During my 45 year career I have crossed paths with:

President George W Bush - In 1988 while "W" and I were campaigning for his dad
I suggested he consider a career in politics. He said "No I'm an oilman. I leave politics to Dad".   

Pope John Paul 2 - I wrote him on St Catherine's request during one of our investigative talks. She was crying about the viewing  of the Virgin Mary in Medjugorje Bosnia in he early 80's. People were selling trinkets instead of realizing it was a warning. He needed to go there.  Catherine said said if I wrote him he would respond. I told her she was crazy as I was a Jew dealing with her, a 14th Century Nun's spirit.  I wrote the Pope and told him I did not expect a response.   A letter arrived later thanking me sating the contents of the letter and tape I sent were duly noted, Th Pope sent blessings. I later sent him a copy of this book. The Pope's Interreligious Dialogue Secretary Archbishop Michael Fitzgerald and I would communicate when I was developing the Charleston Congress of Religions.

I had communication with Pope Francis as well on another matter. I received a confirmation from Monsignor Borgia of the Vatican's DC Embassy.

Walter Cronkite - In a letter exchange Cronkite and I developed an investigative reporting concept I use to this day on public interest cases. 

Bill O'Reilly, Ike Papas, Geraldo Rivera - In an effort to put into play the Cronkite/Comen concept we enlisted these three journalist to nationalize our Mark Clark Expressway Corruption investigation.

Imam W.D. Mohammed- The Imam and I worked on a number of interfaith adventures. 

Rabbi Menachem Schneerson- I conferred with the Rebbe and the Lubavitch Hassids worldwide on our adventures  

The World Series Champion 2004 Boston Red Sox- In 2003 my wife, my son Kyle,  and I made the Red Sox aware of "Angels on the Bridge", made Heaven aware of the Curse of the Bambino, and in 2004 the curse vanished as the Sox came back against the Yankees and Cardinals to win the World Series for the first time since they sold Babe Ruth to the Yankees.

The Great Gatsby - Working with USC Professor Matthew Bruccoli and University of Meunster Professor Horst Kruse we uncovered the truth behind the Jay Gatsby/Max von Gerlach mystery.

A number of spirits killed on 9/11- While riding with NYPD one year after 9/11 throughout the tragic site I could feel the pain of those killed. I later wrote a poem for a New England Radio Show that attracted interest from some families of those killed.

The spirit of St Catherine of Siena -   My client on the missing bridge inspector case wanted to go to a trance medium. Thus began my connection to spirits, heaven, my own faith, your faith, and God 

President Bill Clinton ( the Vince Foster suicide) - Chris Ruddy of the NY Post ( Now President of NewsMax) needed a bodyguard as he investigated the Foster Suicide. 
My book Angels on the Bridge chronicles most of these adventures. It is important to me, at 67, to decide if this adventure was in fact God or just another misdirected fantasy.
Howie Comen

                              APRIL 10 2021 FIRST POST

In January of 1989, a private investigator walked into my office in Charleston, South Carolina to ask for my assistance in locating a missing person. He was a skeptic, to say the least. That private eye was Howard Comen. Howie, as his friends affectionately call him, had lived in Charleston, South Carolina for a number of years and had graduated from the University of South Carolina. However, he was born in New Haven, Connecticut. I, on the other hand, was Southern born but had lived in Chicago for many years and so we had that northern exposure in common. Little did I know at that moment that Howie would become one of the best friends I ever would have on this planet.

    During the weeks that followed, I would have so many mixed emotions about where he fit into my life. Sometimes, the memory of my late husband, who had been chief of police in a Chicago suburb, would come back to haunt me when Howie and I worked together. Just like my late husband, Howie with his sense of humor, brought laughter and humor into the mysterious and mystical work we shared; it was especially refreshing since I had always been too serious about everything.

    Having lived with my husband for many years before we divorced, I would recall the excitement of driving through Chicago Heights at 90 miles per hour. I was with him in the car sometimes when he would be called in on a bank robbery or the scene of a mob crime. There was a striking resemblance to these occasions when Howie would call me at midnight with a hunch or a clue we needed to follow up on a murder, or a missing person case we would be working on. I would jump in the car and we would meet to put our heads together to find a solution.

    On the other hand, I was often taken aback with him when he came to my office with an arrogant or controlling attitude and try to dictate how I would do things or joke about my psychic work, which I took very seriously. Especially when he was accompanied by law enforcement officers and then professed to be a skeptic.

    However, since I am an outspoken person myself, it wasn’t long before both of us understood each other and were able to define our boundaries. Soon, we would be able to work together quite often, and I might add, very successfully, and develop a platonic friendship that would last a lifetime. He would not only be my dear friend but also a friend to my children. I would become close to his family – his wife, his ex-wife and two sons, Kyle and Casey. We would watch our children grow up and often discuss solutions to the problems that would arise in the dilemmas all parents encounter at one time or another. We have always been there for each other when problems arose.

    I am a professional trance medium. I am not a psychic. Long before my days as a medium, back in 1978, I had the horrible misfortune to be the victim of a violent beating. I was left for dead in a pool of blood in Chicago. I was hospitalized with a brain concussion and a skull fracture. When something this terrible happens to a person, oftentimes the victim goes through an awakening – a spiritual experience occurs – and that is what happened to me.

    A Divine visit from a source I would call God occurred and I was shown my life purpose. This Source told me He would send an angel to guide me. Two weeks later the spirit of a fourteenth century nun came to me in a room of light to guide me and advise me on my pathway. This was most amazing because I was not of the Catholic faith and had no idea who this nun was until my Catholic friends told me about her. To this day, she is still with me. Howie and our friends still call on her frequently for advice. The advice she gives us is so accurate, it sometimes is scary!

    In 1989, Howie Comen met my guardian angel, St. Catherine, for the first time. In the coming years, she, through me as the channel, would give him advice and assistance on many things ranging from detective work to his own personal life.

    She has been especially helpful to him on spiritual matters. This phenomenon has led to communication with the Vatican for Howie and also other communications with clergy all over the world, including the rabbis of his own faith.

    Since 1989, I have watched Howie change from an insecure person who put up his guard – which was really his coat or armor, his wall of protection – to one of the most loving, caring and compassionate people I have ever met. He, like all of us here on earth, is still searching and as the days and years go on, will continue to surprise us all with this beautiful transformation from the caterpillar to the butterfly.

    We have shared some of the most unusual times together – times that will never be experienced by others in exactly the same way. After all, how many detectives have an assistant working with them who is the spirit of a missing person who shows up to give him clues as to how he was murdered – not as the missing person himself but as the ghost of that person!

    The exorcisms we have attended together have been tremendously shocking and revealing, helping us both to understand life after death and how important it is to forgive while we are still living so that we don’t carry our grief over to the other side!

    The story that follows is Howard G. Comen’s journey into the unknown. It reveals truth that mankind has been searching for since the beginning of time. Granted, it is a very unusual pathway, but Spirit leads all of us with our own individual and unique experiences.

    In the latter part of the 20th Century, mystics and scholars alike have taken giant steps to reveal the mysteries of life. We now know more about the planets, space and the exploration thereof, than at any time in the history of mankind. I am sure that Angels On The Bridge, by Howard Gerald Comen will go down in the archives of history as being extremely revealing in understanding and explaining some answers to the unknown – that which we are all not only curious about but which fulfills the innermost needs of mankind.

    The great questions we all yearn to hear the answers to are: Who are we? Where do we come from? Where will we go when we finish our mission on this great planet earth? No one truly knows all of the answers to the above questions. However, I know that this book and our search will offer glimpses of that answer and will shed some insight into this search for all who read it. 
– Elizabeth Baron May 2001 Charleston, South Carolina

Stop the war within yourself...and you will stop the war among men.


THE BRIDGE 25. Then God eternal, to stir up even more that soul's love for the salvation of souls, responded to her: Before I show you what I want to show you, and what you asked to see, I want to describe the bridge for you. I have told you that it stretches from heaven to earth by reason of My having joined Myself with Your humanity, which I formed from the earth's clay. 
--St. Catherine of Siena, 1347-1380


An investigation, which started out as a local search for a missing bridge inspector, evolved into a real quest for the spiritual meaning of my life. We all go through periods where we search for that meaning. Tragedy, age, frustration – any negative experiences in our lives – are usually the catalysts. Most of us lose or at least estrange our connection to our religion about the time we reach adulthood. Some of us just go through the motions. I completely severed my connection to Judaism and actually developed contempt for it.

    I was born and raised in the cold and snow in and around New Haven, Connecticut. I was weaned on the salt and sun of warm New England summers, cruising the Long Island Sound on our private boat, the Susan 111. I had a very comfortable life growing up, rich in material concerns, Jewish and family traditions, and educational opportunities.

    In 1968, I chose to leave New England for college at the University of South Carolina. After some students were raped, I developed a student night patrol for the University, received some national attention, and a Carnegie Institute grant. I lost my connection with New England, my family, and my religion. I set out on a totally different pathway.

    In my thirty-eighth year, just when all the youthful idealism should have been replaced by cynicism, I got involved in the investigation of missing bridge inspector Ralph Terry Griggs. He had disappeared on his way to work in late November of 1988.

    Little did I know what I was in for when I offered his wife, Lori Griggs, my help for a mere two hundred dollar fee. I had no idea that I would be meeting those who would become lifelong friends; that I would rediscover the Jewish religion, and develop a new belief system that encompassed all religions and all peoples.

    I had no thought at the time that I would be exposed to paranormal activity, something I always thought was more garlic and crystal balls than substance. Not only would I be exposed to mysticism, but also I would be introduced to a trance medium that would explain things from a perspective that was totally alien to me – the other side. Elizabeth became my friend, confidante and teacher. Sometimes I saw myself as her sidekick, sometimes I saw her as my sidekick. It became a most unusual relationship.

    No book or movie, based on fact or fiction, would ever render the melodrama, blood, sweat and tears, excitement and challenge of what you are about to read. As a private eye, I am always ready for all of the above. As a human being, I look back on this adventure in amazement. I hope you enjoy the following story, which is the factual history of the unbelievable experiences I would have never thought possible. Some names have been changed to protect the participants.
--Howard Gerald Comen
May 2001 Charleston, South Carolina

1. GOD? SPIRITS? HEAVEN? Does God exist? Is there life after life? Do spirits exist.

 Questions puzzling humanity since Adam and Eve. The questions themselves frame humanity. They frame the difference between doing good and, on occasion, doing evil. It's the thought of God, Spirits, and going to heaven that keeps us on the straight and narrow. It's the thought that maybe God, Spirits, and Heaven don't exist that breeds greed, lust, and murder. 

I'm no Angel, A pretty face has been known to turn my head. I lived my life with foot on the Good side and one foot on the evil side. In my career as a Jewish Private Detective I had been lied to by Doctors and lawyers and had  been told the truth by pimps and prostitutes. I had a Baptist first wife and a Catholic second wife. Religion wasn't my thing. 

My investigation into a missing bridge inspector for a $200 fee brought me into the middle of the discussion.   A twelve year old girl won't go to school until someone helped her find her Dad that went missing just before Thanksgiving on 1988. My  son was twelve. 

My sidekick was the spirit,of a 14rth century nun, St Catherine of Siena and her alter ego medium Elizabeth Baron. As a jack of all trades, master of none I surrounded myself with “experts”. Engineers, politicians, famous mystery writers, rabbis, priests, and anyone else I could get my hands on.

I continue to walk with one foot in heaven and one foot in Hell. Is my “adventure” fact or fiction? I have no idea.

Judge for yourself.






t was a balmy Carolina evening. The Deputy made the rounds from his pickup truck. He rolled up his flannel shirtsleeve and checked the time as he drove into his country farm. He pulled past the cows and into the pasture. He did his cop thing and now he had to do his farmer thing, checking on his herd. In the city our driveways are lined with lawns and neighbors. In the country it is different. Here they are lined with cows, manure and the neighbors are at a distance.

    He jumped out of his truck and immediately knew trouble was brewing. He looked around at his surroundings cautiously and then he looked down. He discovered a newly deposited cow dropping. City boys get pissed when they step in dog crap. To country boys, cow crap is different – a sort of animal-meets-the-earth thing.

    Manure is like okra. It’s disgusting to those who don’t understand its value. Ever wonder what makes tomatoes grow so plump and ripe?

    As the Deputy made his rounds, he spotted the mid-sized car roll up his dead-end street, turn around, and exit. In the city, this was never questioned. In the country, it was another matter.

    The Deputy walked to his back porch and hailed his wife, Annabelle. “Did you see that car?” He lumbered his big 6’2” frame through the sliding glass door.

    “That’s the second time this hour they’ve turned around in our driveway,” she replied. The shotgun she was toting was about as big as she was. However, she was twice as feisty. You had to be feisty to be the wife of a cop in Carolina.

    The Deputy’s wife turned over the shotgun to her husband. He placed the shotgun under his arm. A country cop’s family becomes a part of the country cop’s job.

    The Deputy moved his huge frame out the sliding glass door and made his way cautiously to the driveway until he came to the big magnolia. He moved behind it and waited.

    Twenty minutes later the same vehicle pulled down the lane slowly. The Deputy saw the lit cigarettes through the windshield. He went back to the tree as the car went into the turnaround. As the car stopped to back up, the Deputy emerged from behind the magnolia into the dark; then he took two steps toward the open car window. He spotted the Illinois tags.

    Before the passenger realized what was happening, the business end of the shotgun tried to make love with his ear.

    “I wouldn’t move an inch if I was you, pard’ner,” the Deputy introduced himself with that wonderful southern twang.

    “You city boys from Illinois must be pretty stupid to get lost on the same dead-end road three times in a row,” the Deputy drawled.

    “Tell you what, city boys, now that you have become familiar with what dead-end means and have come pretty close to knowing what dead means, I suggest you get your lyin’ asses back north to Illinois real fast.”

    “Yes sir!” came the reply. The Deputy withdrew the ought six from the passenger’s ear. The car sped away.

    Several days later the Deputy was submerged in the day-to-day activities of police work in a booming Carolina county.

    To understand the territory, think of the old West. There is a small country city and then there is a larger one, which was what Dodge City was to the forts at the end of the territory. Progress arrived in the little country town with the building of Interstate 26, but after you leave the hotels and “fast-foodness” of the area, you end up with 1950s architecture and old-fashioned attitudes. Country values and virtues are maintained with the Sunday morning church services but Sunday evening is a different story. Many residents then wet their whistle with whiskey prepared the old-fashioned way.

    The country town stockade doubled as the Deputy’s office. Two men stood in the waiting room, which doubled as the shakedown room for new rookies. Most of the time, you couldn’t tell the difference between the good guys and the bad guys. These two guys, however, were dressed in expensive suits, FBI style. They were obviously not from around these parts. The Deputy figured they were G-men.

    He ushered them into his sparse office. “Cup of coffee?” he offered. 

    “No thanks,” the taller guy replied. The Deputy recognized the voice. “We just came to bring a message.” 

    The Deputy immediately recognized the voice from the incident in his driveway a few nights back. “I thought my trying to blow off your head through your ear with my ought six would have at least made an impression on your brain,” the Deputy said as he backed up a bit and released his revolver from his hip. His huge frame was threatening in itself and he would remind one of Wyatt Earp in years gone by. It was hard to come by an honest cop in these parts. He was one of a kind, a real hero, himself.

    “Our boss wants to see you,” came the emotionless reply.

    “In a pig’s eye. Let’s see some identification,” the Deputy responded, putting himself behind his desk with his service revolver still in sight.

    “No need for the gun,” said the smaller man, pointing to the revolver, as both men rose and walked slowly toward the door.

    “You WILL talk to our boss,” the taller guy shot back as they edged out the office door.

    The Deputy stood for a moment, leaning his massive frame against the desk. He then went about his business.

    Several days later the phone rang at the Deputy’s house. He answered.

    “Unless you want to find your wife or stepdaughter in a ditch by the side of the road, you’d better leave Sunday. We will be waiting by the Texaco station at the intersection of 145 and 167 in Waynesville.” The voice clicked off, not waiting for a reply.

    On Sunday, the Deputy told his wife the truth about what had happened with the two men visiting him, loaded the small Firestar gun just below the belt, just above his butt. He drove the pickup to Reevesville and took 145 to Waynesville until he found the Texaco station where he had agreed to meet the two men.

    The two men were waiting in the same mid-sized car with Illinois tags. “I’ll follow you,” the Deputy didn’t see the need to begin the discussion with any talk.

    “On no, you will leave your truck here and drive with us. We call the shots now,” the taller guy replied as he left the driver’s seat, so sure he had the Deputy in his back pocket now that he had agreed to go to Georgia.

    A few beads of perspiration on the Deputy’s brow attracted his attention momentarily. He locked up the truck and moved into the car between the two men. He could see the bulges on the hip side of each man and knew he was in great danger.

    The Deputy was not one of these “Sunday-go-to-meetin’-Bible-thumpin’“ Christians. He was a wonderful man who treated the Jew and the Gentile alike. Of course, he believed in Christ and his example he set for us here on earth, as many good southerners do. However, he had a deep, quiet, undying faith in God. He believed in living his faith each day and not broadcasting it like the Pharisees. He believed talk is cheap – action speaks louder than words. So, calling on his faith now in his time of need, he prayed quietly but earnestly.

    The smaller man to the Deputy’s left asked for his service revolver. The Deputy handed the one from under his armpit.

    “Now the Firestar!” shouted the taller one seated to his left.

    The Deputy reached behind himself and unsnapped his security. He felt the beads of sweat return across his brow. He wondered how they knew of the gun.

    The small man pulled out a blindfold and began to tie it around the Deputy’s head, covering his eyes. He put his hand up to deflect the smaller guy’s hand; however, he quickly realized the smaller guy was much stronger than he realized.

    “Just a precaution, Deputy. Don’t want you going back to South Carolina and telling everyone about us,” he explained.

    “What the hell!” the Deputy thought to himself. “What have I gotten myself into?” By then, the Deputy had lost contact with the red clay and peach fields of Georgia.

    About seventy minutes later, which seemed like an eternity to a man in his situation, the car finally came to a halt. The Deputy was guided out of the car, brought into some sort of building, down a corridor and into a room. The blindfold was removed as soon as they seated him. The room was pitch black. He felt the presence of two men seated behind him and two in front of him.

    A strobe light was turned on to distort his vision. He recognized the two men in front of him as the messengers.

    “Don’t turn around, Deputy,” advised the smaller man. A semi-automatic kissed the Deputy’s right ear gently; then was withdrawn.

    “Something is going down in your area within the next month. We want you to look the other way,” they explained.

    The smaller man leaned over and opened a suitcase, which lay on a small table in front of the Deputy. “This is yours. This is more money than you will make in five years as a Deputy sheriff,” the man explained.

    “Stick it in your ass, man! I don’t take bribes!” the Deputy shouted.

    “Don’t get tough with us, boy, we own your town; we own your whole state. We don’t just stop there. Take a piece of the American Pie or we’ll smash your face in it!”

    “Your daughter is kind of cute; so is your wife. I’m sure you would like to keep them that way,” came a voice from behind him.

    “You screw with my family and I’ll kill you, I promise you that!” The beads of sweat now had formed pools in the creases of his forehead.

    The men switched off the strobe light without any more dialogue. The Deputy was ushered out of the building, back into the car, and they retraced their seventy-minute journey. 

    After they arrived at the Texaco station, the smaller, friendlier man cautioned the Deputy. “We don’t play around, Deputy. Nothing personal, just business.” He was almost apologizing. 

    The Deputy wanted to wrap the apology around his ass but his head told him to back off. He was given his weapons back and allowed to return to his truck unharmed. He entered his pickup and headed back to the country town he loved so much. He felt strangely richer for the experience, much richer than if he had chosen the money over his principles.

    As he drove in to his hometown, he began to wonder how in the world these men knew about his ass gun. That was something only two people in the world knew about – his wife and the Sheriff, his superior. “This has gone too far!” he shouted to no one there.


he alarm went off early at the Griggs’ Goose Creek residence, a small village on the outskirts of Charleston. Terry slammed it off, forcing his 6'2", 245-pound frame out from under the warm covers on this cold November morning and began his usual morning ritual. He sat up at the end of the bed, glanced at the sleeping Lorelei, an attractive southern woman who had been blessed with more than her share of feminine beauty. Excitedly, he urged her to arise. “Wake up, Lori,” he coaxed. “Today it all begins for us, baby.” 

    Lori slowly got up, with her eyes still closed to the beginning of the day’s events. “First full-fledged official day on the job, right?” she answered.

    “Yep, probation ends today. From here on in, I’m officially a South Carolina Highway Department inspector,” he said as he stretched himself under the covers.

    “I’m proud of you, Terry,” Lori responded as she cuddled up once more to his masculine chest and rested her head there for a moment. “I wish MY probationary period was over,” she thought as she lay there, secure in her husband’s arms for one last time – at least, as secure as she could be with a man like Terry.

    She knew it would never be. That was Terry. After they lay in a bed of love for a short while, Terry bounced off the bed, jumped into the shower and hurriedly dressed, so as not to be late for work.

    Before he ran out the door, he stopped momentarily at his young daughter’s bedroom. Dee was Terry and Lori’s only child, and a typical eleven-year-old. She was well into the boy/girl stages of man/woman relationships. He held Dee tight as if to say, “This is it, my little one. This is the last hug you and I will ever have.”

    “Dee, today I start officially on my job. Today is the beginning of good things. We’ll have more money to do more stuff,” he assured her.

    Dee sat up at the end of her bed and wiped the eleven-year-old girl dreams from her mind, in order to prepare to concentrate on schoolwork. “Daddy, I can’t wait till Thursday. It’s three more days until Thanksgiving at Grandma’s house. I wish I didn’t have to go to school and the holiday was here already.”

    “I know...all that turkey and you know there isn’t a grandma in Carolina who can make Thanksgiving like my mom. Now you be a good girl, and study hard. Don’t be like your father. I want more for you than what I have. I want to see you grow up to be somebody and not have to begin a whole new career at thirty-eight. I want to see you finish college, wear nice clothes, have a nice home. Now, be good and I’ll see you this evening.”

    With that, he hurried out the door forgetting the vital medications, which he took each day. It was November 21, 1988.     Lori came into Dee’s room with coffee for herself and a plate of eggs and bacon for Dee. “Daddy’s awfully happy today, Mom,” Dee said. 

    “Yes, he is so proud of his new job. I hope he can keep this one for a while. Okay, Dee, please get up and get ready for school; your bus will be here shortly.” 

    “I will, Mom. I love you and Daddy so much,” Dee said as they exchanged hugs. Little did they know that they would never see Terry again.

    Soon Dee was ready for school. “Bye, Mom, see you this evening,” Dee shouted as she ran out the door to catch the school bus and start her Monday off with a smile. 

    “Bye, honey!” answered Lori, “I’ll take you to the mall to get those tennis shoes I promised when you get home.”

    After Dee left for school, Lori was not feeling very well. She was tired. So she decided to return to her cozy bed for a half hour before she went to work.  Within a few minutes, Lori awoke from a nightmare startled. She rose from her bed. “Oh my God! I don’t understand!” She’d dreamed of Terry being underwater. He couldn’t seem to lift himself out of the water. “Oh, well, it was only a bad dream.” she consoled herself.     As she showered, she washed her long hair and enjoyed the water, bouncing off her lovely body. But she was haunted by that dream.

    Lori hurried so that she would not be late for work at the Navy yard, where she had been employed for a number of years as a purchasing agent. However, all through the day, she could not get the horrible nightmare out of her mind.    Northwoods Mall was only a short distance from their house. Lori and Dee quickly selected a wonderful pair of Nikes at J. C. Penny’s. “Mom, I love these shoes,” Dee kept saying to Lori.

    “Want to stop for pizza?” Lori asked Dee. What young girl would turn down pizza at the little shop just inside the mall? Dee sat there and practically devoured the large slice of pizza washing it down with a Coke, while on the other hand her mother Lori ate her piece slowly, with small dainty bites, still plagued by the bad dream.

    “Okay, let’s hurry home now. Your dad will be home soon and I want to clean house a bit before I start dinner,” Lori said to Dee.

    Arriving home, Lori and Dee went about their business. “Come and help me do the dishes, Dee,” Lori asked her daughter.

    Afternoon became evening and Terry had not returned from work. Lori looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was seven o’clock. He was usually home by four.

    She called Terry’s father. “Did Terry, by any chance, stop over there this evening?” she asked him.

    “No, he’s not here, Lori,” he spoke in a worried tone, as if he sensed something was wrong. 

    “I’m so mad at him! I cooked dinner and the chicken is already cold. I told him I would have dinner ready and he’s not even considerate enough to call!” she shouted in the phone.

    “Calm down, Lori, he probably just stopped off with his friends to get a beer to celebrate his getting off of probation on his job. He’ll be home soon,” Terry’s father defended him.

    She hung up the phone and sat down in the living room, pretending to read a magazine. But her anger began to change to fear. When ten o’clock rolled around, she felt a great need to call the Goose Creek Police Department.

    “He’s only a few hours late getting home. We can’t put out a missing person’s report just because a man is late getting home from work,” the dispatcher informed her.

    She sat back down with the magazine and waited for what seemed an eternity. Dee had already gone to bed and was sound asleep when Lori checked on her. Lori dozed off on the sofa. She just couldn’t seem to sleep in her big bed without Terry’s warm body beside her. Lori was tired. Her job at the Navy yard was stressful, to say the least. She slept through the night on the sofa and finally awoke early on Tuesday morning, only to have to face the grim fact that her husband was gone...and she knew not where!





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This book begins my adventure in 1988 through 9/10/2001. I am working on "GOD"S PRIVATE EYE QUITS"  9/11 2001 to December 2020. I will work on "IF NOT ME, THEN WHO - GOD'S PRIVATE EYE RETURNS- RELUCTANTLY" December  2020 when I was hospitalized with congestive heart failure

until my death ( hopefully many years from now.)