Another Positive Review 

This week I received another positive review for I Albert Peabody, Confessions of a Serial Killer. 

“I carry in my satchel many secrets I wish to reveal between now and when he will make his confession known to me.”

Albert’s decision to take a life was made with intended malice. A doctor couldn’t save his daughter’s life, so the pain that Albert experienced needed to be felt by the doctor. He targeted the doctor’s daughter and snuffed out her life with no remorse. Years removed from this premeditated act, Albert Peabody is living out his golden years in a psychiatric hospital where he is confessing his past crimes to his doctor. As Albert reveals his pathological nature to the doctor in painstaking detail, the doctor has questions of his own about what drove Albert to these heinous acts. Albert’s crimes have been concentrated for decades, and his cunning mind has helped him elude capture. However, now Albert is being held accountable for his nefarious deeds.

A voyage into the sinister mind of a killer proves both disturbing and illuminating in this mystery/thriller narrative. Albert’s disclosures reveal a detestable human being who whitewashes his ghastly crimes due to grievances, real or perceived, with either the victim or the victim’s kin. Albert’s doctor believes he can see through Albert and that Albert’s motives may not be as clear as Albert has conveyed. The question of Albert serving as an unreliable narrator surfaces from time to time, conjuring a comparison to American Psycho and where Albert’s confession will ultimately lead. The mind games played between the killer and his doctor form the dramatic dynamic in this story and propel the plot forward to a fulfilling conclusion. This story is intended to leave the reader unsettled and succeeds on multiple levels.
Book review by Philip Zozzaro
RECOMMENDED by the US Review

As with the Kirkus Review done in November 2023. It’s well received and got a “recommended” from the critic. 

“A fascinating and relentlessly dour peek into an evil mind.“

In Schellhammer’s novel, an elderly serial killer chronicles an alarming string of murders he’s committed over the course of decades.
Albert Peabody sits in a Washington State mental hospital. Authorities suspect the 85-year-old of killing 10 people whose remains were left in urns stashed inside a mausoleum. Albert writes out his confession to Dr. Schwartz: He’d been a POW in the Korean War, then he returned to Spokane, his hometown, and married his high-school sweetheart. Their daughter got sick, and when a doctor failed to save her life, Albert took revenge on the doctor’s child. He confesses to multiple murders spanning the 1960s to the 1980s, mostly committed as responses to what he perceived as slights. He freely admits to other shocking atrocities as well. While Albert acknowledges he’s a monster, he doesn’t think he’s crazy. Schwartz reads pages and pages of descriptions of the man’s crimes but is certain that Albert is keeping something to himself, regarding an apparent deathbed confession of Albert’s father’s. Schellhammer maintains a consistent tone throughout these writings of a narcissistic serial killer—Albert continually addresses Schwartz as “Herr Doctor” and takes unmistakable joy in recounting every awful thing he’s done. While the author avoids graphic details, the killer’s myriad deeds and cold indifference make for a mercilessly dark tale. Beneath Albert’s playful narration, readers get glimpses into his psyche, as when particular questions from Schwartz infuriate him. The killer, on occasion, seemingly contradicts himself, but he’s very clearly not the most reliable narrator, and at least some of these contradictions make sense as the story progresses. There are a few surprises awaiting readers in the final act (some more convincing than others), leading to a gratifying ending. A fascinating and relentlessly dour peek into an evil mind.

I hope that many of you my loyal readers have already bought my book and enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thanks for all of your support and I’m looking forward to writing more to you. 

I’m A.L.I.C.E.

Now that I’m of an age to get social security and still work full time, I have lived by shoestring budgets, prayers I have a job when I come to work the following day and hope I don’t become ill or be in an accident where I would be homeless or without the means to rebound. 

I was a lucky man when I suffered my stroke in 2002 because I was living with my parents at the time. Without them to keep me fed, clothed and housed, I doubt very much I could have survived on my own. 

But I know many people at the casino I work for who are in that mode. They work but their means are limited. They live in apartments that are in poorer parts of town. They can’t afford a car. If they have a car, it’s nickel and diming them because fuel, parts that need replacement, registration and insurance saps their budgets. Many have to work two or more jobs to survive. 

A.L.IC.E. that stands for Asset Limited, Income Constrained, Employed is how many if not most families in Spokane and Coer d’Alene have lived since I can remember since moving here myself in 1998. It’s a form of poverty I’m very much aware of from my own experiences living in the Tri Cities. If my experiences are an example, many of these people have other issues that go hand in hand with their predicament. That was drug and alcohol dependency issues. I can’t for certain say all are in that category, but it seems to make sense that these issues or problems would become a constant. There are other reasons of course that includes lack of formal education, immigration status and plain bad luck defines the overwhelming reasons these people struggle. 

ALICE families are above the poverty line, but that isn’t very comforting when you have to decide what bills can be paid or rent or groceries. I soon discovered a creditor’s patience was limited when it came to paying bills or utilities. They’re understanding to a point, but then they too expect payment in full eventually. 

What’s the solution? It’s complicated, made more so now there is a very conservative government in power now, who see anything smelling of social help as somehow smacking of socialism. In the view of rich conservatives, people need to pull up their boots and make do with what they have and be happy about it.  

Ideally the solution is simple; raise the poverty standard to allow limited aid to these families. But as I stated above, a very conservative electorate and government insists otherwise, hence the conflict will undoubtedly continue for the near future. In the meantime, families will continue to struggle though they are gainfully employed. 

An Uncle of Mine

Last Saturday I received the news from my cousin that Uncle Hal was passing. The next morning I received word that his spirit went to Heaven. He was ninety, a veteran of the United States Army serving in both Korea and Vietnam. 

But that wasn’t all that he was. He was a husband and father then doting grand and great grandfather. He worked hard. He lived a decent and moral life setting the example for others to follow. Besides being my uncle he also became a good friend and confidant. He went out of his way to call me and talk with me following my mother’s tragic car accident, weeks and months following.  

He didn’t have to do that. After all, none of his other brothers or sisters took the time to call and talk to me. He did it I believe because he genuinely liked me as a person more than as a mere nephew. That was apparent two years ago when I visited him at his home in Moore, Oklahoma. He took the time confiding in me the family he and Mom grew up with. There were of course the hard times. After all, he and Mom were of thirteen siblings, whose father struggled during the Great Depression as a tenant farmer, got a break working the Boeing plant in Wichita Falls, but squandered it by his alcoholism and abusiveness. 

He told me about himself, how he made the decision of his young life to make the Army his career when he returned to Texas just before his four-year hitch was up. He didn’t want to be a farmer. It was a decision that had positive consequences in his life that included meeting his future wife and siring three children. 

Hal, you inspired me to be all I could be, just to borrow from the U.S. Army marketing slogan. From when I first met you at Grandma’s in 1969 to your inspiring words whenever I called you while I was in Basic training at Fort Sil. You lend an ear to my own grief. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you when you called to say your beloved wife had passed. I am proud that you took the time to send me cards on birthdays and at Christmas. I’ll miss you dearly my uncle.

An Exercise in Practicality

Like many of you my loyal readers know that I am a fairly frugal person. I look at something hard and make a final decision based in part on cost and on how practical this is. Buying a car is no different. 

Before I had my present car I bought a PT Cruiser that was reliable and gave me great driving pleasure. The Charger I had was also a very solid running car with good performance for a six-cylinder engine. 

This past week I was looking at a couple cars—looking mind you. I found a car and at first I thought it was a typo. A 2023 Dodge Charger with only 3,000 miles on the odometer. It’s a purple GT with a V-6, like my silver tone Charger that I bought used in 2019. I had to investigate further. 

The cost of course was a bit out of my price range. If I got the approval I wanted some of my credit card debt brought down. I decided to do the preapproval application and to my surprise had approval. The dealership invited me over for a test drive and I went there yesterday after work. 

At any rate I haggled with them until I got what I felt was a decent and fair deal for both the dealer and me. I informed my son-in-law what I was up to, and he surprised me by his feeling that I was rushing into something I might regret later. 

I texted him back that it was a great deal, and the terms were solid and fair. I honestly believed that I was being practical because my present car was over twelve years old and over 140,000 miles, abet mostly highway miles on its odometer. The car I planned on buying is two years old and is 3,000 miles plus the deal includes a forever warranty. 

I now am the proud owner of a nice ride that will last me at least eight years. I couldn’t be happier. 

Life is Short 

Earlier this week, I discovered my Uncle Hal was losing his kidney function. He is in hospice right now, declining dialysis treatment and awaiting the moment Our Lord and Savior carries him home. 

This morning there was an incident at work. I don’t know exactly what happened, but first an ambulance arrived andd then tribal police showed up. Later that afternoon, a chaplain from the Spokane County Sheriff’s Office showed and we were told someone, a coworker had passed. 

We are on this planet a very short time. Some shorter than others. The Book of Life and Death isn’t in our hands to read, but in God’s. My uncle if he lives to February 14th will be 91 years old. He’s lived a very good life and will be deeply missed by all who love him. We all will shed tears of sorrow for him. 

I’ve known many who have reached the mountain top, opened their arms out and taken the leap to Heaven to meet their maker. It is after all what we are in this animal and plant klingdom: mortal. Only most recently have we become more sanitizewd about how we deal with death. There was a time when our ancestors were buried in shallow graves or crypts or cremated on pyres. Now, unless otherwised documented we are buried in graves with cement vaults, heavily embalmed or cremated in an oven and placed in urns inside mausoluleums. 

“Life is short,” as one of my co-workers stated this afternoon. “So, enjoy every moment while you can.” Omar Khayyam, had a similar quote from his Rubayat, “A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, 

A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and Thou 

Beside me singing in the Wilderness— 

Oh, Wilderness were Paradise now!” 

A Family Tree

I finally received my DNA results the other day and I was more than a bit surprised by the results plus my own family tree is a bit suspect to say the least. It makes one wonder sometimes about the scruples our ancestors have because one entry is very odd to say the least. 

Anyway the results are a wonderful blend of mostly English, Scottish and Irish, plus some Danish and Swedish. I only have 24 percent German in me. Most of my ancestors came to the Carolinas and Virginia, Pennsylvania, Kentucky, Tennessee, and deep south. They all eventually moved westward to Oklahoma, Texas, Arkansas, and Oregon. Then there is the surprise that threw me for a loop. There is no evidence of Native American in me, but one percent came from Ghana and/or Ivory Coast in West Africa. 

For as long as I remembered we were told that our great grandmother was half Cherokee, and no talk of a oops with regard to an ancestor being naughty with a young girl from Africa. 

I’m continuing working on this tree. It is like my writing, a process. What surprised me most was two items I discovered today that has given me pause. I will need to investigate further but my great-great grandfather Samuel married the love of his life at age twelve. He sired six children until his death at age fifty. I thought children, even in the mid-1800s couldn’t marry at such a tender age. 

The other is my great grandmother Elizabeth Catherine. Last name Schultz. She had children before she was even born in 1921. She had no parents of record and came to America from England in 1893. My conclusion is that she more than likely was a mail order bride for my great grandfather who lived in Oregon at the time. Obviously, she had no birth certificate and most likely had to have some identification in order to file taxes. A birth certificate was more than likely made out on December 7, 1921, and the bureaucrat who made this out mistakenly placed her date of birth as that. 

It’s obviously a work in progress, and I’m very curious how that glaring error wasn’t caught until now. Plus the omission of my Native American lineage, replaced by African American. But what is really amazing, is how in my own writings, the characters’ names that I seemingly pull out of thin air are the names of long, dead ancestors, There are still some that aren’t there, which will eventually makes its way to more stories in the future.

Solitude

I just got done going to a church service today.

The theme was spiritual solitude, where one required decompressing and being alone from the noise.

Noise is harmful to our collective health and like many, I become more agitated and stressed by noise, even ambient white noise that we all too readily tune out, thinking we are in a quiet place. As I have gotten older, I come to realize I don’t need that noise in my life anymore.

I’m a natural introvert, always was since I was born and being the first born. My younger sisters weren’t like me. They required something or someone to interact with. Me? I was perfectly happy playing in my room, by myself.

After I learned to read, I read books or stories in my room. I was content, and after I was tasked as a young boy take our dogs for their daily walks, I took great pleasure being out with nature hearing the sounds nature created, inhaling the air, smelling the odors, and seeing all the sights God blessed me to see. I often sat and wondered, trying to hear His voice. Maybe, through a breeze or a sparrow’s or lark’s whistle it was Him speaking to me.

In Kings 19:8-9, Solitude is about being face to face with God. Solitude is where we all must be to get away from the distractions that make our lives complicated. In Luke 5:16, “Jesus often went away to other places to be alone so that he could pray.”

When I’m writing or reading, I have nothing that distracts me from what I want to do. I can concentrate better when I’m in a cloistered environment and away from people who unknowingly cause distractions. I turn off the devices that takes away my concentration and I focus on the task before me. It is very amazing how I can do this without effort, quietly ruminate and seek solace with myself and my God, listening intently to what He is telling me.

Yoga is a form of solitude that emphasizes that “thinking becomes clear, intellect becomes purified…the mind becomes even more harmonious.” Though yoga is often done among a group of people it is most desired when alone with just you, your body, and your mind, breathing deeply and focusing on your spirituality.

The reverend told us her own self isolation and solitude. She knows of a small mountain stream fed by a glacier, its waters aqua-marine and clear and iced cold. She told us that she and family often go there as a place for reflection and meditation. I too had gone to certain places where I could lose myself in the quiet, solitude and reflect upon me, what do I want, what does God want of me and where do I go from here.

My Writing Progress

My loyal readers, Merry Christmas to you all. I had in mind to send to you one of my past blogs that I knew would give you a heart-warming, feel-good vibe to celebrate this time of year. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find that story. I asked my web master and apparently also couldn’t find it in his folders. So instead, I will update you on my writing progress since the last time I did an update. 

I have a new beta reader doing the readings on my old manuscripts that haven’t been published yet. She hasn’t given me a review yet, but hopefully by the next week she may let me know. She assured me what she had read she liked. 

Nate Turner, Negro Cowboy, is nearly finished. I’m down to the last two chapters and this vacation I’m now taking is a perfect time for me to finish this first draft. I’m trying to make this a morality tale of good versus evil. I hope in the end, or by the end of this story it will come out this way. Admittedly I’m taking some liberties with regard to this chapter I’m presently working on and might disillusion some of my readers. 

I already mentioned my last failed attempt from someone trying to swindle me. I don’t know if I have a sign over my head saying, “I’m an easy mark, scam me,” but it seems every year someone is coming to me telling me what a masterpiece of writing I have and how this amount of money they could make me rich. I hope I don’t get any more of these people, but fear that I will. What is sad is that there are legitimate marketing companies out there wanting me to invest with them, but their voices are being increasingly drowned out by these scammers. 

I’m happy that many of you found my blogs I wrote this year so insightful or inciteful, depending on my theme, and entertaining. I received more likes this year than ever before. I thank you all for your support. It means a lot to me, considering I’m not the most popular writer out there, with the exception of the before mentioned scammers from the previous paragraph. 

What are my plans after Nate Turner? I have a story that I put aside when I was talked into doing this project over a year ago. I’m going to combine that story with another that dealt with the Matthew Perry tragedy over a year ago. 

So, I leave you with happy thoughts and thanks again for your loyal support. 

I have No Idea

I have some great news to share with my loyal readers! Well, maybe it’s not so great. You see I received this offer the other day informing me that my Book, I Albert Peabody: Confessions of a Serial Killer was interested in acquiring 8000 copies and distributing them throughout the bookstores around United Kingdom. 

I could see the dollar signs dancing merrily in my head as I responded to this email that I assumed was from a reputable source: the general manager or buyer him or herself that I was extremely interested in signing an encouraging offer. 

Yesterday morning I received the call from said manager calling from London. His voice though sounded distinctly American. I’m sure there are Americans abroad who work in Europe, so I didn’t pay that a never mind. 

The offer was straight forward enough: 8,000 copies and I would receive a ten-dollar royalty per book minus ten percent from my literary agent. I was ready to sign the deal when he put up this caveat.  

He explained this to me very straight forward that there were unscrupulous people out there who would tell this bookstore that the work was theirs and unless I put up an insurance of $17,000 up front, the deal was a no go. 

I know about scammers and how they rope one in to get a fast buck off their marks. To me it smells, tastes and looks very much like that. I’ve received phone calls back from him this morning apparently wanting to know what my decision is. I guess he apparently assumes I’m not very smart or extremely gullible—besides the obvious fact that I don’t have anywhere near that kind of money just laying around.  

I often wonder if people like that are that desperate to try to tarnish my credibility by doing something like this. I have no idea what to expect next. I do know this agent is as useless as wings on a pig if she was this naïve to agree to do this knowing this individual for what he was. In her defense, she didn’t mention this $17,000 retainer or whatever it is. So, I’m guessing he thought this up by himself without her knowledge. 

The bonus to this is I’m not out $17,000 to a con artist. 

Imagine 

He looked from the third-floor window of the YMCA he was staying at. His black hair and piercing brown eyes looked down at the people below. He called himself John, though his friends and parents called him Mark.  

He planned to correct that within the next couple of days though. That other person was an imposter. He stole his name. That man must pay, he told himself many times. 

The December day felt cold and dreary. Overcast clouds blanketed the New York City skyline.  

He shivered, not just from the humid cold that affected everyone and everything, but also at the excitement of what he had planned. His wife, Yoko would understand and leave that imposter for him once he was finished, once that imposter was gone, she would go to him.  

But first, he still needed to purchase the gun that would take him out finally. His fingers trembled with anticipation. He even signed out his real name when he quit his security guard job two days ago. 

His boss didn’t notice, but then again, his boss rarely noticed anything he ever did. Just up the street was Dakota, where he was supposed to live, but that imposter stole that from him too. He listened to the recordings of his songs from the early days with Paul and George and Ringo, to his later cuts with his true love Yoko. “Soon,” he promised as he listened to ‘Imagine,’ “I will win you back and we can make music together again. 

He listened to his music through headphones and his Walkman as he walked to the gun store nearby and went inside. The middle aged, balding man behind the display case where many small and medium caliber handguns exhibited themselves shiny and begging to be held and admired by someone like him. He eyed the young man with a cautious weariness, as though measuring whether he was a true law abiding American or someone up to no good. 

He looked at the store owner and smiled bashfully. “I’d like a .38 revolver. I don’t care which brand,” he told the owner. 

“Well Smith and Wesson are a good solid gun. We also carry forty-five Colts too. They have better knock down power. Did you serve?” 

“No, I was a security guard, and I like thirty-eights. “That one there will do nicely,” he stated calmly to the gun store owner. 

“I’ll need you to fill out this here form and then if everything checks out, that gun is yours.” 

The gun buyer smiled and grabbed the pen and form. He knew he had use his real name to buy the gun. A name he has hated since he could remember. He liked John much better than Mark. He pulled out his driver’s license and his concealed permit from Virginia and handed both to the gun owner after he signed the form. 

He rang up the charge and told the buyer “That will be $599.00 please. The governor also wants his cut,” he chuckled while the young man pulled out his wallet and laid down $600 in cash. 

The register rang and the dollar in change was handed back to him. “Thank you very much. My wife and I will greatly appreciate this.”  

“Have a good day Mr. Chapman.” 

He walked deliberately to the apartment building. He asked the doorman on duty, “What time are the Lennons coming home?” 

“Another one! Okay, for the fiftieth time, probably not until after ten or eleven. They are doing a recording session and don’t come home until later. Damn autograph hounds anyway.” 

Mr. Chapman smiled and walked into a multitude of autograph seekers and fans of the great John Lennon. He could have told them that he was the one but knew, deep down inside, that they wouldn’t believe him. 

Cold wind came on them from the east, swirling about and blustery. He commiserated, thinking only about how he would explain to Yoko how terribly things got messed up; he drugged him and took his place, though he couldn’t remember if it was 1969 or 1970. But after tonight that imposter would not profit from his true calling anymore. 

The wait felt endless when a cab pulled up and a rush of fans streamed toward the car. The driver got out of the car and opened the back seat. Mark saw the petite middle-aged woman with distinctive oriental features emerge first followed by the taller urbane personage of John Lennon with wired frame glasses and long thin Grecian nose, waving and smiling at his adoring fans. 

Mark went up to him holding paper with a pen. John just saw him as another adoring fan. He took the sheet and pen and began signing his autograph. Mark’s right hand was now freed, and he pulled the gun from his coat pocket. He fired into John’s stomach. Screams were heard. 

“I’ve been shot!” John gasped as he fell to the concrete sidewalk to the horror and distress of Yoko who kneeled down and over protectively her dying husband. 

Mark ran from Dakota and down the street. His job was complete. He sat on the curb, hearing numerous sirens wail in the distance, coming closer. Mark David Chapman sat and waited.