos, if you can tolerate the invasion of your privacy. If you can’t, we can forgo the photos. A rape kit wouldn’t do us any good. It’s been too long since the last attack on you.”

Well, what do you, the reader, think? Do these examples titillate or in other ways exploit the plight of children? Or do these examples simply make the plight of children real? Leave a comment. I would love to hear!

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JAIMIE WOLFWALKER DISCUSSES MISSING #CHILDREN

Today I have the pleasure of #interviewing Jaimie Wolfwalker, #psychic, member of #Missing #Children’s Rescue, Pacific NW Chapter, who recently worked with the Special Crimes Team in cracking a ring of #human #traffickers and saving the lives of a number of children.

ayastreet harvest

Interviewer: Jaimie, I’ve always been curious about people with special gifts. When did your abilities first manifest?

Jaimie Wolfwalker: I was six weeks away from high school graduation when my mother’s car was hit head-on by a drunk driver. My mother was killed immediately. Apparently, that triggered my ability to See children who are lost.

Interviewer: I’m very sorry to hear about your mother. When your ability manifested, did you have anyone to guide you in dealing with it?

Jaimie: My grandmother on my mother’s side was Native American. She helped me understand that I hadn’t suddenly gone insane and begun having hallucinations.

Interviewer: How did you get involved with the Missing Children’s Rescue?

Jaimie: After I graduated, I moved to Bow, Washington to live on Gran’s alpaca ranch. Gran was best friend’s with Eleanor Hasting who was the head of the Pacific Northwest Chapter of MCR. Gran introduced us.

Interviewer: What type of job do you have that will allow you to leave at a moment’s notice to search for a missing child?

Jaimie: Gran died the summer after I moved to Bow. She deeded me the ranch and left a small legacy for me, as well. I sold the ranch. And, when I’m not searching for children, I’m pretty handy with carpentry so I pick up odd jobs like building kitchen cabinets or cute doghouses. That kind of thing.

Interviewer: What can you tell us about the case you worked with the #SpecialCrimesTeam?

Jaimie: It was a heart-breaking case. Especially the little girl, Becca. I don’t know what we would have done without the medicine man, Traveler. All the case details can be found in Street Harvest, Book 2, Special Crimes Team. You can find the case study at http://www.amazon.com/author/ayawalksfar

Interviewer: Where do you see yourself in five years?

Jaimie: Wherever Creator would have me go.

Interviewer: If you could tell people one thing, what would it be?

Jaimie: Cherish the children, all the #children. They are the future.

Street Harvest boyGirl Street Harvest

(Some children walk down a lonely road, or leave school smiling at their besties……

Street Harvest kids gone    And some of them never make it home)

 

Interviewer: Thank you for being here today.

You can read all about the Special Crimes Team and the case of the missing children (Street Harvest, Book 2, Special Crimes Team) at: http://www.amazon.com/author/ayawalksfar

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STREET HARVEST, Book 2, Special #Crimes Team

ayastreet harvest

What do the bodies of two young #children have in common with the #murders of two adult men?

Eleanor Hasting, a black bookstore owner and child advocate, knows these killings are linked. How can she convince Lieutenant Michael Williams, head of the Special Crimes Team? Someone is abducting street children and their bodies are showing up sexually abused and manually strangled.

#Psychic and member of Missing Children’s Rescue, Jaimie Wolfwalker, is prepared to do whatever it takes to locate and rescue the missing street children. The law be damned. Jaimie’s attitude and methods place her on a collision course with Sergeant Nita Slowater, second-in-command of the Special Crimes Team.

Four dedicated people struggle to come to terms with each other in their desperate search for clues. Every day brings more #missingchildren, more young bodies. Can they stop the monsters before another child disappears?

AVAILABLE FEBRUARY 22 ON AMAZON! http://www.amazon.com/author/ayawalksfar

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THE REST OF THE STORY

After you have watched this video, read below for the rest of the story.  @greatcaesarband (via @Upworthy) http://t.co/1N0E5hLV8r

THE REST OF THE #STORY

This heart breaking video celebrates love and hope in the face of violence and despair.

But a video can only tell so much; here is the rest of the story:

#Interracial couple: What you don’t see on the video is that the young black man was castrated then lynched. His girlfriend was forced to watch while this occurred then she was brutally gang-raped and beaten. She was found in time by a neighbor who rushed her to the hospital. When her parents came to the hospital she told them what happened. Her mother ran from the room crying, disgusted that her daughter had lain with a black boy; her father told her not to come home; that she deserved what had happened to her.

#Gay couple: During the attack on the boy in the locker room, someone shouted that the teacher had come in. The boys dispersed with a warning that should the gay boy report them, they would ‘finish what we started somewhere where we won’t be interrupted, fag!’

#Lesbian couple: Lisa finally got the courage to tell her parents that she is lesbian. Her girlfriend, Jackie, came with her for support. After Lisa was kicked out of her home for being lesbian, Jackie’s mom refused to let her stay even overnight as she didn’t want to get involved in a dispute between the girl and her parents. Jackie promised to meet Lisa the next day at the McDonald’s on Broadway. Lisa never showed. What Jackie didn’t realize was the night before Lisa had been beaten and raped. She huddled for the rest of the night in a cardboard box in an alley, shaking. Ashamed of being raped, Lisa couldn’t face Jackie so she hitchhiked to another city. On the streets without money or skills and being underage, Lisa was forced to become a prostitute in order to earn enough money to buy food and sometimes, for a place to sleep.

I don’t know if this video portrayed actual people, or if the couples were representations of what happens all too frequently. The scenarios I have shared have occurred again and again throughout the United States to many interracial, gay and lesbian couples. No one state has a monopoly on hate.

I wish I could say this type of thing no longer happens, but I would be lying. Every day violence driven by hate happens. Every day violence against women happens.

Every day dozens young girls like Lisa sell their bodies for food and shelter. This isn’t happening overseas in economically depressed countries or countries that are ruled by religious fanatics. It is happening here in the United States.

Will you be part of the solution, or part of the problem?

Leave a comment, or visit Aya’s facebook page and engage in conversation. http://www.facebook.com/ayawalksfar

COMING FEBRUARY 21, 2014, STREET HARVEST, Book 2, Special Crimes Team.

STREET HARVEST:

What do the bodies of two young children have in common with the murders of two adult men?

Eleanor Hasting, a black bookstore owner and child advocate, knows these killings are linked. How can she convince Lieutenant Michael Williams, head of the Special Crimes Team? Someone is abducting street children and their bodies are showing up manually strangled and sexually abused.

Psychic, and member of Missing Children’s Rescue, Jaimie Wolfwalker is prepared to do whatever it takes to locate and rescue the missing street children. The law be damned.  Jaimie’s attitude and methods place her on a collision course with Sergeant Nita Slowater, second-in-command of the Special Crimes Team.

Four dedicated people struggle to come to terms with each other in their desperate search for clues. Every day brings more missing children, more young bodies. Can they stop the monsters before more children disappear?

http://www.amazon.com/author/ayawalksfar

FINDING THE GOLD!

There are literally millions of #books in the world, but it is ALWAYS a thrill to find those extra special ones. It’s like finding gold when you’re panning your backyard creek! Kelly Miller is a wonderful find!

Dead Like Me by Kelly Miller ( a #murder #mystery)
Detective Springer has just returned to work from an administrative leave after a righteous shooting, and is called out when a dog finds a young girl in the yard of an abandoned house. The girl has been strangled. As they brush the leaves away from the girl’s face, Detective Springer is looking at her own face at the age of thirteen!
Is the likeness a macabre coincidence, or is there a far more sinister meaning behind it?
The twists and turns of this plot as the author interweaves a past case with the present one will keep you reading well into the night.
I enjoyed the well developed characters. By the end of the book, I wanted to hand Detective Springer a can of Coke. And, if I ever need a therapist, I am definitely getting Dr. Grace’s phone number.
Dead Like Me is available on Amazon. For more information about the author, Kelly Miller, visit Aya’s blog the week of January 27th when she will be hosting Ms. Miller. http://www.ayawalksfar.com/

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#RAFFLECOPTER #GIVEAWAY WINNERS ANNOUNCED!

I am SO EXCITED! Our #Rafflecopter #Giveaway #Winners are:

Sandy Bartles of Georgia: Congratulations, Sandy! Sandy won an autographed paperback copy of Good Intentions by Aya Walksfar

Good Intentions Final cover

Renita McKinney of Texas: Congratulations, Renita! Renita won an autographed paperback copy of Sketch of a Murder by Aya Walksfar

Sketch of a Murder Final cover

Jeselle Grace of New York: Congratulations, Jeselle! Jeselle won an autographed paperback copy of Dead Men and Cats by Aya Walksfar

deadmenCover

THANK ALL OF YOU FOR PARTICIPATING IN “A Perfect Day” Rafflecopter!  To enhance your reading pleasure, please visit my blog where you can read character interviews, book reviews and so much more!

To get ALL the latest, FOLLOW my blog. It’s EASY! Just click on the Follow button.

Be sure to watch for the latest news on Book 2 of the Special Crimes Team series. Sergeant Slowater thought this last case was tough, but she ain’t seen nothing yet!

#THRILLER : A PERFECT DAY BOOK REVIEW

http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/1e40b20/

CHECK OUT THIS COOL GIVEAWAY! JUST CLICK THE ABOVE LINK TO RAFFLECOPTER.

#BOOKREVIEW BY AYA WALKSFAR: THE PERFECT DAY

A nail-biting #thriller!

Gunnar Lawrence’s book hooked me from the first page. The author has woven a story full of surprising twists and turns. How does a homeless man figure in a series of seemingly unrelated murders? What does the killing of illegal immigrants have to do with the past war in Iraq?

The descriptions are spare, but they draw the reader right into the scene.

The characters are so well-drawn that I felt like I wanted to help that homeless man, assist that woman and her daughter; and they weren’t even the main characters!

It’s a novel with graphic violence that isn’t gruesome. That is a difficult thing to pull off.

The chapters give the reader different perspectives on the unfolding drama, but it is all woven into a tight story.

The subtle romance in the book doesn’t depend on sex or the ‘hottest looking…’  It’s real and poignant.

The Perfect Day is a story with meat on its bones and heart in its plot. A book that I highly recommend.

WHERE TO FIND GUNNAR ANGEL LAWRENCE:

https://www.facebook.com/gunnarangel.lawrence

https://twitter.com/GunnarALawrence

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6445679.Gunnar_Angel_Lawrence

http://gunnarangellawrence.blogspot.com/

http://www.amazon.com/Perfect-Detective-Paul-Friedman-Thrillers-ebook/dp/B00CKS8FFM/ref=sr_1_6?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1387042785&sr=1-6

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-perfect-day-gunnar-lawrence/1116237807?ean=2940045186636

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/339529

http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/1e40b20/

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#INTERVIEW: THRILLER AUTHOR GUNNAR LAWRENCE

http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/1e40b20/

CHECK OUT THIS COOL GIVEAWAY! JUST CLICK THE ABOVE LINK TO RAFFLECOPTER.

#INTERVIEW WITH #THRILLER WRITER GUNNAR ANGEL LAWRENCE

Why did you write this book?

It’s been on my mind since I first heard of the “Perfect Day” scenario plans discovered by US Military forces shortly after 9/11. It was a sort of “what would happen if” the horror that is a terrorist attack found its way to the most innocent and family friendly destination, Orlando, Florida.

How is your book different from other books about terrorists?

Most books pit an elite trained force (CIA, FBI, etc) against terrorists. In the Perfect Day, when the elite trained forces are scattered to the wind, it’s up to a detective, a reporter and a fraud examiner to do what they can.

Who is your favorite character and why?

I like Paul Friedman. He is a no nonsense kind of detective who is very good at his job. He’s observant, smart and has a personable feel to him. Gary Michaels is complex and has had a rough life going through what he has. It’s hard for me to choose just one.

How would you describe your writing style?

Fast paced. Action oriented.

Do you have other published books?

Yes. The first Paul Friedman thriller is entitled Fair Play. It’s the story of a pedophile and murderer who gets off on a technicality. I make a living as a freelance writer so many of the other books I have published are of non-fiction variety. There are also a number of adult titles that I did for a short period of time. I’m hoping to break out of that type of writing and stick with the thriller novels that I enjoy so much.

What advice would you give to new writers about self-publishing?

Keep writing. It is a hard road but there is an increasing number of indie authors who forego the traditional route and do so with pretty decent results. Things are changing in the publishing industry and it is becoming less and less desirable to opt for the old way of doing things.

How important is cover design and how did you decide on your cover?

Cover design is important because like it or not, people DO judge a book by it. When I saw the image in my search for The Perfect Day cover I knew I had the one I wanted. An hourglass set against a setting sun: it was just haunting.

What do you do when you aren’t busy writing?

I work full time as a freelance writer.  When I am not writing for a new novel, or a work project, I am either reading or working out at the gym.

Who is your favorite author and why?

For thrillers, I really enjoy the Steven James works The Pawn, The Bishop, etc. Lots of action, lots of twists and turns and you just never know what is going to happen.

Five years from now, where do you see yourself as a writer?

Hopefully, putting out a book every year or more. If I am able to sell enough so that I don’t have to write on the ebook or ghostwriting projects, it would be great for me and I could breathe a little more. After The Perfect Day comes the third book entitled, The Consortium. I’m hoping to finish that one in early 2015. If I’m not spending forty hours a week writing other things, it might be sooner.

#BOOKREVIEW BY AYA WALKSFAR: THE PERFECT DAY

A nail-biting thriller!

Gunnar Lawrence’s book hooked me from the first page. The author has woven a story full of surprising twists and turns. How does a homeless man figure in a series of seemingly unrelated murders? What does the killing of illegal immigrants have to do with the past war in Iraq?

The descriptions are spare, but they draw the reader right into the scene.

The characters are so well-drawn that I felt like I wanted to help that homeless man, assist that woman and her daughter; and they weren’t even the main characters!

It’s a novel with graphic violence that isn’t gruesome. That is a difficult thing to pull off.

The chapters give the reader different perspectives on the unfolding drama, but it is all woven into a tight story.

The subtle romance in the book doesn’t depend on sex or the ‘hottest looking…’  It’s real and poignant.

The Perfect Day is a story with meat on its bones and heart in its plot. A book that I highly recommend.

WHERE TO FIND GUNNAR ANGEL LAWRENCE:

https://www.facebook.com/gunnarangel.lawrence

https://twitter.com/GunnarALawrence

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6445679.Gunnar_Angel_Lawrence

http://gunnarangellawrence.blogspot.com/

http://www.amazon.com/Perfect-Detective-Paul-Friedman-Thrillers-ebook/dp/B00CKS8FFM/ref=sr_1_6?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1387042785&sr=1-6

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-perfect-day-gunnar-lawrence/1116237807?ean=2940045186636

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/339529

http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/1e40b20/

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You can also visit me on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/ayawalksfar

GOVERNOR MARLETON CHOOSES HEAD OF #SPECIALCRIMESTEAM

Washington_State_Governor's_Mansion

#Governor Andrea Marleton crossed her shapely legs and rested her long, elegant fingers in her lap. She cocked her head to one side and her long, auburn hair swung over her shoulder, framing one side of her oval face. Large, expressive dark eyes studied Lieutenant Michael Williams as he sat on the spindly-legged, antique chair. The only thing in the expensively decorated governor’s library that looked congruent with Mike’s rugged face was the books crowded together on the bookshelves behind him. She glanced at her wristwatch. 8 PM. Her choice of the library in the governor’s mansion was not be accident. The room radiated serious purpose. Mike was a serious man. In her opinion, too serious since his wife Emily died of cancer eight years ago and his police daughter was killed while saving a young girl’s life.

governor's mansion library

“Mike, let’s be reasonable. You are the logical person to head my Special Crimes Team. You’re a lieutenant and you have maintained the best clearance rate of any homicide #detective in the state of Washington, bar none.”

He carefully shifted in the chair as if afraid that any sudden movement might cause it to shatter. “I am being reasonable, Andrea. I’ve put in my years in law enforcement and it’s time to quit. I’m tired of butting heads with my superiors.”

She chuckled. “As I’m sure they are tired of butting heads with you since you have a knack for doing exactly what you planned to in the first place.” She uncrossed her legs, clasped her hands between her knees and leaned forward. “That’s why this is perfect for you. You answer to no one, except me.” She sat up straight and put her hands out, palms up. “What could be more perfect?”

“Time at home with my son.”

All joviality faded from her face, leaving only the look of determination that her political opponents so dreaded. “I need you to head the team, Mike. Harvey Realto was not only the wealthiest landowner in #Washington State, he was also a big contributor to my last campaign.” She held up a delicate hand when he started to interrupt. “That isn’t the real problem.” She bit her lip, a habit she’d been trying to break. “It’s come out that several months ago he beat a young man who worked on his ranch so badly that the boy will carry several facial scars for the rest of his life. The boy was gay. I didn’t know he was like that, Mike.  You know I don’t hold with that kind of bigotry.”

Mike grunted and glared at her. “Told you that you needed to vet your contributors, Andrea.”

“Gregory…”

“Gregory Whitehall is an incompetent ass.”

“Yes, well.” She sighed and settled against the uncomfortable back of the settee. “He’s a necessary evil. Mike, I’ve gone to bat for you….”

“That was because you owed Eleanor Hastings, big time.”

She threw her hands up in the air. “What will it take to get you to accept? Yes, so far this monster has only murdered two men, both who arguably deserved what they got and worse, both wealthy men who used their positions, power and money to sidestep justice for crimes we all know they committed. But, Mike, what happens when this vigilante doesn’t get the full story before he strikes; what happens when he goes after someone who was perhaps falsely accused? Do you really want an innocent man’s death on your conscience when we both know the best hope we have is for you to head a team whose only goal is to stop this maniac?”

She knew she’d scored when he began rubbing one hand over his hair. Like her lip chewing, it was a telling gesture.

He stood and paced over to the bookshelves, ran a thick finger along the books’ spines. When he turned back to face her, his heavy features were set and she knew whatever he demanded she would have to concede or he would walk away.

“I’ll head your Special Crimes Team, Andrea, but there are conditions. It’s my team. I don’t care who you pick, but they answer to me; not you. No jurisdictional boundaries to stall my investigations. When a case meets the criteria for my team, the other jurisdictions hand over the case; I head it and let them know how they can assist. One crime scene unit on-call for us. If they’re at another scene, too bad. Put it on hold for a different unit. Lab work we need goes to the head of the queue. No special considerations for politicians or wealthy people. Even if I decide I want to investigate you, no one will try to strait-jacket me, got it?”

She nodded, sensing that he wasn’t quite finished.

“Top of the line equipment. Computers, cell phones, digital cameras, whatever we need in technology. You can scrimp on the office furniture.”

When he jammed his hands in his front pockets, she knew he’d finished with his list of demands, nothing she didn’t expect. “I can agree to all of that, Mike. The only thing I want in my control is the media. Let Gregory handle the media. The man is an ass, but he’s the best PR person I’ve ever seen. I swear he could make people believe it’s the dead of night at high noon.”

Mike narrowed his eyes, and for a moment she thought he might balk. “Whitehall can have the media,” he held up one blunt-nailed finger, “unless I feel that it interferes with my investigation. At that point, I will do whatever I feel is necessary, understood?’’

A smile slowly spread across her lips as she stood. He met her in the center of the conversation area and they shook hands over the antique rosewood table. “Understood.”

As he put his hand on the doorknob, he twisted his head and peered over his shoulder. “Andrea, I don’t doubt that you’re sincere about wanting to catch this killer before someone dies who shouldn’t, but I also know if he can’t be caught in a timely fashion that you won’t hesitate to throw me, and my team, to the media wolves.”

She didn’t respond as he stepped out and quietly closed the door. Above everything, she was a political animal, and sometimes that called for distasteful sacrifices. He understood her too well, and sometimes, she hated him for it.

To learn more about the SPECIAL CRIMES TEAM read: SKETCH OF A MURDER, NOW AVAILABLE at http://www.amazon.com/Sketch-Murder-Special-Crimes-Team-ebook/dp/B00KU6AIPQ

or visit Author AYA WALKSFAR at:

http://www.facebook.com/ayawalksfar

The above photos of the Governor’s Mansion in Olympia, Washington and the Library in the Governor’s Mansion in Olympia, Washington are from the Washington Governor’s Mansion Foundation at http://www.wagovmansion.org/photogallery/  Many thanks to this great non-profit, non-political organization for all of its efforts toward preservation of Washington State’s heritage.