Acknowledgments
All books take a village, and Murder Beach is no exception.
First, my eternal gratitude to the fine men and women of the Strand Beach Police Department for their cooperation, assistance, and friendship over many years. To the administrative team: I can’t thank you enough for your help. To my old friend and fellow whiskey connoisseur, district attorney Ted Wilcox: thank you for privileged access to this many-layered and constantly evolving investigation. To veteran Corporal Eric Grayson: you are a fine lawman, a true friend, and I’ll always treasure my memories of evening barbecues with you and your wife, the indominable Star Grayson (may she rest in peace). My work as a journalist has often placed me adjacent to law enforcement, where I’ve witnessed and appreciated the danger they face every day. They are truly the finest among us. Thank you, again, to all officers of all jurisdictions, for your tireless work in keeping us safe from creatures like Howard.
I should reemphasize here that I feel no vindication or satisfaction in being proven correct on the circumstances of Laura Birch’s 2011 death—only renewed and profound grief for her and her family. I never personally met her, but I do recall seeing both Howard and Laura together for after-school study, and even at a distance I know I witnessed a dynamic young woman, bright with promise. In the aftermath of the December massacre, the community’s heart has broken for Laura Birch all over again.
A great big thank-you to my editors Sara Paulson and Haley Bradford, and to my legal and publicity teams as we embark on the adventure of whipping this draft into shape. And to my new agent Lauren Michaelson, for signing me in record time as we inked this major deal.
They say a writer never chooses the book—the book chooses you. As a sixty-six-year-old divorced hermit who (until recently) thought himself retired, I can’t help but agree. I never expected to pen a follow-up to Silent Screams in my twilight years, nor could I have imagined that this time, I would bear witness to the atrocities firsthand. I’d always known my neighbor to be a troubled individual, but no one could have anticipated such hidden depths. Sometimes the blackest evil isn’t prowling out there in the woods of campfire myth. Sometimes it’s next door. Sometimes it’s lived there for years.
Mind your neighbors, dear readers.
You never know.
Fifteen percent of this title’s proceeds will go to the families of Howard Kline’s victims. Ten percent more to the Dallas-based victims advocacy group The Way Forward. A final fifteen percent—as well as the first installment of my own advance—will go to various suicide prevention and awareness groups nationwide in Emma’s name. I hope she’d approve.
And finally, with a compassionate heart, this book is dedicated to the memory of those who lost their lives by the hand of Howard Grosvenor Kline. To Jules Phelps, Jake Stanford, and Laura Birch. And, lastly, my dear friend Emma Carpenter.
Your pain is over.
You can rest now.