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Greg Fleniken traveled light and lived tidy. After so many years on the road, he would leave his rolling suitcase open on the floor of his hotel room and use it as a drawer. Dirty clothes went on the closet floor. Shirts he wanted to keep unwrinkled hung above. Toiletries were in the pockets of a cloth folding case that hooked onto a towel rack in the bathroom. At the end of the day he would slide off his worn brown leather boots and line them up by the suitcase, drop his faded jeans to the floor, and put on lightweight cotton pajama bottoms.
Most evenings he never left the room. He would crank up the air conditioner—he liked a cool room at night—and sit on the bed, leaning back on two pillows propped against the headboard. Considerately, to avoid soiling the bedspread, he would lay out a clean white hand towel, on which he placed his ashtray, cigarette pack, lighter, BlackBerry, the TV remote, and a candy bar. He smoked and broke off candy bits while watching TV. This is where Greg was on the evening of Wednesday, September 15, 2010, in Room 348 of the MCM Eleganté Hotel, in Beaumont, Texas—lounging, smoking, snacking on a Reese's Crispy Crunchy bar, sipping root beer, and watching Iron Man 2.
He missed the ending.
Greg was accustomed to solitary nights. As a young man he had worked as a chief engineer on oceangoing vessels, spending months at sea. In middle age he had re-invented himself as a landman, a familiar occupation in South Texas, easing the exploitation of mineral rights on private property for gas and oil companies. Slender, with a close-cropped white beard and the weathered skin of a lifelong outdoorsman, he had partnered with his brother, Michael, in a thriving oil-land leasing business based in this small city east of Houston. Every Monday morning he would make the two-hour drive in his pickup from Lafayette, Louisiana, heading west on Interstate 10 through scruffy Gulf-shore farmland broken only by cell-phone towers, oil derricks, and billboards advertising motel chains, bayou restaurants, "Adult Superstores," and other local attractions. It took him through the stink of the big ConocoPhillips refinery at Lake Charles, a forest of piping, giant tanks, and towering chimneys. The hotel was just off the cloverleaf outside Beaumont. His company rented him a room in the "cabana," a three-story wing that wrapped around a small swimming pool framed by potted palms.
That Wednesday night, watching his movie, Greg got an e-mail from his wife, Susie, shortly after seven. Susie was using a computer program to file for a tax extension. After she reported her progress he wrote back, "You're doin' good, babe."
At some point during the loud, computer-generated showdown at the end of the film, amid all the fake violence, Greg was struck from nowhere with a very real and shattering blow. A blow so violent it would blind a man with pain. He managed to get off the bed and move toward the door before he fell, legs splayed and face-first.
He was probably dead by the time his face hit the green rug.
A "Natural-Causes Thing"
The following morning, Susie Fleniken called Greg's office. Husband and wife usually spoke every morning, but he hadn't called. He wasn't answering his phone. When he failed to turn up at the office, two of his co-workers drove over to the hotel and knocked on his door.
There was no answer, so they got the hotel manager to open it. Their alarmed calls brought an ambulance and the Beaumont police. They found a middle-aged man dead on the rug, prone and doubled over, a spent cigarette cupped delicately between two stiff fingers of his left hand. Room 348 was stuffy and exceptionally warm. The man's skin color had gone grayish blue. There was a wet spot at the crotch of his blue pajamas, but that wasn't unusual.
Detective Scott Apple showed up a little more than an hour later. He is a short and very fit man with graying hair that he wears combed straight up in spikes. He is all cop. His wife had been a cop; he met her on the job. He was one of the assault-team leaders on the department's SWAT team. He is one of those men who never stop working.
But there was little here to interest him. No sign of a break-in or struggle. Nothing disturbed in the room. No blood or obvious wounds. Fleniken's wallet was still in the back pocket of his jeans and had a stack of $100 bills in it, so robbery wasn't an issue. Those staying in nearby rooms had heard nothing. As Apple questioned the neighbors, he told them it was probably a "natural-causes thing." Sad. He poked around Fleniken's bags, looking mostly for pills—some clue to his collapse. There were none. Susie and Michael later told him that Greg never went to a doctor. He was a stubbornly independent man, suspicious of authority and unmoved by the modern passion for health and fitness. He did not exercise. He had chain-smoked his entire adult life and had the nagging cough to prove it. He neither drank nor ate to excess, but did both freely. It was easy to conclude that his choices had simply caught up with him. Susie was ready to believe it. She was shocked and grief-stricken but she accepted that, for Greg, sudden death was a possibility. In fact, she took some solace in it. He had checked out on his own terms. Many times she had heard him remark, upon hearing of someone's dying suddenly, "Lucky bastard. That's how I want to go." And so he had.
At the hotel, the police saw the death as routine. A photographer snapped pictures to make a record of the scene, and the body was driven by a transport service to the Jefferson County medical examiner for an autopsy. The only mystery here appeared to be medical, and it was likely a minor mystery at that.
Dr. Tommy Brown had a time-tested method. It took him 45 minutes to conduct a postmortem exam, inspecting a body inside and out, measuring and weighing organs, all the while describing what he found and noting the metrics that fleshed out the official form. He was all business—crisp, efficient, and confident. Brown was thin and bald on top and had a spray of unruly white hair on the sides that gave off a mad-scientist vibe. He did everything fast; he even talked fast. He was a local character, part of the legal landscape in Jefferson County, and a respected one. Where death was concerned, in this corner of Texas, Dr. Tommy Brown's word was law.
The circumstances of Greg Fleniken's death, as reported, were unremarkable. On the table before him was a 55-year-old Caucasian male who appeared to be in decent shape. After methodical inspection, the only marks Brown found on the body were a one-inch abrasion on his left cheek, where his face had hit the rug, and, curiously, a half-inch laceration of his scrotum. This was interesting. The sack itself was swollen and discolored, and around the wound was a small amount of edema fluid. The bruising had spread up through the groin area and across the right hip. Something had hit him hard.
The story his body told grew more intriguing. When Brown opened the front of the torso he discovered a surprising amount of blood and extensive internal damage. A certain amount of partly digested food had been torn from his intestines. The doctor found small lacerations there, and on the stomach and liver, as well as two broken ribs and a hole in the right atrium of his heart.
The condition of his insides reflected severe trauma: Fleniken had been beaten to death, or crushed. Brown concluded that the wound to his genitals likely had been caused by a hard kick. He had also taken a blow to the chest so severe it had caused lethal damage. He would have bled out in less than 30 seconds.
On the official form, next to "Manner of Death," Brown wrote, "Homicide."
When he got this surprising news, Detective Apple called Brown immediately for an explanation. The doctor told him that the man in 348 had suffered the kind of severe internal injuries he was more used to seeing in crash victims, or in someone found under a heavy fallen object.
There are not that many murders in Beaumont. Greg's was one of 10 that year, which was about average. Most are not mysterious. Detective work was usually a matter of doing the obvious—interviewing the drunk boyfriend with gunpowder on his hands, or finding the neighborhood drug dealer who was owed money. A case like this was a once-in-a-career event. If you enjoy working a stubborn whodunit, which Apple does, then this one was an exciting challenge. But the problem with the hard cases is that they are indeed hard. Over the next weeks and months Apple chased down every angle he could imagine to explain the death of Greg Fleniken. But about six months into it, he was stuck.
The physical evidence didn't add up. Unless Greg had been beaten to death elsewhere, and his body had been returned to the room and carefully placed on the rug, nothing about the scene added up to a crime. How does a man get beaten so severely that ribs crack, inner organs tear, and the heart ruptures, all without significant damage to his torso? Other than the bruising and the cut at his crotch, Fleniken's outer body showed no signs of a beating. And how could such a rumble have taken place in the hotel room without a thing being toppled or even disturbed? Without anyone in adjacent rooms hearing a thing?
And there was no answer to the all-important question: Why? Greg appeared to have had no enemies. Apple talked a lot to Susie. She had been in her 20s, a singer in a rock band, when she met Greg. She clearly adored him. Susie was a delightfully offbeat southern belle, buxom and pretty and warm and oh so deferential but also, in that time-honored southern way, stubborn as a tick. She was heartbroken and furious at the same time. Greg was the nicest man she had ever met. He was so nice she had married him twice—first as kids and then, after parting ways for a number of years, again in middle age. When Susie first called him again after that separation, he said, "I've been waiting for you to call." They had been married the second time for 15 years.
His brother and co-workers said he had been universally liked in their company. His life at the Eleganté rarely intersected with anyone else's. He went to his room early in the evening and usually stayed there by himself until morning. Greg had never been seen down at the bar. He did not socialize or drink a lot or pick up women.
So this was not a drunk. This was not a philanderer or a man who got into fights. This was a decent, honorable, smart, and successful man whom people liked. The sort of man nobody would murder—yet somebody had. Through the fall and into the winter of 2010, Apple pursued a number of possibilities. Maintenance records showed that at some point early in the evening of his death, while cooking pre-packaged popcorn in the microwave, Greg had inadvertently blown an electrical circuit. The outage had affected the adjacent room, 349, and the rooms directly underneath. Greg had called the front desk to report the outage and confessed his role sheepishly to the man who had come up to reset the breaker.
This led to two theories.
The first involved sex. The Eleganté maintenance man happened to have a rap sheet as a sex offender. Might the puncture wound to the scrotum and internal injuries have been caused by a long screwdriver—some sort of bizarre and kinky assault? Apple spent a lot of time talking to the maintenance man and looking into his background, but this theory never advanced beyond wild suspicion.
The second theory involved a group of union electricians staying at the Eleganté, a number of whom had been in the room next door, Room 349, on the night Greg died. They were in town for an extended stay, doing a job for an oil company. At night, they tended to assemble in one another's rooms to drink. What if some of them had been partying next door when their electricity went out? Might one or more of them have knocked on Greg's door and, perhaps drunk and annoyed, exchanged words with and then assaulted him in the hallway? Could Greg, badly beaten, have returned to his room and then collapsed? Some of the electricians had been questioned on the day the body was found, but none of them said they had had any interaction with the man in 348.
Nine days after Greg's death, Apple and a colleague returned to the third floor of the cabana wing to question some of these same men again. Apple was wearing a hidden video camera. The men they encountered were friendly and appropriately curious.
"What happened to that guy, anyway?" asked Lance Mueller, a sharp-featured man with dark, thinning hair dressed in a T-shirt and blue jeans. Mueller was the man registered in Room 349, along with a roommate, Tim Steinmetz.
"Hell, I don't know," Apple said, honestly. "That's what I'm trying to find out. It was almost like something fell on him or something. We're just trying to see if somebody heard something or maybe if somebody knows somebody heard something, or maybe if somebody messed with him."
Mueller and Steinmetz had nothing to offer. The two electricians said they thought they had heard the man in the next room coughing when they returned from the bar. Mueller seemed as confused as Apple was about the idea that something had crushed the man.
"There's nothing in these rooms heavy enough," he said.
Down the hall, they found three more of the electricians—Trent Pasano, Thomas Elkins, and Scott Hamilton. The men were friendly and tried to be helpful. One said that, when he had seen the body on a gurney in the elevator, he had first assumed they were caterers delivering a cake, or a big food tray.
"That's a better thought," said Apple.
Pasano said he had been in the room with Mueller and Steinmetz that night, but hadn't seen anything.
The electricians handed over their driver's licenses and gave Apple their cell-phone numbers. They would be in town for a few more months if anything came up. Happy to help.
Weeks went by. Months went by. Apple worked any theory he could imagine. He considered the possibility that Susie had had her husband killed. He considered Michael Fleniken, Greg's brother and partner. There was nothing that even hinted at either person.
Who doesn't love a mystery solved? It creates order from disorder, salves our ache for moral balance. An unsolved mystery is like a stone in your shoe. That is where the case of the body in Room 348 was by the end of 2010. Scott Apple was stymied. Hoping to unearth something new, in November the family had put up a $50,000 reward. It produced nothing. Michael hired a private detective from Houston, a former F.B.I. agent. Apple met with the man and reviewed the case. That was the last he saw of him.
The matter of Greg Fleniken was bound for the cold files. It would be just another sad box of notes and evidence stored in the Jefferson County Court House.
A Fresh Pair of Eyes
Ken Brennan took Susie's call on the golf course. She was surprised that he picked up the phone himself.
"Ken Brennan speaking."
"Oh, my God, you don't have a secretary?," Susie asked.
She was flustered. The detective had answered on the first ring. She could barely get the story out—Greg's death, the coroner's finding, the dead end. He asked her to send him some files; he'd take a look. She said she had been feeling under the weather, but she would try to pull together what she had, pronto, and send it off to him.
"Well," said Brennan, "you need to fuckin' take care of yourself."
Like everything Brennan says, this came in a thick New York accent and a voice that sounds like it's strained through a cubic yard of gravel. It was a no-bullshit-you-better-listen-to-me command that was all the more startling because he had said something tender. It endeared him to Susie immediately.
Brennan is a former Long Island cop and D.E.A. special agent who now makes a good living as a private detective in Florida. That's why he was on the golf course in February. He is pushing 60, still solid, and always tan and stylish, in the South Florida manner. Blue-eyed, thick-necked, and ruggedly handsome, he is partial to lightweight short-sleeved shirts that show off his torso and big arms. He wears flashes of gold at the neck and wrist, and Irish rings on several fingers. Brennan's hair is mostly white now, and is combed straight back on the sides and straight up in the front in a low-key pompadour, cocky but dignified.
Months earlier, not long after Greg was killed, a young lawyer friend, Kea Sherman, had told Susie and Michael about Brennan. Sharing Susie's frustration with the investigation, she had hit upon the strategy of filing a lawsuit against the hotel as a means of pursuing the probe privately. She had read an article by me in this magazine ("The Case of the Vanishing Blonde," December 2010) detailing Brennan's remarkable success in resolving a 2005 cold case in Miami. Now, when the investigation seemed hopeless, Sherman brought up Brennan again.
"If you want to do something," she urged Susie, "you have got to call this guy—the one I told you about. Just find him."
Brennan can be readily found on the Internet and is asked to take more cases than he can handle. People come to him with unsolved murders and disappearances. He takes these people seriously and handles them gently. When he reads a file, he is looking for a case that intrigues him, but also one where he thinks he might be able to accomplish something. "I ain't in the business of giving people false hopes," he says. The Fleniken case appealed to him because of the mystery but also because there were so many avenues to explore—Greg's family and co-workers, hotel guests, the maintenance man. To Detective Apple, none of these leads seemed fresh anymore. To Brennan, they were all new and potentially promising. He knew that a fresh pair of eyes was perhaps the most valuable thing he brought to an investigation.
Brennan visited Lafayette in April. He worked Susie over first, asking her a lot of hard questions about their relationship, about Greg's faithfulness, about insurance arrangements, satisfying himself that the wife had no clear motive to have him killed. "Let me ask you one more thing," said Brennan. "Was there anything about the crime scene that didn't seem right to you? That seemed off?" Susie told him that she was surprised that the room was so warm when Greg's co-workers entered it the following morning. Her husband liked to crank up the A.C. at night.
Then Brennan went home and made arrangements for a second trip, to Beaumont. Apple came out to a sports bar late to meet him. The two men ate and talked. Brennan told Apple what he always tells the cops he meets in his work: "Listen, I'm not a maverick. I don't go doing things half-cocked. If I decide we're going to do this, we're going to do it as a team. There's nothing I'm going to do that you're not going to know about it, and there should be nothing that you're going to do that I don't know about. The one thing I won't do is fuck up your case. . . . I've been doing this a long time. But I also know that you're the guy in charge here, so it's your case."
Part of what was going on was Brennan checking out Apple. "I don't want to work with somebody I don't like," he told me. He prides himself on being able to read people very quickly. He liked the Beaumont detective.
It was mutual. As Apple would put it later, "Ken has good people skills."
Dried Toothpaste
The following morning, Apple picked up Brennan and they visited the hotel room, where Apple showed him the crime-scene photos and the autopsy results, and reviewed what he had done over the previous seven months. Brennan heard him out and then announced, "I think I know how this guy died. I think I know when he died. I think I know who killed him. And I think I know how we're going to catch him."
"Come on!" said Apple.
"Hear me out. I'll tell you what I think, but first I got to call the guy's wife."
He called Susie's cell phone.
"Your husband, was he left- or right-handed?" he asked.
"He was right-handed."
"And when he smoked, did he smoke with the cigarette in his left hand or his right hand?"
"He always smoked with his right hand."
"You sure?"
"I'm positive."
Brennan hung up and explained his conclusions to Apple. Susie had already told him how cold Greg kept his room. This helped fix the time of death. As Brennan saw it, the air conditioner had shut down with everything else when the circuit breaker blew. That time was known. Hotel records showed that their repairman had left Greg alive and well around 8:30 P.M. The movie resumed, and apparently Greg forgot to flip the A.C. back on. It would have taken a few minutes for the room to grow warm enough for him to notice, and by the time it had, he was dead. That's why he had been found in a warm room. As Brennan put it, "In September, it's hot as fuck in Beaumont, Texas."
The cigarette scotched the notion that Greg had been beaten severely somewhere else, perhaps even just out in the hall, and then returned to 348. A hallway scenario might explain why nothing had been disturbed in the room, but the cigarette ruled that out. There was no way Greg's attackers, returning him, would have added the fine touch of cupping one hand under his body and delicately placing a burning cigarette between his fingers. It was also unlikely, given the ruptured atrium, that Greg would have had time to return to the room after such a beating and calmly light up before keeling over. More likely, Greg had lit this cigarette himself before whatever happened to him happened. If Greg was right-handed, why was the cigarette found in his left hand? As Brennan pieced it together, examining the state of the room, Greg had gotten up from the bed and headed toward the door, shifting the cigarette to his left hand in order to grab the door handle with his right.
It was hard to see this making sense, but Brennan had learned to be patient. It was a mistake to let what you do not know race out ahead of what you do. A crime was a puzzle. If there was even one small piece that did not fit, the puzzle was incomplete. So he was willing to follow the evidence in unlikely directions. Even when the conclusions it suggested were absurd. Greg could not have been beaten to death in his room, the evidence suggested, and yet he had died there, and he had died quickly after sustaining his wounds. Somehow, that's what had happened. He didn't know yet how it had happened, but he was convinced that Greg had been quietly minding his own business just minutes, even seconds, before he was killed.
This is what led to the electricians, who were close. Their room had been partly blacked out by the blown circuit at the same time Greg's had been. So, of all the scenarios Apple had considered, this was the one that made the most sense. The union guys may well have been drunk, and may have confronted Greg in the doorway of his room, exchanged words, and kicked him to death right there. He asked Apple if he had interviewed them.
"Yeah, they were nice," said Apple.
"See anything hinky?"
"No, no."
"I'm sure if they were drinking they had to talk about it to each other," said Brennan. "So somebody knows about them. Probably one or two of their close friends or their co-workers are going to know about this."
They next paid a visit to Dr. Brown. Ken wanted to know if the injuries Brown had seen might have been caused by a severe beating. They might have, the doctor said. The laceration of the scrotum could have been caused by a hard kick, especially if the assailant had been wearing steel-toed boots. The electricians next door wore construction boots.
Brennan asked Apple to start interviewing men who had worked with the union electricians the previous summer. He returned home to continue inspecting the hotel's surveillance video. It was time-consuming work and not particularly helpful. He calls it "looking to see the to-and-fro." The cameras showed Greg coming in from work that evening. They showed several of the electricians making trips to their vehicles in the parking lot. But there was nothing obviously suspicious.
When Brennan returned to Beaumont, in late May, he and Apple went to see some of the co-workers who had not yet been interviewed. By this time the union electricians had been gone for seven months. Apple's efforts with the co-workers had uncovered nothing, but Brennan was convinced it was worthwhile. Human nature being what it was, if any of the electricians knew something about Greg's death, word would have spread.
So they made the rounds. Yes, most of the men had heard about the man who died in the Eleganté Hotel. What a shame. Did anyone know yet what had happened to him? All of what these men knew was second- or thirdhand or worse, and was predictably confused. As Brennan would remember it later, one of the crew foremen, a man named Aaron Bourque, had heard something about a gun going off in a boardinghouse.
"No," Apple corrected him. "That's not the same case. This was the one where a man got in a fight at the Eleganté Hotel."
Bourque had heard nothing about that.
As they drove away from Bourque's house, Brennan said, "We need to go back to the hotel."
"What are we going back there for?," Apple asked, noting that he and Ken had checked out the room thoroughly.
"We're going to look for a bullet."
In Room 348 they began inspecting the floor, the furniture, the walls—everything. They were both working on their hands and knees, shining flashlights under furniture. They found nothing. Brennan was frustrated, because he was now convinced that somehow a gun had been involved. They were about to give up when he noticed an indentation in the wall alongside the closed door that led into the adjoining room. The indentation was a repair job. It appeared to be right where the handle of the door would hit the wall—typical hotel-room wear and tear. But when he swung the door open, the knob and the dent didn't quite match. The doorknob touched the wall slightly to the right.
"Let's take a look at the other side," Brennan suggested. When they got the hotel security guy to let them into Room 349, there was no mistaking what they found on the wall there.
Brennan stood alongside a small neat hole in the wall that had been patched with a daub of faintly pink filler that turned out to be dried toothpaste. He measured its height against his hip, then walked back to 348 and measured the indentation. They lined up. A bullet had gone through the wall. The small, neat hole in 349 marked its entry; the larger hole in 348, its exit.
Beaumont's crime-scene investigators carefully excavated both holes and shined a laser through. The trajectory pointed straight up to the bed where Greg had been sitting, smoking, eating candy, and watching his movie.
Brennan said, "This motherfucker was shot."
Dr. Brown was not convinced.
He had examined the man's body from head to toe, cut him open, inspected his inner organs one by one, and reversed the expectations of the police. With precision and with the insight of years, he had determined that Greg Fleniken died not from natural causes but from a severe beating. Now they wanted to tell him that his careful and professional observations were wrong? That he had missed, of all things, a bullet wound?
Brennan volunteered to do the talking. After he and Apple had found the bullet hole and traced the trajectory, the answer to the mystery of Greg's death was, he believed, clear. But in order to act—in order to bring Greg's killer or killers to justice—they would have to get the coroner to re-write his findings. You could not argue in court that a defendant had shot someone if the medical examiner's office had concluded that the victim had not been shot.
Brown's office was a mess. Papers, files, books everywhere, every available surface was buried, even the floor. They cleared away space on two chairs to sit down, and when they mentioned they were working the Fleniken case, the doctor asked, "Oh, did you catch the guy that beat him up?"
"No, we're not there yet," said Brennan, and he then started to explain what they had discovered, trying to approach the subject delicately. Brown quickly got the picture.
"You're trying to tell me that this man was shot," he said. "I'm telling you he wasn't shot." He could see where this was heading, and he flatly refused to order the body exhumed. Exhumation is a pain in the ass. It is expensive, disturbing to the family, and a hell of a lot of work. And in this case, as it happens, it was impossible, since the body had been cremated. The ovens were hot enough to destroy metal fragments.
"Listen, Doc," Brennan proposed, "let's just take out the photos from the autopsy and go through them and see what we can find."
Brown humored them. As they looked through the photographs, passing them back and forth across the desk, Brennan pointed out things.
"What about this here?" he said, indicating a spot of damage.
"Yes, that's the liver."
"And what about this here?"
"Yes, that's the intestines."
Brennan knew what he was looking at. The bullet had entered Greg's scrotum and torn up through him. The skin of the scrotum was soft and pliable, and it had folded over the entry wound, making it less obvious what it was. The internal injuries traced the bullet's fatal trajectory. Brennan asked, "Doc, could all of this damage have been done—besides blunt-force trauma, could a bullet cause the same?"
"Yes, it could, but that's not what happened here. This man was beaten."
"O.K., Doc, but could it have?"
Brennan found something in a photo that supported his argument. It looked like a track.
"You could get the same thing from being beaten," Brown explained.
Then they got to the heart. Brown passed the photo to the detectives.
"Doc!," Brennan said.
"That's a bullet hole, Doc."
Brown took the photo.
Brennan pointed. "That's a fuckin' bullet hole."
Brown explained that sometimes when a man is kicked or hit with a blunt object in the chest, it is the right atrium that normally bursts.
"Doc, that's a fucking bullet hole."
Brown looked again.
"Yeah, that's a bullet hole."
After a long moment he added, "The media is going to kill me on this."
"You've Got a Problem"
Tim Steinmetz must have been feeling pretty O.K. about this meeting with the Texas cops. Getting called had been a shocker. It was more than seven months since he and Lance Mueller had come home from the job in Beaumont. Now two cops from down there had come all the way to Wisconsin to see him and to question him about the guy who had died next door. It had been worrisome. He and Mueller had conferred about it beforehand by phone and made sure their stories were straight. Steinmetz met the detectives in an interview room at the Chippewa County Sheriff's Department, and, really, they could not have been nicer. Tim sat in a swivel chair on one side of a big wooden table, and they sat opposite him with their notebooks open and files handy. Very official. They thanked him for coming in. They assured him that this was routine.
And they had walked him through the evening, asking a lot of questions, with Steinmetz answering diligently, trying to remember every detail—leaving out the part about the gun, of course—but the detectives had not pushed him at all.
"You heard that the guy next door to you died?" asked the older one, the big man with the white hair combed straight up in front, Ken Brennan.
"We did hear that," said Steinmetz. "But we really didn't know for sure what the hell was going on. . . . We had no idea. We didn't hear no commotion next door, no banging, no nothin'. That's why this is kind of weird."
Brennan and Apple took notes, then Apple carefully wrote out Steinmetz's statement.
"And that's it, huh?" the electrician asked.
"That's it," said Apple.
"You guys flew all the way here for that?"
Brennan asked Steinmetz to go through the statement, read it out loud, and make any corrections he wanted. Steinmetz noticed that Apple had put down that he was an "apprentice," so he changed that to "journeyman." A few other little things. He initialed all the places where he made a change. Then they brought in a local cop to notarize the statement right there in front of him.
So Steinmetz was feeling pretty good when he stood up to go.
"Is that it?" he asked.
"Hang on a second," said Brennan. His tone was different now, harsh. "It was, until you signed that statement. Now you've got a problem."
"O.K.," said Steinmetz, startled. He sat down again.
"Now tell us what really happened," said Brennan. "Because we know what happened. Because now you're going to jail with him. Do you want to go to jail with Lance?"
"Why am I going to go to jail with Lance?"
"You just made a false police report, that's why," said Brennan.
"Tim, we know what happened," said Apple, speaking more gently. "We know everything that happened down there. And I realize you are trying to be noble and protect a friend, but you are about to get your whole family in a bind, and it's not worth it. It's not worth it."
"So, just tell us what happened," said Brennan.
Out came the whole story, corroborated later that same day, June 1, 2011, in an interview with Trent Pasano, who had been in 349 with them. Between the two accounts, the following scenario emerged: They had been drinking beer. Mueller asked Pasano to fetch a bottle of whiskey from his car, and to also bring up his pistol, a 9-mm. Ruger. When Pasano returned, Mueller took out the handgun and, to the others' alarm, started playing with it. He pointed it at Steinmetz, who dropped to the floor and cursed at him, and he was pointing it in Pasano's direction, at the foot of the bed, when it went off. Pasano thought for a second that he had been hit, but then turned to see a hole in the wall behind him. Mueller freaked out, they both said. Mueller bundled up the gun and took it back out to his car. When he returned, Pasano had left for his own room, disgusted. Mueller and Steinmetz went downstairs to the bar.
Steinmetz said they had not known for sure there was anyone staying in the room next door until, as he remembered, they heard someone in the room coughing very late, after midnight, when they came back from the bar.
He held nothing back. Steinmetz's second statement, the truthful one, laid out the whole thing. It was good to get it off his chest. When he and Mueller had seen the police at Room 348 the next morning, and had seen the gurney, they were disturbed, he told Brennan. "I thought he had killed that guy."
The only detail that didn't fit was this business of hearing a cough behind the closed door of Room 348 when the two returned from the bar. For several reasons neither Brennan nor Apple was inclined to place much weight on it. If it was true, then Greg had survived the gunshot for far longer than the coroner believed possible, but it did not alter the cause of death. If anything, it made the electricians' failure to check on him or call for help all the more egregious. More likely is that they had heard Greg coughing in the room the previous evening. They had been in the room next to him that night too. They were drunk. Fixing the cough late on the night Greg died was the only shred of their story that contradicted the detectives' reconstruction, and they clung to it, even though it hardly mattered.
"Did anybody knock on the door next door, to check on the guy?," Brennan asked.
"No," said Steinmetz. "I always ask myself, if I was in a situation like this, you know, what would I do, and I admit—"
He never finished the thought. The detectives had something else they wanted him to do.
A Long Silence
'Hey, Lance, what's up?" asked Steinmetz. He'd dialed Mueller on his cell phone. Apple and Brennan were recording the conversation.
"Not much," said Mueller. "Just sittin' around. . . . "
"Well, I just got back from down there."
"How did it go?"
"Well, I told them the whole story. You know, what had happened, that we were stickin' to there, you know?"
"What's that?"
"You know, the story that we were stickin' to, that we got home late that night, you know, and the guy coughed and whatever."
"And, uh … " Steinmetz began to hem and haw. "And, uh, I was fixin' … I was gonna leave there then, because your lawyer said it would be O.K., right? You know?"
"And when I left there they said, 'O.K., you know, tell us the truth.' So, I, you know, I told them the truth, what really happened."
There was a long silence on the other end.
"About the gun going off and all that?" Mueller asked.
"What did they say?"
"Well, that I would be in trouble, you know, if I didn't tell them."
Another silence.
"So, what did they say?"
"Not much. I don't know if they are going to get ahold of you, or Trent, or what the hell they're going to do."
Mueller sighed heavily. Then he groaned.
"What did they mean by that? I mean 'Tell us the truth'? Did they say anything about the gun prior to that or what?"
"No. They just said they knew exactly what happened. Told me to stop fuckin' lyin'. They were pretty pissed. And then I told them exactly how everything went down, and what really and truly happened." Steinmetz suggested that Mueller call Apple right away. "They probably are going to come and get your ass, now that they know the truth and everything. You should probably try to make some kind of effort, you know? … The guy, he died from the gunshot."
"Are you shittin' me, Tim?"
"No, I'm not."
"Oh, my God, are you kidding me? Are you serious right now?"
"I'm serious as a heart attack, Lance."
Mueller refused to believe it. For the next few minutes of the call, he went around and around with Steinmetz. His lawyer had obtained the autopsy report and assured him that the man had not died of a gunshot wound. The story had been all over the news. "It doesn't make sense!" he said. "If there was a gunshot, if he was killed from, you know, a firearm, they would have said something on the damn news!" Mueller had worked hard to convince himself that the accidental gunshot and the death of the man in 348 were unrelated, and the autopsy report had confirmed it.
"It doesn't make sense. . . . First the coroner ruled that it was a heart attack. Then they started saying that something fell on him There's no way! There's absolutely no way that guy was killed by a bullet." He asked Steinmetz how he was doing.
"How'm I doin?," Steinmetz said. "Not good. I need to drink some more beers."
Mueller apparently applied the same remedy, because he later phoned Brennan, clearly intoxicated, and started trying to explain himself. He said he wanted to make a statement.
"You're drunk," Brennan told him. "I suggest you call your fuckin' attorney."
Case Closed
Brennan was worried when the judge started reading the sentence. He had flown to Beaumont on October 29, 2012, to join Susie Fleniken and Scott Apple and a group of Greg's family and friends for the sentencing of Lance Mueller. The electrician had entered a no-contest plea to manslaughter. As Brennan remembered it, the judge began by saying that this whole tragedy might be seen just as a terrible accident.
Oh, fuck, thought Brennan. Here it goes. Don't tell me this guy is going to get a year or something.
But then the judge started cataloguing the long list of willfully irresponsible choices that had led to this day.
More like it, thought Brennan.
The judge gave Mueller 10 years, half of what the law allowed. The apology Mueller offered in court, no matter how sincere, came way too late. There was his criminally irresponsible decision to drunkenly play with the gun. As Steinmetz had said, they had suspected from the start that the errant bullet had at least helped kill the man in Room 348. Even a heart attack, which had been the first assumption as the police rolled his body out on a gurney, might have been triggered by the gunshot. Then, after the coroner had ruled that Greg had died of blunt-force trauma, Mueller was happy to accept that something might have crushed him to death, even if it was hard to imagine what. Still, he had been worried enough about the gunshot. He had himself patched the hole with toothpaste. He had hidden the gun immediately in his car, then stashed it with a friend for the first few days after the incident, and had then handed it over to an attorney for safekeeping before he left Texas.
What a huge mistake. If he had come forward at any time prior to Brennan and Apple's solving the mystery, which had taken about eight months, it is unlikely he would have been charged with manslaughter, much less have gone to jail. Mueller had gambled from the start that whatever connection he had to Greg's death would never be discovered. The odds in his favor were good, too. As it was, even after the connection was made, the county district attorney's office had been reluctant to prosecute the case as a felony.
Brennan had turned that idea around. When he found out that the prosecutor might opt for a plea deal, he flew to Beaumont and joined a meeting between Apple and Paul Noyola, an investigator for the D.A.'s office. Noyola explained that accidental gun discharges in Texas were not uncommon, and that juries and judges tended to understand them, and that … well, the whole issue of accidental deaths was a fairly gray area of the Texas criminal code. In other words, the whole thing was looking like more of a hassle than a slam dunk.
The private detective was indignant. He arranged to bring Susie Fleniken to Beaumont for a meeting with the assistant D.A. in charge of the case. Among other complications, the A.D.A. told them, Mueller's gun was still locked in the lawyer's safe, and the lawyer was making noises about fighting efforts to have it turned over.
"I suggest you go down there with a search warrant and a fuckin' blowtorch and go get the fucking weapon!," Brennan said. "It's evidence of a capital crime. What the fuck are you talking about?" Brennan was pretty worked up. Here's what he remembers saying:
"The victim was important to everybody here," he said, gesturing around the table. "And we're not going to let this thing be brushed under the rug, let somebody take a plea on this. This is not a fucking accident. An accident is when somebody comes in, has taken off their gun, their gun discharges, and, God forbid, somebody is hit. . . . That's one thing. It's completely different when somebody fuckin' brings a gun that they shouldn't have into another fuckin' state, shitfaced drunk, fucking around with a gun. The people with him realize that something bad could happen. . . . He discharges a round. Almost kills the guy he's with. And then he does kill somebody on the other side of the wall. He knows that's something that could happen; it's an occupied hotel. He doesn't even bother to knock on the door next door to see if anybody's hurt. And after that, his answer to the whole thing is to go get drunk some more in the fucking bar of the hotel? And then when he sees a body being taken out the next day, and he is 100 percent certain he killed somebody, he decides not to say anything about it but run to his attorney and leave the fucking weapon in a safe, and the fucking attorney doesn't say anything about it, either? You know what that is? That's fucking murder. So if you think we're going to forget about this fucking thing, think again. Because that ain't fuckin' happening."
Brennan's anger can fill a room.
After Mueller was sentenced, Brennan and Apple went out for a celebratory lunch. Brennan ordered a cocktail. Apple, who was on duty, didn't. They made plans to play a round of golf together.
In the courtroom that day, Susie Fleniken had a chance to speak to Mueller directly.
"I have waited over two years to look you in the face, eye to eye, and simply have the chance to speak directly to you," she said. "You would never have come forward with the truth. . . . You murdered him. No, you didn't intentionally seek him out to murder him, but you murdered him, with every lie you told, with every intentional selfish deception, with every cover-up, over and over again. . . . You saw his body taken out of the room in a body bag the next day. You knew you killed him. He meant nothing to you."
Later, Susie told me that she watched Mueller's face as the sentence was pronounced, and that he had looked terribly shocked. That was good, she thought. He's shocked, but not as shocked as my husband was.
That night in Room 348, relaxing, smoking, watching Iron Man 2, Greg Fleniken could not have known what hit him in the moments before he died.
Mueller knew exactly what was hitting him.
"You have met your match," said the small woman, staring across the courtroom at him, a study in controlled ferocity. "I would have spent the rest of my life tracking you down. And I found you. Greg's murderer. I brought you to justice."


text:
Each week, we'll ask our stable of scribes to weigh in on the three most important NBA topics of the day — and then give you a chance to step on the scale, too, in the comments below.
Of the coaches starting the season with a new team, who has the hardest gig?
Steve Aschburner: Any coach new to his team this season has his hands full. Mike Brown, with the heat of the L.A. spotlight, the expectations, the egos and the end of the triangle offense will earn every penny. Others are near the end of their contracts. But Monty Williams won 46 games with New Orleans last season. If Chris Paul stays put with David West gone and limited help arriving, he and the Hornets will be hard-pressed to get 19 (half the pace of last season, based on 66 games).
Fran Blinebury: Mike Brown. He's following perhaps the greatest coach in NBA history by taking over the helm of an aging ship that just had a gaping hole blown in its hull with the loss of Lamar Odom in a city where anything less than a championship is considered a failure. Good luck with that.
Scott Howard-Cooper: Mike Brown. Rick Adelman will have to do a lot of heavy lifting in Minnesota and Kevin McHale steps into Houston at a particularly challenging time, but try being the guy who can get his team to a conference final and be part of a failed mission. That's life as coach of the Lakers.
Shaun Powell: We don't know the final makeup of the Lakers just yet, so we'll put an asterisk next to Mike Brown's name. And assuming Paul Silas doesn't count in this, his first full season with the talent-starved Bobcats (he took over for Larry Brown during last season), the guess would be Lawrence Frank in Detroit. Yes, he does have new ownership, which will refreshingly allow Joe Dumars to do what's necessary. But the Pistons are coming off a poor season, attendance is lacking and there are odd-fitting pieces on the roster. Frank may need to take a few blows to the chin this season until the cap opens up and a lottery pick arrives next summer.
John Schuhmann: Dwane Casey, who's taking over the team that has ranked last defensively for two straight seasons. The Raptors are young, but none of their young guys looks to be a franchise cornerstone, at least until they bring Jonas Valanciunas over next year. Casey's patience will be tested and hopefully, the team's new owners give him ample time (he only got a season and a half in Minnesota) to turn that team around.

subset: commoncrawl


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How many died last year in the US while kiting ?
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Joined: 12 Dec 1999
Posts: 18939
Posted: Sun May 05, 2013 4:21 pm
Post subject:
zirtaeb wrote:
The fireman who took over the situation with the help of the cops just stood around and debated what to do, in their rubber boots, hard hats, and fire retardant jackets.
Slightly similar situation here. I saw a motorcycle soar off a 40' cliff into a lake near me, sailed over to offer help to the police trying to find and retrieve the body before it drifted down towards the dam. I knew exactly where he had entered the water, and am a good diver, but they were more angered than interested at my silly idea of applying the right tools and knowledge to the challenge.
gregnw44 wrote:
But we're not comparing kiting to skiing or motorcycles. We're comparing it to windsurfing.
We could, in a limited and subjective way. Utah had thousands of motorcycle racers running about 75 desert, MX, and oval track races each year for the decade I lived there. The desert races were hundreds of racers covering 100-150 miles per race in incredible virgin terrain at speeds up to 100 mph. No one was killed or crippled. ONE man got killed several years later.
and he wrote:
totally agree with mat-ty's points about being smart, getting good training, practicing a lot, only go in the right conditions, etc. And then, you're going to be fine.
Many of the maimed and dead kiters were experts and/or careful ones. Telephone poles, buildings, jetties, etc. are very unforgiving of human errors made while harnessed to that much power.
Besides, who wants to limit is fun to the "right conditions"?
Oh, yes ... old farts like myself who takes months to heal.
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Joined: 10 Feb 2012
Posts: 1120
Posted: Sun May 05, 2013 5:58 pm
Post subject:
gregnw44 wrote:
But for clarification, you can't kite in less wind than you can windsurf in!!!
Technically you may be correct but who wants to sail in 5 MPH wind?
One thing I have noticed is often when the wind dies off for windsurfing if I look up in the trees there is still wind up where the kites are.
There are kites up to 21M for ultra light winds.
Do you think you could windsurf in these conditions?
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Joined: 10 Oct 2010
Posts: 1069
Location: Montréal
Posted: Sun May 05, 2013 6:16 pm
Post subject:
i had seen that one before and is one of my favourite kite videos
however, that 15 m kite seems to skim over the water dangerously close to dropping a number of times
this is my favourite kite race video:
glad this post is losing its morbidity and showing a positive approach to kiting
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Joined: 12 Dec 1999
Posts: 18939
Posted: Sun May 05, 2013 6:18 pm
Post subject:
Very few of the kiters indigenous to my usual haunts bother to launch until it's blowing in the mid to upper teens ... and some of them absolutely
when big expert WSers are hammered on 3.0s.
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Joined: 08 Nov 1993
Posts: 9364
Posted: Sun May 05, 2013 6:36 pm
Post subject:
I get the feeling that there's something going on in the video which isn't evident in the visuals. Maybe it's due to the shallowness of the water, the direction of the wind or a combination of both.
On at least one occasion here in Santa Barbara, a large aircraft carrier was anchored a distance offshore. It was downwind, so that wasn't an issue, but the longshore current was bringing in a slick of sorts upwind to our location. In the slick areas, the water was like glass, and the wind was virtually invisible on it. I was very powered up on an 8.1.
I once had a very similar experience under the Golden Gate Bridge on a flood tide. In a fairly good sized area spanning the middle section of the bridge, the water was as flat as a board and extra smooth. Smaller board and a 5.2, and I was lit.
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Joined: 23 Jul 2008
Posts: 767
Location: Seattle, Wa
Posted: Mon May 06, 2013 4:36 pm
Post subject:
beaglebuddy wrote:
gregnw44 wrote:
But for clarification, you can't kite in less wind than you can windsurf in!!!
Technically you may be correct but who wants to sail in 5 MPH wind?
One thing I have noticed is often when the wind dies off for windsurfing if I look up in the trees there is still wind up where the kites are.
There are kites up to 21M for ultra light winds.
Do you think you could windsurf in these conditions?
"... but who wants to sail in 5 mph wind?"
* When windsurfing was the most popular (which was between the years of '75 to '95) around the world... 100's of thousands of people, mostly windsurfed in those light winds.
* I do, quite often.
* I got an email this morning from a guy who lives near me... he's very busy, having very little free time... but still wants to get out and windsurf. He thanked me for pointing him towards a good longboard. He had a great time yesterday, in beautiful and warm weather in Seattle in the typical light winds.
* On the other hand... Many around the world do NOT want to sail in light winds, and that's totally fine. I get it, I also like to plane fast across the water. But if you don't live in a WINDY spot (most of the world) yet you still want to windsurf close to home, if you have a brief break from a busy family and work life... then you're going to sail in light winds. Or don't, that's totally cool. But we shouldn't show any disdain or lack of respect, etc. to those that enjoy sailing light winds.
PS - BTW b-buddy I'm not at all suggesting that your post was disrespectful, cause it wasn't. It's just that we should all be tolerant and helpful to any windsurfer, no matter what style or type they like to do (or have time to do).
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Joined: 23 Jul 2008
Posts: 767
Location: Seattle, Wa
Posted: Mon May 06, 2013 5:47 pm
Post subject:
Thanks B-buddy that's a very cool video. Great editing and sweet photography !!!
And I agree with swchandler -
"I get the feeling that there's something going on in the video which isn't evident in the visuals. Maybe it's due to the shallowness of the water, the direction of the wind or a combination of both."
Yeah, I also don't know why there are scenes with mirror water, also could be a wall just upwind of him. Therefore water on this side is flat calm, but his kite still gets the light wind up high. Anyway, I'm with swchandler, something very unusual and cool here
At 17 sec to 24 sec you see weeds on the ground blowing... there IS some wind... even on the ground.
At 38 sec. he's walking into the water with an off-shore wind. And there are ripples right at the beach. But a ways out it's glass. Something is going on there, a break-water of some sort. Or a current there perfectly matching the wind direction.
At 1:12 that board is "barely" planning, if he drops speed 1 mph he's IN the water.
At 4:30 - 4:40 he is just about dropping off a plane.
At 4:42 you see the true ripples.
At 4:47 you still see the weeds blowing.
Anyway, an awesome video. And like his title says, "Mirrors, a flat water dream". He made this specially to show himself kiting in no wind... an illusion, a dream. Beautiful, dreamy, mirror-like water. But he knows there's some wind. He's just gone somewhere, that gives the illusion there's no wind. And edited in those parts.
He's also a smaller guy, look at him and his Subaru Impreza... he's about 5'7" and 165 lbs.... possibly less... anyway, he's not a heavyweight.
Still, it's VERY impressive to me. He's a smaller guy riding some very big h-tech kite gear, in light winds, and planning (at least in the scenes that he left in).
Could I windsurf in that, absolutely. And if I was 165# with my 1991 Aerotech 11.0 sail and using a new Starboard Serenity, I'd be going pretty good. ALTHOUGH, NOT AS FAST AS THIS GUY. No question about it, that's very impressive.
But I'd like to see him do that, out in the middle of a bay or big lake. Never. He'll do it there, cause it's a shallow little pond... if the wind drops from 5 to 2, he'll just walk back.
But I've sailed longboards lots of time in 5... when it later dropped to 2... and I just sailed back. Or if I'm in a hurry, I can pump my way back, a bit faster.
Anyway, this light weight guy planning (barely) with HUGE kite gear in light winds is going faster than a windsurfer would, like I said, thanks for sharing... it's very impressive.
The only unfortunate part is, guys will see vids like this (or kinda similar windsurfing vids). And they'll go buy new expensive hi-tech gear, thinking they can sail it in almost nothing. And then get going away from their beach with a slight gust... only to get out 1/4 mile, and drop in the water... and have to swim back or get rescued.
I was sailing a Starboard Phantom raceboard with an 8.5 race in Baja last Nov in moderate wind. I was the only one out and was only planning some of the time, going pretty good the rest the time, but not planning.
Some kiters on the beach had been watching me. Finally one launched and we sailed around just a bit, we were going about the same, he couldn't do any jumps. But shortly, the wind dropped, barely, I hardly noticed it. But his kite hit dropped to the water. He tried a long time to get it going... but was drifting farther away, finally a boat came out and got him.
It's all physics... there aren't too many short-cuts... except in your dreams
Greg -
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Joined: 07 Jul 2007
Posts: 5683
Posted: Mon May 06, 2013 9:18 pm
Post subject:
Here is another great video of light wind kiting/suping. The nice thing about this concept of super light wind kiting is if you get skunked and the kite drops you can pack up the kite and hand paddle home on your sup board.
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Joined: 02 Jul 2012
Posts: 426
Location: Cabrillo Inside
Posted: Mon May 06, 2013 9:38 pm
Post subject:
mat-ty wrote:
Here is another great video of light wind kiting/suping. The nice thing about this concept of super light wind kiting is if you get skunked and the kite drops you can pack up the kite and hand paddle home on your sup board.
That actually looks pretty cool!
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Joined: 18 Mar 2004
Posts: 44
Posted: Tue May 07, 2013 1:09 am
Post subject: where can we find the source information on this topic?
I was trying to find the answer to this question in this thread, and saw a link to danews, which has a link back to the SFBA safety bulletin, which seems to suggest that the CoastGuard said in their bulletin "MSIB 13-03" that Seventeen (17) people died in kiteboarding incidents in the United States in 2012. But when I read MSIB 13-03 I could not find this statistic. I would like to know where is these alarming statistics come from and where can we find the source information on this topic.
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Technical Problem With This Chapter?
Author: Majick
Story: The Knights of Walpurgis
Part: Prolouge
Rating: Young Teens
Status: Completed
Reviews: 20
Words: 4,270
Updated: December 17, 2004, 7:00am
The Knights Of Walpurgis
(Author'sNote: Firstly, it's pretty much all J.K. Rowling's. I'm just playinghere for a time. Secondly, thanks to MissK and Pooca for their betawork. Finally, a warning: This is not your typical adventure/romancefic, at least not a typical one for this website. If you can't standseeing Harry, Ginny, Ron and Hermione with other people, you might notwant to carry on. They'll get it right eventually - well, probably -but they're teenagers, so there might be a few detours along the way.Still with me? Then on with the show!)
28th June
Harry mate,
Hopeyou're alright. It was great to see Professor Lupin, Tonks and theothers at Kings Cross, wasn't it? I thought your fat uncle wouldexplode when Mad Eye Moody 'had a word' with him.
Listen,Harry, I know you tend to keep quiet about stuff, but you shouldn't.Not with me or Hermione, anyway. If you want to talk, about Sirius oranything, you know where to find us.
Whatd'you reckon the chances are we'll get called up to help Dumbledoresometime this summer? I hope so. It's miserable here. Mum's stillreally upset about Percy. He still hasn't come home. I know us Weasleysare stubborn, but he was supposed to be the sensible one.
SupposeI'd better get going. Bill's bringing Fleur Delacour and her sisterGabrielle home tonight. Mum's a bit weird about Fleur. She's yearsyounger than Bill. Still, it'll be cool to see them all again. Me andGabrielle can talk about old times, waiting for you to save our lives.Seems like a long time since that happened. Still Mum'll be putty inFleur's hands once she sees Gabrielle. She's always wanted grandkids,and this'll be the next best thing.
Evenif we don't get involved with the other stuff, d'you want to come andvisit later in the summer? I don't reckon Dumbledore would let you comesoon, but I'll get Mum and Dad to ask when you can come. Hope it'ssoon. It's pretty boring here.
Speak to you soon,
2nd July
Have you heard anything from Harry since term ended? I'm worried about him.
I spoke to Mum and Dad. They say Harry needs time to get over Sirius. I hate him having to be alone.
He hasn't written yet. I sent a letter a week ago... I'm probably just being stupid, right?
Hope you're okay,
3rd July
Harry, how are you doing?
Listenmate, I was wondering if you had any instructions for us over thesummer? I know that I was a latecomer to the DA and all, but I want tokeep in training. Tell the truth, I'm probably safer than most livingout here, but me dad's a Muggle, and I don't want anything happening tohim. If I have to fight, I will. Mam's a bit unsure still, but it won'thurt for her to get in practise, right?
Anyway,drop us a line if you can give us any help. I reckon I'll dig outProfessor Lupin's old notes, and that nutter Moody's too.
Hope you're having a good summer,
4th July
How are you? I'm sure Harry is okay. He's very, well, Harryabout things like this. He'll talk when he wants to, and not before.Still, I'm glad you've written to him. I did wonder if I should write,but I wasn't sure.
I maywrite later in the week. Will you let me know if you hear anything? I'mstaying with my gran at the moment. She doesn't know I'm a witch, so Ihad to run out into the garden when I saw Pigwidgeon. Still, he's aclever little owl, isn't he? He knew not to come into a Muggle house.
Myparents have gone away for a second honeymoon. I don't know why theyhad to go now. They have all year when I'm away at school, and now assoon as I come home, they go away. Nice, isn't it? Still, I haven'tseen gran since the summer after first year. Mum and Dad haven'tmentioned where I go to school, so she doesn't know about magic.They've left it up to me who I want to tell. What do you think I shoulddo?
How's everyone else? Is Ginny okay after breaking up with Michael Corner?
Please write soon,
5th July
It'sthe same here as at Christmas. Mum's still upset with Percy, and Dad'sfurious, even if he doesn't show it. I know they're trying to makethings alright for me and Ginny. Fred and George are helping out a lot.They've officially opened their shopnow - we went for the opening on the first but of course they've beenselling stuff for ages - and they're still at home at the moment.George says they want to see how it all goes before they decide if theymove out or not. Mum isn't happy, though. She doesn't want them to goat all.
Still, Bill andCharlie are happy enough. Bill brought Fleur and Gabrielle home a fewnights ago - remember her? Fleur's little sister. She's starting atBeauxbatons next year - and Mum really seemed happy. Charlie's stillout in Romania, but he's talking about coming home soon. I think he'sworried about Mum, and he wants to have a word with Percy, I imagine.Typical older brother stuff.
Ginny's okay.Trust me on this. She spends most of the time down in the village. Ithink she's found herself another boyfriend. Keeps going on about allthese new friends she's made and, well, there's always Luna Lovegood.That girl is seriously weird. And she lives close enough thatshe's always dropping in. She keeps looking at me like she's measuringme up. It's a bit off putting, to tell the truth.
Anyway,that's all the news from the Burrow. Have you told your gran aboutmagic yet? Maybe I can come and visit and we can do some spells forher. I bet Dad could swing it with work.
Still no word from Harry. Write soon, yeah?
7th July
I'msure there's more going on then that. I'm sending a letter to Ginny aswell. If she has a new boyfriend, I want to know all about it. And no,you're not allowed to read what I've written. Honestly, Ron, you know you're as big a gossip as Parvati and Lavender.
Now,I've not told Gran anything about magic. I would like to see you,though. I'm not very far from the Burrow here so maybe you can come andvisit? You could stay for a couple of days. It'd be fun to show youaround the Muggle world a bit, for a change.
Itake it that there's still no word from Harry? It's been nearly twoweeks now and he's usually very good about replying to letters. I dohope he's okay. I think I'll write as well. Maybe the Dursleys haveblocked his post? I can't see how they would have done, though, afterMoody scared them at Kings Cross.
Anyway,I'd better go. I have to get up early tomorrow. Gran wants me to helpout at the old folks' home. She keeps calling them layabouts, but Isuppose when you're eighty-seven and walk five miles a day to keep fit,anyone who's in a home might seem to be a bit lazy.
Well, good to hear from you. Don't pick on Ginny, boyfriend or not.
Write soon,
7th July
Doyou have a new boyfriend? Ron says you've been spending a lot of timein the village, and he thinks you've met someone new. Now, I know aswell as anyone how much you can trust Ron about things like this, butstill, he has to wake up at some point, right?
Anyway,what else is happening at the Burrow? Ron says there's nothing muchgoing on, but you know what he's like. It's not that I mind having towrite to both of you, but I half-wish that Harry or someone was thereto give me a full, unbiased report on everything.
Speakingof Harry, have you heard from him? I know you're not very close, but hehasn't written to Ron or me yet. I hope he's not bottling it all up,but I don't suppose he can talk to that dreadful family of his.
Please write back soon. I want to hear everything!
7th July
Ihave just got back from a whole day helping my Gran at the old folks'home. Can you believe my parents have abandoned me? Charming, isn't it?
Isuppose I'm being silly complaining about it, but I did want to seethem for more than a day before they disappeared off to Florida for amonth. Still, it's nice seeing Gran again, even if I do have to pretendto be a Muggle while I'm here.
Ihope you're okay. I'm sorry that I haven't written sooner, but as soonas I got home, mum and dad whisked me off to gran's, and of course Idon't have an owl of my own, so I've had to send Pig off with threeletters, not that the little thing seems to mind.
Anyway,are the Dursleys treating you properly? Don't hesitate to write toDumbledore, or Remus or even Moody if they're being, well, themselves.And you can write to Ron or me if you want to talk about anything, evenwhat happened at the Ministry, I hope you know that.
Please write back soon.
9th July
Comingto see you sounds cool. Anything to get out of here for a bit, althoughI suppose once I get back, I'll have Dad on at me about all the Mugglestuff.
I don't reckon thatthose ruddy Muggles Harry lives with have done anything to his post -they wouldn't dare, you're right - but Ginny reckons he's justadjusting, whatever that means.
And yeah, 'course I know what it means, but I'm not sure I know what it means.I know Harry has to come to terms with Sirius being gone and stuff, butthe way Ginny says it makes it sound really complicated and stuff, likethere's more to it than I know.
Anyway,this is making no sense. I've got another letter to write, anyway.Write back soon, and maybe I'll be able to reply with something thatsounds a bit less like Loony Lovegood.
10th July
Ionly just got your letter. Ron shoved it behind the bread bin. I thinkhe thought it was a love letter or something. Some hope!
No,there's no new boyfriend. Ron says he mentioned my friends in thevillage, but he's being silly. I see Luna and Colin sometimes, but theMuggles who live around here think that we're a weird family.
Anyway,who cares about boys? Well, I know you do. One boy, anyway. As for himwaking up at some point, well, I told you two years ago that youshouldn't hold your breath. I still think that you're ill if you wantto date Ron, but I'm not really someone to give relationship advice.
Ronsaid you invited him to see you at your gran's? I think you have tobite the bullet, Hermione. You've spent a year and a half being subtle.Stop it now. Ron doesn't do subtle. He never has, and probably neverwill. Besides, he's a boy. He thinks subtle is not burping out loud.
AndI haven't heard from Harry. Why would I? I know you want him to open upmore, but when he does, it's not going to be to me. Not now, anyway. Iwouldn't be surprised if you don't hear from him at all these holidays.It didn't take a genius to see how close he was to Sirius. It was likehaving his Dad around, and we all know how much he wanted that. Nowhe's had that taken away from him again, only this time he's old enoughto have felt how close Sirius and he were.
Andyes, I've been doing a lot of reading these last few weeks. I thinkI've pretty much read everything in the local library now, even thetrashy romances and clinical psychology books. I'm going to be goingaround Hogwarts applying labels to everyone I see. I'm just not sure ifthey'll be 'Long-legged, firm-thighed, hard-chested vagabond' or'Commitment phobic who uses his looks to engage in meaningless shortterm relationships and leaves his partners broken hearted.' I won'teven mention the labels that Ron's 'protective older brother' act isearning him. I know he tried to be nice at the end of last term, but ithasn't lasted.
Anyway, canyou tell how bored I am? Like I said, I've read all the books in atwo-mile radius, and, well, home isn't much fun to be in right now.Charlie's coming home soon, though, and Bill's around a lot more. Ithink that's helping Mum keep going, but Percy's not ready to admit hewas wrong yet, even with Fudge owning up. I can't understand him. Iprobably don't want to.
Well,Luna's just arrived. She says hello. I think she quite likes Ron too,so you might have competition. I don't get it. Isn't one wonderfulWeasley (Me!) in your life enough? Don't do it to yourself, Hermione. I can recommend you a quite nice Ravenclaw sixth-year, if you like.
10th July
Hi Ginny, it's Dean here.
Justout of interest, have you been saying something to your brothers aboutme? I just received a nasty letter from them threatening me with allsorts of stuff if I take advantage of you.
It's news to me that I'm in a position to take advantage of you. When exactly is this supposed to have taken place?
Anyway,write back to me and let me know what's going on, will you? It getspretty boring here with nothing much to do during school holidays, andSeamus and Neville are both away at the moment.
Hope to hear from you soon,
11th July
Ijust got a very strange letter from Dean Thomas, asking me if I'd toldRon that we were going out. Apparently Ron said something to Dean that,well, I think you can probably guess what Ron said. It seems thatwithout you around, Ron's reverted to his typical idiot role again.
Anyidea what I should say to Dean? It's a bit embarrassing to admit I usedhim to get a rise out of Ron. I do think he's quite cute - Dean, notRon, obviously - and suppose I could flatter his ego a bit. Boys seemto like that.
Apart from that, nothing's changed since my last letter, obviously.
Speak to you soon,
11th July
Ginny says you didn't give her my letter. Why on earth not?
Anyway,you're welcome to come and see me anytime. Just let me know when. I'mstaying in Greenchurch at number 43, Winslowe Terrace.
Speak to you soon, and I hope you and Ginny aren't arguing.
See you soon,
11th July
Ifyou think Dean's cute then there's no reason why you shouldn't see ifhe'd be interested in really going out with you. Did he seem verybothered by Ron's letter? He is rather attractive, isn't he?
I asked Ron why he didn't give you your last letter. Hope he passes you this one.
Maybe you can come and visit me here in Greenchurch sometime this holiday as well?
See you soon,
12th July
Iwas just about to write to Dean when I got your letter. I forgot totell you! Ron didn't hide my letter, he left it out for me on thetable, and Mum stuck it behind the bread bin when she was cleaning. Ihope you didn't say anything too bad to Ron. It turns out that hedidn't send Dean that letter, either. Apparently Fred and George havedecided to start approving my boyfriends by trying to scare them. Ron actually helped me get a bit of revenge on the pair of... Well, you can imaginewhat I think of them, right? At least they're just doing it for fun.They don't seem to mind me dating, or maybe they're too scared to sayanything about it to me.
Still,Ron seems to be a lot calmer this summer: It's really weird. I supposeI was exaggerating a bit in my first letter. In fact, he's barely saidanything about Dean, and when I mentioned it to him, he just said itwasn't any of his business who I went out with, and he trusted me topick someone better than Corner. I know that he talked to Bill quite alot while Bill was staying here the first week of the holidays, but Ididn't think that so much would rub off on him. It's a little bitunnerving, to be honest.
Anyway,like I said, I'm about to write to Dean. I think I'll sound him outabout going out once we get back to school. I mean, you're right, he'sdefinitely easy on the eyes, and he's really funny, as well. We talkedquite a bit during the DA classes last year, so...
Right, enough. He's only a boy, and not worth getting too worked up about, right, Miss Prefect?
Speak to you soon,
12th July
Hi Hermione,
Yeah,if it's okay, I'll come along on the 15th at about 10 in the morning?Fred said he'd drop me off - he's got a flying motorbike like the oneSirius used to have.
(And no, no word about Harry yet.It's been nearly three weeks now. Fred and George reckon they'll go seehim if we haven't heard anything by the end of the week. I dunno, Imean, Dumbledore would tell us if there was anything wrong, right?Still, I suspect that Harry would enjoy seeing a friendly face, 'thoughI imagine Tonks and Professor Lupin and plenty of others are keeping aneye on him close enough. Mum says that she's heard he's okay, too, so Iguess that someone's checking on him, but it's a bit much how we're notbeing told what's going on with our best mate.)
Anyway,I didn't hide Ginny's letter. I don't know if she told you or not, butMum shoved it away when she was cleaning. I can't control who Ginnydates, I guess I just have to trust her to pick decent sorts.
Besides,any idiot who tries anything with her doesn't know what he's lettinghimself in for. And when Ginny finishes with him, then the rest of uswill have a go at what's left. Least, that's what Bill reckons, andit's certainly cut down on the arguments this summer. I knew thatCorner bloke was no good, but would she listen to me?
Anyway, let's not get into that now.
See you on the fifteenth,
12th July
Hi Dean
Sorryabout my brothers. They didn't think my last boyfriend was up to verymuch and if they think someone's taken an interest in me... Ugh. Sorry.
Anyway,yes, I did say we'd started going out. I just said it to shut Ron up -I think he was trying to fix me up with Harry, can you believe him? -and I thought that if I said I'd started seeing someone else, he'dleave me alone. It didn't occur to me that word would get to the restof my family and that they'd take it seriously.
Can I buy you a Butterbeer when we get back to school to apologise?
13th July
Hi Ron,
No,I've not heard from Harry, either. Have you asked your mum and dad ifthey've heard anything? I suppose they would tell you immediately, butstill...
Ginny did tell meabout the letter, and I'm sorry if I sounded like I was accusing you ofmeddling. I'm glad you've decided not to get in the way of her and anyboy she might like, and I imagine that the reputation yourself and yourbrothers have will be enough to keep away anyone who'd hurt Ginnydeliberately.
Anyway, I'mlooking forward to seeing you, and yes, the fifteenth will be fine.Fred's bike sounds very interesting: They must be earning an awful lotat the new shop to be able to afford things like that already.
See you on Monday,
P.S. Tell Ginny 'Good luck!'
14th July
Hi Ginny,
Sounds good. Maybe I can buy you a Butterbeer as well to say no hard feelings?
So, do I have to worry about your brothers, or have you convinced them it was all a joke?
Speak to you soon,
14th July
Thanks for the Good Luck wish. I'm meeting Dean for a Butterbeer or two once we go back. See how easy it is?
I'dlove to come and meet up with you, although maybe after tomorrow youand my brother will be busy... Ugh. No, don't tell me. I just had thishorrible mental image of you two... Ugh.
Anyway, Ron wants to add a bit to this so I'd better keep it short.
See you soon,
Aren'tI good? I didn't turn over the parchment to see what Ginny wrote,despite the big grin she's been sporting since she got another letterearlier on today. Any ideas? Or is that me being as big a gossip asParvati and Lavender again?
Fredbought his bike second-hand off an old wizard whose wife won't let himride it anymore. Sounds like Mum and Dad in a way. Speaking of them, Ihave asked if they'd heard anything about Harry, but they say theycan't tell me anything other than that he's okay, so... it's hard to beresponsible and stuff when he's probably feeling horrible and, knowingHarry, just making himself feel worse, but what can we do?
Anyway, see you tomorrow,
Itwas a quiet Monday evening at the Burrow. Arthur Weasley was stayinglate at work while George and Fred had Disapparated after dinner tovisit a friend. Ron was visiting Hermione for a few days and Ginny waswriting to a school friend.
Molly Weasley felt that it was about the right time for her to put her feet up for a few minutes, read the latest issue of Witch Weekly, and have a cup of tea.
She had just finished the lead article - You Know Who: What The Ministry Isn't Telling Us -and lamenting the loss of the more frothy stories from the publicationwhen the sound of a throat being cleared in the fireplace nearly madeher spill her tea over herself.
"Minerva!" she gasped in surprise.
"Sorryto bother you, Molly," Minerva McGonagall said. The flames in thefireplace painted a fiery picture of someone who wasn't getting enough- or possibly any - sleep, and Molly looked at her in concern.
"Minerva, you don't look well, are you -"
"Later, Molly," McGonagall said sharply. "Are there many of your family at home?"
Molly blinked. "Well, Ginny and I are here. Everyone else is out."
McGonagall sighed. "Ron? Hermione?"
"Ron's visiting Hermione at her grandmother's. Minerva, what's wrong?"
"You'll have to send them an owl. We'll sort everything else out once you get here."
"Get there? You mean Headquarters?"
McGonagall nodded.
"But we're not supposed to go there, I thought, in case, well..."
McGonagallfrowned. "Circumstances have changed," she said, bitterly. "I havereceived a message from Albus asking me to be here at Headquarters.Given the circumstances, I think as many of you as possible should comehere as well."
Ginnywas midway through a letter to Dean, frowning as she paused and chewedon her bottom lip. She tapped the feather end of her quill against herknee as she reread the letter up to that point.
15th July
Dear Dean,
Ithink you'll be fairly safe from my brothers at Hogwarts, especially asRon's the only one of them around. Still, if you see a horde ofredheads descending on you, you might want to run... just to be on thesafe side.
There's no need tobuy me a drink as well, but it's very nice, so I won't say no. Isuppose it's a bit early to be planning exactly when we'll go,especially as we don't know the dates of the Hogsmeade weekend. Still,it's a bit boring around here today, so forgive me if I ramble a bit.Everyone's gone off, even Ron. He's gone to visit Hermione, which wouldbe good if it meant they were finally going to get together - I take ityou lot have noticed the way those two act around each other?
Shedipped the end of her quill into the inkpot and squinted out from theshade of the tree she was sitting under, waiting for inspiration tostrike. In her limited experience, early conversations with boys werehardly models of scintillating wit, and she wanted to open up as muchas possible to talk about, without overwhelming Dean with a huge rollof parchment. That, she thought, would make her seem too eager.
AndI don't want that. Dean's nice, but lots of boys are nice. Let's see ifthere's more to him than a cute smile and funny jokes before I get myhopes up.
"Ginny? Ginny? Are you here, dear?"
Ginnycraned around the trunk of the tree, looking back down the path towardsthe Burrow. She waved to Mrs. Weasley, who started up the path. As shegrew nearer, Ginny noticed the worried expression on her face, andstood up to greet her.
"Mum? What's wrong?"
"Ginny, dear, I'm sorry, but you have to get some of your things together."
"What? Why? Are we -"
Molly cut her daughter short. "We're not in any danger, dear. We have to go to Headquarters, that's all."
"Headquarters?But, Mum, I thought we weren't going there in case Harry wanted toleave the Dursleys? Professor Dumbledore didn't want him having to goto Sirius' house."
"Circumstances have changed, dear. Now come on, we have to get packed."
Molly began to hurry back down the path, and Ginny scrambled for her things before charging after her.
"Circumstances have changed? What does that mean? What circumstances?"
Molly stopped suddenly, her slippers sending up a cloud of dust.
"Circumstanceshave changed, dear, because Harry has threatened to curse MundungusFletcher unless he takes him to headquarters as soon as possible."
Ginny rocked back on her heels, and Molly smiled a grim smile.
"Now, shall we get a move on? We'll need to send an owl to Ron and Hermione before we leave..."
She bustled off and after a short pause Ginny dashed after her.
To be continued...
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