Many Cones, Based On True Crime

 Mini Cones:  Ramesh Recaps Chapters 31-34Great friend of the podcast, Ramesh Unni, records his final recap of Many Cones.  Chapters 31-34 are summarized, then Ramesh concludes with some wonderful words about his brother, family, and all our lives together.

 Chapter 34 summarizes the future and past for significant characters in Many ConesMany Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.   There were eight other teens arrested. Four of them were not part of the murders. They flipped like golden brown pancakes. The other four also turned state’s witnesses, but were looking at substantial jail time. All of the high schoolers told the same story. Albert Moffit was the head of a criminal organization with far reaching tentacles. The victims picked were criminals double crossing a bigger, more powerful criminal. The aunt and uncle Ricardo Morales complained about, gave up their immediate dream of moving from the cul-de-sac to a safer place to raise children. Instead, they hired a top-notch criminal attorney to defend their nephew. Ricardo thought they were stupid for spending the money. He expected Mr. Moffit to fix everything, after the furor passed. The block parties continued. Ricardo became a legend at the gatherings. As a result of his status, his family was spared from the growing violence that prompted weekly police raids. Ricardo’s mother, debilitated by his arrest and prosecution, quickly returned to her previous occupation. Two months after his conviction, she was found dead in a dark alley. Her neck was broken, and dried semen spotted her chin and lips. Joe Crownder, drunk one night, was involved in a fender bender with some black teenagers. He pulled a missing, Police issue revolver, and shot two of them. Luckily they lived. He disappeared, and was rumored to be living somewhere in Montana. A 24x20 framed photograph of him was hung behind the bar in the “Rebel Yell.” He was toasted nightly. Margie Grenk was promoted to Lieutenant. Multiple men and women within the detective bureau had threatened to quit unless she was elevated in rank. Delores and Richard Sparne sold their house and cashed in their life savings to hire the best criminal lawyer in the state. Richard, the Kid, treated his lawyer with disdain, upset that his mouthpiece didn’t understand the power exercised by highly organized criminal enterprises. The Kid and Ricardo remained close, and defended each other during continuous jailhouse attacks. Mr. and Mrs. Sparne leased an apartment in Ray Grandisha’s building. They became friends. Ray considered them some of the finest people he had ever met. Albert Moffit was appointed the most experienced public defender in the area. Since the state was paying for everything, his attorney was able to hire expensive consultants and psychiatrists. It didn’t help. No one was able to communicate with Albert or decipher the odd language he spoke.Finally, an egghead psychiatrist with a double doctorate in Archaeology and Historical Linguistics, determined he was speaking an obscure form of Druidish Gaelic, used primarily during the ritual of human sacrifice. No one could be found to translate. 

 Chapter 33 starts Ray and Margie arriving at the Fine Time with a hero's welcome.Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.   The “Fine Time” was relatively uncrowded for a Saturday night. Word of the late morning and afternoon arrests had spread. As Ray and Margie entered the establishment, all discussion ceased. Half the patrons nodded or waved. Then everyone went back to their own problems and celebrations. Ramon raised his cocktail glass in salute as Ray passed, heading for a back table. By the time he sat, a waitress was serving his scotch. Margie was asked her preference. She requested a vodka, rocks. They settled comfortably into their chairs. Margie was served. They toasted each other, touched glasses, and took a long sip. Ray set his glass on his white napkin, and lit a Pall Mall. Margie pulled a  cigarette from her pack, which Ray also lit. He pocketed his old zippo and stared warmly at his companion. She took a deep hit, and asked, “So where’s the girl without the E?”  Ray thought for a second, realized what she was talking about, and said, “Carol Lombard!” Margie smiled at Ray’s discomfort. “Yeah. Carol Lombard. Is she working tonight?” Ray’s discomfort slowly disappeared. “No. We were together last night. I told her I would probably be busy all night. I didn’t know how lucky we were going to get or how long everything would take.” Ray was leery of sending the wrong message. He decided he was being juvenile and finished his thought. “She took the day off, and her and her mother and daughter went out of town to visit relatives.” Margie noticed the contradiction. Ray staring at her with big moony eyes, and yet telling her he was with his girlfriend last night. He was a piece of work. No wonder his relationships didn’t last long. She continued the flirtation. “Do you and her have a serious thing going?” “Yes we do. As serious as I am capable of. I seem to surround myself with experienced, understanding women. Like Carol. And like you.” Before Margie had a chance to respond, Regis Cahan walked in. Ramon pointed to Ray’s table and Regis approached the two. Ray introduced Regis to Margie, and he joined them. As he sat, the waitress served his Black Jack. Cahan held his glass high. “You guys saved her life. I can’t thank you enough. She means more to me than any person I have ever met.” He took a sip. Ray said, “We got lucky. Actually, she saved herself. How is she doing?” “She took sixteen stitches in her breast. Everything else was bumps and bruises. Nothing broken. She wanted to go home after they cleaned her up, but they’re making her spend the night. To be on the safe side.” Grandisha continued, “How’s her family handling it?” “They’re petrified. Worse off than she is. But that’s to be expected. They’re all very close. Very loving...” Regis paused, smiled, and asked, “Did she really elbow the guy?”

 Chapter 32 starts with a convoy to Albert Moffit's house.  Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.  It was almost noon under a pleasant Saturday sun, as the convoy proceeded to Albert Moffit’s house. No sirens or lights for this venture. Grandisha was driving the lead vehicle. Margie was navigating. She also wanted to make sure she had a correct understanding of what really had occurred. “My tailing job, yesterday, when I followed the Sparne Kid to Moffit’s, never occurred, right?” Ray nodded his head. “That’s correct. Nothing you did yesterday occurred. You were home, recovering.” “That’s two things I was involved in recently that never occurred. Grandisha shot a questioning glance at her, then understood. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked. Margie shook her head. “No. I thought about it because of Gina Drozler, and what those two fuckers did to her... They basically did the same thing to me. We were both naked in front of you... You saved both of us... You’re a regular knight in shining armor.” “So how come I can’t maintain a relationship?” “I can’t help you with that... I just wanted to thank you, again.” Ray smiled at her and said, “For what?” Margie laughed. “That’s right. Nothing occurred.” She sat quietly for a few minutes, then continued, “What’s gonna happen here?” “I don’t know. After you called, during your non-existent tailing job, I ran the computer on this guy. Nothing. No arrests. No problems. Just him and his wife. No kids. He’s some kind of salesman. He’s a non-entity.” “Do we rush the house, or knock and get invited in.” Margie asked. “Oh, we’ll go in gangbusters. If that’s a mistake, we can apologize, and they can sue the department. But, I don’t think it’s a mistake. This guy’s connected in a major way to those two. I just don’t know how, or why.” Margie came to attention and alerted Ray. “There it is. On the corner. That red brick house.” Grandisha parked in front of the residence. Two vehicles parked behind him, the others on the side street. It was a quiet, older neighborhood. No one was working on lawns. Moffit’s was overgrown, the others had been tended recently. They gathered at the street corner. Ray explained what he wanted done. Everyone understood. One group approached the front door, and another group the side.Albert Moffitt hadn’t moved from the divan since hurrying Sparne and Morales out the night before. Modern technology provided him with twenty four hour access to a wide range of gifted bible thumpers. He no longer understood the spoken English drawl that was spewing from the set ninety five percent of the time. But that was okay. That part wasn’t important. At some point during the night, Albert used the remote to increase the volume. It had remained blaring. Every half hour or so, a few lines of the special language, the tongues, came through clearly. He understood the sing song banter perfectly. It mostly praised him. Even when it didn’t, it still mentioned his name. 

Chapter 31 starts with Ray and Margie in pursuit of Richard Sparne and Ricardo Morales.Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive. Grandisha was nearing Gina’s neighborhood. As they sped through the city, neither he nor Margie spoke. The siren and lights caused traffic to part, allowing them to proceed unimpeded. The pressure of the hunt was spooking Margie. She finally had to say something. “If he didn’t take the card with the address, why do you think he’s going to her house?” “He didn’t ‘not’ take the card. His mother took it out of his pocket without his knowledge. When he left, he thought he had it. She’s his important thing to do this morning.” “Even so, there’s no way he’d remember the address.” Ray paused, then completed the equation. “I think he’s been there. He wrote the address down as a backup.” Margie considered the answer. Decided Grandisha was correct. Asked a new question. “How did you make the connection between ‘Lawyer’s bitch’ and the attorney you called?” “The background we got this morning on Morales. His paternity case. Regis Cahan was listed as his attorney. No other legal types mentioned for Sparne or Morales. It had to be him.” A surprised look crossed Margie’s face. Her eyes opened wide. “Your mind works like a fucking computer.” “I hope I’m wrong, but I don’t think so.” Ray began circling attractive residential streets. The siren and lights were still blazing. People working in yards stopped what they were doing and gaped at the clamoring car. Grandisha and Margie both strained their eyes reading addresses. They finally found the correct street name and were nearing the right set of numbers. Margie pointed through the windshield, excitement shading her voice, “There it is.” A quaint two story house with an attached garage loomed in their vision, like a gothic castle. Ray jerked his vehicle onto the driveway and skidded to a stop. He and Margie jumped out of the car and sprinted to the front door, amid lawn mowers competing with the squelching siren for Saturday morning dominance. The residence was too quiet. Something bad was happening. Ray didn’t waste time trying the door or knocking. He drew his gun and shot the lock. He slammed his shoulder into the hardwood, snapping the inside chains previously hooked to protect the residents. They rushed in, paused at a battered bathroom door, then ran to the source of screams and curses. 

 Mini Cones:  Ramesh Recaps Chapters 27-30Great friend of the podcast, Ramesh Unni, recaps chapters 27-30 ahead of the release of the LAST 4 chapters.  Ramesh starts with some wonderful words about the author's sister and brother-in-law.

Chapter 30 begins with Delores Sparne tiptoeing through her son's room.Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.The cul-de-sac bore witness to a party gone bad. Broken bottles and empty, crushed cans littered the pavement. Richard avoided the clutter and pulled into the driveway. He sat for ten minutes before Ricardo came out. The Kid exercised self control to keep from laying on the horn. Teenagers did that sort of thing, not made men. However, punctuality would be discussed. Ricardo entered the vehicle in a mean rush. The car door was slammed shut. Sparne backed out to the roadway and glared at his companion. “What’s the problem? I told you to be ready.”As they drove off Ricardo answered, “My uncle. He picked this morning to play daddy. Wanted to know where I go at night and what I’m doing. . Told him me and my mother would be gone from his stupid house tomorrow. I may kick his ass when we leave. Teach him some respect.” “It must be something that’s going around. My parents had a bunch of questions for me, too. I finally had to tell them to leave me the fuck alone. I may not even tell them where I’m moving to. 

Chapter 29 begins with Delores Sparne tiptoeing through her son's room.Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive. At the crack of dawn, Delores Sparne was tiptoeing around her son’s room. The elation she felt, caused by the end of the phase he was going through, stoked deep maternal instincts. Yesterday’s phone call made the sadness worthwhile. A simple “How are you doin, Mom?” and he was her baby again. She had wanted to sit by his bedside and gently stroke his brow, just as she had when he was a little boy recovering from illness. That couldn’t happen now. She convinced herself that picking up and straightening his strewn clothes was enough. As long as she was tiptoe quiet, and didn’t touch him. The room was a mess. Jeans, shirts, and socks scattered in small piles, like oversized ant hills on the sidewalk. Dog-eared school books lay stacked on his battered dresser. Crumpled papers and even a dirty dish or two that she had somehow missed. The only thing orderly in the room was the row of trophies guarding the wall abutting the bed. Best this, best that, most valuable player, time and time again. Delores smiled as she counted the individual awards. Her husband had added the ledge to the wall when they ran out of surface space. The long wooden rack was quickly filled. Echoes of his boasts saddened her a bit. “I’m gonna be a star,” she heard from deep in her heart. Now, he said it didn’t matter. Her hand was resting on his covered foot. She didn’t recall extending it. Delores indulged herself for a few more seconds and then began harvesting clothes. The crumpled, dirty togs were piled near the door. The outfit, worn yesterday by Richard, had a few more days left. Delores lifted the jeans from the floor and tried to add crease, before draping them over a chair. She felt something in the back pocket and deftly removed it. Another three by five index card. Delores squinted to read the inscription, straining the meager light from the still dim, venetian blinded bedroom. “Lawyer’s bitch,” and an address, whispered from her mouth. I have no idea in the world, what that means, she thought. The other side of the card said something about one man speaking for another. She shook her head. Kids always have their own brand of talk. I’m sure it’s important to Richard. The jeans were still folded over her arm, and as she started to replace the card, Richard turned over. His stirrings commanded her attention. Her shoulders sunk in, her chin lowered, and she bent slightly, as if becoming smaller would erase her presence. It worked. Her baby continued on in slumberland. She subconsciously deposited the card in the front pocket of her brightly flowered apron, then folded the pants over the chair. The shirt was hung across the seatback, left to unwrinkle itself. She softly tread across the room, retrieved the bundle near the door, and quietly exited. Delores was too happy to start the laundry. She opened the basement door and flung the clothes down the steps, as much of a fling as an older, somewhat frail woman was able to perform. Some pieces littered the stairs. She would get them later. 

 Mini Cones:  Ramesh Recaps Chapters 23-26Great friend of the podcast, Ramesh Unni, recaps chapters 23-26 ahead of the release of the next 4 chapters.  Ramesh starts with some wonderful words about the author's best friend.  He also played the role of his literary agent, and partially inspired Ray Grandisha.

Chapter 28 begins with Ray and team feeling pumped.  They are confident the big break is about to happen.Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive. By 8:00 A.M., the Detective Bureau was a hive of activity. The entire special team had arrived, all with the same idea. Each tiny desk was littered with white styrofoam cups, brimming with steaming black liquids and multicolored rectangular boxes of donuts. The men and women were pumped. Ray’s belief that a break would come from the publicity was infectious. He purposely allowed them to mingle, without purpose, until the meeting. They were hyping each other. No matter what happened, today would be a good work day. Grandisha remained seated in his office. He didn’t mix. The dark wooden desk was piled with information from the two massacres. His balding head barely hovered over the stacks. The stoop didn’t help. He looked busy, but was doing nothing. Waiting for time to pass until the meeting started. The plan had been reviewed in his mind, over and over again. They would start from the beginning. Go over every printed word a fifth or sixth time with an eye toward young men and teens, and brace themselves for the break. The break had to come. At approximately 8:30, Ray sauntered into the bureau, centered himself amongst Long Johns, Danishes, and Bismarks. The meeting was easy. Everyone wanted to listen, wanted to work. The constantly ringing phones didn’t disrupt. Calls were answered without an interruption of attention. Two of the men transferred the files from Ray’s desk to Ray’s side. He passed them out to the group with specific instructions. Each team had a separate road to travel, but all roads would meet at the same place. Not a lot of questions were asked. Every person was required to man the phones, in addition to everything else. The phones had been ringing since 7:30. Kooks, revenge seekers, little old ladies with too much time on their hands, and do gooders trying to help. Some with the right mix of suspects, setting, and description. Each member of the team was experienced enough to separate the wheat from the chaff. Grandisha wanted the wheat brought to him immediately. Even if it was the end of the day. The meeting lasted a half hour. The call came at 9:15. A female detective sitting one desk over from Margie was the lucky one. The caller was a person with a Spanish accent. Male. Wouldn’t leave a name. Claimed to be a student at the high school. Could have been. Sounded young. But could have been older too. Knew a student by the name of Ricardo Morales. Had heard him say “Maricon” during the last couple of years, always said it in an angry way. His best friend was Richard Sparne. A white kid. They did everything together. The last couple of months they had been acting like Al Capone and John Gotti. End of conversation. Call traced to a public pay phone. The female detective hung up the phone, stood and yelled, “I got one,” like a greedy stockbroker. She had been writing on a notepad during the conversation and waved the paper sheet in the air. The bureau quieted and watched her triumphant march to Grandisha’s office. 

 Chapter 27 begins with Gina Drozler preparing for a nice relaxing Saturday morning.Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive. Gina had promised herself a sleepy Saturday morning, but old habits prevailed. The persistent dawn shone through the bedroom’s sheer curtained windows, then raced its way to fill the dark corners. She felt the insignificant warmth of the rays somewhere deep in her comatose center, like a rosebud, poised to flower. Then the brightness drummed its presence through her fluttering, closed eyes. She stirred quietly, careful not to disturb her husband. Once fully alert, Gina listened intently for the sounds of children roaming. Satisfied all were still tightly tucked in, she soundlessly peeled back the soft sheet and wooly blanket that had held her through the night. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, stood, and stretched. She was clad in a striped white pajama top. Nothing below. Her husband wore the counterpart. They had shared nightclothes since returning from their honeymoon. The arrangement assured neither went to sleep mad or hurt. You couldn’t carry a grudge, if you had to assign bottoms and tops before retiring. It was fun, too. A fluffy, pink robe was folded over a bureau chair, two giant steps from Gina’s side of the bed. She finished shaking the sleep from her bones, and reached between the mattress and spring. She grabbed her panties and slipped them on. The hiding place became necessary when the children were old enough to burst into the room, unannounced, and wise enough to ask about underpants on the floor. Two long strides to a nearby robe, and she was sufficiently dressed to retrieve the morning papers from the cold concrete porch. The aroma of coffee filled the downstairs. Gina sat at the rustic kitchen table and read through the news, intentionally avoiding reports of “Maricon” madness. After downing four cups of black stimuli and beating a semi-tough, patternless crossword puzzle, she heard her husband stumble around, upstairs. He was a horrid morning person. His bones and muscles refused to function until properly coaxed. A hot shower usually helped. Gina removed bacon and eggs from the refrigerator, sausage links from the freezer, and pancake mix from the pantry. Within a half hour, breakfast smells chased the sweet coffee presence. When the thumping sounds of the children announced their morning excitement, she began sizzling the bacon strips. The table was set with trays of steaming food and warm plates, as the balance of the family came down the stairs. They devoured the calorie laden repast. Gina’s husband, the slow starter, was finally able to converse. “I thought you were going to lay in bed all morning? Rest your weary bones.” “I was going to, but my mind wouldn’t cooperate. When you’re wide awake, you have to get up.” George flashed a contented smile and said, “Why don’t you come with us? You’re up. No reason to stay home.” “I haven’t made myself pretty yet. You know how long that takes.” “We’ll wait. It’s Saturday. No rush. And you don’t need to make yourself pretty. You always look beautiful. Right kids?” 

 Chapter 26 begins with Ray walking into the Fine Time for a much needed night of chatter and other recreation. Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.It was Friday night, and the “Fine Time” was packed. When Ray walked in, there were no bar stools available. He spent five minutes circulating through the filled tables, greeting friends and acquaintances. Regis Cahan was in the middle of the room, seated across from an auburn haired, stunning, thirty something. They had eaten dinner in the bar area and Carol Lombard was clearing the empty plates. The auburn haired lady was clothed in a rather formal, black, tight dress, with a deep v-neck that accentuated her obvious bounty. She was somewhat overdressed for the surroundings. Cahan introduced Ray to his tempting partner. There was no hint of the conversation that never took place. Both men had learned long ago to mask worry, if you’ve done everything possible to control the problem. As Ray bent his crooked frame and reached towards the beauty, Carol said, “Baby, I’ll be done in an hour or so.” He droned, “Yes dear,” as he shook the soft, tanned hand. Regis and friend laughed at the not so subtle interruption. Grandisha noticed a space at the bar opening up. He excused himself and joined Ramon. His scotch was waiting before he climbed the stool. Ramon sensed Grandisha needed chatter. He stayed close and engaged Ray on a number of topics. The recent murders even made their way into the discussions. Ramon frequently sidled back and forth, preparing drinks for everyone. He was professional enough to continue his conversations uninterrupted. Additional spaces opened as the amateurs went home, having drank too much too soon. Within an hour of Ray’s arrival, the seats on his right and left were vacant. The slower pace of the professionals allowed Ramon more time to tend to the care of his charge. The empty stools gave them sufficient privacy to speak of more serious matters. The therapy helped. Carol Lombard sat on an empty stool next to Ray. His mood was such that the movie star shtick was repeated. She appreciated it. Ramon served her and gave Ray his third Glenlivet. Cahan and his conquest, finished with cocktails and on their way out, walked behind Carol and Ray. The beauty said, “Bye Ray.” Cahan just smiled. Ray gulped. Carol elbowed Ray. Ramon laughed out loud. When the third scotch was finished, they left. Both felt frisky. After a decent round of relations, Ray lay on his back, angled against the headboard, naked. Carol, also naked, lay on her side, against and partially on him. Her head and one breast nestled on his chest. A smallish, square, glass ashtray was positioned at the base of Ray’s sternum, on his stomach. He was inhaling a Pall Mall deep into his lungs, following the exhaled smoke as it rose, filling the room with a haze. Without lifting her head, Carol said, “A penny for your thoughts?” Ray’s laugh caused a rumble in his stomach and almost tipped the ashtray. “What did you say?” “A penny for your thoughts.” Grandisha responded, “My God. You did say that. I thought I was hearing things.” “Yeah, baby. I did say that... So... Tell me.” 

Mini Cones:  Ramesh Recaps Chapters 19-22Great friend of the podcast, Ramesh Unni, recaps chapters 19-22 ahead of the release of the next 4 chapters.  Ramesh starts with some wonderful words about an inspirational person very close to the author.  

 Chapter 25 starts with Margie heading back to the office after losing Sparne and Morales.Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.  As Margie skulked into the station after losing Sparne and Morales, she saw a man she didn’t recognize in Grandisha’s office. Ray and the man were standing behind the windowed door. Ray was gesturing, his visitor listening. Eight other members of the team remained in the bureau. All of them stopped their work and turned tired eyes towards her as she neared her desk. She snuck a peek down herself, to make sure everything was in order, like a man surreptitiously checking his zipper. One by one, each detective returned to his or her task, no longer interested in the straggler. Before sitting at her desk, Grenk asked, “Who’s the guy with the Lieutenant?” A voice from a desk abutting hers answered, “The Pisser.” Margie pulled her battered chair out and sat. A semi-understanding look framed her face. She knew who the “Pisser” was, now if she just could figure out where she was supposed to have been. Ray said to keep her activities quiet. Luckily, no one asked. Grandisha’s office door opened. The Pisser came out and stood a foot away. Ray closed the door, then yelled something. The Pisser shook his head and pointed to his ear. Ray cocked his head, opened the door a fraction, then yelled again. A thoughtful haze crossed Recker’s face. He raised his hand, cupped his fingers and stroked them back, almost nicking his cheekbone. Ray repeated the shout. The Pisser hung his head for a second, looked up, and smiled. The department had become very quiet by the second test run. All eyes were glued to the pantomime. The silence was interrupted by a surprised, “That’s it.” The other familiar noises immediately returned. Grandisha jerked the door wide open, shook Recker’s hand and pulled him back in. The Pisser was thrust into a seat. Ray stayed with him for a second, then rushed out to the middle of the detective bureau. He spoke quickly and forcefully. “I need all the media up here, right now. I want TV and radio exposure tonight, newspaper stories tomorrow morning. Drop whatever you’re doing and start contacting them. Tell them we have new information and need coverage.” Ray returned to his office, spent five minutes with Recker, then hustled him out. One of the team escorted the Pisser to his car, to prevent anyone else from talking to him. Grandisha stood in his office doorway and loudly asked Grenk to come in. The inflection contained a tinge of displeasure. Margie rose and trod through the door, like a disorderly kid entering the principal’s office. She sat, readjusted her elbow-hugging, sweater sleeves, crossed a leg and demurely cowered. Ray closed the door and returned to his desk. He saw the reserved demeanor and asked, “What’s wrong?” She hesitated, then spoke, “Well, for starters, I let a high school kid outfox me. I know that doesn’t make you too happy.” Grandisha backswept his hand in a dismissing motion. “You were out on a limb with no backup or phone, and I told you to keep me advised. You did a hell of a job, considering the situation.” Margie perked up. “Thanks... How come I got the cold shoulder from my brothers and sisters, when I first walked in?” Ray looked through the office windows at his crew. “I’m sorry, but I told them you weren’t ready yet. You were going home to regroup, maybe try it again, later. I thought it was a good cover.” 

Chapter 24 starts with Sparne and Morales heading to a certain lawyer's office. Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.  Ricardo was waiting outside. When the Kid pulled in the driveway, he entered the car. The cul-de-sac was starting to buzz. Young men and women were exiting their homes, carrying old card tables and benches. Surveying the landscape for prime locations. Sparne peered through the streaked windshield as he began to maneuver the vehicle. “Jesus Christ, what the fuck time do these parties start?” “It’s Friday. It will be packed tonight. All weekend.” Morales waved to some of the settlers. It wouldn’t hurt to maintain the old ties. “The party won’t start for two or three more hours, but these people are getting a head start. Setting things up. Staking out their claims.” The Kid became serious. “After I dropped you off, I went by Mr. Moffit’s. Nobody answered his door. I’ll bet everything is happening right now. Tonight, or tomorrow, we’re in. No more shit from nobody.” A worried presence creased Ricardo’s face. “Are we gonna hafta cut our hands and speak Italian and shit, like they do in the movies?” Richard didn’t seem concerned. “I dunno. We’ll hafta ask Mr. Moffit. Probably.” 

Chapter 23 starts Margie Grenk's return to work and Grandisha's daily meeting.Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.     Margie Grenk arrived at work early. She wanted to catch up on everything that had occurred the last few days. Not much, she discovered. The other detectives treated her with deference when she first walked in. Within a half hour, she was one of the boys. Lascivious remarks and all. The daily meeting began at 9:00am sharp. It didn’t last long. Old information was reviewed. Nothing new was added. Grandisha didn’t share the Morales file. He needed an explanation of where the information came from. One of the detectives was assigned to find a Spanish speaking officer and to run “Many cones” by him. See if maybe it was a foreign phrase. Someone from the audience quipped, “We’re reaching now aren’t we, Lieutenant.” The session ended. Ray returned to his office. Margie followed. He thought she looked good. Light weight, soft red, pull over sweater. Shiny, creased jeans. Tan cowboy boots. He eyed her suspiciously, then asked, “Are you sure you’re okay? You know you don’t have to be here. You can have more time.” “I need to be here. If I wasn’t here, I’d be sitting home, staring at walls. This is a piece of cake compared to that.” Grandisha made a snap judgment. He rose, closed the office door, returned to his seat and stared at Margie. “I have a lead. It may or may not pan out, but it’s all we have so far. I haven’t told anyone about it. I was gonna work it myself, but I could use your help. It has to be completely confidential, and no questions are asked.” Margie returned his stare. “You know how much I respect you. I’d lie under oath for you. Tell me what you want done, and it goes no further. No questions asked.” The Lieutenant gave her the name and address. “He’s a high school student, probably at school right now. I don’t know what he looks like. I need to have him followed after class. I want to know the names and addresses of everyone he hangs with and where he goes. He lives in a cul-de-sac. If he goes home, don’t follow him in. And don’t approach him. He may be very dangerous. Plus, I don’t want anyone to know we're interested.” The quick flicker of her green eyes betrayed her. She was dying to ask. Grandisha said, “Go ahead, one question.” “Ricardo Morales. Does that have anything to do with the Spanish speaking officer?” “I think it might. We’ll find out.” 

Chapter 22 starts with Regis Cahan heading to the Fine Time with a very important purpose.Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.    Cahan was early. He again sat in the middle of the horseshoe curve. His location allowed him full access to anyone entering or leaving the “Fine Time.” Someone approached him from behind the bar and asked, “What would you like, sir?” The question caught him by surprise. He stammered, “What? Where’s Ramon?” The pretender smiled and said, “He doesn’t start till seven.” Regis settled down and ordered a Black Jack. Ramon arrived before the drink was half finished. More than a few patrons looked relieved.  Grandisha walked in. Cahan did a double take. Ray was wearing a black pin striped suit. The combination of the fancy duds and his stooped appearance didn’t really mix. Unless you knew him. Before Ray settled in the bar stool, his Glenlevit was waiting. Ramon was busy, so there wasn’t a lot of banal chatter with the customers. Two or three people stopped at the bar to gab with Grandisha. The conversations usually only lasted a couple minutes. Cahan was nursing his drink. After an hour, he had only downed two. A colleague sat next to him, but quickly left after receiving terse answers to questions and comments. Regis wanted no distractions. Finally, Grandisha rose from the stool and walked to the foyer. He may have been going to the washroom. Regis laid a bill on the bar, asked Ramon if ten was enough, and started around the curve of the horseshoe. His right hand was pocketed. He stopped and dawdled where the bar straightened. Within a minute, he spied Grandisha back in the foyer. Regis continued on, towards the entrance. The two men were face to face before Ray reached his seat. Cahan extended his right hand, then said, “Ray, how have you been?” Grandisha saw the hand come out of the pocket, recognized the gesture and shook the hand before it was fully extended. He returned the greeting. “I’m fine Regis, nice to see you.” Cahan continued on, and left the establishment. The move was smoother than any maitre d’ could ever hope to achieve. Ray felt the paper enclosure, and was surprised for a half second. No trace of the brief, fleeting startle crossed his face. He climbed the bar stool and pocketed the note in one motion. Ramon’s back was turned at the time. Grandisha wondered if he would have noticed.  After five minutes, Ray excused himself again and proceeded to the washroom. The bartender watched him leave. He entered a stall, sat, and unfolded the note. “I need to talk to you in private. I’ll be outside, in the back.” Grandisha rubbed his questioning face, mumbled, “Okay,” stood, ripped the note to shreds, flushed it and returned to his station at the bar. He finished the scotch, paid Ramon, and left. The “Fine Time” had ample parking in front and on the sides of the building. The back abutted a wooded, overgrown vacant lot. A narrow sidewalk surrounded the entire structure. Previous owners had planned to pave the vacant lot, and decided they needed the rear sidewalk in place. The current owners didn’t know the back concrete strip existed. 

Chapter 21  starts with Carole Lombard and a total lack of words.Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.   Carol Lombard had no words. They were all gone. Drained out of her body with everything else. She managed to utter some mid range, feral moans, but they couldn’t be classified as words. Her arched, glistening body became limp, and she fell forward against Ray. Luckily, her breasts cushioned the contact. No one was injured. Her skin was wet and musky. She tried to say something, but her mouth was dry as hot desert air. Carol feared her tongue would stick against her palate. She closed her mouth to conserve moisture, and breathed heavily through her nostrils. She rested. After five or six seconds, a misguided dread of hyperventilation caused her to throw open her lips and gulp air. She finally settled into a rhythmic breathing pattern. Ray was stroking her back during the entire descent. Carol’s gums dampened and she made another stab at conversation. Her tongue made clicking sounds, while she performed exaggerated chewing motions to try to rid herself of the cotton that had somehow grown in her mouth. She closed up again and became quiet. At least the respiration remained normal. She tried to speak one more time and finally succeeded. “Baby, that was worth waiting for... That was memorable.” Ray, still stroking her, and trying to conquer his own pins and needles, said, “That may be the only thing I’ve done right in the last two weeks.” Carol remained on top of Ray, neither one wanting to waste additional precious energy. Both fell into a deep stupor. At some point during the night, Ray turned; Carol slid off and their bodies laid dormant, regenerating, leaning against each other. Ray awoke, eye to big round nipple. He panicked for a second, actually thought he had died and gone to heaven. After a moment, he recalled the prior night’s adventure, and rolled to his back. The stir roused Carol. She scooched closer to Ray and half mounted him again, then immediately fell back into unconsciousness. Ray let her sleep for another twenty minutes, then gently shook her. “Carol honey, I have to go to a funeral.” Carol Lombard came to her senses the fourth time Ray shook her. It took some additional focusing before she fully understood what he was saying. Finally, she asked, “Should I go with you?” Grandisha had escaped to the edge of the bed and was sitting erect. He started bending to make sure everything worked. Carol repeated the question from a prone position. Ray, still sitting, turned and answered, “No. This is a personal and department thing.” He twisted his upper torso, grimaced at the bone popping sounds, and continued, “I told you about her, her name’s Margie Grenk, you met her. She was with me and the guy I fired.” “Her husband was the one killed at the bar?” “Yes, he was. I think it would be better if I went alone.”  

 Chapter 20  starts with Regis Cahan in full swing.  The day flies by before Gina has the chance to discuss the newspaper with him.Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.    Regis Cahan was in full swing. He had an early hearing, and then planned to spend the balance of the morning and afternoon seeing clients and catching up on neglected work. Regis had woken late and rushed out of his apartment, without benefit of juice, coffee, or morning papers.  Prior to his hearing, other lawyers jockeying for position on the court’s calendar were discussing the recent slayings and newspaper accounts. His attention was on the good things he was going to say about his client, so he only half listened and absorbed nothing. Regis was able to maintain his status as the first case was called, even though two or three other lawyers concocted outrageous stories to try and leapfrog him. His presentation took a half hour. The results were as expected, and he headed back to the office. Talk of Manson type hippies roaming the dark streets dominated the radio. Cahan tired of the wild sightings being reported and found an oldies station. He caught the end of “White Rabbit” followed by “For what it’s worth.” The music and words transported him back to a more honest time. He caught a reflection of himself smiling in the rear view mirror. Jesus Christ, he thought, I’ve driven into a time warp. Manson and Grace Slick on the radio. I hope my computer still exists. By the time he parked and headed for the office, he had forgotten about his musings. The computer was still present. Gina Drozler worked for an hour and a half, prior to getting ready for her day job. She made a hearty breakfast, as she had every morning for her husband and children. A rushed shower afterwards, then dress for success. The schedule gave her a half hour to relax at the kitchen table, alone. She sucked down coffee and read the morning papers. The stories on “Zola’s” and the Donas slayings grabbed her attention. She read every word; it took her twenty minutes. Gina used the final ten minutes to put finishing touches on her appearance. She liked to look good for her boss. Nothing sexual. It was a pride thing. She tucked the morning daily under her arm, and took it to work. Gina arrived early, as always. Household chores at work too. Make coffee, clean desks and tabletops, arrange magazines in the waiting area, and turn everything on. The copy machine took five minutes to warm up. She didn’t know why, but accepted it as a fact of life. House in order, she sat at her desk and began the grind. The newspaper was behind her on the floor. 

Chapter 19  starts Delores Sparne rising early to clean her son's laundry.Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.  Richard’s mother, Delores Sparne, rose early. She was unaware of the previous night’s quasi-confrontation between her husband and son. But that didn’t matter. Her child could do no wrong. She tiptoed into Richard’s room and gathered up his pile of dirty clothes. Pausing by his dormant form, she resisted an urge to reach out and brush his tussled hair. Satisfied that his sleep was peaceful, she began her household chores. The washer and dryer were in the drab, concrete block basement of their old home. The early morning creak of her aging bones rivaled that of the open railed stairs she descended. Some day soon she wouldn’t be able to hear the steps at all over her own reverberation. Once in the basement, she emptied her basket on a dinged and dyed rectangular table. Delores separated and inspected the clothes prior to washing. Richard’s brightly colored plaid shirt and old jeans contained brown flecks that reminded her of blood stains. She knew they weren’t blood stains though, because Richard wasn’t a little boy anymore, running around the neighborhood getting banged up. Probably food and oil and grit and all the other things a young man would deal with. Delores sprinkled detergent on the shirt and tried to scrub the larger spots. She held the jeans by the waist and laid them straight across her stand. When she ran her hand across the fabric, she felt something in the back pocket. Another index card with a name and address. Richard may need this, she thought, and placed it in her apron pocket, trying at the same time to recall what she had done with the other index card. When all the clothes had passed muster, she loaded them, started the cycle, and trudged back upstairs. Halfway up, she heard a stirring in the kitchen. At the top of the stairs, she said good morning to her husband. He was standing at the counter, pouring coffee. They met in the middle of the room and hugged each other. She joined him at the table for a morning cup. He spared her his concern about their son. When Richard straggled out, he didn’t join them. Didn’t hug anyone, either. By then, Delores had forgotten about the white lined card in her apron. Later, she found its mate and put both of them on the counter, standing them against the wall near the coffee pot. She’d see them whenever she got a cup of coffee as a reminder to return them to Richard. Carol Lombard heard the alarm at seven. Her and Ray had slept in semi-fetal positions on their sides, backs facing each other. Carol’s backside extended over the midline of the bed, into Ray’s space. He was up at the third ring of the clock and curled his bent form, half on/half off the bed. His big hands went to his face and he tried to rub the sleep from his eyes. After a few seconds, he glanced over his shoulder, recognized Carol’s attractive, rounded flesh and reached over to pat the moon. Through tired lips, without moving, Carol managed a “Hey, Baby.” She didn’t hear him shower, dress, or leave. 

Mini Cones:  Ramesh Recaps Chapters 15-18Great friend of the podcast, Ramesh Unni, recaps chapters 15-18 ahead of the release of the next 4 chapters.  Ramesh starts with a story about the author, Steve Lustina, quothing the raven nevermore.

 Chapter 18  starts with Richard Sparne dropping off Richard Morales after their night at Zola's.Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.     Sparne and Morales dropped the other kid off in his quiet neighborhood. He walked across freshly mown grass and through shadows of large oak trees. A dark shape moved slowly behind an illuminated curtained window. The door opened before the other kid hit the porch. Sparne had driven away by then. Morales wanted to go home. Richard navigated the vehicle around the still lively dead end. He pulled into the driveway, and asked, “Will I have any problem getting out of here?” Ricardo glanced over towards the assemblage. The hardcores were the only ones that remained. Mostly males. “No. They won’t fuck with you. I’ll make sure they know who you are.” Sparne nodded his head and laid open the palm of his hand. “Good work tonight, man. Probably another week and we’ll be running things.” Ricardo slapped the open palm and said, “Fuckin A, man. More pussy and money than we’ve ever seen. Maybe I’ll buy these fuckers a... a ferris wheel. Set it up right in the middle.” Both laughed at the thought. Ricardo exited the vehicle, and rather than go inside, strutted through the party holdovers. He was thinking of the best way to surprise his mother with a new house. He knew it would be soon. Sparne circled the pear shaped course slowly. He sat rigid in the car, like a visiting dignitary. These crooks probably already know what happened tonight, he thought. They’re afraid to fuck with me. Good thing. Ferris wheel. Hah. That’s about all they’re good for. Play around like a bunch of bitches. Albert Moffit was sitting on one end of the divan, his wife the other. He couldn’t remember the last time they had spoken. No matter. A group of blond haired, blue eyed teenagers were on television. They were testifying about how their lives had changed since they had accepted Jesus. An oily looking moderator was issuing exaggerated sighs with each new revelation. About every ninety seconds. Moffit heard the words from the group, but they didn’t register. He was glued to the set, but not for the usual spiels. He was waiting for the special language. It was directed to him. At first, he was only able to pick up bits and pieces. Then, pow. Every syllable and gesture. Now that he understood completely, he endured hours and hours of scam, waiting for that two or three minute burst, when the sing song made sense. Told him things he had to do. Praised him for things he had done. The mediums had even mentioned him by name. Announced his fame and glory to all who could decipher the argot. The side doorbell rang. Moffit excused himself politely, got no response, and trod to his office. He admitted Sparne. Took the shotgun, returned it to its case and closet, and went back. The Kid was seated in one of the chairs fronting the desk. Albert reached his chair and sat. He allowed the mood to deepen. The Kid fidgeted. Finally Moffit said, “Were my orders carried out?” “They were carried out perfectly, Mr. Moffit. We went in at 11:00 and took everyone by surprise. No one was left standing.” Albert nodded his head solemnly, “How many?” Richard thought for a split second and said, “Three... No, I’m sorry, four. There were four people in the bar, we got 'em all.” 

 Chapter 17 starts with Margie Grenk waiting for her husband to arrive home. Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.     At midnight, Margie broke down and cried. It came all of a sudden, like a huge dam crumbling. Warning signs present, but not recognized. From nine to ten thirty, she had soaked in a lilac scented bubble bath. Then called her sister for the fourth time to make sure everything was okay with the kids. Her sister told her not to call again. First make-up, then start getting dressed. If you can call it getting dressed. Red, frilly, almost see through, silk bra. As she snapped it in place and scanned the reflection in the mirror, she thought, I should have bought a push-up bra. Goddamn men, why do they have to make such a big deal over stupid lumps of skin. Still, they are nice and pert. Slowly slip on the crimson garter belt. Next, same color and material panties. As she scanned again, she half blushed at the obvious dark imprint of her black, matted pubic hair. Then, nude nylons and black high heels. Scan, once again. My God, I look like a hooker. She smiled at her reflection. But a goddamn world class hooker. Jay honey, you deserve this. She was glad she didn’t tell him about her little masquerade. He would fall on his knees when he saw the goods. The grin turned to a frown, as she realized she’d have to wait idly in the house for another fifteen minutes, in her heels. Well, at least it will add definition to my legs. Satisfied with the undergarments, she donned a sheer white, voile peignoir. Costume complete, she returned to the mirror one more time. She waved goodbye to herself, as she left to pine for her absent knight. Margie took a chilled bottle of a mid range claret from the refrigerator, and opened it with a winged corkscrew. She poured herself a glass, and put the bottle in an ice bucket on the dining room table. ‘To breathe,” she laughed to herself. When buying the wine, Margie had second thoughts about plying her husband, but decided he was getting it under control. One bottle of good wine between two people wasn’t really drinking, anyway. It was healthy. Margie paired her wine with a Frank Sinatra album. She stood, took a sip of wine, and tried to figure out where a person, dressed or undressed as she was, would sit. Dining room chair or couch? Dining room chair was out, she decided. The prostitute’s union would picket my house, if they saw me in a dining room chair. That left the couch. She eased onto the soft cushions, careful not to spill the wine, and wondered if there was a lady-like way to rise when the time came. The first glass was polished off by 11:15. She leaned forward, watched her pert breasts rub against her knees, and struggled to rise from the soft concave of the couch. Christ, that won’t do. I wonder if my tits hit my knees every time I get up. I’ll have to pay better attention next time I’m fully clothed. 

Chapter 16  starts with a 911 call routed to Ray Grandisha.Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.     Grandisha had put in a full day and night. His gnarled knuckles were still sore from hitting Crownder. The violent streak he had worked so hard to control had reminded him that it still lurked somewhere in the recesses. Deep down like a painful childhood memory, but always there. He was no closer to figuring out who did what and why to the Donas’s, and that made his whole body sore. Ray had cleared the top of his desk and was getting ready to leave when the call came in through his direct office line. The 911 operator was smart enough to recognize the similarity, and routed the call directly to him. The news stunned him. It shouldn’t have. He knew something was going to happen again. Just not when. Just not this quickly. Ray called everyone involved in the Donas investigation and arranged for them to meet at the scene. Except Margie Grenk. She needed to get laid. And except for Crownder. He was out. Four bodies this time. Fuck. Driving down the boulevard, he picked up the strobe effect of the Mars lights about six blocks from the scene. Twentieth century’s Delphi. The oracle of sadness. As he neared the location, a bar called Zola’s, the squad cars came into view. Two black and whites. Both parked on the avenue in front of the establishment. Ray slowed and stopped as he reached the tavern. Then jerked his vehicle up and over the curb, blocking the sidewalk, front fender facing a sterile parking lot. Two cars were still on the grounds, angled against the building. Four uniformed officers were guarding the two entrances. They had checked for signs of life inside. Found none. They were trained to avoid the possibility of tainting evidence and followed their instructions perfectly. Higher ups and professionals would do the sifting and marking. Ray noticed a man, looking to be in his late forties, sitting in a police car, directly across from the bar’s front entrance. Must be the phone call. Grandisha questioned a uniformed policeman near the front door and verified the man’s identity. Then briefly heard the quick, sad story, from the same officer. The Lieutenant entered the vehicle. “Sir, my name is Ray Grandisha. I’m a detective and I will be investigating this case. I want to talk to you, but I have to go in the bar first. I have to see it for myself, then ask you some questions. Are you okay sitting here?” Donald replied, “I won’t go back in there.” Grandisha turned in the seat. “You don’t have to go back in.” Even though no response was forthcoming, Grandisha knew the man understood. He exited the vehicle. Grandisha spoke to one of the uniformed officers again. He wanted a mental picture of where everything was, before he entered the building. Apprised of body location, he decided to go in the side door. The parking lot was unpaved and rutted with desert hued, hard, small mounds. As he carefully took his first step, he heard other vehicles arriving. 

Chapter 15 starts with Richard Sparne loading his father's trunk with shotguns. Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.     The Kid placed the shotguns in the trunk of his father’s car, next to Moffit’s. His parents were in the house, watching television, unaware of his activities. Outside it was dark, so he didn’t have to sneak around. He checked his back pocket to make sure he had the index card, then left to pick up Ricardo. There was a party going on. Fifteen Hispanic males eyed the white kid behind the wheel, viciously. Alcohol, drugs, and ethnic posturing intensified the confrontational craving of the young men. Sparne slowly skirted the outer perimeter of the pear shaped dead end. Enough good vibes remained, from the balance of the revelers, to prevent any overt displays of hatred towards the intruder. When Richard pulled into the Morales driveway, all cold stares returned to warmer pursuits. The Kid sat and watched as Ricardo, standing in the doorway, hugged his mother. He held her hand, said something, and then came towards the car. Once he was in the vehicle, Sparne navigated his way back around the festivities. Richard asked, “Are these parties any good?” Ricardo answered, “They used to be.” They drove to a third teenager’s home. A friend of Ricardo’s. He had been with them at the pimp’s apartment. Both agreed he was an up and coming soldier. Plus, he was the only other kid in the group who had ever fired a shotgun. The third kid lived on a quiet residential street ten minutes from Ricardo. Sparne parked on the street. Morales walked to the front door, chatted for a second with parents, and returned with a baby faced, cold blooded killer. When the two entered the vehicle, the dome light shone on Richard, holding the index card in his hand. He had read the address again, and hunched forward to return the card to his back pocket. Ricardo asked if he knew where “Zola’s” was located. The Kid said, “Yep.” Once the card was pocketed, they were on their way. The two more important participants talked about how this hit would finally get the message out to their underlings. The third teen sat in awe, listening, thankful to be associated with these two obviously important men. “Zola’s” was the second structure from the end of the block. It was a long rectangular building with a short side facing a fairly busy, four lane boulevard. A large picture window, framing the busy street, contained a bright neon sign that nightly announced its existence. Between the establishment and a third business, an empty lot loomed. It was covered by hardpan clay, severely rutted. A large notice, painted on the long side of the rectangle, warned that only patrons of “Zola’s” could park in the lot. There was an entrance at the corner of the bar, facing the boulevard, and a back door, of sorts, in the middle of the painted warning. The private parking lot was reached through an alley, which ran the length of the block, behind the establishments. Patrons usually angled their vehicles against the side of the building. Sometimes cars reached the lot by jumping over the curb and sidewalk from the boulevard, but not often. A long, shiny, mahogany bar ran from the middle of the picture window, half way back through the structure. Cheap, cushioned, bar stools, with no backs, stood at attention under a curved wooden lip. Behind the bar, rows and rows of various elixirs basked in the refracted glow of dim overhead lights. 

Great friend of the podcast, Ramesh Unni, recaps chapters 11-14 ahead of the release of the next 4 chapters.  Ramesh starts with a story about the author, Steve Lustina. 

 Chapter 14  starts with Richard Grandisha waking in a surly mood after drinking too much the night before. Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.    The morning broke overcast. Grandisha woke in a surly mood. He had drank too much and there were blackout patches he had trouble recalling. Maybe he should quit drinking? Then what? He couldn’t come up with an acceptable answer. Well, I can’t quit drinking then, he thought. Have to get some control back though. He remained flat on his back, in bed. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a red rectangle. Good. A lazy arm reached over, shook a Pall Mall out and placed it to his lips. The arm went back for the Zippo. He lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply and coughed heavily. Jesus Christ, next I’ll have to quit smoking, too. Once over the spasm, he felt better. He leaned on an elbow, found an ashtray, laid back again, and finished his smoke. Grandisha thought about Margie. A seriously, seriously vulnerable friend. Breaking her ass to do a good job at home and at work, she was too good a person to be saddled with an alcoholic. Hopefully her husband would straighten out. Things had to start falling her way. He could solve the Crownder problem and he would, today. Maybe the other thing would work out, too. He’d give her whatever help he could. Thinking about her lifted his spirits. Good. A reason to get up and face everything, again. Ray did all the bathroom things and went for breakfast, then to work. The first item on the agenda was to meet, en masse, with all the investigators, again. Nothing new. Everything was reviewed for the umpteenth time plus one. Every piece of information discussed, even those highlighted and explained. Theories put forward. From Asian drug lords to Zodiacal bayers on the moon. Nothing. Ray was running out of fresh ideas to pursue. He gave the group another pep talk, more for himself than them. Assured everyone that sooner or later the team would solve the case. He had his doubts, but no one saw them. Crownder was not present. Margie was. Clad in a knee length, dark skirt, white blouse, and a man’s black vest. Preppy cute was the thought that flashed in Ray’s mind. He couldn’t believe the next idea forming. Bubbly. She was bubbly. Christ, he’d never thought of anyone as bubbly before. Sitting in the crowd of investigators, ten yards or so from Ray, Margie’s cracked lip was unrecognizable to him. She must have been a master cosmetician. Her co-workers were unaware of the prior night’s events. The make-up job kept them from quick double takes and gossipy whispers. No one noticed the damage. The meeting broke up and people scurried to pursue their individual tasks. Grandisha thought the morale was still good. He collected his information and returned to his office. Margie followed him. Ray sunk his old bones behind his desk. Margie brightened the drab room. Picked up Grandisha’s spirits, again. Being closer to her, he noticed the powder job on the corner of her mouth. The lip was cracked, but covered by the natural shape of her grin. You had to know what you were looking for to recognize the disguised injury. 

Chapter 13  starts with a commotion outside Regis Cahan's office.Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.Regis Cahan was distracted by a commotion outside of his private office. He was with a client. The client looked askance at him. A silence developed between the two as the external noise overtook their matters. Cahan said, “Excuse me,” left his desk and casually rushed to the reception area. He closed the door behind him, ensuring separation between the inner and outer sanctums.  As Cahan neared his secretary, he heard, “I don’t have time for your shit, I want to see him right now.” The speaker was a stocky Hispanic teen trying to maintain a threatening glare towards the petite, well endowed curator of Cahan’s office. She was not cowering. He looked bullyish and juvenile.  “What is your problem?” Cahan demanded. In a voice and attitude that quieted even Ricardo Morales. For a moment, anyway.  “I have an appointment to see you. Now. I don’t even want to be here but this stupid bitch called me...”   Regis immediately jumped in, “Stop it! That’s enough!” The volume and intensity of his voice shook all parties, even Regis. His hands were at his sides and he resisted raising them for fear of trembling. In the same voice, he yelled again, “Sit down and shut up. Don’t say another fucking word to or about this lady.” He had somehow calmed the shakes. A split second occurrence. When he pointed at his secretary, the aim was true and still.  “I am with someone. When I finish, I will see you. We will conclude our business; if I hear another fucking sound from out here, I will throw your ass in jail. Do you understand me?”  Morales snarled “Yes, I understand you.”  “Good.” Cahan looked at his secretary as he said good and continued, “I apologize for the demeaning language. I can assure you it will not occur again.” He turned and stared at Ricardo, who shrank perceptively into his chair. Cahan maintained his stance for a few seconds, and when he was satisfied that his secretary was in no danger, returned to his abandoned client.      

Chapter 12  starts with Ray Grandisha and Ramon discussing the relative value of the prevent defense.Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.    As Albert Moffit was receiving his latest revelation, Grandisha and Ramon were chatting at the bar. Ray had been in the “Fine Time” for close to three hours. He was working on his fifth drink. After the third serving, Ramon started cutting back the Glenlivet ratio. It was going to be a long night. They were discussing everything imaginable, except crimes and criminals. Ramon mostly listened.  Grandisha had started the day early. He had planned to review each piece of evidence and information. For the umpteenth time. Half way through, he realized everything was already committed to memory. He was wasting his time on a rote exercise.  Something was there, some clue or hint, it just had to be discovered and cultivated. Ray closed the Donas file and spent the balance of his working day trying to answer the question he knew was important. Why would strangers intentionally butcher two people, and then search their home?  The only answer he could come up with was that someone sent them. But that led to another question. Wouldn’t that someone tell the strangers two people lived in the residence? The conundrums had sapped Ray’s reasoning and investigative powers. He hoped the scotch and idle banter would cleanse the slate and give him a new perspective. At least there were no new massacres. Yet. He doubted this was a one time slaughter. Margie had arrived at work sans police uniform. Instead, old jeans, off white, medium weight sweater, and worn, navy blue, wool sports coat. When Ray shot her a questioning look, she said she would tell him later. He wasn’t worried; her spirits seemed high.Grandisha sent Margie and Joe Crownder back to the apartment complex. One more time. Talk to people again. Go door to door. Find residents that hadn’t been interviewed before. Maybe concentrate on other buildings in the complex.  The two detectives spent the entire day chasing shadows. As they were preparing to leave, empty handed, they came upon two middle aged tramps, dressed and reeking accordingly, trying to peer in the Donas picture window. Margie wanted to send them on their way. Joe, treating them like Leopold and Loeb, insisted on bringing them in for questioning. He arrogantly reminded Margie about criminals returning to the scene of the crime. She relented, to prevent a scene at the scene of the crime.  Late in the afternoon, Grenk and Crownder arrived back at the office, Bonnie and Clyde in tow, just as Ray was preparing to leave. He stayed for an extra hour. Margie’s spirits had fallen, noticeably. She explained her position to Ray, Joe his. Although he silently agreed with Margie’s objection to hassling the two, he told them to question the bums, run prints, and if nothing developed, no warrants or prior related convictions showed up, to release them. Crownder sneered smugly.  

 Chapter 11 starts with Albert Moffit and his wife enjoying some televangelism.  Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.    Albert Moffit had been standing behind his wife for some time. She was seated in the corner of an old, brightly speckled divan. Her body countervailed the life colors. She sat straight, as if at attention.  On the tube, a slick haired gentleman with a southern accent was squinting baby blues, and acknowledging invalids across the television world; he had been alerted by God and was listing out each malady. Every so often he mentioned a first name and offered comfort. God would not alert him to the pain and suffering without first making sure the victims were watching television.  The silver tongue sat, laid his hands on a dark brown, ornate volume of something or other. He pushed himself ramrod sharp, shoulders hunched, eyes closed with obvious effort, and began intoning. “Bless me Father . ..” Suddenly he seized up, began shuddering, slowed the tics and shook his head from side to side. Eyes still tightly shut. While rotating his head, he spewed sing-song, enclitic homonyms. Melodic nonsense.  Just as quickly as the tongues came, they vanished. The proud medium settled into himself, calm, all smiles. He opened his eyes slowly, and in a Mr. Roger’s voice, said, “That was God. God has a special message for... “  When his wife began her vigil to huckster divinity, Moffit used to openly laugh at the scam. That was some years ago.  His actions drove his wife further into herself. In the beginning, she would argue with Albert. Explain her interest and attachment as relaxation. Then she stopped listening to Albert. He stopped reacting, stopped laughing, stopped speaking to her.  Now the Divine Presentations engendered no responses in Moffit. He stood slack-jawed, unfocused, and allowed the rantings to enter his consciousness, without apparent recognition.  As the preacher was quoting, “A special message for...”  Moffit heard a heavy rapping on his office door. He left the front room. Did not consider that he would never learn the recipient of that special message. His wife never acknowledged that he was standing close enough to reach out and touch.  Albert opened the door. Richard Sparne strutted in, as self important men often do. He remained standing until Moffit extended an arm, indicating a chair.  The Kid appreciated his own sense of comfort in the presence of power. He ached to continue impressing and bypassed pleasantries. “I’m in the process of recruiting some girls for our stables.”  Moffit feigned interest, not sure if he followed the Kid’s lead in. “Tell me about it.” “There’s a ton of good looking bitches in my school. I figure if we start them young enough, they’ll bring top dollar on the market.”  Moffit was still not certain which market the Kid was talking about. He sat without comment.  

Great friend of the podcast, Ramesh Unni, recaps chapters 6-10 ahead of the Monday release of the next 4 chapters.  Ramesh starts with a story about the author, Steve Lustina.

In chapter 10,  we see Ricardo Morales enjoying his reflection in the mirror.  He then goes into a description of his neighborhood. He lives in a home with his family in a poor neighborhood, but a step up from where he came from three years ago. Ricardo reflects on how he considers his mother a Saint. Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.   Ricardo Morales was enjoying his reflection in the mirror.  His arms were extended, hands elapsed in front of his belt line, in body builder fashion. His shirt was off. He was flexing his pecs and turning slightly from side to side. People called him stocky. It’s not stocky, he thought, it’s barrel chested. It’s muscular.  The noise outside his window was increasing and it broke his concentration. He went to the window and peered out. A group of at least sixty people filled the blacktop area abutting his residence; men, women, boys and girls prancing, dancing, and romancing. Four boomboxes played dueling Spanish stations. Although it was only early evening, the party atmosphere had already begun.  Ricardo lived in the middle house of a cul-de-sac. His aunt and uncle owned the home. He and his mother had resided in the dwelling for the last three years. They shared the upstairs converted attic/bedroom.  Their respective beds adorned walls on opposite sides of the unfinished room. The flat was frigid in the winter and sweltering in the summer. The structure was small but a lifetime better than where Ricardo and his mother had escaped from.  The neighborhood party developed every weekend night and once or twice during the week. The dead end was a perfect place for the revelers to assemble. Hidden from prying official eyes and yet out in the open. Alcohol and drugs were plentiful.  Sex was a macho peacock strut away. Arguments occurred at each gathering, usually late at night, but bloodletting fights and injuries were rare, invariably engendered by a slur or slight to someone’s pride.  Ricardo had revered the revelry. Posturing, drinking, toking, flirting, boasting, fighting; everything that was important. His aunt and uncle had never attended the bashes and that angered him. They were normal people; they should have enjoyed themselves.  At first, Ricardo prodded them to take part in the festivities. The excuse always given was that they were too tired from work. When the activities were in full swing, their two young children were not allowed outdoors. Ricardo finally came to the conclusion that they believed themselves too good to attend. Fuck ‘em, he had decided. Who needed ‘em?  Ricardo’s mother never attended, never mixed with the crowd, but that didn’t surprise him. She was a saint. Even though they had very little, oftentimes nothing, she devoted every second of her time and energy to her little boy.  About a month earlier, Ricardo abruptly stopped attending the gatherings. His friend, Richard Sparne, had shown him the error of his ways. Sparne introduced him to Mr. Albert Moffit.  Mr. Moffit introduced him to the possibility of becoming wealthy.  Once he recognized the opportunities that were his for his taking, he realized that the people at the party were never going to amount to anything. They had no jobs, no aspirations, no chance to succeed. The drinking, drugs, and sex made the failures easier to accept, but in the morning, the failures still greeted you. Ricardo no longer courted failure. He had become an important man and very soon would be wealthy. Then he would care for his mother.  

Chapter nine opens with Richard Sparne arguing with his parents, again. His growing agitation and anger are apparent.   He tells his parents that he is done with basketball,  and doing more important things with his life now.   He went to get his girlfriend, Bobby, with  the intention of being aggressive sexually.  Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.Richard Sparne was in the middle of his fourth argument of the week with his parents. He didn’t remember the reasons for the first three. This one was about him being out late every night. Not having dinner with them. Not doing homework. Plus, the idiot basketball coach had called. No Richard in the gym for a long time.His father wanted to know what in the hell was going on. Richard was tempted to tell them about his good fortune, but he decided against it. They wouldn’t understand. Besides, he was getting a little pissed about their prying. They were all seated around the kitchen table. It was an older house, well built, and the room was quite large. The table was an old, reddish-brown mahogany relic. It had belonged to Richard’s maternal grandparents. As far back as Richard could remember, it has always been there. It sat four comfortable and could accommodate eight if the leaf was inserted.As a child, Richard had tried to carve his initials into the tabletop, but the wood was too hard. Then anyway. He thought about getting a knife, carving, “Fuck you” into the wood and just walking out. He had no doubt about his ability to conquer that table now.While his parents were talking, he realized he was staring through them, looking at his drab surroundings. As a youngster, he relished the aromas wafting from his mother’s creations on the big white thing that spit blue fire and made everything taste great. It was a fucking old stove. In fact, all of these things were old; refrigerator, dishwasher, cabinets. His parents.Richard was jarred by his father’s open palm slapping the table. “Are you listening to us?”“What?” Of course, I’m listening,” he rudely answered.The father tempered his voice. “Why aren’t you shooting in the gym, anymore?”The Kid replied, in a provocative tone, “For what?”“I thought you were going to walk on, in college?”Richard was shaking his head and said, “No. That’s over with. I have more important things to do. I was stupid to waste all my time.”All emotion and animation drained from his father’s face. He seemed to get smaller. In an almost beaten, cracking voice he asked, “What more important things do you have to do?”Richard pushed himself away from the table. As he was standing, he said, “You wouldn’t understand.”He slid his chair back to the table.  Richard rested his hands on the dark, curved decorations at the top of the chair back. “I have to go. Don’t wait up for me.” He turned and walked out, confident that in a short time, he wouldn’t be coming back at all.His parents sat at the table for another hour. Neither of them spoke.

Chapter eight starts a week after the murders.  Grandisha still has no leads  other than the estimated timeline of the murder and that it was likely 3 to 5 perpetrators.  John Lupico confirmed that Mrs. Donas' murder included a beating and that she was carrying an early pregnancy.Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.A week had elapsed and the Police were no closer to knowing what had happened than they were the night of the murders. Grandisha had read, re-read, and re-re-read all of the accumulated information. Nothing jumped out. Nothing waved a flag. Nothing out of place or odd. Ray had met with his team of investigators daily. No progress. Witnesses’ stories had changed a bit, but that was normal. After four follow up interviews, Crownder and Grenk were finally able to wheedle a time frame for the knock from the people across the hall. Mr. Throne King remembered the show he was watching when the rap occurred and the phone rang. The timing fit with the telephone records from the restaurant call made by the Pranets. Mrs. Throne King was positive that only one person knocked on the Donas’ door. She claimed it was impossible for more than one person to come down the stairs without her hearing a clamor. Forensics had fingerprint and shoe print evidence confirming that three to five people were involved. They also believed that Jim Donas was killed, the apartment was in the process of being ransacked, and then Sue Donas was brutally murdered. The evidence and clues in the bathroom verified her presence within a short time prior to her death. Big deal, Grandisha thought. I knew that a week ago. Tell me something I don’t know. John Lupico had completed the autopsies. Mr. Donas had died almost immediately from the deep stomach wound. The other slashes and gashes were an afterthought. Mrs. Donas had taken longer to die. She had been pummeled in addition to being stabbed. Someone enjoyed hurting her. There was no evidence of rape or molestation though. Lupico believed the injuries to the breasts were simple slash wounds rather than erotic deviancy. She was also three weeks pregnant. Grandisha was meeting with the Pranets later in the day; he would have to tell them about the pregnancy. Margie Grenk tapped on Ray’s door, interrupting his deliberation. “You wanted to see me?” The Lieutenant snapped to attention and said, “Margie, yes. Please come in.” She was dressed in her police uniform. The dark blue cloth and black leather/silver steel combination gave her a mistress/pixie look. Ray didn’t know whether to submit or to flirt. As she sat, he asked her, “Why the outfit? I thought all the years of hard work were primarily so you didn’t have to don the garb?” Margie took a breath and decided to be truthful with him. “It’s a home thing.” Grandisha knew what she was talking about. He sensed a strong need for conversation and decided to act on it. “What are you gonna do, arrest him?” She laughed. “I probably should. No, I read in a women’s magazine that authoritative clothes reinforce critical problem solving. When we have our heart-to-hearts, I’ve been wearing this. Trying to convince him that he has to stop what he’s doing and get some help.” Ray maintained an invested look throughout her explanation. “Has it worked?” 

Chapter seven opens from Regis Cahan's perspective.  He is talking to his secretary about work and then mentions Ricardo Morales.  Cahan was surprised to learn that the normally respectful Morales was rude to his secretary  and referred to the pregnant woman using profanity.Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.   Regis Cahan watched Ray walk out of the “Fine Time.” Good man, he thought. Regis’ secretary, Gina Drozler, noticed his far away stare. She waited a few brief moments and decided it was time to reclaim his attention. Regis was seated directly across from her. A small table, containing ashtrays and a cantaloupe shaped candle holder, between them. Theirs was beige, although each table sported a different color. The secretary tilted sideways, like a deadpan clown, waived her hand and said, “Remember me?” Cahan’s reverie was interrupted by his secretary’s out of focus face and hands. He snapped back to his bearings. “Sorry, I spaced out for a second there.” He was an imposing man. Tall and well defined. He played handball three times a week to keep the body fat off. For a man too close to fifty, Cahan still caused hearts of all ages to flutter. He had a classic, square jawed face, what appeared to be deep, black eyes and a ready smile. Regis had learned during the sixties and early seventies that long hair, if maintained, made the big girls cry. It looked good on him, as it usually does on men of height. The secretary returned to her normal posture. She asked, “What were you staring at?” Regis recentered his attention to her. “I Saw Ray Grandisha leaving. Remember the guy I waved to, when we walked in?” Gina shook her head. “No. I didn’t see you wave at anyone. I was in front of you. The name sounds familiar, though. Who is he?” “A cop. I’ve had three or four cases with him.” “How’d you do?” Gina asked. Regis puckered and stretched his shoulders slightly. “Won some, lost some.” A barmaid approached the table and politely asked, “Another Black Jack, Regis?” He said, “Yes, please.” The waitress looked at his companion, without uttering a sound. Gina, mildly put off, said, “One more vodka and Seven-Up, please.” The waitress dryly said, “Okay honey.” As the server was leaving, Gina followed her approach to the bar. Then returned her stare to Cahan. “Geez, it’s nice to be remembered. She’s waited on me twenty times and doesn’t know what I drink. She can repeat your Black Jack in her sleep... Are you fucking her?” Regis chuckled. “No. I’m not. But most of the girls here are very protective of their male patrons. She probably thinks I’m fucking you.” The secretary giggled softly. “My husband would frown on that. He likes the fact that he’s the only man I’ve ever been with.”Regis tilted his glass in her direction. “He’s a lucky man to have you. I envy your relationship and your family. And you can type.” 

In chapter six, Ray Grandisha dissects his approach to the crime scene. Despite the thoroughness of his approach, Grandisha noted that he would likely find nothing unless they caught a break.  His interview with the Pranets, similarly, led nowhere.  Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.  Lieutenant Grandisha was in charge of the murder investigation. The morning following the grisly discovery, he assembled eight men and two women. They formed the team that would sift through the commonplace bits of life from a violated apartment. Statements would be taken from people who may have seen something or may know something. Sophisticated tests would be run to see if inanimate objects had stories to tell. Freaks on the street would be questioned; the street usually knew when weird things were going down. Fingerprints lifted from the complex would be compared to millions of others for matching ridges and swirls. All of the information would be squeezed, sifted, shaken, and inverted; hopefully an answer would pop out. In the end, it was usually a lucky break, somewhere, that would make sense out of everything. Ray sent a male/female team back to the apartment complex to follow up with witnesses and statements. Neighbors were questioned the night of the bloodshed, but since no one admitted seeing strangers or known persons, entering or leaving the Donas flat, in-depth interrogation was continued. A team was sent back to the apartment to re-sweep the personal belongings. Sometimes answers came from checkbooks, personal phonebooks, diaries, letters, or phone bills. Two detectives set about checking the work associates and employment histories of Jim and Sue Donas. Two more were responsible for the financial affairs of the family and all related avenues. The remaining staff was office bound. Their charge was to accumulate, correlate, file, run computer printouts, and do whatever else was necessary. Ray began his first day of the investigation by interviewing the Pranets and meeting with John Lupico. Jules and Liz Pranet, unfortunately, had no information that could justify the massacre. The Donas’ were everyday people. Average amount of vices. They drank, periodically smoked a joint, went to work every day, spent more than they should have, but nothing out of line, liked to have a good time, argued now and then, and loved each other. Lately, Sue had been talking about having children. No girlfriends, boyfriends, bent friends, juice loan collectors, pushers, bookies, closet skeletons, extreme political, sexual, religious, or racial affiliations. No stalkers, stalkees, disagreements, bitter neighbors, ex-spouses, or unpaid parking tickets. No reasons for someone to butcher them. Their dinner date had been set up three or four days in advance. No special occasion, they often went out together. Sue picked the restaurant. It was her favorite location. She was notoriously late; waiting for her, for a half hour or forty-five minutes, was not uncommon. There was a rude waiter that could verify their hour-long stall. Even though the Pranets weren’t suspects, Ray would send someone out to double check. 

Great friend of the podcast, Ramesh Unni, recaps chapters 1-5 ahead of the Monday release of the next 5 chapters.

Chapter five begins with the scene of Richard Sparne and his friends returning to the home of Albert Moffett.   After executing the Donases,  we hear Richard Sparne and his friends like Ricardo Morales describe the Donases as a pimp and hooker, and we see how they saw them as part of the problem that Albert Moffitt was trying to get rid of. Richard Sparne quits his basketball team and essentially dedicates his life to carrying out the desires of Albert Moffit.  Thanks for listening so far. And I hope you enjoy the rest of many cones.  Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.   A desperate clamor against his side entrance door interrupted Albert’s conversion. He returned to the office and admitted the visitors. Sparne and his friends straggled in. The Kid had blood all over himself. He had tried to wipe his face on his clothes. The cleansing attempt resulted in what resembled tribal war paint across his face. The other ones had red streaks on various body parts and clothing areas, but nothing close to Richard. Moffit coldly eyed the group. “Don’t sit or touch anything. Where are the knives?” Ricardo Morales said, “In the car.” “Go get them,” Moffit ordered. The well-built boy left and quickly returned with the knives. Moffit took them. “I’m going to clean these in the kitchen. Use my office bathroom and clean yourselves up. Don’t make a mess. Check each other and make sure you’re wiped down. I don’t want blood on anything in here.” Albert went into his residence. Since his wife had retired for the night, he didn’t need to worry about hiding things. At the sink he washed the knives by hand, and then put them in the dishwasher. He pressed the necessary buttons to start the cycle. When Moffit returned to his office, his group of young men was still in the process of wiping and removing blood. It took an additional ten minutes for each of them to complete the task. Everyone finally sat. The Kid was closest to Moffit’s desk. Albert remained quiet. Each of the young men appeared excited, like twelve or thirteen-year-old boys spying on naked breasts for the first time. Richard reached in his pocket, withdrew one hundred seventy-two dollars and laid it on Moffit’s desk. Sparne said, “Now the bastards will know things are going to change.” “Any problems?” Moffit asked. “None. That guy learned his lesson real quick... Guess what? One of his bitches was there. She walked out of the bathroom, naked. Good looking bitch. Nice tits. I’ll bet she made a ton a money for him.” “What happened to her?” “She strutted out of the bathroom, like a peacock. When she saw us and saw her pimp lying on the floor, she just stood there and stared. Didn’t even try to cover her tits or anything.” 

 Chapter four introduces us to Albert Moffit. At first glance, Mr. Moffit is very vanilla. He is nondescript and lives a boring life.  However, we learn that Albert Moffit is delusional and convinced that he has been chosen to become a crime boss.  He crosses paths with Richard Sparne in a chance meeting at the high school.   Albert Moffit convinces the young man of his delusion. Richard Sparne and a group of his friends decide to become the mercenaries of Mr. Moffit.  Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.  About a half hour before Jules Pranet was stiffing the rude waiter, Richard Sparne and his friends were leaving Albert Moffit’s home based sales agency. Moffit sold everything from credit card swipe machines to bulk sausage. He lived, with his wife, in a quiet residential area on the east side of the city. Two-bedroom, red brick home on the corner of the street. Front door entrance in the center of the house, facing the street. Side walk leading to a porch with four concrete steps. Big oak tree in the center of the lawn and midsized tulips under the picture window. Lilac bushes on the sides of the house and a green hedge-rowed back yard. A side entrance led directly to Albert’s office. He and his wife had no children and few friends. The recent influx of youthful visitors should have caused the neighborhood to gossip, but no tongues wagged. Albert earned a median income and had his entire adult working life. His wife was never employed and for the last five or six years devoted her entire day and early evening to watching televangelists. She was a sucker for every pitch. Albert had suspended her check writing authority, but she still made telephone pledges. Their thirty-third wedding anniversary passed with neither of them remembering. Albert was non-descript. His wife was frumpy. She had once been attractive, but Albert never thought about that anymore. Hadn’t for years. Mrs. Moffit should have noticed the increase in traffic to her husband’s office, and she probably did. Too many years of not caring prohibited her from commenting about all the kids coming to their home. No police computers contained Albert Moffit’s name. He had never been in trouble, paid his bills on time, drove his car like an aged rectory housekeeper, and seldom drank more than one or two alcoholic beverages. One day, about two months shy of his thirty-third wedding anniversary, God, or someone, or something, contacted Albert and told him he was the heir apparent to all of organized crime’s activities in his geographic locale. No five families, no commission, just him. Albert had always suspected that a traitorous ancestor, somewhere, had removed the vowels from the end of his name and this communiqué sated his suspicions. He was primed to assume his rightful position. First, those under him, the people who enjoyed the illegal profits from his protection, had to be taught a lesson. No one was honoring his position. No one was paying tribute to him. That had to change. Once the awesome and vengeful power of his rule was recognized, everyone would cower at the mention of the name, Albert Moffit. Richard Sparne and a number of Sparne’s acquaintances became Moffit’s terrible scepter. 

In chapter three, we are introduced to the fine time, a bar frequented by law enforcement lawyers and politicians.  We meet Carole Lombard, Ray Grandisha's girlfriend, as he turns to the comforts of smoke and drink after leaving the crime scene.  Carol is a waitress at the fine time.   At the end of the chapter, Ray Grandisha again reflects on the sense of evil that he felt at the crime scene.  Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.  The drive to the “Fine Time” took thirty minutes. The bar was a drinker’s joint. Waitresses and bartenders knew your name, but left you alone to imbibe, if that was your pressing desire. Detectives, lawyers, politicians, and judges populated the place. Professional drinkers. Twenty-seven stools fronting a three-quarter horseshoe bar. Twenty tables providing seating if you weren’t drinking alone. Nice atmosphere. Conducive to curing what ailed you. For a night, anyway.  Ray Grandisha sat at the bar. It was after midnight and only about thirty patrons remained. Grandisha knew half of them and acknowledgements were exchanged. Ramon, the bartender, served Ray his scotch. No words, just facial expressions. Ramon knew when to serve and when to chatter. The look on Ray’s face told him no chatter. Plus, news of the double murder had reached the bar an hour earlier. Ray took a sip of his rocks chilled liquid and let it slowly trickle down his throat. Magic elixir. He set his glass down and subconsciously stirred the ice with his finger. Still robotic, he shook a Pall Mall up from the pack and took it with his lips. A battered zippo completed the task. Lungs inflated, Ray Grandisha was ready to re-enter reality. Attached to the bar area, but in a separate room, was the dining area. The kitchen closed at 11:30 but some parties remained. To most, after dinner drinks were considered part of the meal. Ray’s current girlfriend, Carol Lombard, was a waitress at the “Fine Time” and happened to be serving the diners. They were working on a two-week relationship. He saw her pass by and tried to catch her attention. She joined him at the bar, in the middle of his second scotch. “Hi baby,” she said as she sat. “Hey, Carol Lombard without the E.” Carol took her turn.  “You’re the only person I ever met who uses my full name. Tell me again....” Ray played on.  “I can’t believe Carole Lombarde is sitting next to me.” “And how come I don’t know who Carole Lombarde is?” Ray responded, “Because you’re thirty something.”Carol accepted his explanation, again, and relaxed in her chair. “I heard about the killings; is that where you were?” Ray was finishing his drink. As he was setting the glass on the bar, he said, “Yeah, I was there.” Carol turned sideways and stared at him for a few seconds. “What happened?” “Two people were butchered. Husband and wife.” Carol asked, “Drug deal gone bad?” 

 In chapter two, we are introduced to the crime scene through the eyes of Lieutenant Ray Grandisha.  The police were called by Jules and Liz Pranet, Sue's brother and sister-in-law, and the couple the Donases we're supposed to have met for dinner that evening.   As Ray Grandisha takes in the crime scene, he runs into John Lupico, the coroner.  It is clear that Ray Grandisha believes that something very unusual and very sinister took place here .Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive. The apartment resembled an abattoir. Lieutenant Ray Grandisha had to pause as he stood in the midst of the carnage. Twenty-five years of witnessing cruelty never sufficed to prepare him for the bad ones. The Sheriff’s department had received a call at 10:57 P.M. A man by the name of Jules Pranet. He and his wife were supposed to meet their brother and sister-in-law for dinner at a popular restaurant on the outskirts of town. They waited for an hour. Jules and his wife, Liz, didn’t start to worry until that hour had expired. Sixty minutes. A few drinks. Told the waiter to come back three times. The third delay repaid with a bit of rudeness. During the wait, Jules and Liz engaged in personal conversation for the first twenty five minutes. The next half hour devoted to jokes about Sue always being late; Jim always yelling at her. The last five minutes arguing about calling the Police and hospitals. Finally, Jules and Liz left the table. A difficult walk to the foyer. Two forlorn faces in the midst of merriment. Jules concerned that making contact with those who deal in calamity would somehow confirm the worst. Pause by the pay phone. Head pounding. Walk in. Walk in. Please God, walk in. Liz sat next to the phone. “Do you need change?” Jules, still stalling, “No, I’ll put everything on the card. I can get the operator and have her call Jim’s number; if there’s no answer she can contact the police; I’ll ask her to stay on and call the hospital next.”Liz, looking up at him; “Okay. Well?” Jules jumps, “Alright.  Fuck.” No answer at Jim’s. No calls, accident reports, or any other type of bad news according to the police. No emergencies or ambulance runs, according to the hospital. Jules, feeling a touch relieved, sat next to Liz. “What now?” Liz slouched; “Let’s wait.” Jim, with the retort, “For what? They’re not coming. It’s almost an hour and a half...” The discussion was broken up by the rude waiter. He handed Jules a bill for four drinks; an uncivil smirk on his face. As Jules passed cash to him, he made a point of saying he wanted change. The waiter returned in five minutes; silver and green on a tray. Jules took it all. The waiter remained for ten seconds and then huffed off. Jules continued, “We have to go their apartment. We’ll drive the route they would have taken.” Liz said, “Okay.” The trip took thirty minutes. No accidents, no cars on the shoulder or off the road. No couples walking. Nothing out of place. 

 As Many Cones opens, we meet Jim Donas and his wife, Sue.   They're getting ready to go out to dinner when there was a knock at the door.   Jim finds a young man at the door who introduces himself as Richard Sparne. Mr. Sparne asks to come in.   Eventually he forces his way in and stabs Jim Donas. This all happens while his wife is getting ready in the bathroom.   Subsequently a group of young men enter after being signaled by Richard Sparne.   They ransack the home and then brutally murder the Donas couple. Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.There was a knock at the apartment door. Jim Donas was in the kitchen drying his hands. He had been a whirlwind of activity, dusting and cleaning everything that crossed his path. Busy work always occupied his time when he was waiting for his wife. She was still in the bathtub. It was almost time to yell through the door again. Jim was starting to believe she intentionally dragged her feet when they had somewhere to go. It would be another hour before she was ready. He went to the apartment door and looked through the peephole.  Some kid. Jim opened the door. For a fleeting second he thought about the buzzer-intercom system that had never worked. People adapted by leaving the complex door unlocked. He hadn’t heard anyone descending the stairs. Odd. He could usually hear people coming and going. Had even complained about paper thin walls. The complex held nine individual apartments. All very upscale. Located in a nice area. No problems, anytime. Except for the periodic drunken argument, usually from one of the other eight complexes. No one thought twice about opening the apartment door for some unknown person. Jim said, “Can I help you?” He was looking at a tall, rangy kid. Looked to be late teens, early twenties. Presentable, clean cut kid. Appeared to be a little nervous. “Mr. Donas?” the kid asked. Jim said, “Yes, can I help you?” The Kid said, “Mr. Donas, my name is Richard Sparne.” He paused, as if expecting a problem. Then went on. “I’m collecting for the local Amateur Athletics Union. Could I please come in and explain our program to you?” Jim shook his head no and said, “I’m running out for a dinner engagement, I can’t right now; do you have any literature or anything you can leave?”The Kid started to walk in, saying, “Yes, I can leave you some pamphlets.” Jim, standing in front of the Kid’s passage, said, “Please, just hand them to me; I’m about to leave. I don’t have time for you to come in now.” The Kid reached around behind his back and grabbed a nine-inch jagged knife from his belt. In one swift motion he plunged the knife into Jim Donas’ abdomen. Deep.

Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.