William Dallmann, Ph.D., Speech-Language Pathology, Purdue, 1973, M.A. Drama, San Francisco State, 1963 retired as Professor of Communicative Disorders and director of Speech-Language Clinic at Valparaiso University in 1984. He concurrently served as Executive Director of Counseling Associates: Therapy in a Christian Context, later as a private investigator with the Wittlinger Agency, a Christian oriented detective agency based in Indianapolis.
An inducted samarai - 4th Dan aikijustsu, 3rd Dan jujitsu - he more recently retired from the teaching of martial arts at his dojo in Monterey, California. An active member of St. Timothy Lutheran Church in Monterey, and a member since 1967 of the International Society for general Semantics, he has written numerous articles about world-views and faith.
He lives with his wife, Constance (Covington, M.D, pediatrician)intheir usually empty nest in Pebble Beach, California. They have three married children: sons Shane and Alan, and daughter Lara Otsuka.
Military service: U.S. Army, Korean War, 1st Lt., machine-gun platoon commander, 25th Infantry Division; U.S. Navy, 1948-49, Seaman Apprentice, USS Atlanta, USS Doyle.
Raven turned to the left on the first floor and walked down the corridor looking for the right number. Through a door on the right he heard a drunk couple arguing loudly. On the left a radio blared forth the message of some country evangelist. Raven found the number, put down his case and cane and donned a pair of reading glasses. He put himself in the character of the coxcomb, Sir Andrew Aguecheek, a role he had played in Twelfth Night. He picked up his case, leaned heavily on his cane, knocked on the door, and bent his knees to make himself appear shorter. He heard heavy footsteps approach the door and saw the peephole obscured. "Yeah, who is it?" a voice wheezed.
Raven trilled in his falsetto, "Please, sir; it is I, Henry Filbert, representing Mrs. Davidson."
The door swung open and Raven saw a man in his mid-forties, black hair plastered down in a comb-over, dressed in a too small brown checked sport jacket worn open over a white shirt (ring around the collar). His stomach bulged out, covering the buckle that held up brown slacks that looked as if they might once have held a crease. He held a drink in his left hand.
"Well, come in; come right on in, friend," Archie Jenkins said expansively. "Have a seat," he said, motioning to a couch to the left of the door against the corridor wall. "Have a drink."
Raven entered a poorly maintained two-room suite, limping heavily on his cane. "Oh, very kind of you sir, thank you. Not too strong, please." Raven sat, placing his cane on the sofa to his left and his attaché case on his lap, firmly held.
Jenkins poured some bourbon over ice and handed it to Raven.
"Well, then, nuthin' stoppin' us from gettin' right on to the business of the day, right?"
"As you please, sir." Raven opened his case slightly and took out the $5000 packet and handed it to Jenkins.
"You don't mind if I count it, I suppose," Jenkins said, breathing heavily.
"Oh, heavens no. I understand that you must satisfy yourself before turning over the, ah, merchandise."
Jenkins sat down at a desk arranged along the wall on the right side of the room. He removed the paper band from the packet and carefully counted out the bills, arranging them on the desk in five stacks of ten hundred each.
"It's good as far as it goes, but the deal was for ten grand. Let's have the rest."
"Mrs. Davidson has expressly instructed me to give you the balance when I have the negatives and any photographs in my possession."
"You don't think I can take it from you if I want?" Jenkins looked at Raven with undisguised contempt.
"Mercy, I have no doubt of your physical prowess, sir, but I would scream my head off and inform the management of your rather unethical conduct. The situation could get messy. Surely you see the wisdom of concluding our transaction like true gentlemen."
Jenkins sat stolidly for some moments, and his brow furled as if he found the problem one of enormous difficulty, Then he rose from his chair, wheezed, finished his drink, and walked through the door to the left of the desk.
"Wait here," he said.
Raven felt his tension increase to the danger point. He forced himself to breathe regularly and deeply. Focusing his attention on his hara, the center just below the navel, he allowed himself to relax differentially. He allowed ki to flow throughout his body and out through his fingertips. Now the time had come for Andrew Aguecheek to exit. Enter Mike Hammer, a role Raven loathed, but it worked when dealing with people like Jenkins and others of his ilk. Already he could feel the surge of adrenaline. Jenkins returned with a manila folder and placed it in Raven's outstretched hand.
Raven examined the negatives enough to identify them. Then he put them down, coolly reached into his case, took out the .45, and, holding his glass in his left hand, stood facing Jenkins.
"What the hell!" Jenkins blurted with dubious bravado. He started toward the drawer of his desk.
With no hesitation Raven threw his drink in Jenkins' face, strode the two paces to Jenkins and whipped the Colt in a downward slanting arc, smashing the barrel across the left side of Jenkins' face. Raven felt the nasal bone crack. Jenkins went down on his knees, blood and mucous streaming from his shattered nose, his left eye quickly closed by swelling.
"Omigod! Omigod!"
"Shut your face, you slimy piece of filth," Raven forced himself to speak calmly. He could feel himself beginning to grow angry. He stepped quickly behind Jenkins, and shoved the nose of the .45 roughly into the back of his neck.
"Oh, Jesus Christ, please, please!" Jenkins whimpered.
"Just shut up, you whining pig. You make me sick. Too bad you couldn't live like a man. At least try to die like one." Raven cocked the hammer.
Jenkins gurgled, sobbed, and moaned.
Raven pulled the trigger.
