Special thanks to Theresa Dougherty (for the spelling), James Roach (for The Most Dangerous Game), Michael DeMeo (for the Stephen King), Albin Dixon (for the detective stories), Robert Dunbar (for the Pines), Bro. Gabe Fagan (for the Waste Lands), Bill Wine (for the sick puppy), Loren Feldman (for the career), Art Borgeau (for the hardboiled talks), as well as the Salesian Sisters, the Oblates of St. Francis de Sales and the Christian Brothers (for the metaphysics).

Honorary guests of the Brain Hotel include Paul and Cindy Barsky, John Betancourt, Ken, Phyl and Grace Bruen, Father Luke Elijah, Gary Goldstein, J.T. Lindroos, Jordan Matus, Myatt Murphy, “Kid Valentine” O'Connor, Tom “Sir” Paul, Sr., Jason Rekulak, Rich Rys, Kevin Burton Smith, Lynne Texter, Sean Wallace, Jim Warren, Lou Wojciechowski and all Swierczynskis, everywhere.

Residing in a penthouse suite of the Brain Hotel is David “Hale” Smith, without whom the Brain Hotel would have been condemned and turned into a retirement home for the hopelessly senile. In the other penthouse suite is Allan Guthrie, an amazing hardboiled writer and editor who I'm convinced is the Scottish recincarnation of David Goodis. (And one of these days I'm going to hire a hypnotist to prove it.)

Meredith, Parker and Sarah enjoy luxury suites in the heart of the Brain Hotel.

Woody Creek, Illinois

Labor Day 1975

Alison Larsen's body went undiscovered for about 6 hours. Local children found her first. The paper never reported this, but a couple of the kids organized an impromptu club with a mandate to “experiment” on her corpse. What would happen if we put rocks in her mouth? Can her eyes still see? If we cut her, will she still bleed?

Twisted bastards. Did they think to call an ambulance? Scream for a neighbor? No. The first thing they did was grab a rock the size of a softball and shove it into Mrs. Larsen's mouth. According to the report, her teeth were chipped where the rock made contact. Alison was a petite woman. They had to push hard to shove that hunk of granite into her face.

There was no official effort to prosecute the children. Big mistake, in my book. This kind of behavior, left unchecked, often results in severely disturbed adults.

Then again, what do I know? At the time, I was a dead man impersonating an FBI agent.

Ten hours after the discovery, top brass-in other words, me and a bunch of agents from the Chicago office who I'd just met-sped through the weedy flatland somebody once decided to call “Woody Creek” and arrived at the Witness Protection house. The “safe” house. What a joke. If we cut her, will she still bleed?

After we pulled up, somebody handed me a doughnut and a Styrofoam cup. I thanked him and peeled off the lid. The coffee was lukewarm and milky. I prefer my coffee hot and black. But it'd been a long day-flying from Vegas to Chicago, and then this drive. I was grateful for any kind of stimulant. We all started up the front driveway.

The local cleanup crew had arrived a few hours before us, so I didn't see any of the corpse mutilation first-hand-I only read the report. The crew had checked Alison Larsen's body for vitals (as if there were any to be found), made the requisite notations, zipped her up in a plastic bag, and loaded her into the van.

Ms. Larsen's body may have no longer been here, but her blood certainly was. It was splattered on the tan shag carpet at least three feet in every direction. “Shit,” somebody said. I stepped over the soiled area and walked into the living room. There was a cluttered desk with its chair tipped over, one leg broken. A fat book was split open on the floor. I walked into the kitchen. Glass cupboard doors were shattered; broken pieces littered the hardwood floor. I noticed a smear of dried blood along one wall. The radio was playing “The Air That I Breathe,” a Hollies tune from a couple of years ago.

“Who turned this on?” I asked.

“Nobody,” replied an agent. “It was on when we got here. We left it."

“You think it might cough up some evidence?” I joked.

“Possibly,” the agent said, poker-faced.

A dark-haired man with a thick neck and clothes that were supposed to be stylish approached me. “Agent Kennedy?"

“Yes,” I replied. I flashed the temporary photo I.D. I'd received upon arriving at the Chicago office. I'd told them I couldn't believe I'd forgotten it, but I'd been in such a hurry to make the plane I must have… blah, blah, blah. They bought it.

“I'm Agent Nevins. Welcome to Illinois."

Dean Nevins, SAC-Special Agent in Charge. I'd heard a bit about him from the boys on the two-hour drive down from Chicago. One-word descriptions flowed freely: Territorial. Obtuse. Egotistical. Only hears what he wants to and beats the piss out of anyone who says different. When you're on a Dean Nevins case, they told me, you're in Dean Nevins’ world. Keep your head down and questions to yourself. He loved murders, too. Couldn't get enough of them.

“You have the name of a great man,” Nevins told me.

“Yes, I know."

I told Nevins I wished I was here under better circumstances, it was a beautiful state, and all that. I wanted him to point me to Brad Larsen's body right away, but I thought to do so might seem weird. Instead, I asked him to walk me through what had happened.

Nevins gave me a funny look, as if I'd ask him what brand of underwear he wore.

“Well, this all went down yesterday,” he said. “Early Sunday afternoon. We assume the gunman took her by surprise, at the door.” He led me deeper into the living room. “The guy knocked, and Mrs. Larsen went over to answer it."

I shook my head to indicate my disgust.

“Next thing you know,” Nevins said, punctuating his words with a thumb-and-index-finger pistol, “blammo. Hubby stands up, and somewhere in here…” He paused to point to the middle of the room, in front of the desk. “…Hubby makes a break for it. It's typical. These WP guys are almost always Grade-A, U.S.D.A.-approved pussies."

I nodded as if I agreed. “The body was out back?"

“No.” Nevins continued into the next room-a small kitchen, done over in way too many earth tones. He pointed at a puke green wall. “The perp nailed Hubby here, and smacked his head into a glass cabinet.” I saw the blood. “They must have scuffled, and backed into this table.” Or what was left of it. “Then Hubby runs for it again, and skips out to the back door. The perp follows."

We walked past a bedroom to a flimsy aluminum door through which I could see outside. The porch overlooked a thin stretch of Woody Creek. Agent Nevins led me out onto the back porch deck, but a nervous-looking member of local law enforcement interrupted the agent's compassionate, insightful description of the Larsens’ double murder.

The man's face lit up. “Was it the Mafia?” he cried. “One of dem Manson cults? C'mon, you gotta tell me!"

“I'm sorry, Sheriff…” Nevins started, then paused to look down at his notebook. “…Alford. This thing is ours now. Nothing to worry you."