Retired chief of police Marty Sacco is now the head of the Dead Files Department. His first case involves the twenty year-old murder of Susan Hall. He is then approached by Frank Gibran, a notorious crime boss. There have been five murders at a private school, including Gibran’s grandson. Despite grave reservations, Marty takes on that case, too. His investigation into both complicated crimes uncovers old secrets and new revelations that are not what anyone expects.
Marti’s story takes place in a fictional town located in Mississippi where pretty houses are bordered by the murkiness of the Mississippi River. Beyond the prettiness and buried amongst the flowers is the terrible secret of an unjust murder and a long time, revenge working its way into madness that couldn’t be destroyed, even in death.
Jean M. Porro is retired and lives with her husband on Cape Cod, Massachusetts.
Jean has written four novels, and won awards for her outstanding poetry too.
My interest since a young girl has been reading. It was something that was passed on to me from my mother. I was a ferocious reader, even reading books two or three times each. One of my favorite books was Maggie Now, written by Betty Smith, the author of a Tree Grows In Brooklyn. It wasn’t just the narratives that drew me to reread her book, it was also the descriptions of the people and the places. I used to lay on my bed and dream about writing.
During the early seventies, I was introduced to the editor of the Women’s Yellow Pages, a feminist newspaper based in Boston. Its objective was to bring stories of abused women and children to the public. Lauren Carpenter was the editor and she was the main force behind the attempt to bring controversial subjects out in the open. One of these was child abuse known as the Battered Child Syndrome.
I had just started doing some serious writing and was flattered when Lauren approached me about writing for the magazine. She was curious to know my attitude and if I wanted to get involved
Until now I haven’t given much thought to the process of aging. Perhaps it was my last birthday or the marriage of my youngest child. Or could it have been seeing the world through my grandson’s purity that forced me to view time moving so quickly? Seniority seems to have raced upon me in the same blustery manner as the howling wind rapping against my window.
It was a warm summer night as Dorothy walked along Washington Street. Reaching the corner, she looked up and noticed the street lamp was still broken. “I’ve called them four times,” she reminded herself.
Shaking her head, Dorothy opened the door of the little market that stood next to the flower shop which read “Closed”. Walking inside she saw Don, the owner, who was behind the counter reading the newspaper. “Hello,” Dorothy said while heading for the refrigerated unit to grab a quart of milk. She exchanged light conversation with Don, bought a pack of Winstons and left.
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