Nobody sets out in life to become a victim of crime.
For certain, nobody willingly sets out to become a murder victim. I certainly didn’t, yet that is what I ended up as. Some people, by the choices they make in life, put themselves at greater risk of falling foul of another like-minded person to the point that their life is taken from them. I’m talking about the illegal drugs business and organised crime where big money and perverse cruelty sit cheek-by-jowl with one another and where life is cheap. Sudden death is an occupational hazard in that strata of society’s underbelly and sort-of to be expected I suppose.
I was not involved in anything of the sort.
I was a what you might call a Jack-of-all-trades; the guy you would call to mend a leaky tap or fix a tile on your roof or re-patch your tarmac when the winter frosts had broken holes in its surface. I wasn’t the sort of guy who went and got himself involved in stuff that didn’t concern him. My wife, bless her, used to say that the most excited I ever got was when our bank balance exceeded four figures for two consecutive months! That wasn’t entirely true.
I was never the demonstrative type: I was brought up in a large family where there was neither time nor space to be demanding of our parents’ attention, what with eight kids ranging in age from seventeen months to seventeen years, to clothe, feed and educate on minimum wage there wasn’t much familial affection going spare. I learned at an early age to keep my feelings to myself if I wanted to avoid either being severely berated for my selfishness or just banished to my section of the bedroom I shared with my four brothers. No, being overly demonstrative never came easily or naturally to me.
When I met Cyndi, she thought it was kind-of sweet the way I used to blush when she held my hand or when she kissed me (so she told me much later). Oh man, sex was like, just the worst! Don’t get me wrong; I had seen my share of female nudity growing up. Living in cramped conditions like we did it was pretty much unavoidable come bath time to catch glimpses of one or other of my partially clothed sisters. But that was nothing like being fully intimate with Cyndi.
For a start, she was no blushing virgin, you know? I was. How could I not be? I didn’t drive so I couldn’t make out in the back seat of a car like the guys at school did… or claimed to do anyway. I could not bring a girl home and take her to my bedroom on the pretext of doing homework, could I? There was pretty-much always someone else about the house, every hour of the day, every day of the week. There was no such thing as ‘me time’ in my family. My sex education came from locker-room chatter, magazines and a great deal of self exploration. Cyndi, though, was the model of patience with me and allowed me to learn at my own pace. It was exactly the right approach to take: the more I learned the less inhibited I became and the greater enjoyment was had by both of us in due course.
So how did me and Cyndi hook up you must be asking? Well, she was the daughter of the guy whose kitchen sink I unblocked one steamy July Saturday morning. Jed Archer was an army veteran and mean bastard who liked a drink. Being wheelchair- bound didn’t do much to sooth his temper, either. Anyway, as I worked on his bunged-up sink Cyndi sort of hung around, being by turns flirty and funny. It didn’t hurt any that she was pretty in a cute way and was about my age too, so I didn’t feel funny in any way looking at her like a guy looks at a girl when what she’s wearing alleviates the need for a particularly vivid imagination. Tight blue jeans clung to her pert round ass and an even tighter lemon-yellow short-sleeve top with a pattern of tiny flowers stretched around her ample breasts close enough to outline the small nubs of her nipples. She had her auburn hair all tied up atop her small head with a bright red ribbon and I thought she looked like something out of a magazine advertisement for country and western living.
Now, I was not a complete novice in my dealings with the opposite sex and I knew that Cyndi Archer was making a play for me for sure. What I didn’t know was what her actual intentions were. I mean, did she want to just play with me and tease me or did she have anything else in mind? I just did not know for certain and my inexperience in reading her actions towards me seemed to amuse her.
"You really are as sweet and naïve as you appear" she giggled girlishly as I lay on my back on the spotless kitchen floor of her home, reassembling and tightening the plastic pipework after I’d cleared out the gunk that had caused the blockage. "Here I am, a beautiful woman at your mercy and you ain’t once made a pass at me" she said in a tone that was only half-jocular, I thought. "A girl could be quite offended" she said, a small pout pulling her lips into quite a kissable shape.
"Miss Archer, your daddy asked me here to do a job for him. That’s what I have done" I told her as I got to my feet and wiped my hands. "Now, I’m not saying that you are not pretty and that I haven’t noticed you, because I have. You are a very pretty girl," I told her, blushing as she gazed at me, her lips curled in a smile, "but when I am being paid to work I don’t have time to be looking where I shouldn’t be looking" I said as I gathered my tools together in the canvas tool bag I had purchased just a couple of weeks ago.
"Well, lordy-lord," she laughed delightedly, "an honest to goodness gentleman, no less!" She took me by complete surprise when she suddenly threw herself at me with such force that if I had not dropped my tool-bag and opened my arms she would have had both of us crashing to the floor. Her tinkling laughter echoed around the sunlit kitchen as she lifted herself onto her tip-toes and planted a small soft kiss on my unshaven cheek. I blushed an even deeper shade of red.
"Teddy Bletsoe, you are going to be the man I marry someday" she told me frankly. I was so taken aback that I didn’t know what to say so I thanked her for the cold drinks she’d plied me with while I was working and told her to tell her father that I would drop my bill into him in a few days’ time. I felt the weight of Cyndi’s gaze follow me all the way down the paved footpath to my car and could sense the smile playing on her pretty face. The tips of my ears burned painfully hot, too.
I had never felt so embarrassed yet so... wanted? For sure, I was extremely confused, but ina nice way, if that made any sense. I could not leave without returning her wave so I turned to look at her standing framed in the doorway. She blew me a cheeky kiss and waved again, a laugh I could not hear issuing from her mouth as I drove away.
Less than twelve months later we were married, me still a virgin and she delighted to have gained a husband who adored her and worshiped the ground on which she trod. We set up home in a small run-down place that we soon had fixed-up really nice. I did all the necessary repairs and Cyndi decorated to her impeccable taste and style. When our first-born, Caleb, came along we felt that our lives were complete. The gods, though, were not quite so sure and a little over a year after our son came into our lives we were blessed again with our beautiful daughter, Grace. Now we were certain our family was complete and no further gifts were presented to us.
Together Cyndi and I built a life of relative comfort. While I took my manual skills into the homes of those who either didn’t possess them to make their own repairs or simply didn’t have the time or inclination to do them, Cyndi honed her interior decorating flair and became quite sought-after in the better-off circles of our town and the neighbouring communities. We were an unexceptional couple in an unexceptional town.
Petty crime is a problem everywhere and the town of Hinkle was no exception. Burglary, theft, mindless vandalism and graffiti were the bane of everybody’s life, but nobody worried too greatly about it. Those things were a sad fact of life, like the uncomfortably high level of unemployment in the region, especially amongst the younger members of the population. It used to sadden me to see groups of bored and frustrated youths hanging around in loose groups, at a loss as to what to do with themselves. With the local economy mirroring the national downward trend the likelihood was that things were almost certainly going to get a lot worse before they began to improve, which was a particular bone of contention with one Seb Brewer.
The middle of three brothers born to a mother who adored her boys and would hear not a bad word said about them, Sebastian Brewer was a bright boy who had a great deal to look forward to when he aced his exams and applied for a place at a number of universities. Sensitive, keenly intelligent and a talented musician and writer great things were expected of Seb by his family, his friends and colleagues at the auto-parts store where he worked part-time to earn a little spending cash. But most of all the greatest expectations of a brilliant future came from Seb himself.
Everything was going according to plan. The first year saw Seb Brewer emerge as one of the top ten students of that year’s intake and the second year was expected to follow the same pattern. Then it all changed over the course of a single telephone call.
Evan Brewer was generally perceived as a nice guy. People liked him and, yes, respected him, too. He was the foreman at the factory and rarely had trouble from any one of the thirty or so men who worked under his leadership. Indeed, Evan’s willingness to do himself any task he asked of any of his men made him a favourite amongst the crew. When fate dealt its cruel blow it could have been anyone. That day, though, Evan Brewer was in the wrong place at the wrong time and was lucky to escape with his life. The near-fully laden storage racking that held stock waiting to be despatched unexpectedly collapsed at the exact moment Even was passing by on a fork-lift truck. Heavy metal bars, wooden pallets and large boxes full of stock cascaded down in a deadly rain, trapping the unfortunate Evan under several tons of wreckage. Only the fact that he was still driving the fork-lift truck at the moment of collapse saved him from near-certain death.
His injuries were severe and would keep him out of gainful employment for a minimum of one full year, possibly even two, depending on how quickly he recovered. Of immediate concern was whether Evan Brewer would walk again, let alone work. Although the guys at the factory raised an appreciable sum of money to help out the Brewer family it became very clear, very quickly that finances were going to be a major issue for the foreseeable future. With Matthew, the eldest, serving his country overseas and Nicholas, the youngest still at school and two years away from graduation, only ambitious Seb could be called upon to become the family breadwinner in lieu of his indisposed father.
Initially the idealistic young man took to his task with fervour and relish, carrying the mantle of man-of-the-house proudly, earning the admiration of his father’s former colleagues and the townsfolk. However, six months down the line and with no appreciable improvement in his father’s condition and a significant worsening of the family’s circumstances, the heroic former student began to resent the burden placed upon him. His behaviour and general demeanour began to deteriorate.
It started with late nights and excessive drinking, interspersed with outbursts of bottled-up anger and resentment. Although never a violent boy, this new, darker side to his hitherto pleasant and agreeable temperament became the cause of grave concern to his mother in particular. For the sake of his still frail health she kept the worst of the situation from her husband, explaining away Seb’s impossible-to-ignore temper tantrums as "the lad letting off steam". Too weak and in too much pain to have much concern for anything or anyone other than himself and his ailments Evan Brewer allowed himself to be seduced in to believing his wife’s manipulation of the facts. It was much easier that way to cope with everything, especially behind a drug-induced haze that created an emotional distance anyway.
Seb Brewer did not have a focus for his anger and resentment. It just was, and that was what hurt him, confused him and confounded him. The previously loving, kind and gentle soul who would rather write a poem than engage in an argument became verbally aggressive to anybody who did not agree with him, though he stopped short of actual physical violence. That was probably more about self-preservation than a want, though.
Unlike his father and elder brother, Sebastian Brewer had, unfortunately, had his genes selected mostly from his mother’s pool rather than his father’s. Consequently, along with his hitherto gentle nature went a slender stature and a height that failed to achieve the six feet plus his elder brother and father stood. In the plus column, though, were good looks and natural charm that made him someone both guys and girls enjoyed being around. In the days before massive numbers of e-friends became the norm, Seb Brewer had more friends than he knew what to do with. Unfortunately, during his family crisis, not all of them were completely understanding of his thwarted hopes, dreams and ambitions and became intolerant of his frequently embarrassing and boorish behaviour. In large numbers they began to drift away. In their place came the scum.
In any pond of any description, scum always rises to the surface. In our little town of Hinckle, that scum began to circle around Seb Brewer as his ‘nice’ friends abandoned him to his anger and frustration. Before long, Seb had a new circle of admirers, a group that was more interested in what he could do for them rather than how they might offer help and support to him in his hour of most need. It wasn’t too many drinks down the line that petty crime began to figure in the loose association of drifters, wasters and no-hopers' nightly ritual. Their number now included Seb Brewer.
Petty vandalism gave way to petty theft, which in turn gave way to stealing cars and setting fires, most of which activities were fuelled by cheap alcohol or alcohol stolen from local retailers. Increasingly Seb Brewer was a keen, willing and active participant in these activities and came to the notice of local law enforcement. Although never arrested or prosecuted for any misdemeanour, Seb’s name was on the lips of several police officers, most of whom knew or were friendly with his father. None, though, thought it prudent to disturb the poor man with their concerns about his son, figuring that he already had enough to contend with due to his injuries. Consequently neither of Seb’s parents was ever fully aware of just how low their once much-admired son had sunk.
A new set of window wiper blades for my car were the cause of my undoing. How could something so damn mundane and ordinary lead to such an outcome? That’s what death is like, I guess. It is rarely as dramatic as we saw on that fateful day in September 2001 in the US of A. Most deaths are sad, pathetic and incredibly mundane. Mine was only slightly less so, but only slightly.
I’d parked the car down the block, a two or three minute walk from the auto-parts store as I could not find a parking space any closer. It was the self-same store where the young Seb Brewer had earned his pocket money before he went off to university.
Of course I have since asked myself the question "if I had been able to park closer to the store would things have turned out any differently?" The simple answer is that I don’t know. In my heart of hearts, I don’t believe they would have. There seems to be something fated about these events and, like in those Final Destination movies, when Death comes a-lookin’ for ya, he ain’t gonna give up ‘til he’s caught ya. That’s hindsight talking, of course. At the time I wasn’t having any kind of insights like those, though.
In fact, I was smiling to myself as I reached my hand towards the door handle of the store. Cyndi had promised to bake a cherry and walnut loaf cake, which was my all-time favourite cake. As an extra bonus, she teased, she would even ice the top of the cake if only I would replace the annoying worn-out wiper-blades on the car as their constant squeaking and squealing noises were driving her to distraction, she giggled. With the offer of an iced cherry and walnut loaf to tempt me, how could I not accede to her simple request? So it was with those thoughts in my head and a smile playing on my lips that I walked into mayhem.
Clearly something was terribly amiss. Stanley Knight, the half-deaf, long-time proprietor of the auto spares store had blood running from his smooth bald pate, shockingly bright red against the pallor of his usually year-round-tanned complexion. In front of him stood somebody clothed head to toe in black, brandishing a baseball bat and screaming at Stan to hand over the store's takings. Poor Stan, he was so terrified that he stood mutely behind his wooden counter, his mouth working up and down to no effect, arms hanging limply at his sides as a thin trickle of blood weaved it way unchecked toward his right eye.
I saw all of this in an instant, yet it felt like ultra slow motion. It seemed to be an age before the old-fashioned bell that was activated by the door's opening made its familar welcoming 'ding' and drew the attention of the black-clad figure to my presence in the store.
"If you know what's good for you, you'll get the hell away from here" a deep, masculine voice growled menacingly.
"Yeah, move your butt, pal" another voice chimed-in from my left. He had, it appeared, been examining some of the high-end stock on display, possibly with a view to illicitly removing it, which was why I had not spotted him straight away.
Like his accomplice, this one was also dressed completely in black. He was not as tall or as well-built as the guy with the baseball bat, but there was an air about him that suggested he was not as calm or as ruthless as his companion. My senses were already on high alert after walking in on a scene from one of the countless cop-show dramas I'd watched on television over many years. Never in my wildest imaginings did I ever expect to be centre-stage in a real, honest-to-goodness drama on my own doorstep.
"I can't do that guys, you know that" I heard myself saying in a voice that was remarkably steady and reasonable considering the circumstances. "I think it would be better all round if you left, don't you?" I suggested.
"Are you fuckin' crazy, man?" Baseball Bat Man enquired of me. "Are you out of your fuckin' mind?"
I wasn't sure what the proper response to his questions would be, so I said nothing. I was reasonably sure that the questions were largely rhetorical anyway.
"Listen, mister," the second assailant hissed, "we don't want any trouble. Just go!"
To emphasise how reluctant he was to cause any trouble Second Guy pulled from the waistband of his denims a large knife, probably a kitchen carving-knife, and brandished it at me.
"I'm not afraid to use this, so move!" he insisted again.
I was no hero, not by any yardstick. By the same token, I was no coward either. There was no way that I was ever going to leave an already disadvantaged and injured neighbour to face the two much younger assailants by himself. It did not bear thinking about what might or could happen to him. I was just not made that way. So I took a step towards the smaller, knife-wielding robber.
He raised the arm that held the knife to shoulder height and thrust it threateningly in my direction.
"Back off!" He squealed, fear, not aggression, raising the pitch of his voice several octaves.
Wordlessly I took another step towards him. With a cry of desperation or anger or fear he lunged at me and I felt the knife slip smoothly into my chest. There was no pain, only the cold acknowledgement that I had been stabbed. I felt strangely calm as I looked at my killer and saw horror and despair in his eyes as the full realisation of what he had done hit him.
"Come on, let's get the fuck outa here!" he yelled to his mate, stepping over my slumped body as he yanked the door open.
Baseball Bat Guy swore loudly, smashed the bat into a glass-topped display cabinet in a show of utter pettiness before chasing after his departed friend.
There was little blood seeping from the wound, but that was not unusual. The knife, buried to the hilt in my chest, was effectively plugging the hole it had made in me. I felt cold and so very, very tired. My eyelids slid closed. I heard Stan call out to me that he was calling the police and an ambulance and begged me to hold on. I recall thinking that Cyndi was going to be so pissed that she had gone to all that effort to make that cake for me and I wasn't going to be home to enjoy it with her and our kids. I think I said 'sorry' aloud to her, but I couldn't be sure. I was losing consciousness; losing the battle to maintain my life. When the dark veil extinguished the last vestige of light, I died ignominiously in the doorway of Stanley Knight's auto parts store.
Selwyn Bumstead had been trouble from the day he first stood on his own two feet. If there was mischief to be had, he would find it. As he developed into a little boy who bullied other kids and stole sweets and money from them his name became synonymous with the phrase 'troubled child'. Mind you, if I had been handed a moniker like his, I think I would have been tempted by the Dark Side, too. What the hell were his parents thinking when they gave him that name? He was first arrested at the grand old age of ten years for stealing items from a building project in town. That earned him a stern rubuke off the Inspector at the police station, but it was to be the first of many, many such encounters with the law.
Inevitably, Selwyn Bumstead found himself locked-up, firstly with other like-minded juveniles who had strayed onto the wrong side of the law at an early age before progressing to adult correctional institutions. It was in one of the juvenile institutions that Selwyn's fists and feet caused some serious injuries to an equally loathsome lout who made the incredibly stupid mistake of ribbing Selwyn about his name. It wasn't the first time Selwyn had been ribbed, of course: with a name like his ribbing came with the territory. No, the unfortunate thing was that, unlike in an open society where he could simply walk awake from a violent confrontation, the enclosed institution did not afford the angered teenager that safety valve. Consequently, when the taunting youth made crude aspersions regarding his sexual orientation for the third time in as many days, fourteen year old Selwyn snapped.
It took two burly wardens and a large injection of sedative to bring the resultant beating to an end before it became fatal, which it had every likelihood of doing. As it was, a broken nose and cheekbone, several cracked ribs and numerous bruises and abrasions all over the taunting boys' body were serious wounds, but not life threatening. It was also a massive turning point in Selwyn Bumstead's criminal career. Violence became as much a part of his life as breathing from then on.
How he and Seb Brewer came to meet is a matter of speculation. How they grew to become associates and what prompted them to become partners in a grave criminal enterprise was of far greater concern and was never satisfactorily explained by Selwyn to the parade of mental health professionals and legal types who questioned him at length. The most they were able to deduce was that the pair hooked up because both young men were angry and bitter at the hands Fate had dealt them.
Yet, it was Seb Brewer and not Selwyn Bumstead who wielded the knife in my violent murder. It was Seb who fatally stabbed me, straight through the heart it transpired. I was as good as dead as soon as the tip of that common household cutting implement penetrated my flesh. Even if the medics had arrived in time and much sooner than the twelve minutes it took the ambulance to attend the scene at the auto parts store I still would not have survived. I had already lost a great deal of blood internally by then.
Going on just the description given by a shocked and upset Stanley Knight within moments of the police arriving at the crime scene, Selwyn Bumstead was already top of the very short list of suspects in the original crime: armed robbery. Although the M.O. was crude, it dove-tailed neatly with other similar assaults Selwyn had been involved in since adolescence. However, he was not to be found at any of his regular haunts and all of his known associates were saying nothing. They knew better than to speak out of turn where Selwyn Bumstead was concerned.
It proved, though, to be a matter of time and just the right incentive to the right person to give up the violent ex-convict. A four-figure reward was offered for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the absent Selwyn Bumstead. One drug-addled Philip Chace passed on the required information via the confidential hotline set-up by the local police and within hours Selwyn Bumstead was in police custody. It had been just three days since I was murdered.
Meanwhile Seb Brewer's conscience was giving him the hardest time of his life. No matter how much alcohol he drank, how many cigarettes he smoked or how long he tried to prevent sleep from dragging him into nightmare recollections of that fateful afternoon, he always succumbed eventually. Almost overnight he seemed to have shed almost half his body weight and his face was tired, pallid and drawn. He was unshaven and unkempt and the cause of much concern to his loving parents. To all their enquires he snapped back that there was nothing wrong in spite of all the evidence pointing to the contrary. Concerned, but reasoning that he would talk when he was ready, his parents allowed him his space.
In interview and under police caution - and less the cocksure preener he portrayed himself - Selwyn Bumstead verbally fell over himself in his eagerness and haste to distance himself from my murder. He freely admitted to being the black-clad figure clearly visible on the auto store's CCTV footage who assaulted Stanley Knight. So eager was he to talk about that crime that his interviewers became suspicious of what else he might be trying to avoid being questioned about. With other more urgent and pressing matters to attend their concerns were filed away for future examination.
He held out for maybe twenty minutes before he gave up the name of his accomplice. Being advised by the police that he could be held equally as guilty in my death and face the same sentencing as the person who actually stabbed me seemed to focus Selwyn's mind sharply. Seb Brewer's fate was sealed less than hour after his co-conspirator had entered the grim halls of Hinckle police station. He was arrested at home within another hour and made only a token denial of the offence.
A targeted search of the Brewer home revealed that a significant item of kitchenalia was nowhere to be found in the house: the ten-inch long meat carving knife that completed the set of knives that had been a wedding gift to his parents on their special day more than twenty years ago. Because it had been in regular use Seb's mother could say with complete accuracy and certainty as to when she had last seen the missing blade; last Sunday's roast beef had been expertly sliced by that very knife at the dining table. It had subsequently been washed and dried and replaced to its allotted spot in the rack where it resided between uses. No, she could not hazard a guess as to where it was now or offer up any good reason why it was not where it ought to be.
In a dingy police cell in a police station two towns away from Hinckle, a very ill-looking Seb Brewer stared blankly at the featureless pale green cell wall. For the first time in several months his mind was crystal clear, which was something of a disadvantage at that precise moment. If ever he craved oblivion it was then and there, waiting to be questioned at length and in some detail about the circumstances and events that led up to him plunging his mother's favourite carving knife so deep into my chest that it had taken two strong second year male medical students several minutes to extract it from my lifeless body. If there was any topic in the whole world he wanted to talk about any less, Seb Brewer didn't know what it could possibly be.
To his credit he didn't keep his interviewers waiting too long before admitting his guilt. Eschewing legal representation he admitted his culpability in my death almost as soon as the question of what he knew about my demise was put to him. It was what the police - and I - wanted to hear from him. There were tears and there were regrets and there were apologies and begging for forgiveness as he tried to explain that he hadn't wanted to kill me, only to scare me.
"But he wasn't scared, not at all" he told the attractive female officer. "No, he wasn't scared"
"Is that why you stabbed him, Seb? Because he wasn't impressed by your posturing and bravado?" the seen-it-all-before sergeant pressed. "Did his lack of the 'right' reaction to you brandishing your mother's carving knife in his face piss you off so much that you decided to show him what a tough guy you were? Was that it, Seb?"
"No, it wasn't like that!" Seb sighed tiredly, answering the same question for the umpteenth time, albeit posed in slightly different ways.
And it really wasn't like that. I know what happened and although I could not entirely agree with Seb when he called it an accident, I could agree that it was unintentional. You see, what he was having trouble admitting to himself - and therefore the police - was that he panicked. He lost his nerve and panicked when he saw me take a step towards him instead of backing away as he had thought I would once confronted with his weapon; the carving knife. In moments like that - when events unfold in a wholly different manner to what had been expected - people react in odd, often irrational ways. Some change tack, some just give it up as not worth the effort and some, like Seb Brewer, lash out blindly. It's that type of reaction that often has the most devastating consequences. It cost me my life.
So that's how I came to be a murder victim. Sebastian Brewer was convicted of murder and not manslaughter, as his defence team had tried to convince the court at his trial. As the prosecutor told the court, if you go into a situation armed with any sort of weapon there is an assumption that it is there to be used should the situation call for it. The jury agreed unanimously. I was pleased that the verdict was murder. I did not deserve to die that day at the hands of a frightened, emotionally messed-up, former university student turned breadwinner who wielded a knife in anger in a situation that was explosive and fraught with danger. My brutal slaying deserved the full majesty of the law being visited upon my killer's head and that is what happened.
By the time Seb Brewer sees the outside of prison walls again - if he ever does - my daughter and son will hopefully be grandparents.
There were two victims that day and two lives were lost that afternoon at the auto spares store: mine almost immediately and Seb Brewer's. His, though, will be a long, slow and lingering demise, shut away from the society he could have served in some great capacity or other. My death was a tragedy in itself, but I cannot help but ask myself and wonder which is the greater tragedy: my children and wife losing their father and husband or a young man starting out on life's great adventure losing not only his liberty, but also his potential to be, do or achieve something great?
I have yet to find a satisfactory answer to that question and I guess I may never will. Still, I have all of eternity to try and figure it out.