The Reunion

by Debbi Mack © 2019

People brought together after a decade or two has passed is a most unnatural event. So, it

shouldn’t have been a surprise that bringing a diversity of people, bound only by their foolish

decision to become lawyers, should result in murder.

I hadn’t planned to attend this shindig. I’d been too busy trying to make a living as a solo

practitioner. Despite numerous attempts to cajole me into this attempted nostalgia party, I had

little nostalgia or time to spare. Besides which, the damn thing cost money! Apparently, the law

school had neglected to take into account that most of us practicing attorneys weren’t amid the

likes of Peter Angelos. I’m able to pay to attend the ball game, but as for buying a team—

fuggedaboudit!

However, Jamila strong-armed me into this thing. She used her most powerful weapon:

guilt.

"C’mon, Sam," she said. "It'll be lonely without you."

I gave her my patented look of disbelief. "Lonely? With all those other people from our

class, who I'm sure will want to boast about their achievements? A likely story."

Jamila countered with widened eyes matched only by those cartoon depictions of little

kids. "You know what I mean. It won’t be as much fun without you." Her gaze intensified and

she laid it on thick with one word. "Please?"

How could I say no?

2

We arrived at the law school on the day of the Big Event dressed to impress. Jamila

dressed to impress other attorneys. I, on the other hand, wore clothing intended to impress upon

my former classmates that I wasn’t dressing up for them.

Jamila and I entered through a brand new foyer, which rendered the place virtually

unrecognizable to me. Floor-to-ceiling windows let the sunlight pour in over the dark, tiled floor.

The foyer led directly to open area, where the alumni mingled with one another. I assumed they

engaged in awkward conversation, since many probably hadn’t shared an experience since

they’d cracked casebooks together.

Guarding the entrance was a chipper looking twenty-something stationed at a desk

strategically placed so that you had to sign in and get a nametag to join the event.

"So glad you guys could make it," the young woman gushed. I flashed her a quick smile.

Yeah, yeah—nice to see you, too. Whoever you are.

Upon joining the crowd, Jamila nodded toward a person across the room. “You

remember Aaron, right? Aaron Donnelly.”

I spared the man a look. Short with flaming red hair, rail-thin, world’s nerdiest glasses

and the clothes to match. I had no recollection of the face. But that name. Aaron Donnelly. It

rang a bell. “Didn’t he graduate with all A’s or something?” I asked.

Jamila nodded. “He’s a judge now. Maryland federal district court.”

Goody for him, I thought. That’s where law students who graduate top of the class end

up. Judging other people’s cases. Certainly not dirtying their hands with trying to handle clients’

problems directly.

Then, I recognized someone entering from the opposite side. Leonard Hirschbeck. It

wasn’t a welcome sight.

3

Hirschbeck and I had been an item at one time. Then he tried to enlist my help in a

scheme to cheat on a final exam. I not only refused to help, but I called our relationship quits.

This had soured our dealings in a case I handled previously. Even though he seemed to have

cleaned up his act since then, I still couldn’t bring myself to trust him completely. He hadn’t seen

me—yet.

He was looking a bit ill at ease. Pale, even a bit shaky. I wondered if he was ill or just

nervous to be back in these hallowed halls.

I moved to where people were gathered and immediately spied the refreshments table.

Like the moon around the earth, I was drawn into the table’s orbit—in my case, it was by the

gravitational pull of food. My gaze bounced off the array of carrot sticks, celery, and broccoli,

and landed on the crab dip. Grabbing a triangular fold of pita bread, I scooped a healthy portion

of the warm dip up and savored a bite. Jamila had wandered off, but I had found my home base.

Feeling a tap on my should, I turned expecting to see Jamila. Instead, a blonde woman

with bright blue eyes framed by a stylish pair of rectangular eyeglasses towered over me. I

pegged her at roughly 5 foot, 10 inches. The nametag read: Molly. She was smiling.

“Sam? Sam McRae?”

I took a moment to swallow before answering. “Uh-huh.” That’s me—a regular

chatterbox.

The blonde thrust her hand forward. “Molly McCarthy. Don’t you remember me?”

“Oh, my God!” My mouth dropped open. Thank God I’d swallowed that crab dip. “Of

course I remember you. We sat together—how many times?” Graduation, the bar review class,

and the induction ceremony in Annapolis. It seemed like forever ago now.

“Countless.” Her smile widened. “It’s great to see you. What are you up to these days?”

4

“No good, as usual.” I shrugged and made another grab for the crab dip. “Seriously, I

have my own office in Laurel. But I started off in the Prince Georges County public defender’s

office. It was good training, but after a few years of that, I needed to have something I could call

my own. How about you?”

“I did something similar, but slightly different,” she said. “My first gig was with the

Montgomery County states attorneys office. I don’t need to tell you that kept me busy. After five

years, I decided to start my own mediation firm. It’s one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.”

“That is really cool,” I said in all honesty. “Do you handle particular types of cases?”

“Mainly domestic cases—working out custody disputes and so on—but I’m trying to

branch out.”

I fished in my shoulder bag for a card. Handing it to her, I asked for one of hers. “I’d be

happy to refer you whatever cases I can. The clients who are willing to mediate, that is.”

Molly laughed silently. “Being willing to mediate is always helpful.”

Two more people—a smartly-dressed man and an equally spiffy woman—sidled our

way. Greetings were exchanged. When I mentioned my name, both newcomers exclaimed their

fond remembrances of me. I nodded and smiled, but had done so little socializing while studying

law that their faces were vaguely familiar, but their name tags were my only clue as to their

identities.

Across the room, Jamila waved me to join her. Her hands jerked with urgency. “Excuse

me, everyone,” I said. “I’m being summoned.”

“I’ll see you around,” Molly said, before turning back to the others.

I wove through groupings of people to reach Jamila. “What’s up?”

“Check it out,” she said, nodding. “Professor Mason. We should go meet him.”

5

“Any particular reason why?”

Before she could answer, an elegantly dressed woman with short gray-flecked, brown

hair appeared beside us.

“Dean Nowak?” Jamila said.

I blinked, not quite believing my eyes. Was this the dean of the law school?

Nowak bowed her head in brief acknowledgment of Jamila. “Ms. Williams. Could I have

a moment of your time? Privately?” She spoke in a hushed voice.

Jamila nodded. “First, let me introduce my friend. Dean Nowak, this is my best friend,

Sam McRae.”

Dean Nowak bestowed a brief nod my way. “It’s good to meet you, Sam.” For a moment,

I wasn’t sure whether to curtsy or extend my arm for a handshake. Fortunately for all of us, I

chose the latter.

The dean squeezed my hand and turned back to Jamila. “I hate to interrupt, but this is

urgent.” Her voice was calm, but betrayed an undercurrent of tension. “There’s a … situation.”

“If it’s even potentially legal, I’d like to include Sam in our talk,” Jamila said. “You

couldn’t ask for a better advocate.”

Dean Nowak concurred. With a distracted air, she waved us to follow her. And so we did.

To the dean’s office. Where a body was sprawled on its side before her desk.

It was a man somewhere in his early 40s who was dressed like many others at the

reunion—in a dark blue suit, a white dress shirt, and a blue-and-red striped tie. His pallid

complexion and open-eyed, glassy stare left little doubt about his condition. He was

unmistakably dead. I didn’t recognize the man, but that didn’t mean anything. I didn’t know

everyone in my class.

6

At the risk of sounding stupid, I stated what seemed to be obvious. “Shouldn’t we call the

police?”

The dean raised her hands before her, as if to ward off an accusation of a cover-up. “Of

course,” she said. “I fully intend to do that. It’s just …” At a loss for words, her gaze seemed

vulnerable. “If there’s any way to handle this discreetly, I’d love to hear it.”

“I could give my father a call,” Jamila chimed in. “He knows people who’ll make sure

the police make a quiet entrance.”

“Thank you, Jamila.” Dean Nowak sounded relieved, but looked stricken.

While they spoke, I approached the body with care not to disturb anything. The man

hadn’t been shot (at least, not where I could see it) or stabbed. There was no (observable) blood

on the floor. I saw no bruises or other obvious signs of blunt force. Could he have been

poisoned? Intentionally? At the reunion? And by whom?

Could this possibly have been either an accidental or natural death? Had the man

wandered in here and simply dropped dead of a heart attack or stroke? Or could someone have

actually planned to poison him here?

Behind me, I could hear Jamila making a call—presumably on her cell phone. The Dean

hovered over my shoulder. “Any thoughts?”

I think he’s dead. But what I said was, “The police will need to treat this as a homicide,

since as far as we know, no one witnessed this.” Except the killer, I thought, if there was one.

Maybe.

I squatted near the body with the greatest care not to touch anything. I’d missed

something on my first inspection. A tiny red blotch marred the white dress shirt just above the

belt line.

7

“See that small mark?” I asked Dean Nowak and Jamila, who had ended her call and

joined us. “I’m not a forensics tech, but I think if he’d been stabbed to death, there’d be a lot

more bleeding.”

“So if there was a killer, maybe they knocked him down, then stabbed him to make sure,”

Jamila said.

I did a quick scan of the office as we spoke. "If he committed suicide by stabbing

himself, there'd be a lot more blood. And a weapon nearby. But what if the killer knocked him

down—accidentally or on purpose—then stabbed him with that letter opener?" I pointed toward

the desk, where the possible weapon lay.

"Wouldn't they try to hide the weapon?" Jamila pointed out.

I shrugged. "There could be reasons why the stabber didn't take the weapon. Nerves.

Anxiety. Lack of planning."

“Let’s say it was an accident,” the dean said. I sensed her deep desire for it to be exactly

that, but that stab wound could hardly be accidental. “If he died before he was stabbed, has a

crime been committed?”

All this speculation made my head hurt. “We can’t really say anything for sure until

they’ve done an autopsy,” I chimed in, before anyone could add another level to this minor-

league Socratic dialogue-cum-Sherlock Holmes parlor game. “Were you able to reach your dad,

Jamila?”

“Yes.” She sounded pleased, a good sign. “He’s making arrangements with the

commissioner for the police to be discreet.”

Dean Nowak still looked distressed. “But if this could be a murder, won’t they need to

hold everyone?”

8

This really was turning into a bad movie. I pictured us all rounded up in the moot court

room, waiting breathlessly for one of the cops to announce who the killer was.

“No need for panic,” I assured her. “Let’s wait and see how things go.”

As it turned out, things did not go all that well. While Jamila’s father was able to arrange

for the police to make a discreet entrance—one they preferred under the circumstances—the case

of the dead body in the dean’s office became anything but secret, at least among the reuniting

alumni.

Not only did the authorities insist on dividing everyone at the event into small groups and

stashing them into various rooms for questioning, but uniformed officers were posted at all

entrances for crowd control purposes. Basically, the law school was shut down and the reunion

party was over.

Dean Nowak, Jamila, and I gave our statements to the first responding officers who’d

surreptitiously entered the building to secure the crime scene. We were allowed to watch as a

plain-clothes detective examined the body.

“Nobody touched anything, right?” the detective asked.

“Certainly not,” Dean Nowak said.

The detective patted the body down with gloved hands. From the man’s right pants

pocket, he removed a wallet. After examining the contents, he asked, “Do you know an Albert

Rodriguez?”

Dean Nowak stiffened. “I have an appointment—had an appointment to meet someone

by that name.” The detective peered at her, and she added, “Later this week.”

“Why were you meeting?” the detective asked the Dean.

“To interview him for a job.”

9

The detective took notes on a small writing pad with a stubby pencil. “What job exactly?”

The dean’s lips pressed into a thin line, and her shoulders seemed to sag. “Mine.”

#

As we waited for the medical examiner, Dean Nowak took Jamila and myself aside.

“This isn’t meant to be public knowledge yet, but I plan to retire at the end of this term. I’ve been

asked to interview potential replacements and give my impressions of how well qualified they

are.

“I’ve seen this guy’s resume. It’s impressive—was impressive.” The dean’s words came

out in halting bursts. “I can only hope that this incident won’t end up being front-page news. Or

widely circulated online. It won’t help attract top talent to this law school or boost Baltimore

City’s image, for that matter.”

“Do the faculty members know you’re retiring?” I asked.

Dean Nowak started to say something, then stopped. Then she said, “Not … exactly.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, trying without success to suppress a flare of annoyance

in my tone. Jamila shot me a warning look.

The dean paused at length before she spoke. “There’s been no official announcement, but

people are aware of the possibility.”

“So,” I concluded, “any faculty member who might have qualified for your job and heard

about this outsider coming in might have a motive.” Lovely. I was sure the Dean didn’t want

rumors of a killer law professor within the ranks of the school spreading like wildfire.

“I suppose.” The dean sounded mournful.

“How many candidates have you unofficially considered?” I asked.

“Only three,” she said.

10

“How many of them work here?”

“Professor Rodriguez was my only choice from outside our school,” the dean said. “So

far,” she added. “I had hopes of attracting others, even though I believe in promoting from within

whenever possible.”

Her spiel made me dizzy. Double-talk. You should run for Congress, lady.

Dean Nowak perked up when she added, “But if Rodriguez was stabbed after he died,

that’s not murder is it?”

Jamila shook her head. “Sam? You’re the criminal lawyer.”

“Technically, no,” I said. “But you have to wonder why a person would stab a corpse,

unless they were trying to make sure it was dead.”

The dean wandered away, looking close to tears. I turned my attention to Jamila.

“Thanks for bringing me,” I said. “I’d hate to have missed all the fun.”

#

With some prodding on my part, Dean Nowak spilled the names of the few living

unofficial candidates for her job. I wandered downstairs and noticed people gathered there who

must've been released from questioning. The hum of many voices filled the air. Unpleasant

flashbacks to post-law exam discussions floated through my mind.

I spied Molly McCarthy across the room, in animated discussion with another alum.

Curious, I wove through the crowd to join them.

When Molly noticed me, her eyes were wide. "Did you hear? They already have a

suspect."

"Who?"

11

"They didn't say. At least, my source didn't know," she said. "But I hear they're taking

someone in for closer questioning."

That was fast. Maybe a little too fast.

A guy in a suit that I vaguely recognized from some class or other hustled up to us.

Leaning towards us in a conspiratorial manner, he murmured, "The cops are taking Leonard

Hirschbeck in for questioning."

I felt my brow pucker. Molly's strained expression mirrored my own disbelief.

"Why Leonard?" I asked. "What possible motive would he have?"

Suit Guy shook his head. "No clue, but they found his cufflink at the scene."

I may not have been Leonard Hirschbeck's best friend, but I wanted to find out more.

Hirschbeck may have been a slimeball in law school, but I wasn't going to see him get

railroaded.

"Where's the detective in charge?" I queried Suit Guy. "I want to talk to him. Or her."

Suit Guy lead me to another man in a suit—tall, black, and attitudinal. He turned a

brown-eyed stare at me that seemed to challenge my very existence.

"I hear you've already identified the suspect in Albert Rodriguez's murder," I said.

"What of it?" the detective barked.

"You do know that Rodriguez was being considered as possible replacement for the law

school's dean?"

The detective’s stare intensified. "Yes, we know. And I'll thank you not to tell me how to

do my job."

12

I held up a placating hand. "That's not my intention. Let me introduce myself. My name

is Sam McRae." I offered the hand for a shake. The detective grabbed it and tried to break all its

bones while yanking my arm up-and-down.

"I'm Detective Johnson. What else you want to know?" He paused, then added, "Keep it

short."

I looked him in the eye and resisted the urge to flex my fingers. "I assume you've talked

to the faculty members?"

Detective Johnson crossed his arms. "The few that are here."

I tried to think of a question that wouldn't cause him to shove me away. "Have they

determined a possible time of death yet?"

"We don't have an exact time. Obviously," Johnson said. "But it was well within the

timeframe that people arrived for this … event."

"What about the murder weapon?"

Detective Johnson glared. "It's not clear whether the victim was bashed over the head or

fell against the desk. Now, I've answered enough questions."

"Not so fast. I want to speak to the suspect. Before you take him in."

The tall detective looked daggers at me. "I'm warning you, Ms. McRae. Do not tell me

how to do my job."

"Believe it or not," I said. "I'm trying to help you. Once these people have left, it may be

much harder to find them if you have to."

Detective Johnson nodded, but his eyes still seemed to harbor dark notions of me. Glare

all you want. I intend to talk to Hirschbeck.

#

13

I managed to wangle a small room where Hirschbeck and I could talk privately. There we

went over the details concerning when he arrived and what he did after he got to the law school.

"I wasn't feeling well this morning, I passed it off as a minor case of indigestion," he said.

"After I got here, well …” Hirschbeck groped for words.

"What?"

He grimaced. "It's kind of embarrassing."

"You're looking at a possible murder charge," I said. "If your alibi is embarrassing, that's

a pretty small price to pay."

Hirschbeck managed a silent laugh. "Point taken. After I signed in, I made a beeline for

the nearest restroom. I must've spent at least fifteen minutes in there with the worst case of

diarrhea ever.

"When I was done,” Hirschbeck continued. “I left the stall. There was someone standing

beside me at the sink. I didn't get a great look at him. Frankly, I was trying to avoid it. I washed

my hands and got out of there."

I pondered this. "You remember nothing about the man?"

Hirschbeck squeezed his eyes shut. "I can picture it. He wore a dark gray suit …" He

shook his head. "But nothing stands out. He was just a guy."

"Okay. Dark gray suit." Could be anyone. "Is there anyone here who holds a grudge

against you?"

"Other than …" He looked sheepish. I smiled and nodded. This seemed to encourage

him. "Can't think of anyone offhand."

I'd saved the toughest question for last. "What about the cufflink? When did you notice

you'd lost it? Or did you?"

14

"I'm not sure." He frowned. "I noticed it was gone after I joined everyone here. Damn

thing has a loose clamp. It could've fallen off anywhere between the bathroom and the entrance."

"Look at me, Leonard," I said. After he raised his eyes to meet my gaze, I added, "You

didn't kill a Rodriguez, did you?"

His jaw dropped. "Of course not."

"And there's no chance that you could've lost the cufflink near the body? In other words,

did you go anywhere in or near the dean's office?"

Hirschbeck didn't waver or look away. "I was nowhere near that office. And I did nothing

to hurt that man."

I nodded. "Good. I believe you. What time did you say you got here?"

#

According to Hirschbeck, he'd arrived about 20 minutes or so before Jamila and I had.

That squared with my sighting of him when he returned from the bathroom. My next stop was

the now-abandoned sign-in desk. With the cops controlling access to the school, Little Miss

Chipper’s role as Queen of the Entrance was now totally moot.

I took a close look at the sign-in sheet. Seemed some people had failed to write their

names.

“Hi. Can I help you?” Miss Chipper had apparently noticed my interest in the event’s

attendance and approached me.

“I couldn’t help noticing that a few people haven’t signed in,” I said.

"You know how it is," she said. "Sometimes people respond to an invitation, then don’t

show up."

"Mmm.” And sometimes they just fail to sign in.

15

I fished my handy notebook and pen from my shoulder bag, using them to record the

names of those who hadn’t signed in.

"Thanks," I said to Miss Chipper. "By the way, have the police looked at this?"

"Why, yes." The young lady didn't say "of course," but a hint of those words was in her

voice. "They even made a copy."

Smiling, I added. "And thank you for that."

Pulling my just-purchased, slightly out-of-date Smartphone from my shoulder bag, I

attempted my maiden voyage on the Internet using wi-fi. Had this been an ocean voyage, my

boat would have foundered.

I spotted Jamila among the gathered and made tracks toward her.

"Help," I said, holding up my new toy. “I’m trying to access the Internet on this damn

thing."

Barely suppressing laughter, Jamila took the phone and obligingly made the connection.

"Now," she said, adopting a professorial air. "All you have to do is hit these keys here to enter

the URL. If you want to do a Google search, just hit this button."

"Okay, okay. I think I can take it from here." Technology. I love it, but I hate it.

#

Armed with new information, I approached Detective Johnson. "Excuse me, Detective," I

said. "Have any of your people interviewed Sean Fournier?"

If looks could kill, Johnson's would've stabbed me between the eyes. "If that person is

here, he or she has been interviewed."

"It's a he," I said. "And I suggest we find him as quickly and discreetly as possible."

16

Detective Johnson’s jaw clenched. Bad for your molars, I wanted to say, but this didn't

seem to be the time.

"Why?" He finally spat the word.

"Fournier is one of the alumni. One who works here and has a motive for killing

Rodriguez."

Johnson rolled his eyes. "And you know this how?"

"Just a little Internet research. And a hunch."

"A hunch." The towering detective huffed the words. "We can't hold or arrest people

based on a hunch, as you well know."

"I might be able to give you more than a hunch, if you let me take a crack at him," I said.

Johnson's look transformed from hostile to "you're kidding me, right?" But he sighed and

waved a hand. "Can't hurt, I guess."

"Let me see if I can find him," I said. "If you look for him, he might get suspicious and

flee."

"No one is leaving this place until I say so," the detective stated.

I left Detective Johnson in a state of fuming perplexity and hunted for anyone who could

point me toward Sean Fournier.

Within a few minutes, the man I knew as Suit Guy was by my side, pledging to provide

all the help he could offer with the case of the dead guy upstairs. The two of us joined Detective

Johnson.

"Detective Johnson," I said, in my most pleasant voice. "Meet Sean Fournier. He's

offered to help us out."

"I'll do what I can," Fournier said, spreading his hands.

17

“You work at the career office here, right?” I asked Fournier.

He smiled. “Yes. I enjoy the work much more than the practice. I like helping law

students explore alternatives to working for law firms.”

“Did your wife tell you about the position here at the school?”

He looked puzzled, but nodded. “Yes, but she didn’t pull strings to have me hired, if

that’s your concern."

“Not at all,” I said. “So, you are married to Professor Alice Donnelly-Fournier?”

“Uh huh.” Fournier’s mouth set in a grim line.

“As a law school employee, I’m sure you heard the rumors about Dean Nowak.”

“A lot of people did.”

“You also probably knew that your wife was a possible candidate for the dean’s

successor.”

Fournier’s pressed lips twisted into a scowl. “What about it? Alice isn’t here, so she

didn’t do anything.”

“But you are here,” I said. “And so is her brother, Aaron Donnelly.” Mr. Straight As on

the federal bench.

“Hold on,” Detective Johnson broke in. “Are you saying a federal judge is involved in

this?”

“I don’t know if he is or not. But I do know that neither Judge Donnelly nor Sean

Fournier signed in when they arrived here,” I said. “Check the list. I did. Neither of them signed

in or has a name tag.”

Silence enveloped us like fog.

“I got here early to do some work,” Fournier offered. “I never got a chance to sign in.”

18

“You got here early, all right,” I said. “But that was to meet Rodriguez. You had access

to the office and arranged for him to meet the dean today. Except the dean wasn’t going to be

there. It was either you or Donnelly who intended to meet him.”

“That’s him.” We turned to look at Hirschbeck. His voice sounded stricken. “That’s the

man I saw in the rest room,” he said.

“So when Leonard lost his cuff link, you saw an opportunity,” I added. “Who was going

to believe Leonard’s denials after you planted that evidence?”

Fournier tried to speak, but I pressed on. “You couldn’t sit by and watch your wife

possibly get passed over by an outsider, could you? Was this your plan or Donnelly’s? Did you

intend to kill him or was it just an accident?”

“You can’t prove any of this,” Fournier blurted. “It’s all speculation on your part.”

I turned to Detective Johnson. “My guess is you’ll find blood traces on the letter opener

on the dean’s desk. As for fingerprints, you’ll no doubt find them somewhere in the office. But, I

think this man had much more motive for killing Rodriguez than Leonard Hirschbeck.”

The detective gave me a shrewd look. “Circumstances support your theory.” He nodded

and motioned for an officer to join us. “Find Judge Aaron Donnelly. We’re bringing him in,” he

said in a hushed voice. Turning back to me, Johnson said, “Describe Judge Donnelly to the

officer, Ms. McRae.”

“Short, thin, geeky, and with hair so red, it could burn your retinas,” I said.

As the officer raced off to find Donnelly, Johnson said, “Mr. Fournier, you and Mr.

Hirschbeck will be taking a trip to headquarters for further questioning.”

#

19

Two weeks after the reunion, I learned that Sean Fournier had recently pled guilty to

involuntary manslaughter. Either the killing really was accidental or Fournier had wangled a deal

to avoid a possible murder trial. Surely, it couldn’t have hurt that the defendant was the brother-

in-law of a Maryland federal district judge.

As for the stab wound, it hardly mattered, since it was likely delivered post-mortem. So,

the worst thing the killer did was mutilate a corpse. A total non-issue when you plead down from

murder to manslaughter. Justice is funny that way.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Debbi Mack is the New York Times bestselling author of the Sam McRae mystery series, featuring Maryland lawyer-sleuth Stephanie Ann "Sam" McRae. Debbi has also written and published Invisible Me, a young adult novel, The Planck Factor, a thriller, and several short stories, one of which was nominated for a Derringer Award. She’s currently working on her next story and other projects.

Debbi is also an aspiring screenwriter with an interest in filmmaking.

Debbi is also host the Crime Cafe podcast, where she interviews notable crime, suspense, and thriller writers periodically.

Originally from Queens, NY, Debbi currently lives in Columbia, MD, with her husband and cat. Her website is www.debbimack.com.