Killer Tim, part 34: Blisflix
The air feels lighter, thinks Tim, less resistant to movement. At the moment, Tim stands absolutely stationary. He is watching Liberty Street, which appears to be as still as Tim is. No fog this night, and only a meager breeze. Noise will be eaten up.
Tim calculates the wait as no longer than one hour. That’s a good thirty minutes before the city starts to rouse itself. Home a bit late. He reminds himself that the tail is gone. The police have backed off. Billikin can follow him all he wants. That just makes things easier.
Three doors from Cecelia Khouri’s house, two hours from dawn, Tim considers the lull. He’s watching, waiting. So are Billikin and the SFPD. Cece’s out, Karen is nearly so. Tim wonders what it feels like to miss someone. They’re there, they’re not there. Breathe in, breathe out.
Liberty Street is beyond still - stopped in time. Except for the white Ford sedan parked halfway down the block. Tim’s eye catches a twitch. Someone inside the Ford just shifted in their seat. Tim walks slowly up Liberty, away from the car. Circling around will take three minutes.
Three minutes later, Tim is standing 30 yards behind the white Ford. He’s waiting for the person in the passenger seat to shift buttocks. Tim figures, 30 percent chance the person in the parked Ford is Blisflix. The former detective is well over 200 pounds, and jittery to boot.
As if on cue, the white Ford shimmies the slightest bit. Buttocks shifted. The chances of the person being Blisflix jumps to 45 percent. Tim calculates the time to dawn. Twenty minutes until he has to head home. He reaches into his right coat pocket and flips off the safety.
Tim stands next to the passenger-side window, waiting for Blisflix to notice him. Blisflix is gazing intently at his phone. Tim waits on. Blisflix is scrolling his Facebook feed. Tim can nearly make out some of the posts through the window. Tim inches a bit closer to the car. Finally Blisflix looks up from the phone in his hand. Almost instantly, he notices Tim. A startle turns into a wave and a scared half smile.
Tim motions with his left hand for Blisflix to lower the car window. After a bit of fumbling, Blisflix manages to activate the mechanism. Tim assumes at least one camera is recording him. “Leave Cece alone,” he tells Blisflix through the car window. “That’s all I asked him.” Before Blisflix can reply, Tim adds, “If you want to talk, walk.” He turns and heads east on Liberty at a slow pace. The car door opens.
Blisflix is short of breath by the time he catches up with Tim almost a half block later. “What?”, Tim asks.
“What what?”, says Blisflix.
“I told you what I had to say to you,” Tim says. “Leave Cece alone.”
“I’m not bothering Cece,” Blisflix replies.
“Yes, you are,” says Tim. He quickens the pace as he leads Blisflix north on Church. They skirt the park, head west on 20th to Sanchez. Blisflix is panting already. North on Sanchez, Tim slows to let Blisflix catch up. The ex-detective is trying to speak while panting for air. Tim doesn’t hear any of it.
West on Cumberland, Tim listens past Blisflix, past the sound of their steps on the sidewalk. To the comfortable hum of the city at night. He stops at the end of Cumberland, turns to face Blisflix, who’s now 20 yards behind him. Blisflix stops when he sees the stairway ahead. “I’m not going up those,” says Blisflix.
“Correct,” says Tim. He pulls the pistol out of his pocket and shoots Blisflix twice in the face.
Tim climbs the winding stairs to Noe and heads north toward 19th. A Marina detour to lose the weapon gets him home near dawn. Too visible. Most nights, Tim would take Sanchez to Steiner. Tonight, he stays on Noe. Quieter across Market, darkness on Scott, clear on up to Jackson. Tim has two options for dumping the gun: the west side of Duboce triangle, or the north side of Alta Plaza. He’s got 10 minutes to decide.
Tim is blocks north of Market on Noe when he hears the first speeding car heading south. Well clear, he thinks. Steady north to Duboce Park. Davies Hospital appears on the left. Tim zags past the park to Scott and walks north. Dawn is still 50 minutes away. Not a soul is in sight.
More speeding-car sounds, fainter now. Tim walks along the park side of Scott, ready to recede into any available shadow, become invisible. When Tim reaches Lloyd Street, he spots headlights far up Scott. He hurries to a paved path leading to the right, toward the labyrinth.
Tim gazes down at the sepia pattern stretching dimly across the gray pavement. He listens to the slow approach of the squad car down Scott. He imagines pacing the labyrinth a dozen different ways at once. He waits for the sound of the second squad car completing the grid search. In less than a minute, Tim hears the second patrol car pass in the opposite direction on Scott. He breaks his gaze away from the labyrinth.
As Tim crosses the small space back to Scott Street, the labyrinth image remains in his head. A map of the city overlays the spiraling path. Tim listens for more sweeping squad cars as he walks north on Scott. At Eddy, Tim spots a refurbished sewer line. Into it goes the pistol.
Tim is tempted to follow one of the labyrinth’s paths to his Steiner apartment. He decides Scott to Jackson to Fillmore is safer. Darker. If he can keep from being spotted on Fillmore, Tim knows he’ll get back into the apartment building without the watchers knowing he was out. Well, they’ll know he was out, or Smith will, at least. They just won’t have seen him out tonight, thanks to Mr. Pellegrini’s secret entry.
The more they watch, thinks Tim, the easier it is to hide. They want to watch everything, but they see almost nothing, less than they think. If they know they’re being watched right back, they don’t seem to care. Tim turns right when he reaches the northwest corner of Alta Plaza. Still dark to the east, still quiet all around. The first stirring of the day is a half hour away. Tim watches and listens as he walks east.
The closer Tim gets to Fillmore, the more attention he pays to his surroundings. He decides to use the apartment building’s front entrance. The risk of Tim being spotted using the Fillmore door is greater than the risk of him being IDed using the main entrance to his building.
As Tim approaches the building, all is still on Steiner. He notes the parked cars, looking for nondescript late-model sedans. He sees none. As he walks up the steps of his building, Tim calculates whether he made it home before Smith was told of the demise of her former partner. He imagines the conversation he’ll have with Detective Smith tomorrow. She’ll be camped outside his building by 8:30 a.m., sipping coffee.
Before he closes the front door, Tim notes the quiet Steiner Street morning. He has one last task before sleep - check his alibi scripts.
Mrs. Pellegrini’s light tapping wakes Tim. It’s a quarter to noon. As soon as he opens the apartment door, Mrs. Pellegrini hurries inside. “That detective I didn’t like,” Mrs. Pellegrini says excitedly, “they shot him last night. I heard it on the radio.” Tim sees she’s smiling.
“Good morning, Mrs. Pellegrini,” Tim says. “Would you like some water?”
She ignores the question. “I knew that one was no good,” she says.
“Apparently so,” Tim replies.
“The woman was polite at least,” Mrs. Pellegrini continues. “Too nosy, though.”
“That’s her job,” Tim says.
Mrs. Pellegrini tuts. “My husband,” she says, “was a good policeman, rest his soul. Here they come casting aspersions who barely knew him.”
“Mr. Pellegrini was a good policeman,” Tim lies. “Those two officers were just asking about the network.” Mrs. Pellegrini looks confused. “About the computer he used for work,” Tim clarifies.
“They told us we can keep it,” Mrs. Pellegrini replies. Tim smiles and nods at her.
“The detectives were making sure no one else was using it,” Tim says, “to do police work.”
“That’s preposterous,” Mrs. Pellegrini shouts. “I just do my Facebook.Are they going to take it back?”
“No, ma’am,” says Tim. “The police will leave you alone.”
Mrs. Pellegrini looks around the dark apartment. “You were sleeping?”, she asks.
“I worked late last night,” says Tim. “Finished a project.”
Mrs. Pellegrini scuttles toward the door. “You get your sleep,” she says as she goes. “I’m missing my show.” She exits without looking back.
Seconds later, there’s another knock on the door. Tim opens it to find Mrs. Khan smiling nervously. “Mr. Tim, could you please?”, she asks. Mrs. Khan holds out a much-folded piece of paper. Tim takes it from her, scans it, hands it back. “Lamb today,” Mrs. Khan says. “Long time.”
“One twenty-five,” Tim says. Mrs. Kahn looks confused. “I’ll return with the groceries at 1:25,” Tim explains. Mrs. Khan nods, smiles wanly. Tim closes the door slowly. He stands beside it, listening. He anticipates a visit from another neighbor before he leaves for the market.
Twenty minutes later, Tim has finished a nine-ounce breakfast, downed 14 ounces of filtered water, washed, brushed his teeth, and dressed. As he exits his apartment, Tim feels the torrent of nonsense poised to let loose. Down the stairs, through the narrow lobby, the words roil.
Third’s oil, Gert’s boil, bird soil, curtsy doily, dotsy moyley--
The stream dams up at the sight of Karen sitting on the bottom porch step. Tim sits on the step next to Karen. They both stare blankly at the cars parked on Steiner. “Where you goin’?”, Karen asks.
Tim looks at her. “You know I’m going to Andy’s Market,” Tim says softly. “You know we’re being watched right now, and you know Detective Blisflix is dead.”
Karen looks sideways at Tim, raises an eyebrow, says, “I was just being friendly.”
Tim stares straight ahead. “Care to join me?”, he asks.
“Won’t I throw you off your schedule?”, Karen asks.
“Mrs Khan won’t notice,” Tim replies. “It’s not a real schedule. It’s just a metaphor.”
“Metaphor for what?”, Karen asks.
“Control a thing by naming it,” Tim replies. “Defy a thing by predicting it.”
Karen stands, looks around. “Where will you be?”, she laughs. “At 3:23? Who will you see? It won’t be me, bay-bee.”
Tim stands. “Rue de bagnet,” Tim adds, “d’allez.”
They walk south on Steiner. “Rutabaga dolly?”, Karen says, still laughing, “Is that all the nonsense you got?”
Tim notes the parked sedan. The car might as well have “Property of SFPD” stenciled on the side, Tim thinks. He guesses they’ll wait until the walk home to detain him. They’d rather ask their questions when Tim’s arms are loaded with groceries. “You appear to be doing well,” Tim says.
Karen gets serious. “You’re taking chances,” she says as they approach Sacramento Street. “I didn’t like that detective either, but did you have to kill him?” Tim doesn’t answer. “If I know you did it,” says Karen, “the cops know you did it.”
“He wasn’t a detective anymore,” Tim says. “He retired.”
“That doesn’t mean you can kill him,” Karen says.
“You don’t know who killed Blisflix,” Tim says. “He was working for disreputable people.”
They turn left on Pine and walk east toward Fillmore. “How are you feeling?”, Tim asks.
“I feel great,” Karen replies. “Worried, but great.” They walk a half block in silence, then Karen asks, “Why do you ask?”
Tim hesitates. “Concern for your well-being,” he says.
Karen hmphs. “Nothing about you is that simple,” she says. “But you get a pass, at least until we deliver Mrs. Kahn’s groceries.”
“Pass,” Tim repeats. “We pass,” Tim continues. “The time, the buck. By, around, over, and out. As, for, up, down, through. We pass each other. We pass alone.”
“What about the test?”, Karen asks. “Did I pass?”
“Did I?”, Tim asks back.
Karen laughs. “You don’t take tests. You correct them, right?”
Karen accompanies Tim as he navigates Andy’s market, methodically filling Mrs. Kahn’s order. In the checkout line, Tim whispers, “$78.14.”
“I’ll take the over,” Karen whispers back.
After the cashier rings up the last item, he announces, “$78.16.” Karen smiles. Tim pays the man.
They exit the store, a bag in each hand, and walk west on Pine. Tim asks, “What do I owe you?”
Karen replies, “Usually, stakes come first.”
“I trust you,” Tim says.
“I know you do,” Karen answers, “in your way. Tell you what. You gotta pretend to laugh at one of my jokes, okay?”
“I know when something’s a joke,” Tim says. “I just don’t laugh. I never have.”
“What about crying?”, Karen asks.
“Same thing,” Tim replies.
“There must be a word for that,” Karen says.
“There’s a lot of them,” says Tim. “None of them the right one.”
“Feelingless?”, Karen offers.
“I have feelings,” Tim says, “I can’t express them. Physically. I can say ‘that was funny’ or ‘I’m sad’ but I can’t respond appropriately. Socially acceptably, I mean. It feels normal to me.”
“No smiles?”, Karen asks.
Tim shakes his head. “Aggravation,” he says. “I’ve been told, on occasion, that I look aggravated. I think it’s concentration.”
“I thought it was boredom,” Karen says. “When I first met you, you showed me the apartment. I thought you looked bored.” At Steiner they turn right, head uphill. “I know you feel something,” Karen continues, “in bed with me. I just don’t know what.”
“Happy,” Tim replies in his quiet monotone, “calm, at peace, normal. Almost. I hope you feel the same way.”
Karen thinks, what I feel mainly is lonesome. With Tim, that won’t change. “Something like that,” Karen says. “I like it. Do you ever feel lonesome, Tim?”
“I don’t think so,” Tim answers. “I might not have known.”
“Known what?”, Karen asks.
“I might not have known what I was feeling was lonely,” Tim says, “or I feel it all the time, so it’s normal.”
“You feel something, but you don’t know what?”, Karen asks. “Like a teenager?”
“No,” Tim replies, “like a short circuit, a wire misfires. Someone compliments you, you feel terrified,” Tim says. “Someone curses you out, you feel joy. Someone threatens you, you feel relieved.”
As they cross Clay, Tim wonders why the police haven’t stopped them. “Sometimes,” Karen says, “I don’t know the name of what I’m feeling. Or maybe what I’m feeling doesn’t have a name. So when you ask me how I’m feeling, that’s not such an easy question.”
“Better,” says Tim. “I hope to hear you’re feeling better.”
When they reach their building, Karen asks, “Compared to laid up in a hospital?”
Tim looks up the steps. “Better than the last time I saw you, I guess,” he says.
“In that case,” Karen replies, “yeah, I do feel better.” Karen leads Tim up the steps. She’s beginning to feel the weight of the grocery bags. Tim looks quickly up and down Steiner. No police. Hmm.
“Imagine feeling an emotion no one has ever felt before,” Tim says as he follows Karen through the dark, narrow lobby. “One without a name.”
“No one can feel an emotion no one has felt before,” Karen says. She stops when she reaches the top of the stairs. “It’s just new to them.”
Tim stops when Karen does. “Same thing,” he says, “until someone tells you what you’re feeling has a name.”
Karen sets the groceries down. She faces Tim at the top of the stairs. “I’m just glad you feel something, whatever its name is,” she says. “For sure it’s not remorse.”
“It’s not remorse,” Tim says. “Curiosity? Is that an emotion?” Karen rubs her shoulder.
“Gratitude is,” she says. “Thank you.” She waits. Tim doesn’t react. “I won’t bother telling you to be careful,” Karen says. “But be careful anyway.” She points at the bags on the floor. “Don’t make Mrs. Kahn wait for her lamb,” she says as she walks to her apartment at the end of the hall.
“You’re welcome,” Tim tells her.
Karen turns around, walks back to Tim on the top stair, and kisses him. Only their lips touch. She says again, “Be careful,” and turns away.
Still holding the two bags of groceries, Tim watches Karen walk into her apartment. He looks down at the two bags Karen left on the ground. He knows he’ll never have another chance to pretend to laugh at one of Karen’s jokes. He waits to feel some emotion, but thinks only of the lamb.
Tim promised Mrs. Kahn he would deliver the lamb and the rest of her groceries by 1:25. He estimates it is 1:35. Mrs. Kahn won’t notice.
“Hello, Mr. Tim,” says Mrs. Kahn eight seconds after Tim knocked on her apartment door. She takes one of the grocery bags and leads him in. Tim sets the groceries on Mrs. Kahn’s kitchen counter. The room is filled with glorious aromas. He nods to Mrs. Kahn and heads for the door. Mrs. Kahn follows Tim out the kitchen. “Is it true?”, she asks.
Tim stops, turns around, waits. “About the girl in 2D? Mrs. Pellegrini....”
Tim waits for Mrs. Kahn to continue. She looks back at him expectantly. “Ms. Mieke is recovering,” Tim says finally. “Mrs. Pellegrini....”
Tim lets the landlady’s name hover in the air. A moment later, Mrs. Kahn says, “She’s getting older, poor lady. How hard it is for her.” As Tim exits the apartment, Mrs. Khan adds, “And she’s lucky to have you to help her. We all are.” Tim looks at her over his shoulder, nods.
In the two steps between Mrs. Khan’s apartment and his own, Tim cycles from doubt to certainty. He maps a timeline for the next 52 hours. Before beginning his research, Tim gives himself five minutes to think about Karen’s kiss goodbye. He calculates the odds of missing her. He fills a glass of water at the sink, drinks it down, refills it, drinks half. He sits down at the empty kitchen table. Four minutes left.
Tim decides if he were ever to miss someone, it would be Karen. Lonely might be an emotion worth experiencing. Once.
Three to eight months. Lonely couldn’t last much longer than that. Tim knows Karen would tire of him. He would never subject anyone to his company for very long. Especially not someone like Karen, someone he cares for, and someone who seems to like him. But Tim doubts he’ll miss Karen when she goes.
Karen is here, Karen is gone. Same Karen, same here, same gone. Same me, here with, here alone. Not missing a thing. With seconds to spare.
As soon as Tim turns his attention away from Karen and toward Billikin he becomes energized. He conjures a 3D network map and gets to work. He spends the next 17 hours tearing the Billikin network apart and putting it back together again, backwards. His only break is for lamb. Mrs. Kahn barely spoke when she brought Tim his evening meal at half past five. Tim barely acknowledged the meal or Mrs. Kahn, as usual.
Vague morning light leaks past the blinds sufficient to pull Tim’s attention away from the monitor. Tim figures, 15 more hours. Then plant. Then wait, thinks Tim. Then bite, then boom. Billikin’s out of business. Tim turns off the monitor. Six hours of sleep, then back to work.
As he fills a glass of water at the kitchen sink, Tim regards the untouched dinner plate on the table where Mrs. Khan left it hours earlier. Tim tries to remember what lamb tastes like. He puts the plate in the empty refrigerator, refills his glass at the faucet, drinks it down.
Seven hours later, Tim is standing on the top step of his building, sizing up the weather so he can plan his route. One glance up does it. Fog everywhere but SOMA and the Mission. SOMA’s too crowded on a weekday afternoon. Techsters. Mission it is, but steer clear of Dogpatch.
As he walks down the steps, Tim scans the cars parked on Steiner. Nothing. South he goes, hat brim pulled low to block the afternoon sun. Halfway between Sutter and Post, Tim senses someone walking just behind him to the right. “Mind if I walk with you?”, Detective Smith asks.
Tim walks on, eyes forward. “I’m off the case, by the way,” Smith continues, staying half a step behind him. Tim recalculates his route. They stop for the light at Geary. “How did you know about Blisflix?”, says Smith. Tim stares ahead. “Am I talking to myself?”, she asks.
Tim starts across Geary the moment the light changes. Smith follows. “Okay,” she says, “I’m talking to myself. When he retired abruptly? Before that? Probably. He was never in a hurry to nab you, that’s for sure. I bet you knew soon after you found it. That stupid list,” Smith continues as they walk south on Steiner. “Blisflix said he came up with it, never meant to show it to anyone. Maybe he even believed that himself.” Smith keeps in lock-step with Tim. “But they’ve been pushing Blisflix’s buttons a long time.”
Tim slows as they near O’Farrell. “Which means they were pushing your buttons,” Smith tells him, “only you knew about them, didn’t you? That’s why you stopped at four,” Smith adds, keeping her voice low and steady as they walk. “And started knocking off their bad actors. Five, six--”
“Could you please be quiet for two-and-a-half minutes?”, Tim interrupts.
Smith shrugs, “Sure.” They walk on.
Two-and-a-half minutes later, Tim stops at the northeast corner of Golden Gate and Steiner. He looks at the house on the opposite corner. He gazes at the Victorian for a half minute, then he turns to Smith and says, “Thank you. You can talk again, if you wish.” He points west.
Tim leads the detective across Steiner. They continue west on Golden Gate. “What was that about?”, Smith asks.
“Nice house,” Tim replies. “It’s relaxing, just looking at it.” Tim doesn’t mention that Smith’s monotone narrative was beginning to sound like a jackhammer.
“You relax by looking at houses?”, Smith asks. As they walk, Tim wonders whether Smith will resume her analysis before they cross Pierce. He is grateful for the reprieve from Smith’s monologue. The afternoon city sounds are comforting, as is the feel of the street as he walks. The city hum travels through the soles of Tim’s feet, taps into his nervous system. Like the code vibe his fingertips feel on the keyboard.
Walking the city and wringing out code: the only times Tim is Tim. They near Divis. Tim realizes Smith is speaking. He attempts to listen. “...I don’t mind saying it,” Tim hears Smith say.
“What don’t you mind saying?”, he asks.
“You’re gonna make me say it twice?”, she replies.
“Please,” Tim says.
Smith sighs. They stop for the light at Divis. “I was in over my head,” Smith says. “Asking Cece to help was a mistake.”
“Why would you mind saying it?”, Tim asks.
Smith hesitates, then says, “I was wrong, I admit it.”
“I’m wrong all the time,” Tim replies. “Being wrong is a big part of my job.”
“It’s not part of my job,” Smith says. “One mistake could get me a prison sentence.”
As they approach Masonic, Tim times their pace so they reach the corner as the light turns green. “Anyway,” Smith says once they’re across. “Cece is off the payroll. And I may be joining her soon. They’re pinning the network breach on Blisflix. I’m collateral. The way I see it,” Smith continues, struggling a bit to keep up with Tim, “we were both set up. You know who’s behind this. I can help.”
A few steps later, Smith adds, “Maybe.”
Tim looks up, sees they’re heading into the Richmond fog he wants to avoid. He repeats, “Maybe.”
As they walk a lazy, loping path back to Steiner, Tim hears Smith talking, but he isn’t listening. He’s thinking about corrupted backups. As in, at what point is the data in a backup corrupted beyond saving? Tim pictures the payload, triggered by curiosity. Then the cascade.
Afternoon has nearly become evening when Smith and Tim reach Jackson and Steiner. Smith has been talking nonstop for a good thirty minutes. Tim interrupts Smith: “I haven’t been listening.”
Smith stops. “Since when?”, she asks.
“Since maybe,” Tim replies. “That said everything.”
“Maybe said everything?”, Smith asks.
“For now,” Tim replies. “I work, you work. Maybe we work someday. Not today. Nice walking with you.” Tim walks south on Steiner toward his building. Smith starts to say something, then just watches Tim walk away. She takes out her phone.
Before Smith can enter her passcode, a voice behind her says, “Detective.” Smith turns and sees a young person, overdressed for the weather. “I’m J,” the person says. “I’d like to speak with you about your case.”
“It’s not my case anymore,” Smith says.
“It’s yours,” J replies. “It will always be your case. My ride’s just up the street.” J points up Jackson. “You’re probably done walking.” Smith hesitates. “It won’t take long,” J continues. Smith motions with her head. “Follow me,” she says and walks south on Steiner. J looks back, then does.
“I thought you would be tired of walking,” J says, struggling to catch up to Smith.
“I know who you work for,” Smith says over her shoulder. When they reach the stairs at Washington, Smith sits three steps up. J sits on the same step, five feet from her. “So talk,” Smith says.
“If you know who I work for, as you say,” J begins, “you know we can help you get him.”
“You’ll help me get him?”, Smith repeats. “Go on.”
“That’s it, really,” J says.
“In exchange for what?”, Smith asks.
“Nothing,” J replies.
“For not blowing your cover,” Smith says. “No deal. I would like to meet your boss. I can introduce you both to some of my coworkers. They’d be delighted to work with you.” J starts to answer but Smith continues: “He’s your employee, isn’t he? You have Blisflix come up with a list of the City’s most wanted. You put it where somebody like Tim can find it. I’m not going to give you credit for introducing him to Pellegrini.”
Smith waits for J to respond. “Who’s Pellegrini?”, J asks finally.
Smith says to herself, “I’ve been talking to myself all damn afternoon.” She sighs, stands. “Since you’re not listening,” she says, “I’ll tell you how to get away with murder."
J stands, asks, “How to what?”
Smith mock whispers, “Just kill people nobody cares about.” She takes two steps down, stops, turns around, points, says, “You go that way.” Smith goes the other way, south on Steiner, happy to know her walking days are about over.
J watches Smith, then walks north to the car double-parked on Jackson, opens the back door, and says, “I’ll walk. Call me later.” J shuts the door and heads east. The sedan trails her.
Part 35: Billikin
Part 1: Tim
Part 2: Three's a Problem
Part 3: Ninth Avenue
Part 4: Peru Avenue
Part 5: Toast
Part 6: Mrs. Pellegrini
Part 7: Charlie
Part 8: 2D
Part 9: Smith
Part 10: Cece
Part 11: Quarter Moon
Part 12: Interview
Part 13: Mieke
Part 14: 2D Ex
Part 15: Logs
Part 16: Steiner
Part 17: Number Five
Part 18: Cold
Part 19: Intern
Part 20: Coffee
Part 21: Sloth
Part 22: Tennessee Street
Part 23: Error-correcting Code
Part 24: Villa Lobos
Part 25: Entrance
Part 26: Cloak
Part 27: Meeting
Part 28: Fog
Part 29: Bootle
Part 30: Drafted
Part 31: Domino
Part 32: Quartet
Part 33: Skippy
Part 34: Blisflix
Part 35: Billikin
Part 36: Chronicle
Part 37: Sutro Heights
Part 38: Conference
Copyright 2020 by Dennis Richard O'Reilly -- all rights reserved