To Kill a Public Crook

By Steven Stewart

A US senator and his mistress have been assassinated on the eleventh-floor balcony of their hotel room – no witnesses. Detective Scott Blade, LA Homicide is asked to head a fugitive task force to solve the crime. Blade enlists Detective Coraline Steele, Beverly Hills Homicide, his fiancée, to join the hunt for the assassin. Before they get geared up, a second senator from another State is assassinated in his boat while fishing alone –no immediate body.

FBI agent Tomaso Girardi is sent by presidential assignment to meet with the detectives to gather pertinent information about the murders. Their investigation reveals a sinister plot inside the executive branch to overthrow the current president.

Professor Stuart, a brilliant engineer/Astronomer calls LA Homicide describing a long-distance photo his students took, showing what clearly looks like a drone whizzing past the hotel at the time of the first senator’s death.

Paralleling the murder investigation, another story begins to unfold – that of an ex-Army pilot that seems to have changed names and is the potential killer. Driven by mind-altering drugs and evil government manipulators, Curt Doyle, aka Viper, is on a mission to annihilate corrupt politicians. But will he stay true to his directives? He begins to wonder who is controlling him and why.

As Doyle’s mind clears, he decides to defy his “orders” and use his drone one more time…

The search begins for Viper and his drone. The ‘game is afoot’ for both parties.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Oct 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665729536

Steven Stewart

Steven Stewart is a U.S. Navy veteran. He is a member of the Screen Actors Guild and has appeared in many movies and TV shows. As a graduate of the Citizens on Patrol program at the Palm Springs Police Academy and a licensed pilot, Steven served as a member of the Palm Springs Police Aero Squadron, involving himself in police precedures. He is also a member of the Palm Springs Writers Guild.

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgment

Prologue

Chapter 1     The Man Who Would Be Viper

Chapter 2     The Hospital Experience

Chapter 3     A Killer Is Born

Chapter 4     The First Plan

Chapter 5     Blade’s Boredom Vanishes

Chapter 6     The Seduction

Chapter 7     The Setup

Chapter 8     The First Hit

Chapter 9     Post-Hit Frenzy

Chapter 10   Blade Re-Honed

Chapter 11   The Murder Scene

Chapter 12   The Task Force

Chapter 13   A Second Target

Chapter 14   Ignored Evidence

Chapter 15   A Plan For Lydells Pond

Chapter 16   Second Hit

Chapter 17   The Empty Boat

Chapter 18   A Hypothesis

Chapter 19   Second Look At Evidence

Chapter 20   Enter Agent-Man

Chapter 21   The Murder Task Force

Chapter 22   Hypothesis Becomes Theory

Chapter 23   A Third Target

Chapter 24   Planned Deception

Chapter 25   Irene Expresses Doubts

Chapter 26   The Expert Pilot

Chapter 27   The Mystery Weapon

Chapter 28   The Interview

Chapter 29   Satellite Evidence

Chapter 30   Suspicions Arise

Chapter 31   A Shocking Event

Chapter 32   The Game’s Afoot

Chapter 33   Change Of Plan

Chapter 34   A Solid Lead

Chapter 35   Dead Man Walking

Chapter 36   Last Preparations

Chapter 37   The Plot Thickens

Chapter 38   The FBI Profile

Chapter 39   Same Car, Different Color

Chapter 40   Enter Sherlock

Chapter 41   The Tip-Off

Chapter 42   The Explosion

Chapter 43   Viper Walks The Halls Of Hell

Chapter 44   Viper’s Destiny

Chapter 45   Steele Meets Steel

Chapter 46   The Forgotten Phone

Chapter 47   The White Coat Killer

Chapter 48   Assassin Number Two

Chapter 49   Head Doctor’s Fate

Chapter 50   Trail Ends At The Top

Chapter 51   Closure

Epilogue

The pen is the tongue of the mind.

— Horace

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

To:

My lifetime partner and loving wife, Dr. Patricia Stewart who provided every-day stimulus for me to persist and complete this task.

PROLOGUE

THE EARLY MORNING sunlight shone brightly on Detective Scott Blade’s wooden deck. The sliding glass doors provided an outstanding view from either the living room or bedroom. Standing in the living room and looking through the glass reminded him of an animal in a cage at the LA Zoo, walking back and forth with no place to go. Scott was like that: bored. While recuperating from his latest gunshot wound, he had slept well, but too much rest wasn’t good for the hunter’s instincts. The same applied to the caged tiger, Scott supposed. What he needed was action. The power of the badge kept calling him. He turned away from the glass and saw Lieutenant Coraline Ann Steele, Beverly Hills Police Department homicide detective, whom he called Cas, swing around the bedroom door frame wearing nothing but a towel and a smile. Her left leg crossed over her right foot, and her right hand rested up the doorjamb. The towel dropped, and she spun around with a coy smile as she disappeared back into the bedroom. The only way to calm a tiger was to spend time with a tigress. Scott followed. It wasn’t noon yet, but what the hell; action was action.

After college, Scott and Cas had initially met at the police academy and had dated while attending. Scott joined the LAPD, and Cas joined the Beverly Hills Police Department. She was voted number one cop, recognized not only for her copping skills but also for her Porsche Turbo Carrera, the fastest cop in town. After their short affair, they lost contact with each other.

Years later, Scott’s former college girlfriend, Helena, called and asked him for help in dealing with a situation where she allegedly shot an intruder in a black coat in her home in Beverly Hills. Detective Scott Blade followed her request and went to the crime scene out of his jurisdiction. There, he met the lead detective, Coraline Steele, his girlfriend from the academy. During the ensuing investigation, Scott and Cas realized that the flame of love had not died.

Helena had followed Scott’s career for years but had never revealed that he was the father of their twenty-one-year-old daughter, Alison. During that crazy case, Scott was informed he was the bio dad of Helena’s daughter. Father and daughter had learned of the paternity simultaneously and spent some time dealing with the shock of discovery.

Recently, Scott had asked Cas to marry him and move into his house while continuing to recover from his wounds. She brought along her Scotty dog. She told him that she would keep her beautiful condo in Beverly Hills until they were married, and then she would rent it out.

Scott lay back on a pile of pillows with one knee up and reached for the coffee Cas had poured for him. She slowly sat down on the edge of the bed, twisted around toward him, and tossed her blonde ponytail over her shoulder. Scott couldn’t keep his eyes off her perfectly shaped breasts.

So, what do you see? Cas asked.

Two of the best.

I’m not talking about these. She shook them a little. I’m asking about that look in your passionate gray eyes. You’re someplace else. I hope you’re not bored with me already. Is the marriage off?

Of course not, Scott replied. We’re getting married. I love you, Cas. I’m just frigging bored. I miss copping and long for some action. I was thinking about asking Captain Lewis if he had any cold cases I could work on part-time. I’m tired of being a carpenter. The contractor, with my help, finished the remodeling last week, and I’d like to go back to work for a while—you know, get out of the house.

You talked about opening a private security company, the Steele-Blade Detective Agency. Are we pursuing that, or is that idea going into your ‘later’ file drawer?

Not necessarily, love, but you have another year to go for full retirement, and I’d rather keep working than do housekeeping.

Well, then, if you need more activity in your life, give Captain Lewis a call. I must go to the station and finish up my last report. See you tonight. Cas turned to get dressed for work.

All right, I’ll touch base with Lewis. Scott got out of bed, finished his coffee, and put the empty cup on the bathroom’s marble counter. After a hot bath and a shave, he dressed in Levi’s and a black long-sleeved silk pullover. The outfit molded perfectly to his still lean, athletic body.

Soon he would long for boredom.

CHAPTER

ONE

THE MAN WHO WOULD BE VIPER

THE YOUNG MAN, CHARLEY DAKOTA, grew up in rural western America. He had strong family ties, a belief in Jeffersonian politics, and a belief in everything America stood for at that time. All his heroes were cowboys, and he was passionate about reading. He especially enjoyed American history and the colonial days, when the colonists won America’s freedom from the British.

He read the Journals of the American Revolution and related to one in particular, Benedict Arnold. Charley grew up in the backcountry of Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, and he experienced a similar environment to the Maine wilderness Benedict Arnold endured.

Charley also enjoyed reading western books by Louis Lamour. The book Hondo, from 1953, became his favorite. He watched the movie five times and even pictured himself as the hero with his dog.

He finished high school with a 3.5 GPA and applied to the University of Idaho. In the end, he would graduate with a major in American history and a second in engineering, to have a strong base for earning a good living.

While at the university, he enrolled in the ROTC program and studied civilian flying on the weekends at the local airport. He loved flying and passed the FAA private pilot license program. He was able to fly solo in his senior year at college.

In 2001, on September 11, he was nineteen years old and had just entered his senior year at the university. Charley and his girlfriend, Beverly, were in the library studying when the two jet planes flew into the World Trade Center. They then heard of the third plane that hit the Pentagon and the brave passengers aboard Flight 93.

Charley was quietly angry inside and sick from the effects of the dastardly act, which changed him forever. He could no longer see America remaining a peaceful homeland. He knew that he had to find the ones responsible and kill as many of them as possible. The only way he felt he could accomplish his goal was to fly the AH-64A Apache attack helicopters for the US Army.

During the remaining time in his senior year, Charley spent his weekends in private helicopter training at the city airport. He wanted and needed his helicopter rating before accepting his ROTC commission.

He asked Beverly to wait while he went to war, but he knew that wouldn’t happen. She was a beautiful young woman, and life would not let her be alone. He knew there was not enough room in his life for both her love and his hatred for the ones who attacked his country.

The effects on him from the attacks suppressed his passion for love—unless his passion for killing the terrorists was considered love. Then the only question remaining was, Which side of the dog pen was he on? Was he trying to get in or get out? He decided to stay in the pen.

After graduation, Charley received his ROTC commission as a first lieutenant army officer and requested to go to the Fort Rucker flight school base in Alabama. Even though he had his endorsement rating for helicopters, it would still take four phases, about twenty weeks, to complete.

Charley requested a review of his FAA helicopter training by the army’s flight school commander, Major Frederick. Major Frederick personally examined his logbooks and granted him a particular flight simulator test with the school’s top-flight instructor.

He passed with exceptional skills. Major Frederick sent him forward for hands-on training in phase two, cutting the training time in half. Charley was also assigned to assist in ground training for the new pilot candidates.

Beverly wrote a few noncommittal letters while Charley was in flight training, but it took only six weeks for her to move on. Better now than later, he thought. He supposed that the longer Beverly stayed, the harder it would be to recover from her absence.

He removed her photo from his locker door and placed it inside the box with her letters, closing the lid on that part of his youthful life. After basic flight training, Charley would move up fast. The army assigned him to Kandahar’s helicopter squadron in the second largest city in Afghanistan.

TEN YEARS LATER

Captain Charley Dakota, call sign Viper, was now leading four Apaches back to base from a support mission in the Kandahar valley. He was flying an AH-1G Cobra gunship. It was cold and cloudy outside, and the ride was bumpy due to light rain at the edge of the mountains.

Their mission had been to provide cover fire and attack support for the marines on the ground. The Dog Run group did a good job. They took out two Toyota trucks with fifty calibers on top and blew up two buildings used by snipers.

Charley provided rocket support. One of the Apache pilots, Ace, used rockets on an ammunition dump, which made a lot of fireworks. Now, the group was headed back to base, low on fuel and ammunition.

Charley was tired, and his gloves were damp from sweat. The Cobra required constant control input and concentration. His copilot, who was also the navigator and gunner, sat down front and ran the weapons systems. It was a significant workload that one pilot couldn’t handle alone.

While trying to concentrate, Charley’s last energy bar was beckoning him, but he had no water left. It wasn’t any good to eat with a dry throat. Then he noticed his kneepad had slipped over to the right side of his leg due to the Cobra’s vibrations.

After pushing the lock button on the collective pitch arm, he reached over and readjusted his kneepad on his right leg. Then he moved his helmet around and wiped his face with his gloved hand. Fatigue had set in from the lapse of adrenaline. He checked airspeed for the approach of ninety-five knots—right on the mark.

Charley looked forward to getting on the ground and spending his downtime with Lieutenant Karen Roberts. They had a special place at the back of the maintenance building, an out-of-the-way rendezvous next to some trees. Karen was his base girlfriend, and everyone knew it. She was lovely and could outfly most of the other pilots.

He loved how she could fuck, fight, and drink like there was no tomorrow. He needed and wanted her in his life. She took away the stress and loneliness of combat leadership. He planned to ask her to marry him.

But right now, Charley had to focus on his position as the high trail guard and leading the four Apaches up the wide valley. They were all tired. He needed to set up their approach; he keyed the mike and switched to call signs.

Viper to Dog Run. All right, guys and doll, listen up! That was a good run back there. Now, stay sharp, change altitude, and separate by two hundred feet. Viper to Robbie.

Robbie here, boss, Lt. Roberts replied.

Take the lead, keep your speed up, and go to the end of the LZ. Then you’ll turn around and hover, providing cover fire if needed.

Roger that, Lt. Roberts said as she dropped the Apache’s nose and added power.

Viper to Stingray. Follow Robbie in and park on spot three.

Roger that, Viper. Parking on three, Lt. Murray replied.

Ace, get your ass back in line. You’re too far out, commanded Viper.

Ace to Viper, I thought I saw movement up on the left ridge.

Okay, Ace. Pull altitude and check it out. I don’t like surprises, replied Viper. Hipshot, follow Stingray in and park on your spot.

Roger that. I’ll wait for Ace to get on the ground.

Viper flew high cover as Robbie entered the landing zone. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Ace letting loose his last two rockets. Ace was aiming at the boulder zone on the east face of the ridge, where he said he had seen movement.

Ace to Viper, we have bandits in the rocks.

Before Viper could key his mike, he saw a rocket-propelled grenade streaking toward Robbie from her five o’clock position. The RPG slammed into the Apache’s left engine and exploded. The Apache came apart in a giant fireball and dropped one hundred feet to the ground.

Viper was in shock as he helplessly watched his love, Lt. Karen Roberts, die in a blazing star of torn, hot metal. Karen was the only person in the world who cared about him. She was the only person whom he loved. His parents had died some time ago, and as far as he knew, no other family existed.

Stingray saw the RPG leave a treed upslope area. He turned his Apache toward the trees and opened fire, expending the last of the Gatling gun’s ammunition. It took only ten seconds for Viper to recover from his loss and bark more orders. Hipshot, break right. Add cover fire for Stingray.

Ace, having used up his last two rockets, spun around and added cover fire for Stingray. He then received heavy machinegun fire that killed his copilot and started a fire in his number two engine. Ace was out of the fight and had to land or crash.

He dropped down and turned to the LZ. While taking heavy machine fire, his rotor blades took several hits and came apart. That caused an unbalanced rotor system that turned his chopper over on its side. The rotor system impacted the ground and exploded into a thousand flying parts.

Viper commanded Stingray to pull up and get the hell out of there from his overhead position.

Come around and put some heat on those bastards in that pickup truck with the fifty on top, Viper barked. Hipshot, find something to shoot at and cover Stingray. Viper saw another RPG streak from the trees and head straight for Hipshot, who had just opened up on the tree line, killing three bandits. But his action didn’t stop the RPG from slamming into the chopper’s side door and exploding.

Viper dropped the Cobra down, and his copilot gave cover fire to the LZ. At the same time, he was directing Stingray to put it on the ground.

Viper’s Cobra gunship was twisting and turning to bring its guns to bear on anything that moved. Finally, the copilot fired the Chin Gatling gun, and Viper launched the last two rockets. The copilot gunner blazed away at anything that moved, but to no avail. He took several hits from ground fire and fell silent. The Cobra dropped to fifty feet above the ground while Viper looked for a clear spot to land next to Stingray. Instead, he pulled the collective pitch into hover position, trying to stabilize before hitting the ground. That was when all hell broke loose. Viper’s Cobra gunship was now ten feet off the ground when every SOB with a gun opened up on him.

While taking multiple machine gun hits, Viper’s Cobra gunship started to spin around to the left. The wheels hit the ground, and it bounced back into the air before again hitting the ground. The tires slid around in a circle, throwing dirt and dust into the air in a large brown ring. The centrifugal forces from the spin had him crushed to one side of the cockpit. The sharp pain in Viper’s legs kept him from working the rotor rudder pedals to control his spin. Finally, in a last-ditch effort, he dropped the collective pitch control arm down and stuck the Cobra hard into the desert sand in a wild, spinning, dusting crash of flame and noise. While spinning violently, his thoughts returned to the people he had loved—his parents, and the girlfriend he had intended to marry. He was so screaming crazy from the image of her crash that he didn’t feel the last bullet fragment as it passed into his body and through the opening at the edge of his flack vest, just below his right shoulder and into the ribcage. He lost control of the Cobra, which flipped over onto its side and, with a screaming, metal-tearing sound, passed over the event horizon, plunging Captain Charley Dakota into the hot black abyss of silence.

CHAPTER

TWO

THE HOSPITAL EXPERIENCE

AFTER TEN YEARS OF COMBAT FLYING, Captain Charley Dakota, a decorated combat Apache helicopter pilot, had spent the last four months in recovery hospitals. After the vicious attack that had killed Lieutenant Karen Roberts, his on-base girlfriend, Charley had not thought he could love again after Beverly left him, but he unexpectedly fell head over heels for this cute army lieutenant. Unfortunately, another love lost. The rocket and mortar attack on the LZ had killed six and wounded five. Charley was the last one hit in his squadron. Miraculously, he survived. Two bullet wounds and trauma from the crash cost Charley his future, flying career, beautiful girlfriend, four pilot friends, and almost his own life. His path forward into the future was in limbo.

After his last month in the army hospital in Afghanistan, his primary doctors, now treating Charley exclusively, transferred him stateside to Alabama’s Fort Rucker hospital. There, he received more surgery, the last of which removed a piece of metal fragment from deep in the back of his left leg, just under his hip joint. A prior surgery had removed a metal fragment from his ribcage below his right shoulder. During recovery, he became aware of being on powerful drugs that kept him in a dream world. There was no starting point, only a cloudy ambiance of a noisy world slowly spinning around in his head.

Finally, Charley’s brain cleared enough to be introduced to his treatment team, Dr. Russ Matt and Dr. Kameron Finn, plus one hospital administrator, Mr. Smith. These three were part of a dangerous covert group intent on government manipulation. Their goal was to find a susceptible candidate whom they could manipulate with mind-altering drugs and program into a trained killer to do classified, government-sanctioned work. Friends at the highest level of the American government were directing these doctors to carry out such a plan using a suitable post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) candidate to eliminate unwanted elected government deadwood.

Doctor Russ Matt’s unique team selected Charley Dakota for the experiment. Charley had a perfect, highly manipulative mindset in his stressed condition. Hypnosis and a psychoactive drug regimen began for Charley, designed to bring out an elevated generalized anxiety disorder and PTSD. While under hypnosis over several weeks, Dr. Russ Matt discovered that Charley Dakota showed dissociative identity disorder, formerly referred to as multiple personality disorder traits. One minute, he was an officer and gentleman, or more like a college professor. The next minute, a horrendously aggressive killer emerged. Besides the PTSD and personality disorders, tendencies toward schizophrenia and a sociopathic trend made him the perfect Afghan candidate for the pending classified project. Dr. Matt related the results to the executive level, where he received special permission to proceed with the experiment.

Doctor Matt kept Charley under heavy sedation while analyzing the dissociative identity disorder, and Charley was denied sleep during this time. He would awaken in a confused state of mind. The doctors would then administer mild shock treatments through the adjustable electronic chip implant in his head to reinforce the brainwashing conditioning. Dr. Matt continuously reminded him of Karen’s murder, heightening Charley’s anger. Dr. Matt’s methods, combined with Charley’s wrath, began to mold the desired personality—a highly suggestive person who would take orders. Through these psychoactive drugs and mental conditioning, both doctors planted the concept into his mind that two bad politicians had caused the death of his girlfriend and five other squadron members. For that, the politicians needed to pay for their acts of tyranny.

For security reasons, the doctors used these drugs and classified electronic chip implant to remove from his conscious mind his original name, Charley Dakota. They replaced it with a new name, Curt Doyle, warrant officer 111, US Army special forces helicopter pilot. Through Mr. Smith, an internal, deep cover, executive-level government group supplied Doyle with a new identity, driver’s license, passport, social security number, VA card, work history, and bank accounts. A legal document, signed by a fictitious attorney, arrived at the bank informing them that Mr. Curt Doyle would have power of attorney over the deceased’s estate. The new record showed that Captain Charley Dakota had died in the crash of his Cobra during the attack on the army base in Kandahar. Warrant Officer Curt Doyle was ready to carry out their specific assignments and assume his new role as a classified programmable soldier (CPS). Soon, Doctor Kameron Finn would telephone Curt Doyle using the latest high data transfer rate to the implanted microchip attached to the cochlear nerve to begin his first test program. Doyle, the assassin, their weapon of fate would be identified by Charley Dakota’s old squadron call sign, Viper.

CHAPTER

THREE

A KILLER IS BORN

CURT DOYLE, AKA VIPER, SAT IN THE STRAIGHT-BACK WOODEN CHAIR in his hospital room with his bags packed, waiting for his release from what he hoped was the last hospital. After several surgeries and intensive drug therapy, he needed a change of pace. While toying with his coffee, he reflected on a past that was rapidly fading from his memory. The caffeine worked to enhance the anger still raging inside him. He still remembered his aerial combat career and his plan for a fourth tour in Afghanistan, which was denied by his wounds and the powers that be. One of the hospital doctors rejected him because his test results indicated high stress levels. PTSD became a permanent stamp in his medical file.

Curt had given his all. Now, what the hell was he going to do? Take medication and talk to a psychiatrist? The more he thought about it, the madder he got. Finally, Curt Doyle’s programming began to take over all thought processes. We could have won that war if it wasn’t for those cowardly, goddamn fucking politicians. Someone should cancel their ticket! He sat up straight, reflecting on those thoughts and their implications. He had killed dozens of people in the war and received medals for his work, but now it appeared the real enemy was within the US government—domestic types, politicians. That being the case, where could he start? There were so many of them.

The newly altered man was being released from the hospital. Mr. Smith was introduced to Curt as one of the medical personnel at the secure military hospital, who had arranged to have a furnished apartment in California for Curt Doyle. Twenty-five hundred dollars cash had secured the rent for three months. Curt would live in this apartment until Mr. Smith completed the purchase of a safe house on the outskirts of town using the governmental funds at his disposal from an offshore LLC. That LLC would pay all expenses in the name of the LLC; thus, there would be no record of a Curt Doyle. Dr. Matt had received higher-up approval to purchase the new house. Mr. Smith would wire the special funds to the California escrow. In addition to the living arrangements, Curt received a package that contained three separate IDs to use at his discretion.

Charlie Dakota had saved a lot of money while flying Apache helicopters in Afghanistan. Over the last ten years, he had invested in some great stocks—Google, Apple, Amazon, and Home Depot, to name a few—essentially becoming a millionaire from his stock profits. That base money gave Curt Doyle financial independence; he didn’t need to work.

The man who left the hospital at the Alabama VA clinic in the old body was a new man inside with a different name outside. Curt Doyle sat in the cab’s back seat, headed for the Cairns Army Airport located in Daleville, Alabama. He had a flight to catch for Los Angeles. Once he was in place and had acted on instructions, their carefully molded puppet would carry out his assignment; to remove public crooks from office.

He arrived that night at LAX. He waited for his Uber ride. Curt’s new civilian life was on course. Shortly after leaving LAX, he walked into the Vermont furnished apartment rented for him by Mr. Smith; There on the table was a letter from a Van Nuys real estate broker stating he owned an old, spacious farmhouse that was ready for occupancy. The letter further outlined the special property features included in the requirements set out by the LLC purchaser: a private location, a garage big enough to enclose a truck behind closed doors, a workshop that could handle some creative activity, and a barn big enough to build an airplane inside it.

That evening, the phone rang. Curt recognized the unique number. He picked up the receiver and listened to a distinctive tone lasting several seconds. At its end, a voice said to him, It’s time to pick up the evening paper and look at page A4. Read the article written by Irene Johnson. Make an appointment to see her, get to know her, and use her. She has information that you’ll need to know about Senator McVane. Seduce her, and she will supply the required scheduling information to accomplish your mission. The voice stopped speaking, and the tone returned for three seconds before the line went dead. Curt slowly replaced the receiver, picked up the evening newspaper, and read the article written by Irene Johnson, political election manager for Governor Catherine Bronson, who was running for President. Fascinated by her writing and her photo, he decided he would ask her for a meeting to donate to Bronson’s campaign, thus gaining an inroad into the electoral process. Any information gleaned would help facilitate his plan. Curt placed the compulsory call to Miss Johnson’s office the following