Burning Thoughts

At the end of Memory Lost, Truman decided to follow his news hound instincts no matter the consequences. Will Shana continue to favor Alejandro over Truman? Is Professor Machter’s work connected to the dangers in the university suburb?

As the eV glided smoothly down Carriage Way in old town, Truman’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. It struck him as a strange twist—his inquiries into the academic story had pulled him away from the unresolved robbery-murder investigation. Yet Machter’s connection to the first murder victim nagged at him. Could he possibly weave Felix’s wife’s death into Professor Machter’s larger narrative? The thought tantalized him.

Maybe, maybe not. But for now, Ambrosia Dreams was only a few blocks away. The idea of a refreshing hallucinogenic cola and the chance to remind Shana and Alejandro that he was Metro Eye’s top newshound was irresistible. As he approached the bar, fusion flashes of brilliant intensity shielded the Dreams patrons from prying eyes, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the dimly lit interior. The door retracted, recognizing him as a regular. Inside, the warm, familiar hum of chatter welcomed him.

The Dreams AI emcee’s voice boomed out to the crowded tables of trivia enthusiasts, “If a Martian resident was forced to return to Earth of the 1990s, where should she pick to land?”

Shana’s forehead wrinkled in thought. Alejandro must be the slim, dark-haired younger man at her bistro table. The man’s eyes narrowed, then shot wide open. He jumped to his feet, excitement crackling around him. “I’ve got it. She would return to the Biosphere in Arizona.”

The AI pointed towards them. “The winning table.”

Shana kissed Ali, then pulled away when Truman approached their table. “Truman, you finally get to meet our new employee and champion Fusion Trivia master, Alejandro Vargas.”

The co-champion reached out and took Truman’s hand with a firm grip. “I appreciate the notes you sent me, Truman. At first, the encryption stumped me, then I thought to ask Servitor to decode them. Some solid facts. Buenos gracias. I don’t have to start with a blank slate. Call me Ali. All my friends do.”

Truman fumbled a reply. “You’re welcome.” He expected to hate the newcomer, but the guy was likable, radiating a genuine warmth.

Shana scooted her chair closer to Ali, and then said to Truman, “I thought you’d forsaken this place. Haven’t seen you here for a week. Must be some kind of record.”

Truman fought against a rising anger about her taking his day show and pretending as if nothing was wrong. Before he could compose a civil response, Ali defused the tension with an easy smile. “Brianna, over at the police station, asked me what your Sunday teaser about the Martian Mosquito meant? She wasn’t the only one who asked. You have people wondering. That’s a great start.”

Truman smiled diffidently, swallowing his emotions, and went with the conversation flow. “Professor Machter’s assistant helped me get the bigger picture. She claims he created the field of autonomous robots.”

In the quiet after the trivia game, Shana sipped her Cyber Sangria. It featured infused fruits and a touch of synth-emotions to evoke feelings of nostalgia and inspiration. “I’m glad you fund a hook that works. Liesl Richter is not really his assistant. She’s the head of Heidelberg Press on a leave of absence. She relieved him of administrative matters while he was here. Couldn’t you tell by her mousy demeanor?”

Without missing a beat, Shana continued, “Going forward, I expect to see you at my editorial meetings, Monday morning and Thursday afternoon. Office attendance is not mandatory, but I want you available online, at least that often. Servitor will send you the detailed agenda. ”

“Ja wohl, mein capitain.”

Shana smiled at Ali. “See the mashed thoughts I get out of him. It’s a wonder we ever get anything accomplished.”

Ali looked around then stood. “The Aurora Elixir has caught up to me. If the table will excuse me …” he allowed his voice to trail off as he departed toward the restroom.

“I’m glad you’ve finally met Ali,” Shana said. “Isn’t he delightful?”

Although he liked him, Truman refused to admit it. “Meeting my replacement. A delight akin to mincemeat pie. Does this mean I don’t have to go to a stuffy memorial about the fossilized geezer?”

Shana eyes glinted with amusement. “No, you still need to demonstrate that you can deliver a well-reasoned and well-balanced piece before I can consider letting you resume your prime slot. Don’t think of Ali as replacing you. He’s actually doing you and the station a favor. He’ll comfort the audience, but he may not give them a reason to tune in again and again. By the time you return, if you return, they may be happy to learn new facts despite your tart manner.”

Truman threw his hand up between them. “What do you mean? I mean I understand your words, but why did you hire Ali then?”

She shook her head, her expression turning serious. “That’s actually the cover story. I didn’t hire him. He recently inherited the Argentine Andes tourist channel. He’s here to see if our operations might benefit by working together.”

Perplexed, Truman asked, “You mean merge?” After a second, he added, “And why put him in my slot?”

“Not merge now. We’ll have to see. We’re discussing story swapping. We’d get South America insights and offbeat stories from him and he’d get the US slant from our productions.” She dipped her head in a manner that Truman found infuriatingly appealing. “Your work has slipped from when I hired you. On air, you assure facts that you can’t always back up. I’ve gotten complaints.”

“From the audience?”

“Some,” she said, “and others from the government media oversight.”

Truman blew out a puff of air. “Oh, those pencil pushers and it doesn’t make sense they’d seek out Metro Eye. I love it, But NYC Eye has sources we can’t touch. Why us?”

“Because we aren’t under such strict censorship as NYC and other large channels. Ali wants us to publish things the big streamers won’t touch.” She saw Ali returning. “This is hush-hush. Not a word.”

Later at home, Truman roughly played with his prized possession, pushing a tiny bronze minotaur through a two-foot wide labyrinth, his favorite game of lonely evenings in high school days. Frustration churned in his stomach. Damn, Shana had half-fired him and now he had learned that she only half-meant it. Betrayal, mixed with confusion, bubbled inside him, threatening to overflow.

His eyes wandered to Shana’s miniature hologram in the center of the labyrinth. Her luxurious blonde hair and real body wouldn’t be in his pad as long as that Ali was in town. He thought Shana and he were in a relationship, or at least something close to it.

Truman paced around his pad, trying to channel his anger into something productive. If he could create a solid appreciation piece, maybe some beautiful young listener would fall into his lap, filling the void Shana left behind. The thought was both hopeful and hollow, like grasping at straws in a storm.

He sat down at his desk, staring at the blank screen. Machter’s piece needed an extra something. Perhaps how the great man helped his injured colleague. Yes, the he could mention the connection to the Patapsco murders. A shiver ran down his spine. The controversy could give his article the edge it needed, but it was a dangerous path to tread. Both Shana and Liesl Richter might object.

 

The following week and a half passed like molasses flowing on a winter like when he was a kid. Truman found himself entrenched in Shana’s meetings, absorbing more about Metro Eye’s audience subscriptions than he cared to know. Her deep understanding of what gripped readers made him reassess his approach to writing—emotions he raised in the audience over the emotions he projected onto cold, hard facts. Not abandon speculation but balance them with other possible explanations. Shana urged him to demonstrate this finesse in Machter’s appreciation, while Alejandro, ever the eager mentor, suggested emphasizing autonomous bots contributions. Truman masked his irritation with a thin smile but couldn’t help thinking, Of course, Alejandro would want that.

Work meetings offered sporadic relief, bookending the week. By the next Friday, when Truman begrudgingly returned to rate Servitor’s latest draft, he took special care to avoid Shana. A glance at the pressboard confirmed Ali was out shadowing Brianna. “Figures,” Truman muttered, the familiar pang of resentment flickering as he recalled never receiving such an invitation.

Calls from Liesl Richter filled in the quiet moments. Her precision and exhaustive preparation as they discussed the memorial should have impressed him, but their exchanges left him drained. On Friday she insisted that he brush up on “neural network self-organizing maps” before the memorial. He met that with cold silence.

Morgan, in her daily calls, kept him updated about Deirdre’s routines. She spent most days in her recliner, unmoving, until Morgan begged for her assistance with a project. Only then would Deirdre stir into action, speaking and typing with a speed nearing realistic synchronization. Truman struggled to believe the progress was real, but he flattered himself for refraining from voicing skepticism—especially since he needed her expertise to decode the significance of self-organized maps, where inputs were categorized by features rather than human-defined standards.

 During those restless days, Truman buried himself in research. He reached out to Machter’s colleagues, combed through archives, and made several trips to the university library. The sheer thought of standing among those intellectuals at the memorial filled him with unease. Their questions, their gazes—he had to be ready for all of it. Yet, no matter how heavy the weight of expectation felt, Truman steeled himself, determined not to falter.

On evenings when silence pressed too hard against him, he found himself turning to his Ambrosia Cola and the labyrinth game. Guiding the bronze minotaur through twisting corridors became a peculiar refuge, a way to quiet the chaos in his mind. Each turn of the maze seemed to echo his own struggles—uncertain paths and unseen hurdles yet always moving forward.

Finally, the day of Machter’s Memorial arrived. He felt a mixture of dread and determination as he dressed in his best suit. The early evening brought perfect fall weather.

Truman arrived at the front of the 777 Seven Glen Lane.

Liesl carried a box covered with Martian Mosquito icons out of Felix’s house. Felix followed with his cane and expressionless face.

At Lakeside Coffee and Books, people crowded outside the entrance. As the small group approached, Truman realized the crowd were not there to celebrate but to protest. The group waved placards. Many shouted, “Anti-Christ.”

Truman took a deep breath exited yet worried for Liesl about this challenge.

Carrying Liesl’s box of memorabilia from his eV, Truman said to her, “Professor Machter’s admirers will have to say something in the first hour for it to have any chance of including it in my broadcast tomorrow. Shana decree she have my clip in her inbox by 7 in the morning. I have to start recording tonight.”

Liesl took Felix Halloway’s arm to help him navigate the steps on the winding path that hugged the campus lake leading to the memorial site. To Truman she said, “You have enough about his achievements, don’t you?”

Truman winced. “I hate to say it, but his life story doesn’t have much pizazz.”

“Ach, du lieber Himmel!” Liesl reverted to her native tongue to express her frustration at Truman’s limited interest in anything but the basest emotions.

As they neared the bookstore, they saw a crowd milling outside.

“Oh, no,” Liesl murmured in dismay.

A large protester blocked their path. His neck veins pulsing with rage. The sign he held read “AI: Unholy Creation.” The man’s voice trembled with emotion. “AI bots are the devil’s children!”

Felix scowled. He leaned on Liesl, freeing to swat at the protester with his cane. “You are protesting an idea. I have a real need. I need an AI that can mend the damage criminals have done.”

The protester stepped backward but yelled, “A reckless AI ran into our eV and killed my sister.”

Felix swatted harder at the man. “You are a criminal. My wife was killed by criminals. I’ll never forgive that.”

The protesting crowd surrounded them.

Liesl removed her support of Felix, forcing him to withdraw his cane for support. She turned to Truman. “Put that memorabilia box down,” which he did.

Stepping up on it, Liesl addressed the protesters. “People. I understand your anger,” she glanced at Felix, “and his too, but you are angry at the wrong people.” She paused and looked into the faces of the protesters. “You should take your grievances to those who misuse the bots. Like all tools, they can be used for good or ill. Professor Machter, whom we are remembering tonight, created the Martian Mosquito, which some of you may remember. Its great success was going where no human could go.”

Her words quieted the mob until the first protester said, “Bots are inhuman creations of flawed humans. Only God can create life. Bots are unholy monsters, masquerading as life but replacing humans.”

Truman, who never liked bots that seemed smarter than him, nodded at the protester’s words.

But Liesl swept her arm around the gathering. “See the food truck delivering supplies to the coffee shop. The shrimp was gathered by hydrobots. The bagels are made of wheat gathered by bots, then milled and formed by bots. Bots do work you no longer need to do, nor want to do. You would starve without them.” When the crowd did not argue against her sentiments, she went on, “Let us through to honor the memory of one of the scientific founders of safe robotic technology.”

Liesl stepped off the platform. The crowd parted enough for her, Felix, and Truman, who picked up Liesl’s memorial box, to enter the coffee shop. Looking backward, a sizeable group of admirers who had been blocked by their confrontation with the protesters followed their path into the memorial.

Truman took a seat by the entrance door, cautiously selecting a site behind a pillar for protection from the protesters, just in case. He added to his notes that there were more protesters outside than memorialists inside.

“Truman Phillips, bring the box over here.” Liesl called from an hors d’oeuvre table.

Before he returned to his watching post, she asked, “What were you recording?”

“Just some notes about the protest.”

“Surely, you’re not going to include that in your broadcast,” she said.

“Surely, I am. It’s part of how Machter is seen. Audience interest.”

“Civilized people don’t see it that way.”

“The devil you say.” Truman wondered at her selective memory. “Must I remind you of the big protest in Paris at the Roboticist Convention last year?”

The German acolyte of Professor Machter shook her head. “You can’t give much credence to the opinions of people ignorant of facts. Their beliefs are founded on fear, not facts.”

He shrugged. “Your rebuttal is sharp, and I can include it, but my job is to report the newsworthy.” He pointed to a sausage and sauerkraut dish. “Will his admirers care about his particular favorite dishes?” He had learned that she felt obliged to answer every specific question, which sidetracked her from how he would cover the protesters.

“I see the renowned Ludwig Wittstein arriving. The Swiss roboticist will care. Many will care.”

Truman nodded. “I’m going back to set up recording of the memorial.” He waved his hand in an erasure motion. “I’m not committing to writing a piece on tonight, but Morgan wants it. She wishes she could be here.”

Back at his table, the journalist set things up, then basically ignored the remembrances and honors offered in Machter’s memory. When he did glance up from sketching out the script for his Sunday morning broadcast, the dull face of Felix stuck with him. Such a high contrast to the anger it held during the confrontation with the protesters.

Later that night, after dropping Felix at his home and Liesl at her hotel, Truman returned to his apartment to record his broadcast. As he prepared, he found himself pondering the striking contrast between hateful revenge and total emotional detachment—an observation that felt revealing, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint why. Felix’s tendency to conflate protesters with street criminals only added to Truman’s unease. The murders weighed heavily on his mind, prompting him to incorporate Alejandro’s take on the crimes and highlight that Professor Machter’s protégé’s wife had been the first victim, an event that marked the neighborhood’s two-year descent into fear.

The following week passed in a haze of work and critique. On Sunday, Liesl expressed discontent with his decision to foreground the protest in what was meant to be a tribute to the late professor’s achievements. Shana was more measured in her response, acknowledging Truman’s improvement in neutral tone while criticizing the tenuous link he’d drawn between the neighborhood’s low-frequency but ever-present fear of homicide. Truman defended his choices, arguing the angle would boost viewership—a rationale that ultimately placated Shana.

Despite his efforts, the audience response took him by surprise. Feedback poured in, split between accusations of being overly harsh on the protesters and too lenient on the professor. A few even challenged him to walk through old town, their words tinged with enough hostility that Truman began to take precautions. His usual strolls through Metro Eye’s urban streets now included a baseball cap to cover his auburn hair and sunglasses to obscure his striking blue eyes—a small act of shielding against the mounting animosity.

Monday night, Deirdre messaged him typing she liked his broadcast and that Morgan wanted to talk to him.

“Uncle Truman, thank you for the video clip from the bookstore memorial. I learned so much that I didn’t expect. The top roboticists were there. Did you talk to Professor Wittstein?”

He smiled. “No, I didn’t, but it was my pleasure to send you the recording. Most of the stuff I heard was repetitious. I was busy preparing my notes for my Sunday broadcast. I waited for personal anecdotes, but those eggheads talked ideas, not personalities. So, I didn’t get much out of it., but I’m very glad you did.”

Morgan tapped her compad. “Here’s something you might want to look into? Professor Machter took MRIs of the Martian Mosquito and continued to build a catalog of artificial brain operational characteristics through all his robot creations.”

Truman yawned. “Excuse me, but I haven’t slept well. I never got so many messages about a piece. Over six thousand to my work address. Many from other countries. That has never happened before.”

“Now, Uncle. That’s a sign you reached a broader audience with your balanced presentation. Congratulations. Consider my idea. If the professor build a catalog of AI brains, isn’t it likely he took images of friend’s brain after the accident. He was continually searching for how the brain worked. If he had an NfMRI of Halloway from before that would be the cherry atop the cake.”

“What’s an NfMRI?” he said.

“Sorry. A Nanometer functional Magnetic Resonance Image.”

Truman leaned forward. “Excellent idea, though I barely understand you. When I get off this call, I’m going to see what she knows about NfMRIs.”

“Okay, but before you go. Remember my project completion party is barely a week away.” She paused then added, “Ask the one you are getting close to enough to refer to as she.”

“No, Liesl’s not my type,” he said.

“Then ask her for me. She helped me with the advanced NN chip you droned me. The party’s going to be a downer if too few people come.”

Truman nodded. “Okay. I’ll ask for you.”

“Good. By the way, I ran into Shana in front of the Robotics Institute. She said she might stop by to thank Liesl for her help on the professor’s background. Got to go. Mom’s pinging me. Talk to you later. Bye.”

True to his word, he called the International Hotel across from Ambrosia Dreams next. Thankfully she was in. “Frau Richter. Liesl, you remember my niece from the STEM club?”

Assuming a yes, he continued, “She’s invited you, if you’re still in town on the twelfth, to her Completion party. Her mother will demonstrate Morgan’s vocal synthesizer at the party. Don’t worry about where it is. I can pick you up and take you home after.”

Liesl pulled back from her screen. “Slow down. Give me a chance to say something. Of course, I remember Morgan. Unless something changes, I’ll be here until the beginning of December. I’d like to see and hear what she’s created. I accept your offer of a ride. It will give me a chance to discuss an assignment you may find interesting. Is that all?”

Truman decided to dive straight in. “I look forward to that, but there is another matter. It’s about Felix Holloway.”

She sighed. “I’ve been getting nasty messages ever since you mentioned his name in the broadcast. Somehow, they found my vid-address.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. They bombarding me too, but this is somewhat different.” Truman paused, then charged in. “Morgan noticed in the memorial that mention was made of the professor cataloging the MRI characteristics of his AI brains. She and I are thinking maybe he did the same with Felix. Do you know anything about his catalog?”

Liesl’s brows knitted. “No, I’ve not investigated his detailed scientific work. I focused on the official reports and their implications, but I do have access to all of his work. Tomorrow I’m hosting a goodbye lunch with a group of roboticists who are returning home. I could do it on Thursday. Would you like to join me at his laboratory office?”

Truman paced barely concealing his impatience during Shana’s Thursday editorial conference. The Zoom conference droned on. He was anxious to meet Liesl at Professor Machter’s office, but skipping the mandatory editorial meeting wasn’t an option. When Shana revealed to the staff that Alejandro represented an important Argentinian news organization, which sought a foothold in North America, Truman’s ears perked up. She confirmed that Sunday’s piece on Professor Machter’s life work had been picked up by them and thereafter by other ex-USA markets, cementing the worth of exchange between the organizations.

The moment the meeting ended; Truman made a beeline for his pad’s door. He dashed out of his apartment, a cozy nook crammed amidst upscale businesses that catered to the university crowd. As he trudged up Main Street invisible, he hoped, in his hat and sunglasses, still pursuing his relentless, walk-the-neighborhood journalism, Truman observed the relentless march of gentrification shrinking Patapsco’s old center. Passing Carriage Way, he noted a group of rootless youths, left behind by the neighborhood’s transformation, loitering ominously in front of a shabby storefront. Truman quickened his pace, skirting past them and the eV charging station where Felix and his wife had been brutally attacked.

At the campus’s Robotics building, Liesl stood in a practical jogging outfit, a stark contrast to the women Truman usually encountered. Unlike Shana and other American women, who often dressed to enhance their attractiveness, Liesl’s clothing choices seemed entirely utilitarian. This observation triggered a distant memory from a movie he once watched with Shana, back when their relationship was carefree. He learned that European women often downplayed their physical appeal and held significant positions. Shana, to her credit, had managed to carve out an important role for herself while still embracing the local style.

Liesl’s sharp voice cut through his contemplation. “Get that a silly leer off your face. We’re here for work, not for an afternoon dalliance.”

Truman snapped out of his rare reflective mood. “Of course. I’m just a bit winded from walking here. Did you find an image of Halloway’s brain?”

“Come with me.” Liesl led him through the lab into Machter’s inner sanctum.

Glancing at the empty chair where Felix had once sat with the Artificial Environment helmet, Truman thought, Was it really a month ago already?

“At least, Felix’s not reliving his honeymoon like before,” Truman said.

“I told him he couldn’t use it today. Seeing the physical damage the bullet did to his brain would be especially upsetting. Despite his difficulty forming new memories, he seems to retain surprising details from his prior knowledge.”

Truman, from Morgan’s prompting, had a list of questions ready. “Did you find any images of Felix’s brain and its activity?”

“Be quiet. I need to concentrate.” Liesl swiped her compad in front of the larger monitor. The screen lit up. She turned to Truman. “I have to use text search. The machine only recognizes the professor’s voice.”

As Truman watched, the technical details on the screen made little sense to him. Bored, he wandered over to the front window, then slumped into the comfortable lounge chair Felix had used. He donned the AE helmet.

Expecting to observe Felix’s honeymoon, Truman was instead plunged into his own high school audio lab from years ago. The front page of the Rockland High weekly newscast shone in the editing machine.

A large football player stormed in, grabbed the video editor, and smashed it against the table. “Don’t ever claim I missed a block again!” He yanked Truman out of the chair by his shirt front and threw him against the wall. The breath knocked out of him, Truman slid to the floor. The senior stormed out of the classroom while shouting, “Or else you die!”

Truman relived the humiliation of telling the principal that the school paper couldn’t be published that week due to an “accident” and having to repay the school for a new video editor.

“Found it.” Liesl’s words jolted him out of the harrowing memory.

She yanked the helmet off Truman’s head. “That AE device is not a game. I can see on your face it pulled a troublesome memory of yours. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

Truman had no intention of sharing that painful memory with anyone. He regretted that Deirdre even knew a sliver of it. “Did you find the MRI scans?, he asked. “According to Morgan, a comparison before and after Felix was shot would be ideal.”

Liesl pointed to bright yellow lines embedded in orange regions blazed on the display. “First, this is the NfMRI of the limbic area of a normal adult recalling a distressing incident.” She tapped the edge of the screen. The next image had no such defined regions. Instead, pale broken yellow streaks were set against an overwhelmingly dark background. “This image was taken of Felix’s brain four months ago.”

“Not as colorful,” Truman remarked, turning on his compad to record.

Liesl glanced at him, deciding he wasn’t trying to be funny. “In Felix’s limbic system, there were no pathways or emotions available to evaluate any situation. He had lost connection to all his emotions.”

“That’s good, isn’t it? Though some things are best forgotten.”

“No. According to the notes, he could get mad for no reason and happy even when bad things happened.” She paused to let the information sink in, then tapped for the next image. “This is from Felix’s last session with the professor, just over a month ago. See the stronger yellow lines? They are not as numerous or as defined as those in a normal adult, but they are forming.” She pointed to a large dark area on both sides of the midline. “This is shocking… it’s an unnatural structure of millions of artificial neurons. Professor Machter implanted chip in Felix’s limbic system and had been training him to learn proper emotional responses through the AE helmet.”

“Could that actually work?” Truman asked, intrigued.

“Those new connections indicate yes.”

“Wait a second,” Truman stopped her. “Felix Halloway confused the protesters outside the bookstore with the criminals.”

“With the intermittent connections,” she explained, “he only has fragments of memory. Criminals raised anger by awakening thoughts of his wife. Protesters raised anger by awakening thoughts of the departed professor. They give rise to the same emotion. My working hypothesis is Felix will one day learn how to distinguish between them.”

“I’m going to have to take back some of my disinterested praise of the man. I wonder how my listeners will take it.” After a pause, Truman laughed. “This’ll show Shana to stop limiting my skepticism.”

Liesl grabbed his sleeve. “You can’t. This could destroy the professor’s legacy. Surely, you can see he was helping his old friend regain control of his emotions, though he was stopped short of that goal.”

Truman ignored her plea. “I wonder what other secrets the old doc has.”

“That is it. It’s the only area I hadn’t explored. I thought it held only drab observations. Please promise me you’ll be as balanced with this information as you were in your original piece,” Liesl pleaded.

“Now, I wonder where this new revelation will lead me? He may have been helping his friend, but the Frankenstein element will pull in an audience.”

“No,” Liesl said at once, “you can’t call him Frankenstein. That’s inflammatory and inaccurate.”

“I will take things where they lead me. What else would you call it, Frau Liesl Richter, fierce advocate for Heidelberg?”

She laughed. “That’s easy. Helping a friend, advancing medical science,” she paused. Truman thought he saw a recognition come to her eye and then finished, “or retrieving a lost mind.”

Think what you will, he thought. I will too. “Are we finished here?” he asked.

“Not until you address my concern,” she said.

“Let’s get out of Dr. Frankenstein’s office,” Truman said with a provocative laugh. “I won’t label his effort as that, but don’t be surprised when people draw that conclusion.” Looking outside, he said, “Oh, evening has fallen.”

Liesl tapped her front pocket and was rewarded with a crackly sound. “If we walk by the Lakeside Coffee & Books, I can feed the ducks, then if you like we can walk together to my extended stay hotel. I want to make sure you understand the facts of what I’ve uncovered. What they might mean and what they don’t necessarily mean.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but that sounds totally boring. Plus, I’m total starving.”

It was Liesl’s turn to laugh. “I had an ulterior motive. With the professor gone, I have no one to share a meal with. And I love to cook. So I could make sure your body was as well filled at your brain when you leave tonight.”

Three hours later, after Truman and Liesl finished a home-cooked dinner of Sauerbraten with Red Cabbage and Potato Dumplings, his compad alerted him to a message.

Brianna’s message: I TRIED ALI AND SHANA, BUT SERVITOR PICKED UP BOTH CALLS WHEN THEY DIDN’T ANSWER. THAT RELIEVES ME OF MY PROMISE. BODY FOUND NEAR 777 SEVEN GLEN LANE. APPARENT HOMICIDE.

They gasped. A body found by Felix’s house.

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Citation. Limbic Brain image created by MS Copilot from my prompt