To Know Good and Evil E-Book

Daniel V. Meier Jr.

• Herausgeber: BQB Publishing
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

On a refreshingly cool summer evening in North Carolina, a hog farmer was stunned, then horrified when a light airplane crashed into his hog pens and erupted into flames.
The ensuing FAA investigation convinced the small town that the crash was an accident. Except for one person. Ted Grant was an academic colleague and good friend of Dr. David Lanmore', and Ted knew that Dr. Lanmore had just discovered a cure for cancer.
The last place Frank Adams wanted to investigate an airplane accident was in his hometown of Scottsville, North Carolina. Though his parents were no longer living, Clayton Housley, his uncle, wielded significant influence over the town and surrounding areas as if it were his own fiefdom.
But Ted Grant's call was urgent and disturbing. Apparently S&H Pharmaceuticals had discovered Dr. Lanmore's secret and would go to any lengths to acquire the research. But would they kill for it? And if Frank meddled in the town's business, would his life be in danger?

Leseprobe

To Know Good and Evil

© 2025 Daniel V. Meier, Jr. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopying, or recording, except for the inclusion in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published in the United States by BQB Publishing

(an imprint of Boutique of Quality Books Publishing, Inc.)

www.bqbpublishing.com

979-8-88633-050-2 (p)

979-8-88633-051-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2025944179

Book design by Robin Krauss, www.bookformatters.com

Cover design by Rebecca Lown, www.rebeccalowndesign.com

First editor: Caleb Guard

Second editor: Andrea Vande Vorde

PRAISE FORTO KNOW GOOD AND EVIL AND DANIEL V. MEIER, JR.

“. . . Author Meier’s career in FAA aviation safety combined with his academic passion for history and literature often spurs him to explore flight tropes and historical themes with a moral imperative in his diverse novels. This second volume in the Frank Adams Investigator series is no exception. Well-defined, complex characters with a plethora of conflicts and an expert, yet light, touch of aivation jargon lend authenticity and surprising plot twists to this tightly written tale. Both character motivation and plot merge and meander in creative ways to drive this narrative to an all-too-human conclusion.”

− US Review of Books

“. . . Meier writes with the restrained confidence of someone who knows the terrain—of aviation, yes, but also of human pressure points. The novel’s procedural elements unfold at the rhythm of real investigation: slow, deliberate, and quietly unsettling. Frank is a compelling lead; sharp but understated, and Ted’s philosophical interjections add both humor and thematic depth. There are no cartoon villains here, only people making terrible bargains under instuitutional weight.

In the end, the novel is less about solving a mystery than about watching a man insist that the truth matters, even when no one else wants it uncovered. It’s a story about responsibility, and what happens when those with power or knowledge abdicate it. Meier doesn’t overreach. He doesn’t tie every thread into a neat bow. Instead, he leaves readers with the unsettling but resonant idea that what’s good, and what’s evil, often depends on who’s willing to speak when silence is easier.

A tightly constructued mystery that favors substance over spectacle.”

− The Prairies Book Review

“. . . Readers interested in a full-bodied murder mystery that embraces the lives, psyches, and underlying motivations of small town residents and big business alike will appreciate the unexpected avenues taken in To Know Good and Evil . . .

Characters are well developed, tension is finely tuned, and the twists and turns Frank and others experience in the course of unearthing some disturbing associations are satisfyingly surprising and filled with possibilities.

. . . To Know Good and Evil is riveting, thought-provoking, and perfect for mystery fans interested in thoroughly engrossing reading.”

− D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer, Midwest Book Review and Editor, Donovan’s Literary Services

“. . . Written in an easy-to-read, breezy style, Meier shares an entertaining and amusing mystery where many unique personalities help carry the story. His knowledge of airplanes lends credibility to a plot that should satisfy the armchair reader intent on pure entertainment.”

− Priscilla Estes, US Review

“. . . This follow-up to Guidance to Death stands on its own and will be easy for new readers to follow. Characters are engaging and well-developed, with their distinct personalities sharply etched by Meier’s spirited, straightforward prose. The story deftly infuses the characters’ multifaceted relationships and motivations with surprising twists and sustanied tension that will keep readers invested even after the killer is revealed.”

− BookLife Reviews

“. . . To Know Good and Evil is best for readers who like a thoughtful mystery, especially those who enjoy slow-burn thrillers with a strong sense of place and character. If you’re into literary suspense or stories that blend intellectual grit with good old-fashioned intrique, this one’s worth a read.”

− Literary Titan Book Awards

“. . . The plot is delightfully detailed and executed, with enough antagonists and anti-heroes to make the ending a complete surprise. The descriptions are precise, and I felt as though I was part of the heart-stopping action. I really enjoyed this novel. My favorite and most poignant quote that sums it up is, ‘That’s all we have to do in life, choose to destroy or to create.’”

− KT Bowes for Reader’s Favorite

“. . . Well depicted themes of truth, memory, and the blurred line between good and evil are woven throughout as pointed out by the title itself. What does it mean to act morally in a world full of corruption and compromise? The protagonist’s journey is partly external, solving a mystery and also internal, revisiting a past he thought he’d left behind. The author’s prose is smart but accessible, never bogged down in jargon or unnecessary description which makes this read one of the best flowing available in the genre. . . “

− Feathered Quill Book Reviews

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PROLOGUE

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

PART TWO

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

PART THREE

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

PART FOUR

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’d like to thank Jane Knuth, of the Knuth Agency for her assistance as an early developmental editor and for her invaluable suggestions. And Teeja Meier for her early reading, guidance, and support.

PROLOGUE

“It is not light that we need, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, and the earthquake.”

––Frederick Douglass

Even though it was midsummer, and hotter than usual, Earl Dobson felt the need for a fire in the hearth. He wanted to imagine the soft comfort of the small flames licking the air and the gentle crackling sound of burning wood.

He switched on the imitation electric fireplace he’d picked up last week at Home Depot. It was a clever gadget, closely resembling the real thing with a remote, a fan, and undulating “flames” in a range of colors. Once the simulated fire was set to his satisfaction, he poured a two-finger measurement of bourbon in one of the Murano glasses he bought during his last trip to Venice, sank into his leather chair, and lit his pipe.

He gazed at the simulated flames through the bourbon, which heightened its color and clarity. When he raised the glass to his lips to enjoy its oaky, slight-caramel flavor, there was a deafening explosion. The house shook as though hit by an earth tremor.

Earl knew from experience that it was not an earthquake; such things don’t usually happen in eastern North Carolina. At that moment, his deep memory placed him back in Vietnam, and high-explosive mortar rounds were coming down on him. He could hear the lieutenant shouting orders. He could hear men screaming and yelling.

Earl crawled along the floor, looking for the best protection from incoming rounds. He kept his head low and raised his hands over his head to keep his rifle out of the mud. He stopped, sure that other rounds would be dropping at any moment. He waited, but nothing happened.

Cautiously, he raised his head. He could no longer see the tall grass, the thick trees, or any Viet Cong. He realized he was in his living room, lying belly-down on the floor by the front door. Glancing across at his chair, he saw the glass on its side, the prized bourbon seeping into the carpet.

He stood up. The illusion was gone, but through the window he could see the irregular glow of a fire outside. Then came intense screaming. He grabbed a jacket and hat and ran out.

The fire was in the field across the road. One of the hog houses was in flames. What the hell happened? There was no ignition source, and nothing combustible. Maybe it was one of the fan motors?

As he approached the building, Earl was met by a wall of heat that hit him like a shockwave. The sound of pigs squealing and banging against their pens filled the air. The giant ventilation fans were feeding the flames, so he ran to cut the power before trying to get inside.

Earl yanked out his cell phone and hurriedly called 911. A seemingly indifferent operator asked in a dry voice what his emergency was. Trying not to shout, Earl told her about the fire. The 911 operator showed no concern, and asked, “Are you alone? What is the exact nature of the fire?”—questions that Earl thought completely irrelevant.

“Will you stop asking so many questions and get the fire department out here right now!” Earl pocketed his cell phone as he dashed to the fire extinguisher station at the entrance to the hog house.

Several hogs who had broken out of their pens ran past him and charged desperately around the field, some still burning. Once inside the hog house, he saw that most of the hogs had already succumbed to the heat. It was like an inferno, which, apart from its customary odor of manure, now reeked of burned flesh. It reminded him of Vietnamese villagers after a napalm drop. The acrid stench was the same, the sounds were the same. He made his way through the mass of hogs to approach the source of the fire, which seemed to be near the center of the structure.

He tried using the CO2 extinguisher on it but could not get close enough to be effective. It was obviously not safe to remain here long. Nevertheless, he sprayed the cloud of CO2 in the direction of the fire, but his efforts had little effect. Earl decided it would be best to release any remaining live hogs out into the field. He quickly opened all the pens within reach and was careful to step aside as they charged the exits.

Every living thing runs from fire, he thought.

There were some pens he could not get to, and from what he could see, any hogs near to the source were not only dead but smoking as though roasted on a spit. Some were bleeding from some form of trauma.

The smoke was growing thicker, and having filled the roof, now formed a thick, dark blanket at eye level. Fire was creeping up the wood roof support beams and igniting any material that would burn. Earl did one more fast look around the hog house, though he wasn’t sure just what he was looking for. Then, carrying the empty extinguisher with him, he ran out into the blast of cooler air drawn in by the fire.

Hogs that had escaped were running around the manure lagoon like some out-of-control carousel. They would keep running until they came up against the electrified fence that enclosed the entire field.

Finally, the Scottsville Volunteer Fire Department arrived, sirens blazing with water trucks, ladder trucks, pumpers, and an ambulance. They had stopped at the entrance gate of the fence and were trying to open it.

Earl ran to the gate and pushed it open. The fire vehicles and equipment moved quickly through the gate and stopped. They met at the side of the hog house closest to the fire, and Earl watched as the men swarmed out of their vehicles, unpacking tools and exchanging remarks on crackling radios.

A man wearing heavy firefighter bunker gear and a particularly impressive helmet with “Chief” emblazoned across the front shouted a string of questions at Earl, who could hardly hear him above the wailing of sirens, the roar of flames, the screams of pigs, and the loud banging and grinding of machinery.

“Any explosives or hazmat materials in there? Fertilizer? Chemicals? Is the livestock out? Electricity off? This your property?” The rest of the squad unfurled the hose, hooked it up to the pumper, and waited for orders.

Earl shouted responses in quick succession. “No, no, no, mostly dead or escaped, yes, yes.”

Two firemen carried the hose to an opening as close to the fire as they could, without entering the inferno. Two men braced themselves against the brass nozzle, and the Chief signaled to someone on the truck to turn on the pumper. In an instant, the hose swelled like a throbbing artery and started throwing a heavy stream of water at the fire. Soon, a second hose was blasting the fire closer to the base of the flames.

After several minutes, the blaze died down, replaced by swirling dust devils of white smoke and steam. The Chief stepped closer to the entry and swept a handheld floodlight throughout the hog house, muttered some orders, switched off the lamp, and approached Earl. The fire chief lumbered awkwardly in his heavy rubber boots and protective gear. It was finally quiet, apart from the sound of a few hogs grunting in the night.

“You said you’re the owner of this property?” he asked.

“Mostly, sir,” Earl said, to which the Chief gave a puzzled look. “I own the land and much of the equipment, but the livestock, hog houses, and all the equipment that supports it are owned by the Blue Star Corporation. I manage the farming side of it for Blue Star. I’m what they call a contract hog farmer.”

The Chief nodded his head slowly. “Plenty of those around here, sure enough. Well, sir,” he said, as if it were one word. “It looks like an airplane has crashed into Blue Star Corporation’s hog house.”

“A plane?” Earl said in full astonishment.

“Yessir, an airplane. If you look over there,” the Chief said, pointing his spotlight at a smoking hole in the center of the hog house, then sweeping it up to a hole in the roof and back down to the hole. “You can just make out the remains of a tail section. It looks like the only thing, except for the wing tips and engine, that didn’t melt or burn. There’re likely human remains in it too, of course. There’s no way to know till we get the fire completely under control and can safely enter the wreckage, which won’t be before morning. I think you’d better call Blue Star and let ’em know what’s happened here.”

PART ONE

“The idea, you know, is that the sentimental person thinks things will last—the romantic person has a desperate confidence that they won’t.”

—F. Scott Fitzgerald

CHAPTER 1

Frank Adams stood at the window of his office, aware of the long rumbles of thunder and distant lightning. He watched contentedly as large drops of rain spattered against the window. It was a warm rain that turned mostly to steam when it hit the pavement. Nevertheless, Frank convinced himself that it would be a mild summer. Hadn’t the geese delayed their return to Chesapeake Bay? Hadn’t the leaves on the oak trees been late in turning to summer green? Those were all good signs, weren’t they?

Frank had developed an interest in sailing since watching scenes of the NCC transatlantic cup race. He had even joined the Potomac sailing club and signed up for sailing lessons with the Washington Sailing School. The Major was a good sailor and had promised to sail with him once he got his sailing certificate. He was looking forward to the feel of the wind on the sails, the sounds of rushing water by the side of the hull. He thought of this as he stood at his window, looking out at the distant Potomac River.

The phone rang like the shattering gong of church bells banging next to his head, fracturing his daydream and the vague image of the sailboat he was thinking about buying. He had to change that obnoxious ringtone. Not recognizing the number, he answered, resisting the urge to say something rude to the caller, and instead, used his most neutral voice to say simply, “Adams.”

“Frank, is this you? Is this really your number?”

The voice was vaguely familiar, like a blurred image out of a dream.

“This is my number,” he said, somewhat mystified. “You got it right. Now, how about your name?”

“Frank, I don’t blame you for not recognizing my voice. It’s been a long time and, like everything else, our voices have changed a little. This is Ted, Ted Grant. You know, from Scottsville College?”

Frank remembered a tall, animated, rather gaunt young man with long blond hair, and a little excitable. They had been casual friends during college, but not what he would call close. He was vaguely aware that Ted had returned to Scottsville to teach philosophy after grad school, but Ted had, like most memories of his early past, faded into the haze of time.

“Yes, Ted, I remember you, and I must say, I’m very surprised to hear from you. Wait. You’re not calling on behalf of the alumni association asking for money, are you?”

“Oh, Christ, no! Besides, they know better than to ask me for money, much less enlist me to contact other suckers. I doubt you hear from them either.”

“I did for a while, but when I didn’t reward their bell ringing, they left me alone.”

“Do you remember Dr. Lanmore?”

“Yes. He was my chemistry professor for Organic. Is he still teaching?”

“Yeah, well. He became chair of the chemistry department about fifteen years ago.” Ted paused. “Anyway, he’s dead. About a week ago, he was killed in a light plane crash about twenty-five miles south of here. Crashed into a pig farm. Killed a bunch of pigs. Place will smell like cooked bacon for weeks. There wasn’t much left of Dr. Lanmore, either. They had to identify him using dental records and DNA.”

“That’s awful,” said Frank. “Was there anything left of the plane?”

“Bits and pieces. That’s all, just bits and pieces.”

“I’m extremely sorry to hear it. Although his exams were brutal, Dr. Lanmore was always good to me, always encouraging, always happy to talk to me, although I wasn’t a very promising chemistry student. A real gentleman, and a dedicated scientist.” A long pause followed. “Well, thanks for calling, but I won’t be able to attend any services, and again, thanks for reaching out.”

Frank was just beginning to say his goodbyes when Ted interrupted. “Wait! Frank, wait! I’m calling because I want you to look into it. I’ve done some checking, and I know you’re considered an expert in that kind of work, and honestly, I think something is wrong here.”

“What makes you think that?” Frank asked. “Dr. Lanmore running around with another man’s wife?”

“I’m serious, Frank. I know Dr. Lanmore was doing some research on his own—no government grant, no industry contract. Something he’d been working on for a couple of decades. He was on to something, Frank, and I think he may have been killed for it.”

“What makes you think that?” Frank asked, remembering his last meeting with Dr. Lanmore to tell him that he was changing his major to English. He remembered the guilt he felt at seeing Dr. Lanmore’s expression of disappointment, and Dr. Lanmore with kindness and generosity wishing him the best of good fortune.

“I stopped by his lab a few weeks before the crash and found him totally exuberant.” Ted went on to say. “He was one of my favorite colleagues, and we often had a cup of coffee together. He was like a mentor to me, even though we were in different disciplines. You remember him, Frank. He hardly ever cracked a smile, much less jumped up and down with excitement. ‘Ted,’ he said, ‘I think I’ve finally reached a significant breakthrough. Can’t stop now.’ He was trembling with excitement, then rushed off to his office with his notebook squeezed under his arm like the Mad Hatter in Alice in Wonderland.”

“Did you ask him what the excitement was all about?” Frank asked.

“Yes,” Ted said, his voice rising a few notes. “A couple of days later, I went back to his office. He was still beaming but said he couldn’t talk about it yet because there was much more work to be done, but that he was sure he had achieved a milestone in his research.”

“So, you think that’s connected to the crash? That he might have been killed by somebody who wanted his research?”

“How many flying hours did he have, Frank? Ten thousand, maybe? You know what he did in Vietnam, the missions he flew, and not a scratch on him. He was too careful a pilot to make what looks like a novice error.”

“He was an aging man, Ted. I’m surprised he could still pass the medical. He could have simply lost consciousness for any number of medical reasons. At his age, anything can happen. What type of airplane was he flying?”

“It was his Cherokee 180, an old airplane. He had owned the thing for a couple of decades.”

“Ted, airplanes can last almost forever as long as the owner complies with the required maintenance, and I would be willing to bet that Dr. Lanmore was meticulous about such things.”

“Yeah, that’s what everybody keeps saying.” A long moment followed, then Ted continued.“NTSB farmed out the investigation to the FAA field office in Greensboro. They sent a guy down here who didn’t look like he could figure out how to tie his shoes. The only thing he seemed to be interested in was finding the nearest McDonalds and the cheapest motel. Apparently, he kicked at the wreckage a few times, poked around the remaining parts, but there wasn’t enough left of the plane to do anything with. I bumped into him at McDonalds and asked him what he thought happened, but he just looked at me, took a bite of his Big Mac, and said that I would have to wait for the report.”

There was a long pause, then Ted said in a strained voice, “Look, Frank, whatever your normal fee is, I’ll pay half again as much. That’s all I can afford.”

“Are you sure there’s nobody else down there who could do this?”

“Frank, everyone with your knowledge and experience is ignoring me. You’re my only hope.”

Frank rubbed his forehead. “Okay, Ted, let me think about it for a few days and I’ll call you back. Just email me anything you have on this, newspaper clippings or whatever, so I can take a look, but I’m not promising anything.”

Frank heard Ted let out a soft but audible sigh.

“I don’t have much, but will do, Frank. But don’t take too long about it. Evidence doesn’t age well. Heck, they’re gonna pull down that hog house and build another any day.”

Frank replaced the handset slowly. He had always liked Professor Lanmore. That man was one of a few who treated him with respect and courtesy and encouraged him to pursue a career in chemistry. Frank had seriously considered this option. He had always loved the sciences, always thought of them as pure knowledge requiring proof, uncluttered by subjectivity, shadowy interpretations, or feelings. Science, Frank remembered, is not a belief system. It’s a fact-based system.

He left Scottsville thirty years ago after graduation to take a job as pilot for an air taxi operator in Leesburg, Virginia, promising himself that he would return only occasionally to see his mother. She had died ten years ago, and he had not been back since. He never thought of the place after that. It was as though it was sealed off from the rest of the country like some dark island universe. Once her house was sold, having no pride in or attachment to the place, it was as if he had buried all memory of it in his mother’s coffin and seldom thought of it again. He had, from time to time, thought of returning to visit his mother’s grave, but what would be the point of that? He knew she would not be there.

Nevertheless, Frank felt that he owed it to Dr. Lanmore to investigate the accident, and if there was foul play, nail the party responsible to the prison door.