Nothing could be more deceiving.

These are the beginnings of a form of diversion that knows no limits. One might say it is the natural extension of entertainment, with roots in the Colosseum and the gallows on public square. It could be said that in the guise of helicopter chase scenes and web-shots of beheadings, we have already laid the groundwork. So why not The Radio Murders?

On this site you will sample the work of a thirty-year radio and marketing professional, who saw something on the horizon. A warning perhaps, maybe even a secret desire that his beloved industry could somehow break the bondage of regulation and explore the deepest passages of the human soul. Really explore, while the flames of passion and violence are hot.

It is a topic that leaves no spectators. The Radio Murders will thrill or agitate; delight or disgust. These books are not passive reads. They entertain and provide something else. What that might be is up to the reader.

The following pages contain opening scenes from all five books. These novels are offered to publishers through Authentic Creations Literary Agency and will be available to the public in the coming months.

Peruse, enjoy and comment if you would like. Here is a small sample of the latest work, the sixth book in the The Radio Murders, Evidence of a Restless Sprit.

    Loyal smiled as she turned from her guest and flicked on lights in the small kitchen. “Is that what you call brutal murders? A thing?” Several skilled movements with her still-gloved hands and her ebony hair suddenly cascaded around her shoulders. The earth-toned summer dress and the whiteness of her skin were in perfect harmony with this new feature.

“I’ve been at this a long time, Loyal. Like you at the Historical Society.”

She peered up from the sink, not needing to look at the filling kettle. “I seriously doubt that.”

“Really. People die and other people commit horrible acts. But after a while, it still becomes a job.” Stemp settled at the kitchen table. The chairs were clean, but worn, as though a family gathered there at least once a day. “But I guess if you found some new information about your town, this region…” wait for it.

“I’m sorry?” Her brow wrinkled slightly and she pulled a plastic bag filled with cream colored disks from her opened pantry.

“I’m saying there are times when something comes along that shakes you from the routine.”

“Oh, I see. And some new document or account, adding to the historical record, you suppose that would excite me?” Dull clunks rang off the simple serving plate. “These are what we call beatin’ biscuits. Sort of a specialty ‘round here.” She placed the plate on the table, smoothed her dress beneath her and sat in the chair closest to the detective. “I hope you like ‘em. Some folks love ‘em, some don’t.” Her fingers folded into a gentle support for her evenly sloping chin, her mouth set in anticipation of pleasing a guest.

Stemp tried the hard, chalky bread. She was right, beaten’ biscuits were an acquired taste. But there was something satisfying about the texture and flavor; an almost meaty taste, like powered bacon. “These are actually pretty good.”

“You want some jam?” The smile grew with the compliment.

“Maybe with the tea.”

Loyal took a deep breath, her brows arched and her eyes went slightly dark. “I guess this thing, as you call it will stay with the town for a long time. Sort of like Son of Sam stayed with New York.”

“I’m from Chicago, Loyal. We survived a lot of infamy, accustomed to it, really. And we don’t yet know what’s behind these murders. In my business, it’s still very early in the game.”

“Game?” She gave him a stern look. “It’s a game now.”

“I’m sorry, I knew that was a bad choice before the word got out.” Stemp was ready for another biscuit. It was difficult not to stare at Loyal. “Can I ask you something?”

“Other than my age. We been through that.” She slipped from the table and caught the kettle before it boiled.

“Your name, Loyal. Where did it come from?”

Loyal looked up, past her cabinets and jars. “Where did Jerzy come from?”

“Loyal Griggs," he repeated the lyric, keeping the focus on her. "Somehow the name seems too harsh for someone as…lovely.” What the hell am I saying?

“That’s sweet of you to say, Agent Stempowski. Names sometimes tell a lot about a person.” She brought two cups back to the table.

“Do you ever take off you gloves?”

“I have a bad case of…giggers.” Naturally strawberry-colored lips parted in a wide smile. Her teeth were neatly perfect, and the whole package of an unadorned, yet beautiful face sent a bolt of lightening to the middle of his body. “Eczema, my momma had it too, always called it that. Don’t know why.”

    Stemp was noting a shortness of breath and a massive erection was forming, pressing his slacks at the pleats. “Loyal. Have you drugged me?” He was slightly light-headed and felt as though he had taken Viagra chased with a gallon of coffee.

Loyal dropped her head. Her hair teased long lashes and brushed across her face in breaking waves of shining black strands. “Yes, Jerzy. I have. But not in a bad way. Just so we can make love.” There was a new confidence in the lady; a natural dignity only suggested until this moment. In this new persona, the act she readied him for was nothing but right and proper.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Stemp was relaxed, in all places but his penis, which seemed to fight for release. “You just…need ask.” There was a giddiness that flowered from his temples, carried on a sharp blue light and pushing aside the serious thoughts and dedication.

Loyal stood and removed the plates form the table. In the soft, amber tint of her kitchen, she turned toward the blurry man and began unbuttoning her dress. There was a glow to her body as she removed her bra. Breasts flipped slightly from beneath the lace and thin wire supports, settling in a natural and confident suspension, brown and erect at the middle; cornicing with rounded perfection narrow rows of ribs and the soft slope to her dark diamond of hair. This, the involuntary focus of all his attention, small and infinite, still pressed against the sheer blush of her turquoise panties. Nearly naked, there was a perfection about her that was only broken by the scar that traveled from her waist to the top of her stomach. Stemp had seen the remains of such an incision before, but never on one so young, or alive. She stepped to the table, her legs were long, concealed by the modest dress and she threw them over his lap. In one flurry of movements, before any real protest could be considered, his pants were at his ankles. She maneuvered him inside her without concern for the thin strip of fabric between her legs, which easily gave way. “It’s been a very long time, Mr. Stempowski, since I have felt the touch of a man.”

“This will cost me my job.” Stemp breathed between long, lingering kisses. Living femurs and pelvis plied as though famished, locking him, halving him until there was no difference between them. Her waves of desire and dance, caressing seemingly every pore, dissolved the room and the place; the time and the mutilations.

“Then I better make it good.” The words accompanied rushing breath and hot skin against his face. Sweet release coated his tongue on a line between her nipples and the scents of her opening mingled with his own familiar animal aura. Her inner body grappled and toyed with him. Fingers of his hands, they must be my hands, lightly slipped over Venus dimples at the base of her spine, and in a smooth motion the heels of his hands cupped perfectly into the natural indentations at the sides of her buttocks. There was no need to force or drive the rhythm. Slick and tingling, harmonious pulse, it was not a thinking process. Stemp could not think; he could not have added two plus two if a gun were pressed at his temple. They became pieces in a jigsaw, perfectly matched. And though his climax remained tear-edged at the precipice, his excitement remained firm; like frozen heat. They stayed - him seated and her devouring in perpetual motion from all angles at his lap - for a very long time, as near as he could remember. Then, with as much ease as when she mounted him, she pulled up grabbing him by the wrists, and reined him like a joyful mule into the darkened bedroom.

That is when all memory faded and for Jerzy Stempowski, the experience of one of the most exciting sexual encounters of his life drifted into the realm of fantasy. It seemed that Loyal, with all her hidden talents, still could not be in two places at once. What he imagined through the gauzy and almost impossible recollection would forever remain someone else’s secret.