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If you’re reading this, you trust words. I once trusted words. As a reader/teacher/scholar, I put my faith in them. As a mystery writer, I trust that words will misdirect, deceive, and hide desperate deeds and motives.

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Welcome to the fictional world of Twin Cities Mysteries, with Detectives Erik Jansson and Deb Metzger. A place where even the privacy of those in charge comes into question.

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Detective Erik Jansson discovers the body in a Twin Cities wetland:

This [wetland] couldn’t be the site of death. The man, the rotting semblance of one, was brought here, dragged and hidden. He wasn’t outfitted for bike adventures or birding excursions. The bloodied necktie retained its knotted symmetry, and the muck-saturated suit suggested formality and fussiness. The skull was damaged, the face already food for worms. When the team lifted the body, the footed shoe became unfooted. Erik picked up the shoe and two items fell out. One was a custom orthotic. The hairs on his neck stiffened. The other was a laminated photo of a girl, an adolescent curled in the fetal position.


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Fairy Tales, Lake Superior, Minnesota Writer Leif Enger, and a Fish

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