Josh: That's It, I'm Giving Up Poker

Well, you bluffed me. Fair enough.

Mary just dropped me off at my apartment (near Marquette University downtown, for any newcomers). I'm going to hang out, drink a spot of green tea, reminisce about the murder scene I saw earlier today and throw up for a while.

Mary is heading back to the St. Francis Police Department to pester Detective Ward a bit more for any other crumbs of info.

Mom, I remember what you said about this being more of a journal than a log, and I feel like I do need to write out some of the things that I'm feeling about what's happening, so this is that. Forgive the naval-gazing, but I've got to get this stuff out.

When the accident-grr... I mean ATTACK-happened, I was just stunned that my Dad was dead and that my Mom was injured so badly. I would have liked to have actually done something then, just to get my mind off of it, but even being almost entirely paralyzed, my Mom was issuing orders and making arrangements from the Intensive Care Unit. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad she didn't curl up into a ball and give up, but for a moment there I thought that for once in my life I was actually going to take care of her for a change. It turns out that if anything her paralysis has made her even more capable, or at least gave her a greater focus.

Anyway, even though I feel totally out of my depth and entirely wigged out by what I saw today, I have to say that I still feel pretty good. I'm helping, and that's not something I've been able to say much in my life. Granted, at this point I kind've wish I had a degree in criminal science instead of Philosophy, but this is hardly the first time a Philosophy grad regretted their choice of majors. Still, at least I can swing by the house for visits and debate the merits of Hegel (below, looking like a barrel of laughs) with Jeff (Jeff's down with Hegel, I'm more on the side of Schopenhauer who called Hegel's work: "...A monument to German stupidity." Look out! Philosopher slap-fight!!!)

Shockingly, I appear to have veered off on a tangent.

I'm going to take a nap.

Cynthia: Falsus

There is a vast difference between threatening to do a thing and actually doing that thing.

It is a bluff, and one I highly doubt will be called.

Josh: Baby + Bath Water?

Uhh... won't that make it harder to catch this guy, putting all the evidence out there in the public?

Cynthia: Impendeo

I will tell him that if he does not replace the Officer with one who is capable, I will go to the Associated Press, Milwaukee Journal Sentinel and any other appropriate news outlet and tell them everything I know about every aspect of Mrs. Walentowicz's murder.

Josh: Later, We Can Speak To The Seas About Having Them Part?

Joshua, I will take it upon your word that Officer Randazzo is incompetent and speak to his commanding officer about having him replaced.

What if he says no? We don't have a ton of leverage here, and by "a ton of" I mean "any".

Cynthia: Quiesco

Joshua and Mary have just departed after practically smashing down my front door and waking me from the first sound slumber I have enjoyed since the crash. I gave Jeffrey explicit orders that when I am sleeping he is to turn the ringer off on the telephone. I am perfectly all right, old injuries notwithstanding. At Jeffrey's suggestion he has double-checked the locks on all the doors and windows, set the security alarm and even contacted the alarm company and alerted them that we are concerned for our safety.

Now that I am fully informed as to the staggeringly horrific news of the day I am certain I appear just as stunned as Joshua and Miss Stroud. Yet it is at times such as this when our focus must be sharpest and our reserve most stout.

The monster that ruined my life and inflicted such utterly vile acts upon poor Mrs. Walentowicz has committed an enormous error. Before today, I possessed merely a powerful suspicion that the crime perpetrated against me was premeditated in nature. I was determined to find the culprit, though if the truth be told I was motivated more as an incentive to continue this banal and unpleasant existence to which I've been condemned; the desire to see justice done was frankly secondary.

Now, with the menace we truly face coming into sharp relief, my sense of purpose is absolute. Before, we were chasing shadows, with the possibility that once we apprehended my attacker and dragged him out into the light of day he might merely be revealed to be a drunken, terrified trucker who made a mistake and panicked. Now, we know without question that we are pursuing a foe worthy of our attention. We know that our quarry is cunning, ruthless and utterly evil. We go forward from this point with the understanding that our time spent is not wasted, and the sooner we apprehend this madman the world will be a far safer and better place.

To the task at hand: Joshua, I will take it upon your word that Officer Randazzo is incompetent and speak to his commanding officer about having him replaced. The detective in charge of my case needs to be someone we may rely on, as the stakes have grown exponentially.

Miss Stroud, is it possible that my case and the case of Mrs. Walentowicz's murder will be rolled into a single investigation? Will they see them as being perpetrated by the same person, and act accordingly?

Also, Miss Stroud, on the chance that our Enemy may have followed you here and witnessed you enter the security code, I am having it changed. I will have the security company call you with the new number.

Next, I want you to touch base daily (or with even more frequency, if he is receptive) with this Detective Ward. The bulk of any new information should come through him, and he has appeared supportive thus far.

I have asked Jeffrey if he would allow me to purchase a firearm and register him to carry it for his own protection, but unsurprisingly he respectfully refused. He is studying to be a nurse, after all, and-like me-abhors violence, so I knew my request was a touch out-of-bounds. I am considering hiring a security guard to stay at the house full-time, and will inquire as to the practicality of it later today.

On the same note, Joshua, I want you to enroll in a firearm safety course and apply for a handgun permit. I realize that I never allowed a gun in the house when you were growing up, but I do not doubt that your life may be in danger and I wish to take every precaution. I will not be argued with on this point.

We all must assume that the Enemy knows who we are and where we live. I do not know whether or not the attack on my husband and I was random to begin with, but I do know that there is nothing random about his actions now. By placing the photograph of the truck at the murder scene in the manner he did, he has shown us that he wants us to know who he is. Either he somehow desires to be caught, or he wishes to toy with us as a cat with a mouse. If it is the former, we shall oblige him. If it is the latter, we shall make him pay for his hubris.

Josh: Mom, Seriously

Put up a post. Anything to let us know you're okay.

After what I saw this morning I am beyond freaked out. Post a.s.a.p.

Josh: I've Seen Clearer Bigfoot Photos

She's driving, I'm typing...

After spending the last few minutes in the police station squinting at a photocopy of a photograph of a crumpled, bloody photograph, I couldn't tell you with confidence what the hell I was even looking at. Maybe it was a truck? Frankly I have no idea. If it was up to me, I'd say there's a good chance our main suspect in the case is Optimus Prime.

Fortunately, Mary knows exactly which truck it was. It's this:

This is the Navistar International Lonestar semi-truck. It's very new and quite expensive. The grill actually does kind've look like a cow-catcher on the front of a train, though I doubt the Navistar executives would be all that thrilled with the comparison. They'd probably be even less thrilled with their truck being used as a murder weapon.

Now the trick is to somehow cross-reference this truck with deadly crashes around the state and even the country, but without telling law enforcement exactly how we got the information. Detective Ward is going to want to keep as much as he can under wraps for as long as he can so as not to tip off the killer as to what he knows and also to keep copycats from popping up.

Mary thinks we should go to the FBI, which sounds like a long, tedious, red-tape strewn nightmare just tailor-made for the one of us in this car who's actually getting paid.

I think that since it's such a new truck, we should go around to the dealerships and mechanics and get a list of who has purchased one of these things in the area this year. Mary informs me that we'd need to have law enforcement do that, and of course we can't tell how we know what we know so that leaves us in a bind. Hrm.

Doing some checking... okay, the Lonestar is so new that it only just went on sale in February of this year. Seeing as how gas prices went through the roof and the trucking industry is getting absolutely crushed economically, I can't imagine that they sold millions of these things.

Detective Randazzo is the officer in charge of my parents' case (remember him? He's the cop my Mother described as "polite and sympathetic". In a stunning coincidence, my Mother was hooked up to enormous IV bags full of painkillers when she met him. I remember him more as the gigantic dumbass who said that it was a random, freak, hit-and-run accident, and was absolutely, totally wrong about everything. It's just like that Kurosawa movie "Rashomon" where all the witnesses remember things differently and you never know who's right, except in this case I'm right and she's wrong). Despite his obvious failings thus far, Detective Randazzo is actually in prime position to help out in convincing the truck dealerships to provide information on their buyers. Then we can cross-reference the buyer's list with a list of known felons and maybe we get lucky with a match.

Really, at this point it should be up to law enforcement from here. The FBI should step in and see if one of those Lonestar trucks has been involved in any deadly crashes in the region. Polite, sympathetic Detective Randazzo should contact those truck dealerships and flag anyone who has bought one of those trucks. Frankly, though, I don't trust that to happen, and the events of this morning were just... I don't feel angry like Mary does, but this does somehow make things even more personal.

I'm still a bit shell shocked and trying to sort things through here, so forgive me if I sound like Captain Obvious, but I find it impossible to believe that the driver of that truck and Mrs. Walentowicz's murderer are different people. With that assumption, he (or she) found out that Mrs. Walentowicz was talking to us and murdered her. But-and this is the part I don't get-after killing her he leaves the photograph of his truck at the crime scene? In her mouth, of all places? And how did he know that Mary was talking to her at all? He had to have been watching-

Me: He was watching you. With Mrs. Walentowicz, when you interviewed her.

Mary: Yes.

Me: So he knows what you look like.

Mary: Yes.

Me: Mary, he could be following us right now.

Mary: I know. I've been watching for a tail, though, and I think we're clean.

Me: Good. Good.

Mary: Still, I'm the one usually doing the following. I'm not typically in this position. They could be right behind us and I might not know it.

Me: Oh. Can I look around and see?

Mary: No.

Me: Oh. (long pause) Can I pee my pants?

Mary: (shrugs) It's a rental. And it might distract from the smell of that shirt.

Mom, I'm a bit worried that the murderer might have followed Mary the other night without her realizing it. He might have tracked her back home to you. We're going to make absolutely certain that we aren't being tailed, then come over to make sure you're all right.

Actually, as soon as you read this, please put up a post just telling us that you're okay.

Mary: Detective Ward

A very light rain fell, dotting our windshield as we sat waiting for more information from the crime scene investigators. I told Josh that I could call him a cab to take him home, but he declined. The police didn't owe us anything-and my private investigator's license seemed to be more of a joke to them than anything-but we had been cooperative and I was working for a wealthy, somewhat high-profile client. Bottom line, I didn't have any other leads or interests, and if we we're on hand than there was at least a chance that we can could get something else out of them.

I was beginning to doubt if the police even remembered we were there, but then I saw the officer in charge of the case, Detective Ward, step from the building and fend off the two local television camera crews long enough to motion me over to his car. When we were both sitting in the front seat of his unmarked cruiser he just sat there for a while, slowly shaking his head. Finally he took a deep breath and simply said, "Come down to the St. Francis Police Department... I've got something you're going to want to see." Then he let me out, started his car and drove away.

Ten minutes later Josh and I were hustling into the precinct house- a grim, squat, fluorescent-lit cinder-block of a building. There were only three officers that I could see on duty, and all of them were working the phones, probably scrambling to stonewall the media as long as they could before the ghastly details of Mrs. Walentowicz's murder came to light. Seeing as everyone was busy we started to sit down, but then Detective Ward stuck his head out of an office door in the back of the room and wearily waved us over.

Detective Gary Ward was in his late forties or early fifties, with more salt than pepper close-cropped hair. When I spoke with him, it was a relief to see him looking as stunned as I felt about the days events. It was clear that while this was a veteran cop, the atrocity we'd witnessed was well out of even his comfort zone.

"I'm going to let you see a photocopy of a photograph taken at the crime scene. This copy is not going to leave this room. You may act on the information you receive from the photocopy, but you are not to tell anyone how or where you got it." He looked at Josh then and said with a sympathetic tone, "You were pretty out of it at the time, so I'm sure you don't remember... but I was on the scene the night of your parents' accident. My condolences."

Detective Ward reached into his jacket pocket and unfolded a letter-sized sheet of paper. "This is a copy of a crime-scene photograph taken today. They're going to be going over the original with everything they can throw at it for prints and whatever else they can get. They found it... it was crumpled up and jammed in the victim's mouth."

It was a picture of a semi truck. It was the big rig Mrs. Walentowicz had told me the night before was probably the one she saw driving away from the crash.

Mary: Grisly Details

Please forgive me for earlier. You have to understand that for the most part my time is spent delivering subpoenas and investigating insurance fraud. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw in that house. Regardless of how I reacted in the moment, understand that I am on this case, and I will stay on it until the end. Having met with that poor woman, sat in her kitchen, drank her coffee... I feel repulsed, yes, but now I just feel angry. I am enraged at whomever did this to her, and I am more committed than ever to finding them.

I realize that I am making a small leap here, but I simply find it impossible to believe that whomever attacked Mrs. Howland and Mrs. Walentowicz's killer are not the same person, or are not in some way in league with one another. The police are being cautious on the issue and refuse to put the two together just yet, or at least not publicly.

The coroner and crime scene specialists are still working here at the house (Josh and I remain parked in the car outside), going over everything. I'll now describe what happened, but be warned it's not for the weak of stomach:

As Josh and I entered the kitchen, we saw that the linoleum floor was entirely covered in blood. The kitchen table had been pulled away from the wall into the center of the room, and on top of it was the body of Mrs. Walentowicz, laying on it's back. Her torso had been sliced open vertically from the sternum to just above the pelvis, creating a hole in her belly. Sitting in a pile of glistening, rope-like intestines... protruding up through the slit was Mrs. Walentowicz's blood-drenched head.

I haven't received many details from the coroner as of yet, but one thing about the body that astonished and disturbed even him was that he believes that the incision was made in her abdomen first, and somehow her head was pulled down through her own torso and heaved out from inside, propped there on her own midsection and left facing the doorway.

The worst part of it-and I'm sure it's difficult to believe that something could be worse than what I've just described-but the part that will stay with me in my nightmares was her face. The face of that horrifically tortured, innocent old woman...

It was smiling.

Mary: Murder on 18th Street

Mrs. Howland, after Josh's last post, you must be mad with worry, so let me assure you that we are both all right, albeit shaken. We're both in the car warming up and waiting to speak further to the detective in charge. I'll try and go over events as best I can, though I'm not sure how far into detail I can go at the moment.

Josh and I walked up the steps to Mrs. Walentowicz's house and I noticed that the door was ajar. I rang the bell four times, then knocked twice and finally entered, Josh following behind. Upon stepping into the house there was a foul odor, and Josh and I looked at each other, knowing something was wrong. I led him into the kitchen as that seemed to be where she spent most of her time.

What we saw in that kitchen... I have never seen anything so utterly horrible. I wish I could be as professional about this as I would like to be, but the fact is I have never had an experience like this before. Even seasoned, veteran police officers retched upon viewing it.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Spread out on the kitchen table were the remains of Mrs. Walentowicz, and her head was...

I'm sorry, I'm going to have to take some time to compose myself. Mrs. Walentowicz is dead, and her murderer is still on the loose. I'll have details for you as soon as I can.

Josh: Blood

Oh, my God. Oh, my f*cking God. Getting some air. I have never seen thatr much blood, not even that night with Mom and Dad.

Police are on theiir way. Oh, God. Casn't type, fingers shaking.

Josh: Good Morning, Angels

Thumbing away on the Blackberry as Mary drives...

...Is it wrong that I took far longer to order at Starbucks than Mary did? I feel like I failed a man-test on that one.

...Mary has long blond hair that curls at the ends, blue eyes and is dressed in an impossibly well-ironed suit. I haven't shaved in four days and am wearing a flannel shirt that I thought I could wear just one more time without washing. I was wrong.

I feel like I'm on a car ride with my parole officer.

...I ask Mary, if she was a Charlie's Angel, which one would she be? She's mulling it over.

...We're in the neighborhood of the accident now. My stomach is churning just seeing these buildings again. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't feeling a sense of dread. The night of the crash, racing over here and seeing all those flashing red lights, then seeing my Mom getting pulled out of the Mustang with the Jaws of Life. F*ck, I never wanted to come back here.

...Mary says Jaclyn Smith, with a touch of Kate Jackson, avoiding the obvious surface answer of Farrah because of the blond hair. Very solid answer.

...A block away from Mrs. Mxyzptlk's house now, right across from the site of the crash. I'm thinking of John Wayne, Chuck Norris, Humphrey Bogart and any other tough movie guy I can right now in an effort not to cry in front of Mary.

...I ask Mary which of the "new" Charlie's Angels girls she's most like: Drew Barrymore, Lucy Liu or Cameron Diaz. She reminds me that she's armed.

...We're at the house. It's a cross between a bungalow and a cape cod- a nice brick number, well-maintained. Hope this goes well. If she can identify the truck, that would be absolutely huge.

Josh: Actually, I'm Pretty Sure That's The DEFINITION Of "Snobbish"

Sure, I'll go. Can't wait to pick up some decorating tips from Mrs. Walencowzczxxz.

Mary, if you're fine with having me along just give me a call twenty minutes or so before you pick me up. Thanks. Coffee's on me. And forget about what I said to my Mom earlier about how you're not qualified and how she should fire you. I have always appreciated and respected you, especially when I realized I'm going to see you in person for the first time tomorrow and you've got a gun.

Cynthia: Mens Mentis Medicus

During my various charity efforts on behalf of the AHCA, I have acquired a detailed list of some of the finest practitioners of medicine in the country. While nothing immediately springs to mind in the field of psychiatry, I have no doubt whatsoever that I can obtain the name of someone exceptional within the hour, Miss Stroud. I shall have Jeffrey leave the necessary information on the table in the foyer.

As this is the second time he has been mentioned, I should introduce my personal care worker, Jeffrey Werth. A personal care worker is not a nurse, but someone capable of carrying out the sundry, oftentimes repulsive duties required to keep a quadriplegic alive. Again, through my contacts in the American Health Care Association I was introduced to an organization called Independence First, an institute devoted to assisting disabled individuals in attaining as much personal freedom as possible. Independence First provided the resumes of personal care workers, and I interviewed and rejected almost a dozen of them before I hired Jeffrey.

Jeffrey is working toward his nursing degree at the University of Marquette (while Marquette is most renowned for their post-graduate work in the theology and bio-medical fields, their Nursing program is not far behind in terms of prestige). He is perhaps the hardest working person I have ever met, and seems to have no difficulty at all with what I consider to be the almost intolerably odious tasks necessary to keeping a paralyzed human body alive.

Of paramount import to me, however, is that my personal care worker actually be capable of conversing on subjects beyond my mere survival. I realized early on that whomever I employed would become the central figure in my existence, and though some may call it snobbish, I had no desire to spend my remaining days being attended to by some dullard. When not tending to my basic needs, Jeffrey spends our mornings reading Hegel aloud to me and making invaluable suggestions on precisely which Gorham silver service to purchase for the dining room I no longer have a use for. (Below: Gorham tea set. Absolutely magnificent patternwork.)

Should you require anything here at the house, consider Jeffrey to be acting on my behalf and trust him as you would me.

Also, though I am loathe to discuss the details of my personal situation, I should inform you as to how I am typing this at all. I use Dragon NaturallySpeaking Preferred software to transform my speech into type, and I find that the company's claim of ninety-nine percent accuracy is for the most part valid. To navigate web pages I utilize a mouth-manipulated joystick.

On another note: Joshua, with Miss Stroud's permission perhaps you could accompany her on her visit to Mrs. Walentowicz's home tomorrow. Miss Stroud's reaction to Mrs. Walentowicz's mental state is most intriguing, and perhaps you can provide a fresh perspective.

Mary: No I.D.

I went from Todd's smokey, dingy, empty pizza-box-strewn 1970's-style living room to Mrs. Walentowicz's smokey, dingy, BINGO paraphernalia-ridden 1970's-style kitchen, and I don't think my lungs can take much more.

Nevertheless, I sat with Mrs. Walentowicz for a full hour and a half looking at pictures of trucks, and while it was at times agonizing for both of us, there does seem to be one she's leaning towards. I think it might be best if she sleeps on it tonight and I come back in the morning.

I again asked her more than once if she was feeling all right, and she again insisted that she was, but after meeting with her a second time I am more convinced than ever that she is virtually petrified with an unnameable fear. If anything, I believe she has gotten worse since the last time I saw her. She shambled around the kitchen like a caged animal while smoking one cigarette after another, once even mistakenly lighting one even as another wasn't half-gone in the ashtray. Despite all my prying-some subtle, some not so much-I still have no idea where this anxiety is coming from with her, and I'm not sure she does either.

I'll return tomorrow and hopefully get a positive I.D. on the truck.

When I do come back, I'd like to have the name of a good psychologist that I can pass along to her, but I don't know anyone here in Milwaukee. Would either of you have a recommendation?

Mary: Truck Mug Shots

Josh, thanks for the tip on your friend. There were three semi-truck mechanics and salesmen who were willing to help, but none immediately. I contacted Todd and spent a few hours going over pictures of various big rigs with him. It was actually quite educational (albeit smokey. That's the first and hopefully last time I've ever gotten a contact high while trying to identify a criminal) and I wound up leaving with a half-dozen photos that I can show Mrs. Walentowicz.

Mrs. Howland, I paid Todd one hundred dollars for his help and made the necessary notation on the expense report.

I'm heading over to Mrs Walentowicz's house now to see if any of these are a match.

Josh: Argh, I Just Realized I Have To Come Up With A Post Title Every Damn Time I Want To Say Something

So Racine was just as fabulous as you might have imagined. Luckily I had a tetanus shot before I left Milwaukee. Sad to say my trip was in vain as there was no record of any hit-and-run truck attacks in any way similar to ours.

Mary, I know an ex-truck driver named Todd Cropper who might be able to help in i.d.'ing our perp's ride. He spent a ton on trucking school and then spectacularly failed a drug test after less than a year on the road and lost his CDL. Not the sharpest knife, but he might be able to help. Plus, he's unemployed, so as long as his phone hasn't been disconnected, he'll be available.

Mary: Mrs. Walentowicz, Addendum

I awoke today after a restless night of sleep and wanted to add one more thing I couldn't put my finger on yesterday. During our interview, Mrs. Walentowicz was extremely fidgety, constantly in nervous motion. She would sit down only for a minute at a time, then rise to shuffle about on the linoleum floor, or run her fingers over her BINGO charm necklace and bracelet (I didn't even know these things existed. I stupidly didn't get a photo of one, but I found a picture on the Internet, at right). Obviously the nicotine and caffeine had to be factors in her behaviour, but it seemed to go deeper than that. She was extremely helpful, and I do feel that she kept nothing back during our conversation, but there was just something off about her.

When I asked her more than once if she was all right, she told me that she hadn't slept well since the accident. That was five months ago, which is quite a long time to be haunted by an event that happened to someone you've never even met and didn't actually see.

I don't know why, and I don't think she does either, but looking back on it I believe that this poor woman is absolutely terrified.

If it takes me longer than a week to identify the truck, I plan to go back and visit her again. Not for information, but just so I can do what I can to get her some psychological help

Mary: Mrs. Walentowicz

Just in case the police missed anything, I contacted the security department of St. Francis Hospital in the hopes that one of their security cameras happened to capture some or all of the crash. The staff were most gracious and allowed me full access, but unfortunately all of their cameras were pointed inward at the parking lot itself and failed to capture anything of interest.

My first interview with a resident was the witness named in the police report, Mrs. Justina Walentowicz. What I'm going to say next may sound as though I'm blowing my own horn, or even have the effect of making me sound like some kind of con woman, but I think it's important to know why I do what I do and what makes me good at it. I've been told that I have a "kind face", and I've always been what you call a people person, which is actually how I got into process serving. The art of serving depends on getting someone (many times a criminal) to trust you, and to do so within two or three seconds. That's all it takes for their guard to drop and actually admit they are who they are so you can serve them with legal documents. This ability to generate quick trust is not something most policemen have, and in fact their uniforms tend to have the opposite effect of creating fear. Fear can force a witness to tell the bulk of what they know, but trust can unlock other doors if coupled with patience.

All of this is a rather long-winded way of telling you that I got Mrs. Walentowicz to trust me, it won us some very useful information and it took no small amount of patience. Mrs. Walentowicz welcomed me into her home, ushered me into a 1970's style kitchen (photo of it at left) and gave me a cup of burned black coffee. The kitchen walls had a yellowish coating from years of cigarette smoke, and after two hours sitting there with little ventilation as she chain-smoked, I felt like I had acquired something of an unhealthy sheen myself. Mrs. Walentowicz spent most of the time waxing on about her all-consuming passion for the game of BINGO, her beloved, now-dead wiener dog Roch, and her family's long and involved history as ironworkers back in Poland.

(Mrs. Howland, you said you were looking for more of a journal instead of a log of these events, is this what you're looking for? Would you prefer to have photographs included? This isn't the way I'm used to writing case reports, so if you'd prefer something else please let me know.)

As far as the information, I wanted to focus mainly on the truck, since that's virtually the only thing she saw. Acting essentially as a sketch artist, I painstakingly went over the little details she may have made out in the darkness. The word she kept using to describe the front of the truck was "sleek", which I eventually determined meant a bit rounded and slanted. She also described the grill of the rig as "to be rid of cows". This took a while to sort out, but I believe she meant that it looked similar to a classic "cow-catcher" on old locomotives (photo from wikimedia)

Mrs. Walentowicz also gave an unusual description of the semi's air cleaners (those cylinders on the exterior on each side of the truck. I had to look it up, so don't feel bad if you didn't know it either. Sample photo from Big Stock Photo). The air cleaners each had a row of four or five lights down the side of them, and had a very distinctive, sleek look.



Finally, she believed at first that the big rig's mud flaps each had a picture of "the angry, red-haired man with guns"-i.e., Yosemite Sam, from the Loony Toons cartoons-but now she isn't certain and said she may have just remembered that from a television show.

At this point I thanked her for the coffee and made my way to the next house, where I continued conducting interviews for the better part of the day. I received no other information of substance, though many of the neighborhood residents asked me to pass along their deep condolences to you, Mrs. Howland.

At the end of the day I drove back to the Howland residence and attempted to shampoo the cigarette smell from my hair. I'll spend tomorrow interviewing truck salesmen and mechanics and see if I can't narrow down the make and model, then return to Mrs. Walentowicz with photographs for a positive identification.

Josh: ...

Sh*t.


Alright, I actually already had decided not to enroll this semester so I could help out on this thing, and also because I was still messed up over the whole situation. My Dad and I weren't as close as we could have been, but, ah... f*ck it.

So it appears that you actually are an investigator. Objection withdrawn.

However, Mom, I still say you should hire an investigator with a police background in addition to Mary.

Mary: How's This For Investigation?

There shouldn't be much need for dropping your classes in college this fall. That's because you never registered for classes this fall.

Mrs. Howland, I'll be out all evening interviewing residents in the neighborhood near the crash. Don't wait up.

Josh: When We Find The Guy, You Can Serve Him His Summons

Uh, Mom, not to disparage your interview skills here, but a process server?? Look, no offense to Mary here, but we need a private investigator who's actually, you know, investigated things. Someone with a police background, not just a former student who fell into the business to pay some bills. I simply can't believe that there is no P.I. with a criminal investigation background out there you can hire.

I'm going to contact the administration at Marquette tomorrow and drop my classes for this semester so I can help you out on this full-time.

Mary: Getting Started

Hello, my name is Mary Stroud. I have to say this isn't how I would typically provide case reports to my employer, but given the unusual circumstances I'm happy to oblige.

First just allow me to say how terribly sorry I am for your loss, Mrs. Howland. I cannot begin to imagine the horror of what you have been through. I just want to assure you that I will do absolutely everything in my power within the law to bring your attacker to justice.

And just so we're clear, Mrs. Howland was attacked. I believe that the crash was intentional, and if I at any point refer to it in future as an "accident", please correct me. Also, frankly, based on your rare wealth and social status in a mostly blue-collar city like Milwaukee, I think it is entirely plausible that you were targeted specifically, though for what purpose, I don't know. I will be proceeding in this case with the assumption that I am hunting not someone who made a terrible mistake and ran from their crime, but a murderer.

Thank you as well for opening your home to me, Mrs. Howland. For anyone coming in later, it's more of a small mansion than a home, and right on Lake drive on the east side overlooking Lake Michigan. I can tell you that it's far more relaxing to hear the waves lapping up on the shore outside my window than the bustle of a college town like Madison. If there is anything I can do while I'm your guest, either for you or for Jeff, please just let me know.

A little about me, I became a fully licensed private investigator in 2000, though I acted as a process server for five years prior. I worked my way though college doing that, and never had this profession in mind, but it came easily to me so I just stuck with it and took it to another level. Due to a lot of books and TV movies there's a common misconception that P.I.'s get in gunfights and car chases and whatnot, and I have to say that's entirely fiction. I do occasionally carry a firearm, but I've never had to pull it much less shoot it. If you have to use a gun while giving someone a subpoena, you are seriously screwing up. I mostly do process serving along with insurance work, which is probably why Mrs. Howland (I feel like I should be addressing this to you directly? But I know there will be others reading it as we go along. Forgive the inconsistency while I get the hang of this) hired me as this investigation is, at least to start, similar to what I normally do.

To business: I'm going to begin by knocking on every door in the neighborhood and speaking with absolutely everyone. In a case like this, the police will do the best job they can, but they've categorized this as a hit-and-run accident, not a murder, so they won't be able to dig as deep as I can. I also might be able to get a few people talking who otherwise might be more reluctant when questioned by someone more official.

Mrs. Howland has provided me with a brand new Blackberry, so I can post while I'm out and about. I'll keep you as updated as I can.

Thank you again for your generosity and hospitality.

Cynthia: Conduco

I have made my hire. Mary Stroud of Madison, Wisconsin has been a private investigator for eight years. Her record is impeccable and she is prepared to move to Milwaukee on a full-time basis. I have every confidence in this young woman, and have given her the code that will allow her to access this site. I shall allow her to introduce herself further with her first post.

I decided against hiring two investigators concurrently for fear they would "muddy the waters" for one another. Best, I believe, to singularly focus our efforts at this juncture.

Cynthia: Opes

Today I interviewed two Private Investigators from Madison. Both seem competent, and instead of choosing between them I am considering hiring them both. I shall make my decision over lunch.

Last night Joshua recommended that I discuss my financial situation, not in great detail but only to give an estimate of the depths of my resources. I do not normally care to share such things, but for anyone accessing this archive it is information that you should possess.

My family was originally from Worcester, England. Worcester was a major British center for glove manufacture, and my ancestors were heavily involved in that industry, making their fortune in the early nineteenth century.

My husband Scott was also independently wealthy when we wed. His family is Belgian in origin, and were primary investors in the Banque Nat de Belgique, or National Bank of Belgium when it was founded in 1850. I have been told that he was a direct descendant of Leopold I, the first King of the Belgians, but we never went through the trouble of ascertaining the claims validity.

To make a long story short, our families had divested themselves of these interests before either Scott or I were born and invested them wisely in the interim. The "bottom line", as they say, is that collectively we were worth over one hundred million American dollars. I suppose I should also factor in Scott's life insurance policy, but frankly I haven't had the heart to look closely at the figures since his passing.

The only thing you really need know is that I have the means to fund this endeavor for as long as necessary. I am not wealthy enough to purchase Learjets and tropical islands on a whim, but I certainly should have the wherewithal to see some rogue truck-driver brought to justice.

Josh: Please Tell Me You're Not Going To Be Titling All Your Posts In Latin

Alright, I can drive down to Racine first thing in the morning (i.e., 11:00AM, grad-student time) and talk to the publishers of the Racine Journal Times. Knowing the fabulous ambiance and atmosphere in Racine, I'll bring along a flak vest and some Lysol.

(At right, a gorgeous view of downtown Racine! Just kidding. Actually, it's a slum in Mumbai, which is far nicer)

As to letting the Private Investigator stay with you... with your personal care worker living-in already it might start getting a bit crowded in there. Not room-wise, necessarily, but just... it worries me to think of all these strangers buzzing around you. Can't you put them up in a hotel instead?

And before you ask/demand: i.e. is short for "id est", Latin for "That is". Origo means "beginning" (root of the word "origin") and Repeto is, I think, "to begin again". Making me decipher Latin and spend time in Racine in the same week qualifies as cruel and unusual punishment.

Cynthia: Repeto

My name is Cynthia Howland. Five months ago my husband Scott and I were returning from a charity function at St. Francis hospital in Milwaukee benefiting the AHCA (American Health Care Association). We were stopped at the exit of the parking lot on the 3100 block of 18th street when our vehicle was broadsided by a speeding semi-truck. Based on the lack of skid marks on the pavement, the driver of the truck made no attempt to stop. I only remember bright headlights shining into my eyes from the left, and then nothing. The crash killed Scott instantly, and left me paralyzed for the rest of my life, my spinal cord severed. I retain the use of my head and neck, nothing else.

After the crash, the driver (based on the spread of debris found at the scene) turned south and drove off. The crash occurred at 12:38AM. The police have questioned local residents, and though no one seems to have seen the crash actually occur, they did receive a statement from an elderly woman who lived across the street concerning the aftermath. Mrs. Justina Walentowicz's testimony states that when she was awoken from her sleep by the noise, she went to her window and saw the truck fleeing the scene. Mrs. Walentowicz looked for the license plate number only to find that the rig had no plates at all. She also added that it was only the rig (or front) of the semi-truck, and that it was not towing any cargo.

(At right, the remains of our car after the crash. I have kept the wreckage and had it moved to my property. Scott was fond of collecting Mustangs, much as I disliked them. Regardless of make, no ordinary car would have withstood the impact from a truck that size moving at such a high rate of speed. )

That the driver made no attempt to stop before colliding with our car might indicate that they were intoxicated at the time. The fact that they fled following the incident shows cowardice. But the most interesting evidence is that the truck had no visible license plates. For a commercial vehicle, it is almost unheard of to drive completely without plates. Doing so stands out like a beacon to law enforcement officials, and that individual would be pulled over and questioned immediately. Further, As Scott and I were parked at the intersection, the truck would have had to actually swerve to the right to hit us as squarely as he did.

Individually, all these factors can be attributed to a driver who is either drunk, lazy, negligent or incompetent. But taken together? To me, they indicate intent. I believe that-for whatever reason-the driver of that truck meant to crash into our car.

My life... our lives have been destroyed by this person. I intend to see them hunted down to the ends of the Earth and punished to the fullest extent of the law for what they have done.

The officer in charge of our case does not agree that it was an act somehow premeditated (and let me be clear, it is entirely possible that the driver's intention could well have been to simply hit anyone, not us in particular). Officer Randazzo has been exceedingly polite and sympathetic, but he has made it plain that while they will continue to gather information, this case is being viewed as an ordinary hit-and-run accident.

Since the crash I have done everything I could to keep the incident in the public's eye. I have communicated extensively with the media, had Joshua put up posters in the neighborhood and issued a substantial reward of $100,000 for information leading to an arrest. Thus far our efforts have generated no substantial leads.

Upon consultation with my lawyer, it appears my only recourse if I wish to continue this inquiry in earnest is to hire a Private Investigator, a profession that until recently I considered to be mostly relegated to the previous century's fiction. I have been interviewing potential hires for the past two days and have found no one suitable. I am widening my search to Madison, and should that prove fruitless I will include the Chicago area. I intend to retain whomever I hire full-time, and am willing to put them up in my own home should that become necessary. I essentially am limited to my own bedroom at any rate, so it would hardly be an inconvenience.

While I think of it: Joshua, contact that dreadful community newspaper in Riverwest, the one that allows its readers to write their own articles. It is doubtful that any truck driver would read such drivel, but I suppose it's possible. Take out a full-page advertisement offering the reward.

Also, I've been having difficulty accessing via Internet the archives of some of the newspapers in the southern portion of the state such as Racine. Perhaps a personal visit is in order to see if similar hit-and-run crashes involving semis have occurred over the last few years.

Josh: More Info Please

I don't think that's going to cut it, Mom. Let's get all the information up front so that anyone accessing the site for the first time can hit the ground running. If I give someone the code to get in here it means I trust them completely, but it doesn't necessarily mean I'm going to spend forever giving them deep background. I think you should put down everything you've got on the accident, and as much about yourself as you can. I'm sure it's painful, but perhaps someone else can glean something from your recollections that you can't. Besides, if you want candor from the people posting here, you're going to have to give as good as you get.

Starting with me-for the sake of new posters-my name is Josh Howland. I'm 29 years old and am working toward my masters in philosophy at Marquette University in fabulous Milwaukee, Wisconsin. I was born and raised in Wisconsin, yet somehow have gone all this time without wearing a foam block of cheese on my head. This semester I'm taking a light class load to help my Mom do what she needs to do. I'm single (even with a chick-magnet like a philosophy degree hanging on my wall?? Shockingly, yes), tall and I suppose to be kind to myself I'll go with "wiry" over "skinny". Not much else to tell, really.

I'll let my Mom give more information on what's happened so far, then I'll write another post on what I've been doing the last few days as far as dealing with the police and the media and whatnot.

Cynthia: Origo (First Post-Click Here, Then Scroll Down and Click "Newer Post" For The Next In Sequence)

I will not bore you with the myriad details of precisely how my situation came to pass, and the various indignities of my day-to-day-existence. If you are reading these words, you have been given the encryption key that provides you access to this secure site and in addition have been informed-either by myself or by one in whom I have placed my trust-how this investigation came about. It is here in this electronic repository that I hope to keep a running log of what transpires during the search. No, more than a log-a journal. In my position, normal human contact, experiences and emotions are a rare and precious commodity. If I cannot be a more active participant in this endeavor, then I fully intend to live vicariously though those that are.

When making your entries, take care to write more than simply what is occurring as pertains to our task, but to catalog the various steps that got you to that point. The more detail the better, if you please. If our entries tend to ramble as a result, (as I suspect Joshua's will, for one), that is, for me, a fair exchange.

My husband is dead. I am condemned to a life of immobility and degradation as a quadriplegic. Find whomever has perpetrated this awful crime. Any and all of my not-inconsiderable resources are at your disposal.