David A. Crossman

Dead in D Minor David A. Crossman

The orbit of Albert?s tiny, coffee-stained universe was elliptical and only rarely intersected that of the conventional world, generally in the vicinity of a Dunkin? Donuts. Some people called him a genius; some called him an idiot. He was inclined toward the latter opinion. To him, nothing made sense. He didn?t think like most people. He didn?t understand how they could spout their age, weight, Social Security Number, or home address off the top of their head without looking it up somewhere. He couldn?t fathom why they cared about celebrities, or sports, or shrubbery, or the weather. The School cocooned him in penthouse hotel rooms, private jets, and stretch limousines as it whisked him around the world, from stage to stage. It boasted of his accomplishments: the Noble Prize; ?the only one of its kind;? (an excellent coaster) the Pulitzer (too small to be of any practical use at all, and too large to fit in a cigarette machine), and Grammys (paperweights). Music was all Albert knew. He hadn?t the sense to know he was clueless, until murder came along and tore his cocoon to shreds; but it wasn?t light that flooded in through the cracks; it was darkness. Still, everything might work out all right ? if only someone would explain . . . everything.