On the Evening of Saturday, March 19

Horror Crime Fiction by J.R. Blanes

                                            

Detroit Police Department 9th District
11187 Gratiot Avenue
Detroit, MI. 48213

Complaint No. 13-3316-666
File Number: 4

Interview of: David Wheeler
Reporting Officers: Det. Bradford Howe
Special Agent Leslie Milton

Interrogation room. Suspect David Wheeler, 24 years old, sits at the table, dressed in white t-shirt and gray sweatpants stained in blood. He’s 6’1, 250 pounds, with bleached blonde hair and blue bloodshot eyes. A scar cuts a jagged line through his right brow. Gauges droop from his ears and tattoos cover his entire body. Gauze wraps his right shoulder where he was treated at Henry Ford Hospital for a severe bite wound. He’s highly aggressive when provoked but has been otherwise cooperative.

Police brought the suspect to the station at 10:09 pm. The crime transpired at the home he shares with his roommate, Salvador Penaflor, at14211 Linnhurst Street in Franklin Park, a crime-ridden neighborhood in the 4820-die area. Not the type of place you want to get caught walking around in late at night unless you’re looking to score drugs. Known for its gang activity and violence.

Photographic evidence shows a dented garage tagged in graffiti. A long stone walkway winds past a weedy garden, the flower beds torn to shreds, and stone statues smashed to bits. Glass glitters beneath the porch light from a shattered bay window. The front door hangs off the hinges, several fist-size dents pockmark the wood. Around the side of the house, a chain link fence with a “Beware of Dog” sign opens onto an enclosed backyard. A low patio with loose floorboards abuts the sliding glass door that the suspect proclaimed to have fled the alleged perpetrator, running through his neighbors’ yard to Faircrest Avenue, where he waved down responders.

Inside, a carving knife sticks in the drywall next to a cluttered kitchen countertop. Broken appliances scatter the floor. Suspect said he threw them at the perpetrator while trying to escape. Down a narrow hallway, bloody prints reveal signs of a struggle. In the living room, about two or three feet from the television, lie the bodies of the deceased, Salvador Penaflor, 26, and his pit bull Chico. The human victim suffered severe head trauma, severe bruising on his body, and a gash in the throat near his Adam’s Apple. The dog’s neck was broken.

Blood samples and fingerprints were documented by forensics. All evidence has been properly sealed, labeled, and shipped to the lab.

(Door opens. Detective Bradford Howe, a 17-year veteran with an impressive record of 47 solved homicides, and Special Agent Milton, 9-year veteran and the first investigator on the scene, enter. Chairs scrape across the cement floor as the officers sit across from the suspect. Milton drops a file on the table in front of her, flips it open, and removes several photos of the murder. Tapping a pen on a yellow legal pad, Howe smiles at the suspect to establish rapport. Wheeler hardly acknowledges the officers, glancing at them momentarily before returning his eyes to the gray brick behind them.)

HOWE(addresses the suspect politely.): Good evening, David. I’m Detective Howe. This is Special Agent Milton. I believe you two have already met. (Milton nods to show they have) As the sign indicates, this interview is being recorded and monitored. (Howe motions toward the camera in the corner.) We hope you don’t mind answering a few questions about the events on the evening of Saturday, March 19. 

WHEELER (answers in monotone while continuing to stare at the wall.):I’ll tell you the same thing I told her. This fucking hophead broke into her home and fucking killed Sal and Chico. They died right in front of me, bro. Right in fucking front of me. (Voice cracks.) I still see the looks on their faces. Christ, I’m wearing their blood. (He rubs his hands together like he’s washing them.)

(Milton appears unmoved by the suspects hysterics)

(From Howe’s notes: Suspect exhibits no real symptoms of shock. Believe actions may be a bit of playacting.) 

HOWE:Tell us what happened, David. 

WHEELER: Ask steely eyes. (Jabs a thumb at Milton.)  

MILTON (sounds perturbed.): We have some facts that need straightening, Mr. Wheeler. Not all the lines of your story are falling in a row. The department brought in Detective Howe to determine why that is. If you ask me, this is a waste of time, all the evidence points to your guilt, but the department has certain protocols we have to follow. So here we are.

WHEELER (shivers):Fuck, it’s like an icebox in here. Department don’t pay its bills. You have a blanket or jacket? (Howe removes his coat and hands it to the suspect. Milton titters. He ignores her.) Thanks, bro. ‘Preciate it. (Slides on the coat.) What’s your name again?

HOWE: Detective Howe.

WHEELER (bursts out laughing.): No shit. Appropriate name for a detective. Anyone ever tell you that?

(Howe shakes his head)

MILTON (clears her throat): In case you forgot, this is a murder investigation, Mr. Wheeler.

(From Howe’s notes: Suspect diverts from subject. Appears anxious about being interrogated for a second time.) 

WHEELER: How could I fucking forget? Every time I close my eyes, I see that maniac doing what he did to Sal and Chico. Have you ever lost someone close to you? Investigator? Detective?

MILTON: This isn’t about us.

HOWE: I lost my mother when I was ten.

WHEELER (fist bumps his chest.): Tough. You know Sal lost his folks early on too. Well, he never knew his papa, but his mama, she died of liver failure, I think. He said it was from all the drinking she done. His Tito raised him after that. Sold him that house… 

HOWE (taps his pen against the legal pad): It was a long time ago.

WHEELER (continues unabated): That’s something Sal and I had in common. Absentee dads. Isn’t that what you call them? More like ghosts. Never around, but still haunt you. My mom was a vampire. Sucked the blood off any dude who had a house over his head and a few bucks in his pocket. That’s why she kept getting pregnant. Hoped one of them would stick around and take care of her and her own. Stupid! All she ended up with was a litter she couldn’t feed.

MILTON (glances at the clock): Can we get on with this?

WHEELER (smiles): Sal used to say I never stop talking when I’m nervous. Guess that’s true. I never noticed. But then its those things we ignore about ourselves. The things others find annoying.

MILTON (leans forward): Why would you be nervous?

(Howe’s notes: liars tend to elaborate on unimportant information.)

WHEELER (bounces his legs.): Care if I stand? Can’t sit right now. (Howe grants the suspect’s request. The chair screeches as Wheeler gets up and paces the floor.) I told Sal not to confront that hophead. But do you think he’d listen? Now him and Chico are dead.

HOWE: Chico?

MILTON: The dog.

WHEELER:Such a smart girl. Sal taught her all these tricks. Roll over. Handshake. Fetch. Awww, those nasty dog breath kisses. I used to hate when that bitch woke me up slobbering my face. (Suspect wipes a tear from his eye.) But I could go for a kiss right now. She would’ve been here too if I’d held on to her tighter. But she wanted to protect us. Went right at the son-of-a-bitch like a cannonball and he snapped her neck. Fuck!

MILTON (flips open file and studies her notes then shows them to Howe.): You said the killer couldn’t have weighed more than 140 pounds? Tell me how it’s possible for someone of that size to snap a 70-pound pit bull’s neck?

WHEELER (scoffs):  I’m not a personal fucking trainer. It’s like that motherfucker had superhuman strength.

MILTON: You said in your testimony he struggled to get in the house for 20 minutes. You must have pretty sturdy doors on that shithole you two were crashing in.

HOWE (eyes suspect): But you, David, look like you hit the gym regularly. How much can you lift? Three hundred pounds?

WHEELER: About.

MILTON: See where we’re going with this?

WHEELER (pleads toward Howe.):I’m telling you the goddamn truth. That fucking lunatic killed Sal and Chico.

(Howe’s Notes: Guilty parties often repeat their innocence.)

HOWE (lifts a witness testimony): Neighbors say you and Sal had an argument earlier this evening. Heard lots of shouting.

WHEELER (begins pacing again.): Yeah, so what?

HOWE:Did it get physical?

WHEELER:Is that what she wrote in her notes? (Takes a step toward Milton but stops when she places her hand on her taser.) I didn’t bash my boy’s brains in, if that’s what you’re getting at. Me and Sal go back to the schoolyard. He treated me like a younger brother. I looked up to him. What kind of person do you think I am?

MILTON: That’s what we’re trying to determine. (Shows suspect his rap sheet.) Says here you were arrested in 2014 at the age of 16 for attempted robbery of a 7-11. Clerk suffered a concussion.

(Suspect mutters bitch beneath his breath. Milton inquires to what he said.)

HOWE (taps pen impatiently): Answer the question, David.

WHEELER: I watched my best friend and our dog get killed by a hophead and you’re accusing me. What’s wrong with you? I’m the victim here. (The suspect’s hands are visibly trembling.) You should be out there looking for that psycho.

(Howe whispers in Milton’s ear. She sighs, disgruntled.)

MILTON:We have officers out on patrol searching the entire area. So far, they haven’t found anyone who fits the description.

WHEELER: How hard can it be to find a hophead? Dude had scabby skin and bugs crawling in his beard. Smelled like something rotten in the fridge. And there was this black mold or some shit coming out of his pours…

MILTON (clears her throat loudly): Can we get back to discussing your criminal history?

WHEELER (wipes his mouth.): What’s there to discuss? You have it all there? (Points to rap sheet.) Yeah, I tried to rob a convenience store. What it doesn’t tell you is I had three younger siblings who hadn’t eaten in a week. So I walked in the 7-11 and tried to hold it up. Didn’t even have a weapon. Which was why the clerk refused to open the drawer. That’s when I clocked him.

HOWE: Where are your siblings now?

WHEELER: Beats the hell out of me. State snatched ‘em.

MILTON (underlines a section on the rap sheet with her finger.): Officers received a domestic dispute call on June 31, 2017. Reported finger marks on your girlfriend, Destiny Miller’s, neck. Or how about the one on September 11^th?  Black eye, bruised cheekbone. You were arrested in both incidents, but she dropped the charges.

(Suspect listens to Milton rattle off his offenses. Blood drips between his fingers where his nails cut into his palm. He doesn’t appear to notice. Howe points out the injury and offers a tissue. Suspect licks the wound. After closer inspection of the video, it appears his pupils dilate.)

WHEELER: What’re you getting at?

HOWE: You’re not exactly a model citizen, David.

WHEELER (groans):I have a temper, okay. I snap sometimes. But I’m in therapy. You come across that during your investigation?

(Howe asks Milton the same questions. She flips shut the cover of the file.)

MILTON: Twice a week at the Bridge to Healing Counseling Center. We called this morning to verify.

WHEELER (goes back to pacing,): Sal hooked me up with Dr. Levy. Said she helped him figure shit out. After a while he wasn’t angry anymore. I wanted the same thing. Listen, I know what I did to Destiny was wrong, I regret it every day, but people change. Don’t they? Sal believed in me. Which is why he invited me to come stay with him.

HOWE (shuffles through his notes): Let’s get back on track. The neighbors heard a bunch of shouting. You admitted you had an argument. What about?

(Suspect folds into a ball against the wall, groans, sucks on the wound from his hand. At the time, Howe believed this was more of Mr. Wheeler’s playacting. Now, we’re not so certain. Pause the video and take a closer look. His pupils are definitely dilated.)

WHEELER (rocks on his heels):It was a stupid argument. No big thing.

MILTON (hold up a photo of the deceased): Big thing when one of you ends up dead.

(Howe gestures for Milton to quit badgering the suspect. She tosses the photo to the side and crosses arms over her chest.)

HOWE (addresses suspect.):What was the fight over?

WHEELER: Sal thought I stole a hundo from his room.

MILTON (raises a brow): Did you?

WHEELER (hesitates answering.)

HOWE: Answer the question, David.

WHEELER: I planned to pay it back.

HOWE: What did you borrow it for?

WHEELER(scratches the wound): Crank.

HOWE: Crank?

MILTON: Meth. (writes suspect’s admittance in her notes) You a drug addict, Mr. Wheeler.

WHEELER: No, I just…I just fucked up.

MILTON: How did Mr. Penaflor act when he discovered you took his money?

WHEELER: How do you think? Pretty fucking pissed. It wasn’t like I wasn’t going to pay him back. But he starts spouting about kicking me out…

(Suspects abruptly stops talking. Starts pulling at the bandage of his wound.) 

HOWE: How did you respond, David?

WHEELER (The suspect removes the jacket and folds it in his lap) Jesus, it’s hot in here. (Wipes his face, which has begun pouring sweat.) Can I have a glass of water? I’m fucking thirsty.

MILTON: Answer the question, Mr. Wheeler.

WHEELER: Told him I’d like to see him try. But I didn’t mean it. I said it out of anger. Now can I please have some water?

(Howe’s notes: suspect may have been motivated by feeling threatened.) 

MILTON: Sounds like you two were real pals.

WHEELER (shouts loud enough the mics cut out.): [Crackle] you! Sal and I loved each other, man. We’d do anything for each other.

MILTON: Including stealing from each other. Or are you lying? Perhaps you were both doped up. A little fucking out of your minds.

WHEELER: Sal didn’t do that shit. He’d been clean for a couple years now. That’s why he wanted me out. He was helping me do the same. But I fucked up. Ran into an old dealer of mine and started using again. I was damned ashamed to admit it. That’s why I took the money. I didn’t want Sal to know.

MILTON (leans forward and says in a conspiratorial tone): And why you killed him.

WHEELER (crying): I didn’t kill him, goddamn it! Can someone please bring me some fucking water? I’m dehydrating.

(Suspect pulls frantically at the bandages. Begs the officers for a painkiller. The wound burns, he complains. Milton laughs and tells the suspect to forget it. He’ll have to quit his drug habit, cold turkey. Before officers can react, the suspect throws a chair against the wall. The officers stand. Milton draws her taser. Howe tells Wheeler he’ll get him something for the pain if he calms. The suspect nods.)

(While Milton keeps her taser pointed, Howe orders the officer outside the door to grab an aspirin and a glass of water. During the interim, suspect asks Howe to sit, which he agrees. Suspect grabs the chair and lowers himself down. The officer arrives with the water and pills. Suspect drains it in one gulp. Milton is annoyed by the whole charade.)  

WHEELERKI need a doctor. Please, I’m burning up. 

(Suspect doesn’t look well. Sweat drips down his pasty face. A black spot, like mold, leaks through his bandage. Watching this now, officers should’ve followed protocol and called a medic.)

MILTON (to Howe): Withdrawal.

WHEELER (shouts): That’s not it, man. 

HOWE:I see you have an injury. (He points to the gauze wrapped around the suspect’s shoulder.) You want to tell us about it, David?

WHEELER: The fucking lunatic bit me when I tried to save Sal. Tore a chunk of flesh right out of my shoulder. A dentist could make a mold of the maniac’s mouth from it.

MILTON:Sure it wasn’t the dog?

WHEELER (looks at Milton as if she crushed his heart with her bare hands): Why in hell would Chico bite me?

MILTON (smiles as if she knows a secret): According to your neighbors, you and the dog didn’t get along. Last night they saw you dragging her up the street, threatening to smack her if she didn’t behave.

D. WHEELER (looks at officers incredulously): That’s not true. I’d never hurt Chico, man. I may have gotten annoyed, said some mean things, but I didn’t mean it. Besides, it’s not like Chico was an angel. She’d fucking turn on you the second you weren’t looking.

HOWE(addresses Milton directly): Did medical check it out?

MILTON (grimaces): Just as he said. Human teeth marks. 

HOWE: Then drop the line of questioning.

(Milton leans back in her chair, perturbed.)

WHEELER:Thankfully, the wound’s not infected. That’s what the doctors said anyway. Hophead could’ve had rabies. You would’ve thought so from the way he foamed at the mouth. Doctor stitched me then steely eyes here whisked me to the station. Probably should’ve let me stay overnight. Just in case…

MILTON (addresses the suspect directly.): Doctor gave you a clean bill of health. Said you had nothing to worry about. 

WHEELER(sniffles): I thought that psychopath was going to kill me. He would’ve if I hadn’t grabbed the steak knife to protect myself. Never thought, when I woke up this morning, I’d stab a man only to watch him walk away like he was taking a late night stroll. Do you think he might’ve been on drugs? I hear people on PCP have like superhuman strength.

(Howe and Milton reply with contradicting answers. Neither’s exactly pleased with the other.)

HOWE:PCP increases a person’s pain threshold.

MILTON:Still, you stab a man and he’s bound to feel it. Don’t care how many drugs he’s on. So, tell me, how is it this guy vanished? Didn’t find any blood leading from your house. 

WHEELER:This is going to sound batshit crazy. (Sounds bat shit crazy.) But I’m not sure that hophead was human. No blood came out when I stabbed him.

(Howe’s notes: Recommend suspect undergo a psychological evaluation.)

… I’m not out of my mind, man…

HOWE (asks Milton): Did we get results from fingerprint samples?

MILTON:Didn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know.

WHEELER (continues talking over officer’s conversation):…I keep hearing that lunatic’s screams. You would’ve thought he was the one being slaughtered. Those screams. They must’ve alerted the whole fucking neighborhood. Didn’t any of the neighbors call 911?

(Howe snags the file from Milton.)

MILTON (nods):They did.

WHEELER:And?

HOWE(reads the file.): There were several calls about a domestic disturbance at your residence. Reports of screaming and fighting on the premises. Neighbors stated an unidentified assailant attempted to bust into the house.

WHEELER (points at witness testimonies):There you go. I told you, didn’t I?

MILTON (waves document at suspect): This doesn’t prove nothing. It was dark outside. Could’ve been you, or the victim, for all we know.

WHEELER: And what the fuck took the police so long, huh? Donut sale at Dunkin?

MILTON (ignoring the suspect’s inquiry.):You don’t exactly live in the best neighborhood and we were busy.

WHEELER (shouts.): What does where I live have to do with the police showing up thirty minutes late? Maybe if you would’ve arrived faster Sal and Chico would still be fucking alive.

(Precincts throughout the Eastside of Detroit reported seventeen break-ins and violent attacks, 12 in the 9^th district alone. Neither Detective Howe nor Special Agent Milton were privy to this information at the time. We now suspect these attacks are somehow related.)

MILTON (titters): It’s all excuses with you. Isn’t it Wheeler? Just admit it. You stole money from your roommate, he caught you, and you killed him.

(The suspect slams his fists on the desk, denting the metal surface. The two officers jump back in surprise. Howe orders the suspect to relax. Then tells Milton to get a hold of herself or he will ask the officers outside to escort her out of the interrogation room. She tries to further her case, but the detective disallows it.)

HOWE (holds out his hands to settle everyone down): Alright, David. Why don’t you tell us what happened before the police arrived? You say the perpetrator showed up at your door…

WHEELER: That’s not exactly how it happened. Chico noticed the hophead first. Smelled or heard him prowling outside. Anyway, he started barking like mad at the front door. But me and Sal are arguing in the kitchen, so he’s just telling her to shut up. But she won’t stop barking. Then this hopheads starts breaking shit outside and slamming into our garage. So Sal goes over to the living room to see what’s going on. Right then, this hophead punches the window and cracks the glass.

HOWE (nods for him to continue): Go on.

WHEELER (Wraps the coat tighter around himself, trembles. Hard to tell, but if you focus on the bandage, it looks like the stain’s gotten bigger): Lunatic tries bashing through the door. I told Sal not to open it, but he’s all pissed off. Says he’s going to fuck up the motherfucker. But I got a bad feeling. He grabs a bat from the closet to confront the hophead and I’m telling him to leave it alone but he won’t. The minute Sal turned the knob the motherfucker burst into the house and bit him in the fucking neck. They tumbled into the living room. Hophead falls on top of Sal and bashes his head against the floorboards. Chico, man. When he saw what that lunatic was doing, she charged and sprung at him, but he caught our precious pup by her head and twisted her neck until it snapped. You should have heard her yelp. That’s when I knew…

HOWE: What did you do, David?

WHEELER: I tried to help them, but that fucker threw me off. That’s when I called the police.

HOWE (pulls a tape recorder from his coat): We listened to your 911 conversation. Found something curious. (Plays the tape) Is that Mr. Penaflor? Sounds like he’s begging you to…It isn’t clear what it’s about…

MILTON:Was he begging you not to kill him?  

WHEELER:No! No! No!

(Suspect stands up and paces in circles, frantically scratching at his bandage. He hyperventilates and mumbles beneath his breath. Howe comes around the desk and tells him to relax, but the suspect shouts at him not to touch him. Milton pulls out her taser again. Howe orders for her to stand down. After a moment, the suspect apologizes to Howe for his aggressive behavior, folds his arms over his stomach, and leans against the wall, crying.)

WHEELER (hardly able to speak): He was begging me not to leave him. I hid…hid in the…I hid in the…bathroom.

MILTON (raises a brow): What?

WHEELER (spit drooling from his lips): I hid, okay. That’s where I called the police from.The bathroom. Sal was out there screaming and I was hiding in the bathroom. That’s him calling out for me. He’s calling out for me, and I did nothing. I could’ve tried saving him, but I was too fucking scared. If I’m guilty of anything, officers, it’s being a fucking coward. Fuck!

(Suspects gags. Howe hands him a handkerchief from his pocket. Politely asks suspect to continue whenever he’s ready.)

WHEELER (takes a deep breath): After a while, everything went silent. I glanced around the room for a weapon and grabbed the shower rail. I opened the door wide enough to stick my head out and caught a glimpse of Sal, choking on his own blood. But he was still breathing. He was still alive. And I just stood there, watching, unable to move. (Suspect falls to his knees.) I’m going to be sick. (Vomits, what looks like, blood on the cement floor. Samples were collected and are being analyzed by the lab. Still waiting for results.)

(Howe orders Milton to alert a doctor then rushes to the suspect’s side. Milton leaves the interrogation room, calling a medic on her walkie. Howe assists the suspect to his feet and carries him to his chair. There’s something strange about the suspect’s eyes. The irises have faded to white. Drool spools from his lips as he huffs through his nostrils and complains about his stomach hurting. Howe tells him to hold in there. A doctor is on his way.)

WHEELER: I should’ve died too, you know. I thought the hophead was gone, but he charged from  out of the corner of the room. I dropped the rod and ran for the back door, but I’d forgotten Sal had locked it to keep Chico from getting out into the backyard. Smart bitch knew how to nudge the door open. That lunatic grabbed me from behind and sunk his teeth into my shoulder. I never felt pain like that before. It was fucking excruciating. The doctors said it’s not infected, but I’m not…

(Suspect gasps for air and collapses on the floor. Howe comes to his side.)

HOWE: David, what’s going on? Talk to me. We need a medic! Hang in there, David? Somebody call a medic.

WHEELER (clutches Howe’s tie): He would’ve killed me if I hadn’t grabbed the knife from the counter and stabbed him in the gut. I held him by the throat against the wall and stabbed him…I don’t know how many times…but enough times to kill him. But he just kept snapping at me. Like he was rabid. Like something evil had gotten inside of him. I’m telling you he wasn’t human. You know how I know? I cut his goddamn throat.

HOWE (talking in a calm manner): David, you’re not thinking straight right now. Just stay calm. Medics are on the way.

WHEELER (laughs and slams his head hard against the floor): You don’t believe me. Of course, you don’t believe me. You’re a fucking cop. Steely eyes didn’t believe me either. You both think I’m making this whole thing up. That I’m fucking crazy.

HOWE: We don’t think you’re making it up, David.

WHEELER (convulses): Oh God! What’s happening to me?

(Howe tries to hold down David Wheeler’s trembling body, but the convulsions are too strong. Foam pours from his lips. Howe shouts for the medic to hurry. Eventually the suspect’s body goes still. Howe bends down and rests his head against David Wheeler’s chest to check for a heartbeat. Feels his wrist for a pulse. Shakes his head. We still aren’t certain what happened to elicit the investigator’s reaction.)

HOWE: That’s not possible.

(The suspect snags the detective by his hair, wrenches him backwards, rolls on top of him, holds him down, and bites his throat. Blood sprays on the wall. Howe struggles, fists beating the suspect’s back, legs kicking, but his body goes slack before the rescue team arrives.)

(The suspect glances at the camera, blood smeared across his mouth, cartilage and muscle stuck to his teeth. He growls and charges the camera, pulls it down off the wall, raises it above his head, and smashes it into the cement floor. Picture fades to black.)

(The audio picks up the interrogation room door slamming open. Milton orders the suspect down on his knees with his hands behind his head. Suspect shrieks. There’s a sound of charging footsteps. Gun shots. A scuffle. Milton screams. Audio ends.)    

(I know all of you are wondering what you just saw. We’re still looking for answers. It appears to be related to several separate events across the city overnight. Seven officers died at this precinct alone. The suspect is on the loose. Along with others like him. Their kind is considered highly dangerous, so please approach with caution. Now let’s get out there ladies and gentlemen. We have a job to do.)

---

Bio: J.R. Blanes is the author of the novel, Portraits of Decay, from Ruadán Books. His short fiction has appeared in Allegory, Tales to Terrify, The No Sleep Podcast, Creepy, among others. He lives in Chicago with his wife and their neurotic dog. You can visit him at https://jrblanes.com/ or https://ruadanbooks.com/ You can purchase his novel at Ruadan Books or at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and select bookstores. 

Cover photo by: pexels/Xiaoyi

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