Charlie Hebdo Incident

The recent Charlie Hebdo incident urged my inner self to write about it!

I haven’t ever read any of Charlie Hebdo’s work so I first decided to know more about Charlie Hebdo. Charlie Hebdo roughly translates to “Charlie Weekly”, is a weekly publication that covers French Politics through Cartoons, Satirical Articles and Jokes. The magazine was founded in 1969, and was resurrected in 1992 following a three-year hiatus.

Although its editor-in-chief Stephane Charbonnier, who was killed in the attack, has said that he considered the magazine a leftist-pluralist publication. Its biting satire habitually targeted the government, high profile politicians and organized religion.

This is not the first time the magazine has been attacked; in 2011 there was a fire bomb attack in its offices. But they believed that avoiding offence for a short term would damage French Secular Culture for a long term.

How you may ask!

In France “Laïcité” that is Secularism has such importance that it has been described as a “FOUNDING MYTH” of French Republic.

The magazines recent cover was about Islam phobic France. The last tweet before the attack was a cartoon depicting ISIS leader Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi offering politically correct “best Wishes” for holiday season.

(I do not have the permission to post any Charlie Hebdo cartoon)

In 2012 in an Interview with Le Monde, Charbonnier explained “I do not feel as though I’m killing someone with my pen. When Activists need a pretext to justify their violence, they always find a way.” He further stated “what I am stating maybe a bit pompous, but I prefer to die standing then living on my knees.”

A number of Cartoons have emphasised that the magazine’s chief target was extremism and not Islam.

Now this research about Charlie Hebdo leads me to know more about the Prophet Mohammad of Islam and why is it an Offence to draw him.

Prophet Mohammad is believed by Muslims and Bahá'ís to be a messenger and prophet of God, Muhammad is almost universally considered by Muslims as the last prophet sent by God to mankind.

Born approximately in 570 CE in the Arabian city of Mecca, Muhammad was orphaned at an early age; he was raised under the care of his paternal uncle Abu Talib. After his childhood Muhammad primarily worked as a merchant.

Occasionally Mohammad would retreat to a cave in the mountains for several nights of seclusion and prayer; later, at age 40, he reported at this spot, that he was visited by Gabriel and received his first revelation from God.

The revelations (each known as Ayah, lit. "Sign [of God]"), which Muhammad reported receiving until his death, form the verses of the Quran, regarded by Muslims as the "Word of God" and around which the religion is based. Besides the Quran, Muhammad's teachings and practices (sunnah), found in the Hadith and sira literature, are also upheld by Muslims and used as sources of Islamic law.

I read many articles over Internet and literally found nothing that stated that Drawing Prophet Mohammad was a sin. I actually found a lot of Images of the Prophet!

I was shocked!

If drawing the Prophet was a sin then how were there so many Images of the Prophet? I searched some more and then I found some reasons.

Fundamentalists of Islam support the idea that any depictions of Mohammad must be forbidden, but in fact such depictions had not been prohibited until the 16th or 17th century and they are never condemned in the Quran.

So that means it is a view of a group that any Visual Depiction of the Prophet is an offence and not of the whole religion.

To know more about it I asked some of my Muslim friends over the Internet what they felt about the Incident and how would they react about the drawings of their Prophet.

I got a lot of different views but to ease it down I categorized them in two parts,
1) Who were totally against the idea of the images of prophet!
2) Who took it a little bit casually!

So most of the posts mainly belonged to the first group; mainly consisted of the haters as I would state them. They were mostly in support of whatever happened in France. They thought that the attack was to avenge their Prophet. Some random person went as far as to say that anyone who would Insult their Prophet would be cursed by Allah and the true Muslim would always be there to AVENGE on behalf of his Allah.

To this I was like “meh!”

P.S. If that guy or those who think he is right are reading this Blog then keep reading cause you’ll definitely find more urge to kill me!

So I was almost about to shut my lappy down after reading these posts when I came across another post.

It said, “I am totally against drawing our Prophet, peace be upon him, but that is my decision! I cannot force anyone else to believe in my beliefs. And there is nothing in the Quran that states that Prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him, cannot be drawn. We Muslims do not prefer to draw him because he was so great, such a saint that any artist, no matter how talented, cannot do Justice to the Prophet’s Image, peace be upon him.”

I was surprised to see this Insight about Prophet by him. He gave me an appropriate reason that the Muslims must believe for not supporting the drawings of the Prophet.

His comment made me search further through more posts to find out what normal (not radical) Muslims thought about this Incident.

That’s when I found more people believing that the Charlie Hebdo Incident is a shame for Humanity.

To shorten things out, there were people belonging to the Muslim community who thought that “Allah never asked Muslims to avenge; he said you should go to war only when you are being evicted from your house.” “Muslims have the belief of not drawing the Prophet, but that does not mean the world will follow it. The Christians have the tradition of celebrating Christmas, do we follow that? The Hindus have the tradition of worshiping Cow’s, does that stop us from eating Cow meat? No! Then why should the world follow our believes?” and a lot more such Posts!

These posts made me realize that it’s not a religion that spreads Terror. Any Religion cannot be that low that it can be ridiculed by an art of an artist! It is just what our mentality is!

Every religion has some bad guys, but there are a lot more good guys to nullify the bad guys' deeds! In this moment of when our Freedom is in danger, we all have to stick together and fight against these TERRORISTS!

I, pledge that no matter what is my Religion is, will always belong to the most Important Religion first. That is HUMANITY.

May the souls of the martyrs rest in peace!

There is no weapon stronger than PEN!

JE SUIS CHARLIE!                                                                                I AM CHARLIE!

The One Way Ticket

Aahana Mallick woke early on the morning of the class trip to Baroda Museum. After eating a larger than normal breakfast, she got dressed quickly. She'd been looking forward to this day for weeks, and she didn't want to miss the school bus. As she headed down the stairs toward the front door, she swung her backpack over her shoulders. Her mother was waiting for her at the door.

"Here's some money," Suzanne Mallick said handing her Two Hundred Rupees. "In case you see something at one of the gift shops."

Aahana Mallick thanked her mother, took the money and placed it in the zippered pocket of her backpack where she'd put the change from her piggy bank, two months of allowance and six weeks of babysitting money she'd managed to save.

For once, the bus to Ahmedabad High School was full since few students wanted to cut class or stay home sick on the day of a class trip. Aahana found a seat next to Rahul, a tall, lanky nerd with a bad case of acne. Neither one spoke to the other on the ride. Rahul was far too shy to talk to girls, and Aahana didn't want any of her friends seeing her associating with such a geek.

When the bus came to a stop in the school parking lot, Aahana was the first one out of her seat. Unlike most days, she didn't loiter in the hallway outside her locker or waste time in the girls' room checking her hair and makeup. Instead, she headed directly to her classroom.

Mr. Jadhav, her class teacher, had forsaken his suit and tie for a pair of jeans and a tee shirt, taking full advantage of the informal dress code during class trips.

"All right, listen up, everybody," he called. "Mrs. Shah and Mrs. Patel have volunteered to act as chaperones today. I'm going to split you into three groups. Mrs. Shah will supervise one group, Mrs. Patel another and I'll watch the rest of you."

Mr. Jadhav then enumerated in detail the rules of behavior that he expected his students to follow both on the bus and while touring the sights in Baroda.

"And remember," he concluded, as the students lined up in single file to board the chartered buses that would transport them, “Stay together. Don't wander off. I don't want to leave any of you behind."

* * *

The bus pulled up to the curb near the Baroda Museum, and the students got off. Aahana joined the students that were assigned to Mrs. Patel’s group. Mr. Jadhav took a quick head count, and once he confirmed that everyone was present; he led the three groups across the common to the hall.

The morning passed slowly for Aahana. She had no real interest in the pictures hung on the walls, though The Egyptian mummy and skeleton of a blue whale did attract her. But other than that she didn’t care much about the famous Akota bronzes dating the 5th Century AD, the collection of Mughal miniatures, the full-fledged gallery of Tibetan Art or oils by several European masters. It was nearly two o'clock when Mr. Jadhav suggested that they take a break from sightseeing and get some lunch. Aahana smiled when the bus driver pulled into a McDonald's parking lot. The fast food restaurant was packed, which was to be expected given the time of day.

"We'll go in and buy our food," Mr. Jadhav instructed, "and come back and eat it on the bus."

Once inside McDonald's, Mrs. Patel’s herded her group to the shortest order line. Aahana waited until the first of her classmates stepped up to the counter. Now was her window of opportunity.

"Mrs. Patel," she cried. "I have to go to the bathroom."

The chaperone looked at the crowded dining area and reluctantly gave her permission. "Make it quick, dear."

Aahana headed toward the ladies' room in the back of the restaurant. She turned to see if Mrs. Patel was watching her. Thankfully, the chaperone was looking the other way, enabling Aahana to duck out the side door undetected.

Free at last! Aahana reached into her backpack and took out the map of Baroda she'd printed from the Internet. After finding her bearings, she briskly walked--she did not want to call attention to herself by running--toward Baroda Railway Station. Like McDonald's, the transportation center was bustling with activity. Faking an attitude of casualness, the excited teenager walked to the ticket window.

"I'd like a one-way ticket to Pune, please."

She was afraid the agent would question her or demand to see some identification, but he simply took the fare and printed out the ticket.

"The train leaves at 3:50," he announced before calling for the next person in line to step forward.

Since the train was not due to leave for around an hour, the platform was empty. As Aahana waited, she looked at the ticket in her hand and wondered what Pune was like. Making the decision to run away from home had been easy. Deciding where to run had been more difficult. Large cities intimidated her, so Surat, Rajkot and even staying here at Baroda were out of the question. On the other hand, strangers would more likely be spotted in small towns. Pune was in a complete different state. Her mother could never imagine that she could run to a different state. With a population of roughly 25 lakh, was small enough not to be daunting and yet large enough that she could get lost in the crowd.

As she continued to wait for the train to freedom, Aahana wondered what was happening at McDonald's. Mrs. Patel and Mr. Jadhav must have noticed her absence by now. They had probably looked for her briefly before phoning the police. How long will it be before someone contacted Suzanne Mallick? The image of her mother staring in disbelief at the news, her shoulders suddenly slumping as she broke down in tears upset Aahana. She didn't want to cause her mother too much pain.

"Stop it!" she told herself as the first hint of regret crept into her thoughts. "I'm running away, and that's that! I've already made up my mind."

By three thirty a handful of people had joined Aahana on the platform, and by quarter after there were several more. No one took notice of the young girl traveling by herself. Apparently, no one guessed she was running away. All that might change soon, Aahana mused. Within the next few days her picture would most likely be in the local newspapers under the headline GIRL MISSING IN BARODA or something to that affect. Perhaps she might even make that night's nine o'clock news. Hopefully, by that time, she would be safely out of Gujarat.

When Aahana saw the train arrive at the station, she got ready to board the train. She looked at her watch. It was 3:45. Aahana took a seat in the back, hoping to keep out of the general vision. She was glad when a handsome young man sat in the seat across the aisle. People would be less likely to notice her if there were other people around.

Only after the train left the station and was heading away from the station in a fast and swift motion did Aahana remove her backpack, push her seat back and relax.

* * *

The choo of the train's engine lulled Aahana to sleep. When she woke several hours later, the train was nearing the Valsad. Soon it would be crossing the border into Maharastra. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since breakfast. She opened her backpack and took out a snicker bar. It was gone in a few bites, and she wished she had brought another one.

"Hungry?"

The voice startled Aahana. It belonged to the man sitting across the aisle.

"A little," she replied.

Her mother had always warned her never to talk to strangers, but now that she was on her own, things were different. With no money, no place to live and no food, she would have to rely on the kindness of strangers.

"The train will probably stop at the next station in a little while. You can get something to eat there."

"Oh, I'm not that hungry," she lied.

The stranger smiled. "Don't have enough money?"

Aahana lowered her eyes and shook her head.

"Do you have far to travel?"

"I'm going to Mumbai." It was all the information she was willing to give.

"It looks like we'll be travel companions for some time. My name is Tom, by the way."

"Nice to meet you. My name is Aahana."

"Are you going to visit relatives in Mumbai?" he asked.

"Y-yes," the young girl lied unconvincingly. "My grandparents live there."

Tom raised his eyebrows, as though he knew she wasn't being honest with him. "Do you plan on staying there long?"

"A few weeks."

"You travel light," he said, looking pointedly at her backpack.

Aahana couldn't think of a plausible story to explain her lack of luggage, so she remained silent.

"I know it's none of my business, but you give every appearance of someone who's running away from home."

The girl laughed nervously. "Where did you get that silly idea?"

"One, all you have with you is a backpack," Tom replied. "Two, you keep looking around as though you're afraid someone will find you. Three...."

"That's enough already. I'm a lousy liar. I am running away, all right?"

"I already surmised that."

"And what are you going to do, notify the police?"

Tom shook his head. "No need to bring in the authorities. Even if I did 'turn you in,' so to speak, you'd probably run away again first chance you got."

"You really won't tell anyone?"

"I promise."

"Cross your heart and hope to die?"

Tom lapsed into silence, his eyes turned toward the window, away from Aahana.

* * *

Shortly after 8:00 p.m. the train stopped at Vapi where Aahana got out, stretched her legs and washed her hands and face in the ladies' room. When she got back on the train, she saw that Tom had bought her a hamburger, fries and a Coke. Her eyes brightened and she thanked him for his kindness and generosity.

"You can't expect to get to Mumbai on an empty stomach," he laughed.

By midnight more than half the passengers had turned off their reading lamps and were resting their eyes. A few lucky ones had even managed to fall asleep. Aahana was not one of them.

"What's the matter? Can't sleep?" Tom asked, when he saw the teenager restlessly fidgeting in her seat.

"I guess I'm too excited."

"I can well imagine. It's not every day one runs away from home."

"What about you?"

"I can't sleep either. Why don't we talk until one of us gets tired?"

"What do you want to talk about?" Aahana asked.

"For starters, why don't you tell me why you're running away?"

It was a reasonable question, and suddenly the answer seemed awfully childish. "My mother treats me like a baby," the girl confided. "She never lets me go anywhere or do anything. I never have any fun."

Tom pretended to be shocked. "Never? No going to the movies or to the mall? No amusement parks? No parties at your friends' houses?"

Aahana blushed with embarrassment and admitted, "Oh, she lets me do those things."

"Then what is it she won't let you do?"

"There's this boy I like. His name is Harsh. He wanted to take me sailing out to Arabian Sea on his brother's sailboat."

"And your mother said no?"

"That's right. She said since there was no adult supervision, I couldn't go."

Aahana waited for Tom's response. She was sure, as an adult, he would side with her mother.

"I don't blame you then," he said, taking her by surprise. "I'd run away too. Your mother seems completely unreasonable. After all, you're what? sixteen? seventeen?"

"Fifteen and a half. I'll be sixteen in November."

"That's plenty old enough to make your own decisions concerning men."

Aahana giggled. She had never thought of Harsh as a man more of a boy but definitely not a man.

"And I'm sure you're an excellent swimmer."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

Now it was Tom's turn to laugh. "No one in his right mind would sail to Arabians if he didn't know how to swim. I'm sure if the boat were to capsize you'd have no trouble making it to land."

Aahana shifted uneasily in her seat. The truth was she couldn't swim. In fact, she hated going into the ocean, having the waves knock her about and tasting the salty water in her mouth.

"Can we talk about something else?" she asked petulantly.

"Sure."

In the darkness of night, Aahana couldn't see the smile on Tom's face.

* * *

Whether it was the sun in her eyes, the gnawing hunger in her stomach or the uncomfortable position in which she'd been sleeping that woke her, Aahana wasn't certain, but she was wide awake at 6:00 a.m., an occurrence that would have surprised the hell out of her mother.

"Good morning," Tom cheerfully greeted her. "Sleep well?"

"Not very," the girl replied as she felt another hunger pain stab her.

"Me either," he confessed. "There's nothing like my own bed. I don't sleep well anywhere else. By the way, where do you plan on sleeping when you get to Mumbai?"

Aahana shrugged. "I hadn't given the matter much thought. I'm sure I'll find a place."

"I guess you didn't think about finding a job. You know, most places won't hire anyone under sixteen. And even if you were sixteen, you'd need working papers--Child Labor Laws, you know."

"I can baby-sit. You don't need to be sixteen for that. I used to baby-sit all the time back in Ahmedabad."

"That's a fine idea. I never thought of that. I'll bet you have excellent references."

Aahana shook her head. "I didn't know I'd need them, but I'm sure I'll find something anyway," she insisted in a voice that clearly lacked confidence.

"I'm sure you will," Tom agreed. "You're a very resourceful young woman. You've gotten this far, haven't you? Here you are on a train hundreds of miles from your family and your home. It takes a special kind of person to leave behind those you love without so much as a goodbye."

Aahana turned toward the window, so Tom wouldn't see the tears in her eyes. She was gone for good, never to return to Ahmedabad, never to see her mother or Harsh again. She had acted rashly, without much thought about her long-range future.

"Maybe you never really thought you'd get to Mumbai," Tom gently suggested. "Maybe you were secretly hoping that someone would stop you and send you back home."

Aahana looked at him, her cheeks wet with tears. "I wish I'd never run away," she sobbed.

"Don't cry. Here," he said, taking a tissue from his pocket and wiping her face. "It's not too late to change your mind."

"Yes, it is. My mother will be furious. She'll ground me until I'm eighteen."

"Maybe not that long," Tom laughed. "In fact, she might be so happy to see you again that she'll forego your punishment."

"You really think so?" Aahana asked hopefully.

Tom nodded.

"Oh, but I can't go back. I bought a one-way ticket, and I don't have any more money."

"I'm sure we can work something out. After all, you didn't get to your final destination, did you?"

When the train stopped at the next station, Tom exchanged Aahana's one-way ticket to Pune for a return ticket to Ahmedabad.

"There's even some money left over for you to get some lunch," he said, handing Aahana the change.

"I don't know how to thank you," she cried.

"Just get back home safely, and stay put when you get there."

Tom walked her toward the platform where the passengers bound for Ahmedabad were already boarding the train. Aahana turned and thanked him one last time. Then she climbed up the stairs and headed to the window from where, she saw Tom wave and walk away.

Suddenly, she was very tired. She laid her head on her backpack, curled her legs beneath her and fell asleep.

* * *

Suzanne buried her face in her hands and cried. Her daughter, her little girl, her baby, was gone.

"Oh, Aahana," she sobbed. The pain of loss was agonizing. "I don't know how I'll get through this."

She looked down at Aahana's body lying on the hospital bed.

"Why didn't you listen to me? I told you not to go out in that boat. You didn't even know how to swim."

Suzanne grabbed her daughter's limp hand and kissed the small, cold fingers. Only fifteen years earlier she had given birth to Aahana in that same hospital. Now, her daughter was dead, drowned in a boating accident.

"Why?" she cried. "Dear God, why?"

The girl's hand moved in hers.

"That can't be. It must be my imagination."

But the fingers moved again as Aahana squeezed her mother's hand. When Suzanne looked at her daughter's face and saw the eyes flutter open, her heart leapt with joy.

* * *

Aahana didn't remember the accident, didn't even remember going out on the boat.

"You cut school on Friday and snuck out with that boy, Harsh," her mother explained. "The two of you took out his brother's sailboat. The boat capsized, and you nearly drowned."

"That's impossible," Aahana argued. "I went on my class trip to Baroda. I slipped away from Mrs. Patel and walked to Railway Station where I boarded a train to Pune."

"Pune? You must have had some dream!"

"No. It really happened."

It was like the final scene in The Wizard of Oz in which Dorothy was swearing she'd been to the Emerald City while all the time she'd been lying unconscious on her bed.

"It couldn't have, honey. A fisherman pulled you out of the sea, and the ambulance brought you here. You were...." Suzanne's voice caught in her throat. "You weren't breathing."

"Well, I'm breathing now."

Suzanne nodded, smiling through her tears. "Yes, you are."

* * *

Aahana was kept in the hospital overnight for observation. Her mother stayed by her side, sleeping in a chair. The nurse had given the teenager something to help her sleep, but it wasn't working.

She turned on the light above the bed and found a copy of The Times Of India the nurse had left for Suzanne to read. Aahana opened it to the local section. The headline read OFFICER DIES IN BANK HOLD-UP. An involuntary cry escaped her throat.

Suzanne woke immediately. "What's wrong?"

Her daughter handed her the newspaper. "This is the man who was on the train with me."

Suzanne looked down and saw a photograph of a handsome young police officer. Beneath the photograph was a caption that identified the slain man was Officer Thomas J. D’Souza.

"The article says he was killed two days ago," Suzanne said, looking up from her newspaper.

"That means he was already dead when I met him," Aahana exclaimed in awe.

"You don't know what you're saying."

"Yes, I do. Don't you see, Mom? Everyone on that train must have been dead too. They all had one-way tickets, even me. You said yourself I wasn't breathing."

"But you weren't--you weren't dead!"

"My heart stopped, and I wasn't breathing. That spells dead to me."

"Let's not talk about this," Suzanne urged, her eyes once again filled with tears.

"I had a one-way ticket, not to Pune but to the hereafter. Only I didn't stay on the train. Tom talked me into coming back home. He exchanged my ticket and put me on a train heading back to Ahmedabad."

"Stop it!" Suzanne screamed. "I don't want to hear any more of this nonsense."

Obediently, Aahana dropped the subject. She sensed her mother's fear and had no desire to upset her any more than she already had.

"I'm sorry, Mom. You were right. I shouldn't have gone out with Harsh on his brother's boat. It won't happen again."

Suzanne sighed, her spirits brightening. While all The Twilight Zone talk frightened her, she could handle Aahana cutting school to go sailing with a boy.

"You're darn right it won't. You're lucky I don't ground you until you're eighteen." Her eyes softened. Just this once she would throw discipline to the wind. "I'm just glad you're all right."

Aahana kissed her mother goodnight and then closed her eyes. But before she drifted off in a deep, dreamless slumber, she said a silent prayer for the soul of Officer Tom D’Souza.

The Alphabet Killer

As Grace Hilliard waited for her computer to boot up, she opened the accordion file folder on her desk. Inside were newspaper clippings, excerpts of court transcripts, postmortem reports and written notes concerning the Harvey Packer investigation and trial. Parker, a forty-two-year-old orthodontist, had recently been convicted of murdering his wife and child in one of the most sensational murder cases in the Kentucky history. Grace, author of seven moderately successful books documenting true crimes, intended Harvey Parker to be the subject of number eight.

Before beginning work on the Parker book, however, Grace first checked her email. As she weeded through important correspondence and the usual deluge of electronic junk mail, she found a message from one of Atlanta's public libraries. It was a somewhat macabre version of the old rhyme children used to chant while jumping rope: "A, my name is Alice, and my victim's name is Alfred. He came from Atlanta, and he sold Automobiles."

Two days later another of these mysterious missives appeared in her inbox. The second one read, "B, my name is Betty, and my victim's name is Bob. He came from Boston, and he sold Bicycles." Grace printed out both messages, noting on her printout that, although most likely from the same person, they were sent from different email addresses. The Alice message came from Atlanta while the Betty message was from Boston.

Four days later she received yet another email in the series. The latest one, originating from a Cleveland public library, read, "C, my name is Cora, and my victim's name is Carl. He came from Cleveland, and he sold Clothes." The following week the D verse arrived: "D, my name is Doris, and my victim's name is Don. He came from Detroit, and he sold Dolls."

During those weeks, Grace's attention was split between the murderous dentist and her anonymous email pen pal.

"It must be the same person," she scribbled on a piece of foolscap, "but Atlanta, Boston, Cleveland and Detroit? That's quite a bit of traveling.

Questions popped in her mind.

• Why is this person writing to me?
• What does he or she want?
• Are the messages being sent from public libraries so that they can't be traced back to the sender?

The last question, written in capital letters and underlined, read,

"Am I in any danger?"

After she placed the sheet of paper in her drawer, she opened her Rolodex (card catalog) and searched for a phone number for Lt. Ryan Dennison from the Boston Police Department. She had met him while researching her fourth book, one about a particularly brutal murder in the Beacon Hill section of Boston, and they had even dated a few times before their respective careers got in the way and ended the relationship.

After they exchanged the usual questions and answers between people who hadn't spoken in a while, Grace got to the point of her call. She wanted to know if there had been any recent murders in Boston that involved a man named Bob who sold bicycles. Although he believed the messages Grace received were probably from a crank, Ryan--never one to refuse a lady--agreed to see if there were any bicycle salesmen named Bob who might have come to a tragic end.

"I'll check the homicides and missing persons reports over the past few months and get back to you."

As promised, he phoned Grace later that afternoon. "Robert Stillwell, who worked for the Cambridge Cycle Shop, was murdered the day before that second email was sent to you. But Grace, try not to worry; even if Stillwell is the Bob in the rhyme, it doesn't necessarily mean that your friend is the murderer."

"My friend? What makes you think I know this person?"

"I'm not suggesting you do. It's only that this person singled you out for some reason, so it's likely he knows you. Why don't you give me the rest of the names and cities in those messages? I'll make a few calls and see if any more of them match up with actual murder victims."

"Thanks. I owe you one, Ryan."

Two days later Grace received another email, this one from Ryan, which read, 

"Alfred Bellows from Albuquerque was murdered the day before your first message was sent. Bellows was a salesman at a Honda dealership. Carl DeWitt from Cleveland--a wholesaler for Sassy Jeans--was murdered the same day the third rhyme was sent. Finally, Donald Magruder was murdered in Detroit the day before you received the fourth email. Magruder worked for General Motors, but his wife designed porcelain dolls that she and Donald sold at local craft shows and flea markets on the weekends. All the victims were strangled. Each of the bodies was found with a child's jump rope tied around the neck. All four cases are open and under investigation. I'm going to prepare a report of the evidence. If you hear from E, let me know."

Grace was elated. For the past twelve years, she had been writing about sensational murders, but her involvement had always been after the fact, not until after the identity of the murderer was discovered. Here was a unique opportunity to be involved from the very start of a case. Her book on the murderous orthodontist from Kentucky would be shelved for the time being. The Alphabet Killer, as she dubbed her Internet correspondent, would command her full attention.

During the next two weeks, Grace heard from Edna concerning her victim Earl from Erie who sold eyeglasses, Fannie claiming she murdered Felix from Flagstaff who sold flowers, Gladys whose victim was Guy from Green Bay who sold guns and Harriet who slew Hal from Harrisburg who sold hats. All four men from the optician to the haberdasher were found strangled with a child's jump rope.

In light of his early involvement in the case, Ryan Dennison was assigned to assist the special task force headed up by the FBI to solve the Alphabet murders. The task force's base of operations was a small office building two streets down from Grace's home. Special agents had leased the vacant building and quickly filled it with computer terminals, fax machines, telephones and endless piles of reports, profiles, statistics and analyses. A team of data entry clerks laboriously fed details on the lives and deaths of the eight victims and the evidence discovered at the crime scenes into the computers, hoping to find a clue to the killer's identity.

The exchange of information between Grace and the federal agents was a one-way street. She shared with them copies of her all her messages, from Alice to Harriet, and dutifully answered all their questions. They, in return, told her nothing. It was only through Ryan that she learned even the most rudimentary information about the on-going investigation, although the Boston detective himself was regarded as little more than a fact-finder by the feds. He was not even invited to attend regularly scheduled progress meetings, which, Ryan admitted to Grace, didn't matter because, as far as he could see, very little progress had been made in the case anyway.

"They don't even let me question the victims' families and friends," he complained. "They're afraid I won't ask the right questions. Can you believe it? I've spent fifteen years with the Boston P.D., yet they think I don't know how to conduct a homicide interrogation."

Grace soon had more information to relay to the task force. In a ten-day period she heard from Ida (whose victim was Ivan from Indianapolis who sold insurance), Joan (whose victim was Jim from Jacksonville who sold jewelry), Kitty (whose victim was Ken from Kansas City who sold knives) and Lois (whose victim was Leon from Louisville who sold lamps).

"Twelve men are dead, and they can't find the killer," Grace said with exasperation.

"Even with the FBI's state-of-the-art technology and all its manpower, finding the killer is still like looking for a needle in a haystack," Ryan explained. "The agents have questioned hundreds of people, and so far the only thing they've come up with is the fact that the killer is a woman."

"Why, because of the feminine names she used in her emails?"

"No, the FBI found several cases where the murdered salesmen had women customers with the same names mentioned in the emails just prior to their murders. Alfred, the automobile salesman, wrote up an estimate on a Honda Accord for someone named Alice Smith. Earl, the optician, kept an appointment book. The day he was murdered a woman named Edna Smith had an appointment with him to get contact lenses. And Jim, the jeweler, kept a list of all his customers, so he could send them sales flyers. At the end of the list was a name and address for Joan Smith. When I checked it out, the address was a phony."

"The murderer must spend a great deal of time traveling. These murders cover a large area: first Atlanta, then Boston, Cleveland, Detroit, Erie and Flagstaff."

"The feds are checking on that. Their computers are trying to match up names from the airlines, car rental agencies and hotel and motel chains, but so far they've turned up nothing. It's a long shot anyway. I doubt she'd use her real name or address when making travel arrangements."

"You know what surprises me?" Grace asked. "That the FBI has managed to keep such a tight lid on the case. We're talking about twelve murders involving twelve police departments in eleven different states, and yet no word has leaked out about the existence of a serial killer."

"Which might make the case that much harder to solve."

"I don't follow you, Ryan."

"What if someone out there has information about one of the murders? For instance, say some landlord has a tenant who travels around the country, and one day he sees a box of jump ropes in her apartment when he goes in to fix the plumbing. If he knew about the murders, he just might go to the police."

"But in other serial murder cases, the police get hundreds, sometimes thousands, of confessions and calls that lead nowhere."

"True, but it only takes one legitimate call to crack the case wide open. I'm sure there are plenty of people out there who know something vital to our investigation, but they haven't the slightest idea of the importance of that information."

Grace received no word from the Alphabet Killer for a period of almost three weeks. Then in rapid succession, Mary murdered Marvin, a motorcycle salesman from Milwaukee; Norma murdered Noah, a newspaper vendor from New York; Olga killed Owen, an olive oil importer from Orlando; and Patty killed Peter, the owner of a pet shop in Philadelphia.

The day after Grace heard from Patty, the FBI asked her to come to task force headquarters. When she arrived there, she was led to a conference room where three agents were seated on one end of a long table and she was seated at the other. Special agent Evelyn Bishop questioned her.

"Are you familiar with a woman named Ellen Ramsey?"

"No, I'm not."

"What about Adele Ramsey?"

"I don't know anyone by the name of Ramsey."

"But you have heard of Carlos Perez?"

"Yes, I wrote a book about a man named Carlos Perez who strangled five women in New Jersey. Is that the Carlos Perez you mean?"

"That's the one. Only he didn't murder five women; he murdered at least eight that we know of, probably more, but he was arrested and prosecuted for only five. You didn't say much in your book about Carlos' life from the time he left the Navy until he settled in New Jersey."

"There was nothing much to write about," Grace answered. "He traveled from here to there, worked at odd jobs for a month or so and then moved on."

"One of those odd jobs he held was that of a door-to-door salesman. One day he visited the home of Mrs. Adele Ramsey, an attractive thirty-year-old widow from Baltimore, who unfortunately allowed Perez inside her home. Ellen, Adele's eight-year-old daughter, was jumping rope outside when she heard her mother scream. The girl ran inside and saw Perez strangling her mother. Once Adele was dead, Perez tried to strangle the child with her own jump rope. Lucky for her, a UPS truck pulled up outside, and the killer took off out the back door."

"What happened to the little girl?"

"Ellen Ramsey spent the next several years in a psychiatric hospital. None of the doctors felt she represented a danger to herself or others, so security was minimal. When she turned seventeen, she escaped and hasn't been seen or heard from since."

Special Agent Milo Pierce took a handful of snapshots out of his pocket and placed them in front of Grace.

"These are the only photos we have of Ellen, and this," he said, producing a computer-generated likeness, "is probably how she looks today."

Grace studied the pictures closely. "I'm sorry; she doesn't look even remotely familiar."

Pierce put the photos back in his pocket and announced, "We've devised a plan, and we'd like your help. We want you to make these murders public. You'll go on national TV and tell about the emails you've been receiving and the actual murders they represent."

"Why me? Why doesn't the FBI issue a statement?"

"We feel there will be less of a panic from the public if you do it. You'll go on the show ostensibly to promote an upcoming book on the alphabet murders. You'll hint that in your book you divulge the name of the killer. We think Ellen will be afraid of what you've learned and what you plan to publish in your book."

"I'm to be the bait used to flush her out, right?"

"We'll see that you get around-the-clock police protection. You won't be in any danger. She's killed sixteen men so far. You might help stop her before she kills again."

The following week Grace appeared on Nightline and told the story that the FBI had rehearsed with her. The Bureau also managed to get the network and TV Guide magazine to give the show plenty of advertising. The feds wanted to make sure Ellen would be watching, but just in case she wasn't, they were prepared to follow up Grace's story the next day in major newspapers across the country.

Plan B proved to be unnecessary. Shortly after the show aired, Grace received another email. This one was not an announcement of a crime committed, but a warning of one yet to come: "E, my name is Ellen. My next victim's name is Grace. She comes from Puritan Falls, and she writes books."

The message had been sent from the Middletown Public Library, only a few miles from Grace's home in Berlin. The true crime author immediately phoned task force headquarters.

"Are the agents still outside your house?" Special Agent Bishop asked when she learned of the latest email message.

"They're sitting in the unmarked car parked in my driveway."

"Sit tight. Your friend Ryan and I will be right over. We'll stay there with you while we have someone check out the library."

Bishop hung up the phone and reached for her car keys.

"They're coming over," Grace told the young woman sitting across the living room from her.

"I'd better go back down to the basement. We don't want them to find me here."

"I'm sorry, Ellen," Grace apologized.

In her hand she was holding a gun, the same one she used only minutes earlier to shoot the two federal agents guarding her house. Grace had purchased the gun more than a year before, using Ellen's name.

When Ellen came to her house directly from Philadelphia where she'd strangled Peter, the pet store owner, Grace had given her lessons on how to load a revolver, how to hold it, how to take aim and how to fire it. As a result, Ellen's fingerprints were all over the gun.

"Why do you want to kill me? I've done everything you asked," Ellen cried pitifully.

"Because my book needs an ending." Ellen didn't understand.

"Do you really think I spent more than a year planning these murders just to help you get revenge on Carlos Perez?"

"But it was all your idea. When I saw his picture in your book and told you he was the man who murdered my mother, you said you had a plan that would allow me to get even with him. You said if I killed these other men, we could blame Perez and he'd get the death penalty."

Grace laughed. "Carlos Perez is serving a life sentence in the Stamford County Correctional Facility. No one is going to blame him for the murders you committed. Even someone with your limited intelligence should have figured that out."

Without the slightest trace of mercy or remorse, Grace pulled the trigger, shooting Ellen through the heart and killing her instantly. Then she turned over furniture and upset plants and books, making it appear as though a struggle had taken place in the room. She'd seen enough crime scene photos to make the staging believable. Soon a second unmarked car pulled into her driveway, and after a few minutes, the front door was thrown open.

As though on cue, Grace ran into Ryan's arms, crying like the poor defenseless woman she wanted him to believe she was.

"Oh, Ryan, right after I spoke to Agent Bishop, I heard a knock on the door. I thought it was one of the agents wanting to use the bathroom, but when I opened the door, there she was with the gun in her hand."

As Ryan tried to calm Grace down, Special Agent Evelyn Bishop took out her cell phone and rounded up the posse. Ryan and Grace were talking in the kitchen while the FBI forensics team finished its work.

By 2:00 a.m. Ellen Ramsey's body was finally taken away, and the room was cleared of people.

"I doubt you'll need any more protection," Ryan said with a yawn, "but if you'd like me to, I'd be happy to stay."

"No, I'll be fine now, but thanks anyway. I'm sure you're going to want to get some sleep before you go back to Boston. Besides, I think I'll do a little work. With all the excitement of the Alphabet Killer case, I haven't been able to write a word in months."

As she closed the door upon the exiting Boston detective, a smile blossomed on Grace's face--a million dollar smile or, more accurately, several million dollars. It all worked out so beautifully, she thought.

Poor Ellen, so eager to get back at Perez, believed everything Grace had told her, even the most ludicrous lies.

And Ryan! Grace had correctly foreseen that the macho cop would help her by investigating the phony email messages. That was why Bob the bicycle salesman had to be murdered in Boston rather than in Boise or Brooklyn.

The FBI had represented the only possible threat to her plan. How ironic it was that the Bureau inadvertently provided the biggest boon to her career by arranging for her to appear on television. When her new book hit the stands, it would probably outsell all her previous works combined!

"But first I have to finish it," she reminded herself. She sat down at her computer and opened the folder containing the files for her latest manuscript. The line she had thrown Ryan about not having written anything recently was, like everything else she'd told him, a lie.

She had been writing diligently ever since Ellen had, after months of persuasion from Grace, finally strangled Alfred Bellows, the Honda salesman from Albuquerque. Grace had already completed the chapters describing Ellen's childhood and her mother's murder. She had also written the drafts of other chapters that contained names, dates, places and details of the sixteen murders Ellen committed, details Ellen had given her, many not yet made public.

The final chapter--pure fiction--which was yet to be written, would detail the deadly confrontation between Grace and Ellen.

Grace worked diligently, writing until well past 5:00 a.m. Exhausted, she finally closed the file. Then, out of habit, before shutting down the computer, she checked her email.

Terrified, she read the brief, childlike verse in her inbox: "E, my name is Ellen, and before you shot me dead, you trapped me in a web of lies you spun around my head. G, your name is Grace, and all you did was lie. Now I shall tighten my rope and watch you slowly die."

The next day Grace Hilliard's dead body was found slumped over her computer keyboard. Although her neck bore bruises consistent with having been strangled with a rope, agents Pierce and Bishop could not find one at the scene. Neither could they find any sign of a struggle.

"I don't know how the killer got in here," Pierce confessed.

"The doors and windows are all locked from the inside. Grace might have let the murderer in before locking the doors, but then how did he or she get out?"

The federal agents and a small army of forensics people combed the house for clues but could find nothing. The murder of Grace Hilliard was never solved.

Ryan Dennison was the only one who ever guessed the truth: it was Ellen who killed Grace, the mastermind behind the alphabet murders.

He came to this conclusion after reading the writer's unfinished manuscript and comparing the dates of her computer files to those in his case notes.

Grace had information on the murders that hadn't even been known by the police at the time of her writing.

As Ryan stared at Grace's computer screen, he also surmised how the crime had been committed. He conjectured that Ellen's vengeful spirit must have traveled through the phone lines to Grace's computer, in the same way, a few days later, it traveled to the laptop located in the Stamford County Correctional Facility.

Thus, poor Ellen Ramsey was able to exact revenge on both the woman who betrayed her and Carlos Perez, the man who killed her mother.