The Intuitive FBI Agent and the Mystery of the Leaded Beast

A Thought from the Author

Michael Blakeslee

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and events are either invented or used fictitiously, with the exception of Thomas Midgley Jr: the inventor of leaded gasoline and chlorofluorocarbons (CFCs).

As a deceitful ruse, he did, indeed, play with lead in the presence of reporters. The remarks referring to the devastating impact of his inventions are cited directly from each respective mentioned website.

He later mysteriously contracted polio. It is also factual that he accidentally strangled himself in a contraption of his own creation. However, the allusion to his dabbling in the dark arts is, of course, fantasy.

A Thought from the Author

Law enforcement officers are daily placed in difficult situations. They walk a fine line between serving and protecting. It's easy to generalize and categorize—we're all guilty of it to some degree. But to the one who perceives their life as constantly threatened, assuming everyone is an enemy until proven otherwise seems prudent.

Alas, an air of superiority may, at times, descend upon naive officers. Then, they may project their shadow onto others. A problem as old as the nomadic era, where warring tribes regarded the other as nemeses and, hence, deserving of death.

This peculiar phenomenon promotes a self-righteousness proclamation against perceived enemies, yet without acknowledgment of one's own shortcomings. As if enforcing man-made laws is the equivalent of representing the Almighty, who, in turn, seems incapable of rendering His own justice and is, therefore, dependent on temporal constables.

It is, however, a grievous crime against humanity when a select few trample the rights of those whom they swore to protect.

But then, what can be said of the axiom Spirit works only through people? We must bear in mind that a hammer in one hand builds a shelter, while in another, it can take a life.

The Divine wishes to work through all. Not all, however, are willing to answer that call.

God bless those who are steadfast in their commitment to serving the community without abusing the authority granted to them by those whom they serve.

Michael Blakeslee

Prologue

When Johnny Dupochus stepped out of the drizzling rain and into the rear of the correctional van, it was the first time in six years he'd experienced a moment's peace.

It wasn't because he was leaving the Little Rock Penitentiary. It was on account that Nicky, the phantom who had plagued him since his arrival, had stayed behind.

There had been no sanctuary from Nicky—not in bed, not the chow hall, not the showers, not even the toilet was sacred. But now, as if those four gray walls contained him, Johnny no longer felt Nicky breathing down his neck, chronically blaming him for his untimely death.

Maybe he can't leave the jail? Johnny marveled. I never imagined that. I wish I'd gotten transferred a long time ago. What's he gonna do now? Probably torment my old celly? Man, I feel sorry for Bobby.

As the transportation guards merged onto the highway, Johnny glanced over his shoulder. "Nope. No pain-in-the-ass apparition back there," he muttered.

He then twisted further, watching the plethora of security lights blur into an indistinguishable dome, known endearingly to the convicts as Camp Snoopy.