Jack Flynn hated mysteries. Which some people might find odd given that he was a senior homicide detective on the Washington, D.C. police force. But it was true, because he considered anything out of the ordinary to be a pain in the ass. Most of the cases that he investigated, whether ultimately cleared or not, were cut and dry. DC had become the murder capital of America, yet almost all of it was simple, street-level stuff. Gang-related shootings, drug deals gone bad, that sort of thing.

            This case he was handed earlier today, though, was going to be a living bitch. It was a genuine mystery. It didn’t fit any of the comfortable stereotypes that had made his job easier, though never boring. Also, his duties rarely required him to travel more than a few blocks from his office at downtown police headquarters. But on this sunny afternoon in early April he found himself driving out to an upscale suburb in Maryland. It was a heavy treed neighborhood in bloom, with very few cars on the street, and wide lawns separating well-kept houses that Flynn was willing to bet were overpriced even in a lousy economy. He glanced at his notepad and saw the name and address he had scribbled down. Mark Vincent, 39 Cherry Blossom Drive. The detective pulled into the long circular driveway and walked to the front door.

            From inside the house a large dog started barking, and the sound grew louder as the big animal ran to the door. When the door opened, a dark-haired middle-aged man wearing some sort of running suit and a Washington Nationals cap greeted him. He was restraining a still barking Chocolate Lab by its collar. “That’s enough, Brutus,” he said. The dog, much to Flynn’s surprise, actually became quiet and sat down next to its master. The man gave Flynn a long stare and then said, “I was going to kick you out and tell you I’m not buying whatever you’re selling. But you’re not a salesman, are you? You’re a police officer.”

            “Fraid so, and you’re Mr. Vincent, I assume,” the detective said, flipping his wallet open and flashing his badge. “I’m Detective Flynn. Homicide Division. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

            “Actually, I was getting ready to run a few errands, but I got a few minutes to spare.”

With a shrug, the homeowner confirmed that he was in fact Mark Vincent and invited the detective inside.  All three stepped into a well-appointed study that was off to the side of an elaborate spiral staircase. Brutus sat dutifully by his owner’s side, content as the man absently petted him.

            “Just out of curiosity, Mr. Vincent, how did you make me as a cop?”

            Vincent established and maintained eye contact with the detective. “I’ve worked with lots of law enforcement people over the years,” he said. “And, let’s just say you fit the profile of a detective.”

            “Ever been a cop?”

            The younger man almost laughed. “Me? Hell no. But I’ve published more than my share of cop novels.” He spread his left hand out toward the tall bookshelf behind him. “Most of these are mine,” he said proudly. “Are you familiar with the ‘On the Beat’ series?”

            Flynn looked unimpressed. He reached into the pocket of his inexpensive polyester suit jacket and took out his notebook. “’Fraid not,” he said as he thumbed through a few pages. Down on the gleaming hardwood floor, Brutus looked up at him, alert for any food possibilities. Deciding the notebook probably wasn’t edible he rested his head back down on his paws, sadly.

“Mr. Vincent, I don’t want to waste a lot of your time, but I have some bad news for you,” Flynn said.

            “Well, anytime a homicide detective shows up it can’t be good news. Please, call me Mark.”

            Flynn’s tone of voice never changed. “Ok. Mark. A person has been found murdered, and we have reason to believe this was a person whom you knew, or worked with in the past.”

            Vincent raised an eyebrow. “Who is it? Why do you think he’s someone I know?”

            “I never said it was a he,” Flynn said.

            The writer looked amused. “Clever, detective. Very clever. I think I used that trick in one of my novels. Of course, you didn’t say that it wasn’t a he either. The old gender neutral ruse. In any case, I’m sure you’re not here to play cute little word games with me.” He said it in a way that implied that if Flynn did want to play word games, he wouldn’t stand a chance pitted against such an adroit wordsmith.

            “Fine. I’ll cut to the chase. We’ve done a little background check on you. In addition to being a published author, it seems you have a reputation for hiring actors to role play scenes, as a way to spark your creativity.”

 “Nothing illegal about that, Detective Flynn. At least not the last time I checked.”

Flynn shrugged. “True enough. There are no laws against weird behavior.”

If Mark Vincent was offended, he didn’t show it. He seemed to enjoy the challenge. “What’s so weird about role playing? People do it in the bedroom all the time. However, when I hire anyone its strictly for writing purposes or shall I call it what it is, scene research.  You only know this because I’ve used detectives from the D.C. police force as consultants.”

Flynn seemed to be getting bored with this wise-ass writer. “I’m not sure if used is the correct word, but I’m not here to consult with you. Look, sir, this is serious business we’re talking about here. A homicide. This person that we found dead, he had no identification on him. No wallet, no license. We ran his fingerprints through our database and came up with nothing.”

Vincent seemed to be getting annoyed. “Which of course led you straight to me. Seriously, and you think I’m a suspect or had something to do with the death? Is this why you’re here?”

“Not a suspect, but there’s a good reason why our investigation has led to you. The deceased did have one possession on him. A small business card. With your name on it. So, putting one and one together, we figure he must have been an, ah, associate of yours,” Flynn said, giving him his best hard cop stare.

The wheels behind Vincent’s dark brown eyes were clearly spinning. The detective obviously thought something odd was afoot because of the role playing. And he’d probably never met a writer before either. Shaking his head, Vincent said, “First of all, not necessarily. Second of all, even if this person was someone I worked with, so what? I work with lots of people. That doesn’t really narrow it down very much. I’m not telling you how to do your job, but aren’t you supposed to show me a photo of the deceased right about now?”

Flynn leaned forward in his chair a bit. “I don’t have any photos on me and enough of your funny stuff. How many of them are dressed all in purple and wear a mask over their face.”

The writer’s eyes widened, though almost imperceptibly. “OK,” he said. “I know who you’re referring to. When did this happen?”

“Ahh. Progress,” Flynn said, readying his notebook and pen. “It happened early this morning. So what’s his name, sir?”

Mark Vincent stood up and began pacing the full length of his expansive study. Finally, he stopped a few feet away from the detective and said, “I wish I knew.”

Flynn looked up at him. “You hired this guy to dress up in a purple outfit and you don’t even remember his name? ” Flynn was trying to imagine just how much of a screwball this Vincent guy must really be. Actually, he wasn’t all that surprised, though, as he’d always heard that most writers were pretty strange, eccentric types of personalities.

“Listen. There’s no reason to be insulting,” Vincent snapped. “Why are you calling him a freak? Because of the way he dressed? You shouldn’t be so quick to judge people.  He wasn’t a freak. In my opinion he was a real genius.”

Flynn raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to critic your work and I definitely don’t want to come across as insulting the dead, Mr. Vincent. If you didn’t have his name, how did you refer to him? Don’t you want us to solve this and find out who murdered this man?”

Vincent began his pacing again. “Of course I do. And I would tell you his name. If I knew it.”

The detective leaned his elbow on the desk. “He never told you his name?”

With a sigh, Vincent seemed to study his fingernails for a few moments, just to be looking anywhere other than at the man sitting directly across from him. Flynn seemed more than willing to wait him out. A grandfather clock serenely ticked somewhere in the background. Vincent broke the silence and said, almost to himself, “Shit. I can’t believe PPM is dead.”

“PPM? That’s what you called him? What does that stand for?”

Shaking his head, Vincent said, “It stood for something, but he said it wasn’t necessary for me to know right now. But one thing that I do know about him, he wasn’t the type who was out to make money. In fact, I don’t think fame and fortune meant much to him at all. And, he didn’t hurt anyone. So, why would anyone want to kill him?”

The writer became thoughtful as he absently rubbed his goatee. The detective waited patiently.

Finally, Vincent said, “I really wish I could give you more, but the only contact we had was through email and he insisted on paying me through Western Union.”

“Paying for what?”

Vincent plopped down on the very comfortable looking chair behind his enormous cherry wood desk. “Ghostwriting,” he said. But he didn’t tell the detective the details. He would barter it for information of his own, because he knew the police always held the details of homicide investigations close to the vest. This was no ordinary biography, and, in fact, the unique nature of the project was why Vincent had referred to its creator as a genius. It was centered around something far greater than role playing. This man wanted to not only dress up, but to “live” as the character and then write what people thought about him, thereby creating a unique work of literature. Vincent was hired to simply embellish the story.

“You mean you were writing a book about him wearing the purple costume? Tell me about it? What kind of book, like his life story?”

Vincent shook his head again. “Not so fast. First, why don’t you share a little bit of what you know. For example, where did you find him and how did he die?

Detective Flynn didn’t answer right away. He obviously considered such information a valuable commodity that he couldn’t reveal. Finally, he said, “Homeless guy found him slumped over on a park bench downtown. Single bullet in the back of his head.”

“What caliber?” Vincent asked, his voice hoarse and vaguely detached. Odd question to ask, Flynn thought. What difference would that make to this guy? Unless, he was trying to figure out how close the killer got. Was it a handgun or a sniper rifle?

The burly detective shook his head. “My turn to get some answers, Mr. Vincent. What kind of book were you working on for him?”

Vincent looked up, as if just now re-engaging in the conversation. “Oh, yes. It’s an interesting story. Just give me a minute to think. Right now I’m just sort of in shock. It didn’t seem real until you described the place and circumstances of his death. Now I can’t get the image of him dead on a park bench out of my mind.”

“How far did you get with the book?” Flynn asked.

The writer looked at the detective as though he were ignorant. “You probably don’t understand the complexities of this type of project,” he said.

Unimpressed, Flynn said, “Try me.”

Vincent considered it a moment. “Well, we actually started a few times. Maybe we should go in chronological order.”

“How far did you get?”

“Just the first few pages.”

“May I see them?” Flynn asked. “Could be useful to the investigation.”

Vincent thought about it carefully. “Goes against my confidentiality agreement,” he said. “But now that he’s dead, I guess it doesn’t really matter.” He swiveled in his chair and tinkered with his computer. Soon, the laser printer churned out the two pages. Vincent handed them to the detective. “This is as far as we got,” he said. “Damn.” He leaned back in his chair as his hand reached down almost automatically to pet Brutus. “What a damn waste.”

Chapter Two

Psychologist Robin Campbell knew that Detective Jack Flynn had a huge crush her. She'd known it from the first day she was assigned to help profile with him as a newbie to Homicide three years ago. Of course, he was too old, too balding, too overweight…not to mention too married, for the raven-haired beauty to reciprocate his interest. Still, she sometimes flirted with him, because she knew he liked it. And just because she could. So it brought a smile to her face when she noticed his eyes linger on the red shoes she was wearing this afternoon as she walked into the squad room.

            "What, did they recruit you to work for Vice?" he quipped.

            She flashed her brilliantly white teeth at him as she sat down on the chair across from his desk. "No, but you'd be the first john they'd bust."

            Flynn just shook his head as if it wasn't true. Even though they both knew it was. "So did you read those pages I sent you?" he asked.

            "Yes," she said, with only the slightest trace of her Southern accent. "Pretty weird stuff. What do you make of it?"

            With a shrug, Flynn said, "I was hoping you'd shed some light on it. I figured someone younger would understand this kind of New Age crap better than an old duffer like me."

            Robin crossed her legs, knowing full well that Jack would notice. She said, "The old duffer part I agree with. But, seriously, I couldn't make much sense out of the first few pages of the manuscript. Maybe it would help if I read it out loud. See what we come up with together?"

            "Well, since I don't have a better idea," Flynn said, "OK, go ahead. Just don't speak too loudly. They may want to put us in the loony bin."

            "Just between you and me, Jack," Robin said. She then reached into her purse and retrieved the folded up printout. Clearing her voice, she began to read it:

In America, we have a long history of rugged individualism. It’s how the West was won, or so the legend says. Brave mountain men and other adventurers left the comforts of the big cities back East and set off for the wild frontier. The image of a brave frontiersman or the cowboy-loner is powerful even today. The tough, individualistic Marlbloro Man comes to mind.

It’s part of being an independent people. We don’t like being told what to do. We’re not easily manipulated into just accepting what it is that our leaders, in either religion or government, tell us. We want to make up our own minds about things. Yes, we’re free thinkers.

So when somebody like PPM comes along, what do we make of him? Do we believe in him? Do we want to follow him? OR are we skeptical, wanting to write him off as some sort of fanatic before we even find out who he truly is? The answers to all of these questions will be answered – though not always in the ways that you might expect – within the pages of this book.

At first, most people considered him a lunatic. What kind of Messiah would come to us dressed in such an outlandish costume? But the more they listened to him, a small but growing group of followers began to coalesce around him. They paid rapt attention to his every word, and carefully examined all of his actions. They recalled holy words from ancient times, prophecies long forgotten that most people in the modern era had never even heard of. Some were soon convinced that this Messiah, though strange and shocking at first, was indeed the fulfillment of prophecies going back to the very dawn of recorded history. Arriving on the scene cloaked in an unexpected garb did not discredit PPM at all. To the contrary, it made perfect sense to those who believed in him. He was the one that most would overlook, he was the one they would persecute, destroy even, if they could. But now he had arrived right in their very midst, and to these people he was the long awaited for answer to their fervent prayers.

With modern day technology, especially television and the Internet, PPM and his message would be able to spread like wildfire across the entire globe. No nation would be exempt from his presence. He could appeal to all of the people of planet Earth all at once if he chose to do so, and at a time and place of his own choosing. Those living in exile would be comforted wherever they might be, knowing that PPM was a Messiah who came seeking them out. Yes, the world certainly may have forsaken them, but this new and yet ancient hero never would. They could rest assured that he would gather them together in victory, overcome every obstacle, and free them from ever again having to live in fear.

Not surprisingly, as soon as the PPM began to gather a following and make friends, he also made enemies. Lots of them, almost overnight. These people were afraid that he had come to change their way of life, their beliefs, indeed, everything about them. They perceived him to be a threat, and rumors sprang up all over the Web of various conspiracy theories. None of it was backed by evidence, as it was all just endless conjecture. Some outright claimed that he was an agent of the Evil One. Others speculated that maybe he was just a slick marketing ploy being used by some clever corporation planning to make money off of him. While still others were certain that he was an alien being who had come here to lay the groundwork for a future interstellar invasion.

            Robin put down the papers and sat back in her chair. “Feeling enlightened?”

            With a snort, Flynn reached into the trop drawer of his messy, cluttered desk and took out a bottle of Pepto. As he guzzled the disgusting pink liquid directly from the bottle, his young partner said, “PPM giving you a little heartburn?”

            “These religious whack job cases always have that effect on me,” he said.

“Does drinking that awful stuff help to you gain clarity about the case?”

            Flynn thought about it for a moment, then said, “No, not really. My experience is what gives me clarity.”

            “OK, so what does your experience tell you?”

            Flynn’s blue eyes showed little expression. “Not much. Other than this guy apparently was some sort of fanatic. He actually believed that he really was this bizarre character that he hired this ghostwriter guy to write about. Even dressed up like him.”

            Robin furrowed her brow. “I meant anything beyond the obvious.”

            He ignored her comment and propped his feet up on his desk. “Well how about you, hotshot?” he said. “Any ideas.”

All business, she said, “Some. I’ve been analyzing what we know about him so far. The following words from Vincent’s manuscript stand out: Cowboy-loner, independent, outlandish costume, Messiah fanatic, persecute… doesn’t get worse than death…enemies…spread like wildfire around the globe… and this one ENDLESS CONJECTURE…

“That one is especially important. It’s a conclusion deduced by surmise or guesswork, before it has been proved or disproved.  I think this guy wants to play games with his readers.”

Scratching his head, Flynn suggested, “He must have notes?”

Robin nodded, then said, “I’m thinking this guy might be Bi-polar. Vincent said he was genius. Instead of role playing he was using the REAL DEAL.”

Flynn tilted his head very slightly. “What do you mean?”

“In the manic phase, they sometimes have delusions of grandeur or persecution or other things. Van Gogh and other artists were thought to have bipolar disorder, and they were considered geniuses. Messiah or mentally ill? Who decides? Society would be a lot more comfortable if he were crazy. Jesus was persecuted for challenging the rulers of his time but I don't think he was ever seen as crazy. Something I've heard about people in the manic phase is that they are in touch with so much greatness, huge ideas, and they feel invincible. That's why a lot of them stop taking their meds, because it deadens those feelings even as it makes them more functional.”

            “I think you might be valuable to the Department after all,” Flynn said with a smile.

            “Well, gee, thanks for noticing,” she said dryly. “Now, have you Googled him yet?”

            The older detective shook his head. “I don’t get involved too much with that computer mumbo jumbo. We got lab guys can handle that.”

            Robin stood up, straightened her too short skirt and walked over to her own, much neater desk a few feet way. She began typing in her computer, saying. “It’s not exactly rocket science, Jack.” Not thirty seconds later, she said, “Hey, look at this.”

            Curious, Flynn came over to her desk and peered over her shoulder at the computer monitor. “Watcha got?” he asked.

            “There’s a whole bunch of hits for the name ‘Purple Piano Man’, when you type in PPM,” she said, her voice rising with excitement. She scrolled down the page as website after website came up on the screen. Robin visited one, and they both read the content. Eyes wide, Flynn pulled up a chair next to her and watched as the psychologist found numerous other sites related to the Purple Piano Man.

“I have an idea,” Robin said. Flynn watched over her shoulder as she typed in, www.purplepianoman.com. A picture immediately popped up. “That’s our dead guy with the mask,” Robin said. “Let’s run a WHOis search on the domain name. Seeing how he’s trying to hide, it’s probably a private registration with fake information. So, it would be a waste of time to get a warrant to release info.” 

“Since it’s Saturday we couldn’t get one until Monday,” Flynn said.

            “Probably,” his pretty young partner countered. “But at least it’s progress. We now have a lot more to go in than we did just a few minutes ago.

            None of this was what Flynn had been expecting. Maybe all of this computer stuff isn’t worthless for police work after all, he thought. “What the hell was he trying to build, some kind of cult?” he finally said.

            “I have no clue,” an equally intrigued Robin Campbell said. “But I get the feeling that Mr. Mark Vincent knows a heck of a lot more than he was letting on.

Chapter Three

The rain came down hard and cold as Flynn maneuvered the big Crown Victoria through the quiet neighborhood. Sitting beside him, Robin looked down at the discarded fast-food bag on the floor next to her right foot. With a grimace she said, “The Department provides you with this nice car, don’t you think the least you could do is to keep it clean?”

            The large man smiled without any mirth. “Not in the job description,” he quipped. Then, taking his eyes off the road just long enough for a furtive glance at his attractive partner, he added, “Why, does improperly disposing of a bag from BK tell you something about my personality, Ms. Profiler?”

            Knowing that Jack was just being goofy, she decided to answer him anyway. “Yes, it’s a sign of rebellion. Being a police officer your entire adult life, you’ve always had to do everything by the book. A small gesture such as this indicates a pent-up frustration at certain circumstances that you’ve never been able to properly address over the course a number of years.”

            Flynn laughed, mostly to himself. “Either that or I was too lazy to look for a garbage can.”

            His sense of humor was lame, but it did make her smile. “Or that,” she replied. “Anyway, regarding our friend with the purple outfit. You mentioned religious whack jobs had an effect on you. Have you worked on a similar case?”

            “Not exactly, but I’ve seen the aftermath of someone claiming to be a religious leader and when things don’t go their way, or people start making fun of them. They snap. Why are you asking?”

            “No reason, just replaying all the details back in my head. It’s probably why I’m being so quiet.”

            They turned the corner onto Mark Vincent’s quaint, tree lined street. “I want your take on this guy, Robin. I’m trying to figure him out.”

            “We obviously can’t trust him, so what else do you want me to look for?”

            Flynn thought about it for a minute. “I’m not sure, but you’re good a picking out things I’ve become numb about. He’s a bit of a wise ass. Now, I don’t know if that’s just part of his personality, or if there’s something deeper at work here. Almost as if he thinks he can toy with me.”

            Robin had no immediate reply, and Jack knew the reason. As always, she’d need more data before she even came close to forming an opinion. When they pulled into the long circular driveway, Robin said, “Nice house. He’s obviously very successful.”

            “I guess so, though I can’t really imagine why. You saw that excerpt that we read. Pretty weird stuff, I can’t imagine people pay good money for that.”

            Robin frowned. “Artistic tastes vary greatly. It’s what makes literature so interesting. Your idea of a great work of art is probably something in Playboy.”

            Keeping a straight face, the detective said, “Well, that’s true. And I really do read it just for the articles.”

            Shaking her head, Robin smoothed her jacket as she got out of the car and walked briskly to the front door, with Flynn right behind her. The rain was still coming down hard, but the canopy of trees was doing a good job of keeping them relatively dry. When they were both on the front step, Robin turned to him and said, “It would probably be a good idea to let me do most of the talking.”

            “OK. My charm sometimes isn’t strong enough to get the job done,” Flynn mused.

            Robin just shook her head again.

            Soon after ringing the doorbell, they heard footsteps, and the crazed barking of a large dog. “That would be Brutus,” Flynn said knowingly.

            The door opened and they were greeted by a kid who looked no older than 18. He was wearing red shorts, a tank top and a black headband. Holding the growling dog back on his leash, he said, “Sorry, bud, I don’t live here so I can’t buy whatever you’re sellin’.” His eyes, which looked a little red, then diverted to Robin. “But you can come in and see me anytime,” he said with a goofy grin.

            Robin reached into her purse and took out her police badge. “Actually, we’re looking for Mr. Mark Vincent.”

            The color seemed to drain from the kid’s face when he saw the badge. “Hey, I’m just the dog sitter, man. I don’t know anything about nothing.”

            “They’re doing a great job teaching kids English these days,” Flynn said to Robin. Turning to the young man, his voice authoritative, the detective asked, “What’s your name, son?”

            “Me?”

            No, someone else. Patiently, Flynn said, “Yes, your name.”

            “Jerry Schmidt. Look, I didn’t do anything. I’m just here to, you know, watch the house and take care of the dog and stuff.”

            Brutus had quieted down now. He was either tired of barking, or maybe he’d recognized Flynn from his last visit.

            “Where is Mr. Vincent?” Robin asked.

            “Dunno.”

            Robin was persistent. “You knew to watch the dog. You mean he didn’t tell you where he was going? But, how do you reach him in case of an emergency?”

            “No. Look, I’ve only met the guy a couple of times. He texted me earlier today, you know, to watch Brutus. If I need anything I just leave a message on his facebook page.”

            “In what capacity did you know him? You’re a lot younger than he is. Are you personal friends?”

            Schmidt swallowed hard. “Yeah, that’s all. My parents live in this neighborhood.”

            “You don’t live here?”

            The kid seemed to get more jittery with each new question that Robin asked. “No, I live in the dorms at the University of Maryland.  Look, is there, uh, some kind of message you want to leave for Mr. Vincent?”

            “Yes, we need to speak with him,” Flynn said. He handed the young man his card. “Have him call me at this number. Understand.”

            “Sure, dude…I mean, sir. No problem. Yeah, I’ll tell him to call.”

            On their drive back to the station, Robin said, “So do you think Vincent disappearing all of a sudden is just a coincidence?”

            Flynn kept his eyes on the road as he pulled into heavy traffic approaching the on-ramp to the Beltway. “Coincidences happen, but they’re useless for police work. We have to assume that it means something.”

            Robin raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

            “Well if I knew that I’d have the case solved already,” he said as if he were answering a foolish question. “But if you ask me, that kid was hopped up on something.”

            “I thought so too. However, my guess is that he’s one of Vincent’s ‘role playing’ people. If Vincent was paying people for that, cash-strapped druggies would be prime candidates. But that boy seemed more like a pot head, which doesn’t fit the profile of the drugs that Toxicology found in PPM’s blood.”

            “Tell me about that again,” Flynn said. “That’s one of the really weird things about this case. It wasn’t the typical street drugs I’m used to dealing with.”

            “They found traces of Salvia divinorum, also known as Diviner’s Sage, or simply by the genus name Salvia. It’s a psychoactive herb which can induce strong dissociative effects. It is a member of the sage genus and the Lamiaceae, or mint family. The Latin name Salvia divinorum literally translates to ‘sage of the seers’. Which anyone can easily find on the Internet.”

            “And the other drug?”

            “Burundanga or scopolamine is a kind of voodoo powder obtained from a Colombian local plant of the nightshade family, a shrub called barrachera, or ‘drunken binge’. Used for hundreds of years by Native Americans in religious ceremonies, the powder when ingested causes victims to lose their will and memory, sometimes for days.”

            “That’s the one,” Flynn said, snapping his fingers. “When we get back I’ll ask narcotics for any known dealers. Either that or we just round up all of the local witch doctors.”

            Robin just shook her head without offering comment.

Flynn beeped angrily as a beat-up Ford F-150 cut him off. “Asshole!” Then he turned to Robin. “Pretty impressive. You sound like you swallowed an encyclopedia.”

                Ignoring his remark, she continued. “There were also trace amounts of Lithium. It is the most frequent mood stabilizer prescribed to those with bipolar disorder, also known as manic depression. Lithium helps to even the highs and lows of mood associated with this disorder.”

“I’m one step ahead of you,” Flynn said with an edge of swagger to his voice. “As soon as we got that tox screen back, I realized that someone was prescribing our guys meds, and he was smoking a hallucinogen. I’ve already put out an alert on anyone calling themselves the Purple Piano Man to doctors, shrinks and psych wards. Hopefully, someone will remember this character.”

“And what about Mark Vincent?” Robin asked.

“He hasn’t committed a crime, at least none that we’re aware of. So we can’t put an APB out for him. We just have to keep checking and try to talk with him when he comes back.”

Robin gazed out the side window as the rain early spring continued to fall steadily. “If he comes back,” she said.

Twenty minutes later they arrived back at the station, and Flynn leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on his desk. Robin went over to her desk, and turned her attention to her computer. As she was checking here E mail, suddenly her eyes widened. “Jack,” she said. “Come over here. You’re not going to believe this.”

Flynn came over to her desk and peered over Robin’s shoulder. She clicked the mouse, and a video began playing.

“What the hell is this?” Flynn asked.

Robin clicked the pause button. “It’s an E mail addressed to Mark Vincent. But some anonymous E mailer has forwarded it to me.”

Without waiting for her partner’s reaction, she began the video. The man speaking was wearing a purple mask, identical to the one the dead man in the park wore. His voice was low, and seemed to have an edgy, self-confident tone.

Robin turned up the volume.

“Let me answer your questions, Mr. Vincent,” the mystery man said. “Why do I wear the mask? Very simple. I want to conceal my identity. You see, the point is, it’s not all about me. That’s one of the many reasons my privacy must be maintained. Consider the saying, ‘he came like a thief in the night.’ Nobody sees the thief; he comes to do what he has to do, and he exits the scene. That’s how it’s going to be with me. However, I have not come to steal, I’ve come to give. Give what, you ask? The time is not yet right to reveal that…but soon it will become clear to all.”

Robin and Flynn looked at each other as the masked man paused. Neither had anything to say, and they soon returned their attention to the computer monitor.

“Another reason for the mask. With my privacy protected, I can blend in with society. I want to be liked. I’m here to help the world. We discussed my plan to collect two dollars from every person on this planet. That will be part of my legacy, because the gift that I give to the world will come from everybody, for everybody. Not just the rich or the powerful, but especially the poor and the humble. Patience is necessary right now, but, ultimately, nobody will be disappointed. As I said, at the right time all will be revealed.

“Finally, Mr. Vincent, you asked if I will ever take off the mask? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Fate will decide, and what is and what should be will become one. Remember. I’m here to close out the cycle.”

The video ended abruptly, the final frame freezing on the man in the purple mask holding up a copy of the “Washington Post.” The date was clearly visible above the newspaper’s front-page headline. It was today’s date.

Detective Flynn removed his glasses and absent-mindedly chewed on one of the arms. “Did a word of that make any sense to you?”

Robin shook her head. “Not yet,” she said. “But I get the feeling this isn’t the sort of thing we can just watch once. The fact that he sent this to us means he’s trying to send us a message.”

Putting his glasses back on, Flynn leaned against Robin’s desk and let out a long sigh. “It means more than that,” he said. “It means our boy is alive and kicking.”