here I reveal the inspiration for the stories

The snowsuit was inspired by the announcement in my church that again this year a Christmas tree would be put up in the back of the church the following weekend. Sealed envelopes with the wishes from people in homeless shelters and outreach programs would serve as decorations again. Each year my wife and I would choose two from the tree. The outside of the envelope simply said, "A snowsuit, size 18 months to keep my child warm." How could I resist? I plucked the envelope off the tree before anyone else. 

After I purchased the snowsuit I decided to add a Christmas card with some cash, not enough to hurt my personal funds available but I hoped it would be enough to make a big difference in someone else's life at Christmas.

I hope, given the opportunity that you participate and give generously to those in need that reach out for help. Not just at Christmas but year round.

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When I was nine years old death, real death, for the first time. Until then I thought only old people died. One of the boys was killed outright. His body was flung against the wall of the creamery which is now gone. The other was injured but survived. 

The story is based on real events among my real friends. My father insisted that I go to the funeral home and offer my condolences to my friends parents. I didn't want to go but was given no choice. My parents were beside me in the back of the chruch during the funeral and it was then that I experienced the finality of death and cried for a week.

While styled up to make it a story I thought people might be interested in, the underlying theme is the same. It was not easy to write and the names were changed to protect the feelings of some of the people that appear in it. 

The trains no longer carry coal from the fields in North Dakota. Now they speed through town every half hour twenty four hours a day carrying oil destined for the electrical generation station.

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My wife and I sit occasionally at the lakefront in Milwaukee. I often have my camera with me. I spent a lot of time taking landscape pictures of landsacapes during our travels together and on many occasions I have seen couples holding cell phones at arms length trying to take selfies that look like the painting called Whistlers Mother. 

You know the one, the old couple standing in front of a house in Iowa. The man has a pitchfork in his hand and neither one are smiling. 

Janet would nudge me and say, "Please help them." I found myself smiling and would approach them with my hand out and say, "If you give me your camera I will take your picture." Then I would encourage them to strike a different pose, compose the shot to include a pleasing background, one I would be proud of and take their picture. Then I would turn away and smirk as they insisted I give them their cell phone back.  I would remind them of our deal, "If you give me your camera I will take your picture." 

People would laugh and thank me for helping them out. 

One day Janet observed how close I was able to get to total strangers and how much they trusted me with their cell phones.

The Photographer became a book about a serial killer shortly after. I did make the killer female because women appear less  threatening than a man.

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My wife Janet and I were on a cruise to the Caribbean and were sitting in on a discussion of the culture and politics of Nicaragua before leaving the ship to see the jungle and the village. As soon as we left the ship I was struck by the presence of military personnel and the checkpoints, some operated by gang members. At one point the bus driver negotiated a payment, a bribe, and handed money to a heavily armed man in fatigues before the bus was allowed to pass. 

While walking on the trial in the jungle I saw a man carrying a machine gun following and when I asked the guide if we were in danger I was told he was there to protect us. 

As the bus passed through the village I saw a prison without buildings inside as described in the book, a hospital with an ambulance out front and a rundown school across the street.

The book accurately describes these locations while the remainder is fiction which I believe depicts what I expect could or did happen in the years since I visited.

Brad Morrison is an invention to tie the series together.

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Sand Creek is an outgrowth of Heart of Darkness. 

I brought this story to life after a photography trip to Death Valley where I had gone with friends to take pictures of the dunes and the Milky Way.

The open spaces and quiet of the land are  enormous there and I encourage you to visit at least once.

The location of the book is far away from Las Vegas out in the desert where nothing grows. A perfect location for a prison I thought while watching grains of sand pile up and be removed by a gentle wind. A desolate place where there are no people around for miles in any direction. The idea of a prison where there are no guards and little or no oversight made for a story where Brad Morrison could operate and save one of the main characters in the book Heart of Darkness a second time.

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My wife Janet and I visited Las Vegas and like most everyone we walked through the casinos. Neither one of us are experienced gamblers. 

I put $20 in a slot machine, won $200 and cashed out. We used the winnings for tickets to a show at the Mirage casino.

 We rented a black  Mustang Convertible and drove down the strip at night with the top down before visiting the Hover Dam and the Grand Canyon. The drive to the canyon had me thinking again about the open desert and the greed in Vegas. It occurred to me that between the casinos where people from all over the world come to leave their money behind, perhaps their entire life's savings, there had to be a political connection to the business of the justice and prison systems.

Sand Creek Scandal was born while I was sitting on the edge of the Grand Canyon and came to life shortly after the trip, giving Brad Morrison another adventure.

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