By Steven Womack
At the beginning, it was once simply examine . . . After numerous seriously acclaimed novels, Michael Schiftmann has but to make the type of residing he thinks due him; any form of residing in any respect, in truth. His novels were defined as literate and multi-layered, yet as Michael is familiar with all too good, literate does not promote. One drunken, depressed evening, it involves him. Readers wish glitz and violence he will provide it to them. he will create a sequence of novels that includes the boldest, coldest serial killer ever imagined. he will get contained in the murderer's head in methods no author has ever performed. each emotion, each sensation, each scrumptious second could be captured at the web page. yet to do that, he will need to notice for himself what it appears like to really kill an individual. And what Michael Schiftmann discovers is that homicide feels stable.
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Taylor asked after a moment. ” Audrey Carlisle was the first to spot Michael Schiftmann as he carefully made his way down the spiral staircase from the second floor of Taylor’s loft. The black wrought iron bent and squeaked as he descended, but the din of party chatter and music covered what would otherwise have been an annoy-ing sound. Audrey, a short, severe woman in her late fifties who’d been the Times main reviewer of crime fiction for more than two decades, had managed to solidify a comfortable and safe niche for herself.
The dark-suited man approached the podium, opened his leather case, and spread it out in front of him. “Quiet everybody,” Bransford growled. ” “Thank you, Lieutenant,” the man said. “Good morning. I’m Special Agent Henry Powell of the FBI. ” Powell surveyed his audience and noticed several raised eyebrows. “I know,” he said, smiling, “and I agree. Washington has terminal acronym disease. CASMIRC is the Child Abduc-tion and Serial Murder Investigative Resources Center, which is the rapid response component of CIRG, the Critical Incident Response Group.
I can’t believe this! I’m not supposed to start until tomorrow. ” She turned her head, self-conscious and awkward now, and started to jerk away from him. He felt himself sliding out of her and decided this was not the way he wanted to end it. He grabbed her by the waist and locked her down. “Hey,” he said. “It’s no big deal. Really. ” With his right hand, he touched her chin and pushed it softly, until she faced him again. The effort left a red smudge on the side of her face. “It doesn’t matter,” he said gently.
By Blood Written by Steven Womack