Buck Calhoun P.I. licensed in California, an Emeritus Professor in Criminal Justice of a State University, was busy cleaning up his computer files and trying to re-establish some order to his office and equipment when his iPhone quacked for the sixth time. He had ignored the previous quacks; he was in no mood to talk to anybody about anything. There were days like this, days when silence and solitude offered consolation and time to escape anxiety. The anxiety of uncertainty, doubt, yes even the fear of death, an unavoidable, inescapable appointment not on his visible calendar on the office wall, but on the white board of his mind. His last murder case had exhausted his patience for it had been the cause for a re-evaluation of worldview assumptions, something he had postponed time and time again. His old buddy, Tweedy, had warned him that sooner or later he would have to come to terms with absolutes. Living a life of postponements, a life of fiction and illusions would not cut it for someone having to cope with murders and murderers. Sooner or later, the questions about ultimate matters would have to be addressed and settled. What was life all about? Why should he care about solving murders? What is justice? What the hell is hell? Does it exist? And Why me? He had no answers, none that would settle the matter or at least provide some rest, some relief from the anxiety and restlessness of his mind. His Unit 362 Associates, although all very close friends, having been former colleagues, police, and detectives, had their own worries, agendas, families, and all were working for some government agency. Their relation to Buck was professional, private, secretive, and not publicized for a variety of good reasons. Their investigative work uncovered truth, often producing undiscovered corruption, and always effective. Buck's unit was the pride of his professional career. Nevertheless, he would not confide to any associate his malaise and worry. The only person Buck trusted in this regard was his old college friend, Tweedy Flynch. He had confidence in Tweed, as he called him, such that no topic was out of court. No matter what the thought, the event, or the circumstance, Buck felt at ease in discussing it with him. There was no need for beating around the bush or pretending that all was well when not true. Tweedy was always open to dialogue even though they differed in many respects, coming from different backgrounds and owning different although not incompatible worldviews. Buck knew about worldviews and worldview psychologies. Tweedy also majored in them, and they had discussed their differences in thought and about life repeatedly in the past. They didn't agree, but disagreement did not prevent agreement; they had agreed to disagree. This time Buck had no excuse for calling Tweedy. He wasn't working on any case now, although he was about to be interviewed for some investigative work on the recent murder of a friend of one of his Associates, but he'd not yet been contacted. Not yet anyway. He was thinking of an excuse or reason to call Tweedy, but he could not think of one when the phone quack/quacked again....
