Tag Archives: Bruce Perrin

by Jennifer Reed/ bookjunkiez | April 25, 2024 · 5:00 am

In the Mind of a Spy Blitz

The Mind Sleuth Series #7

Mystery; Spy Thriller

Date Published: 04-25-2024

Publisher: Mind Sleuth Publications

When Jesse Bolger ran into an old acquaintance from his high school days,
Robert Gleason, he wondered if the man still had an imagination that was
unencumbered by reality. His question was answered in the affirmative that
evening. After insisting they talk inside his homemade, electronically
shielded room so no one could listen to their thoughts—no tinfoil hat
was good enough for Robert—he confided that he’d stumbled onto
two KGB-era Russian spies intent on destroying the United States. And he
wanted Jesse’s help to stop them.

Jesse was certain, of course, that it was just a hoax, but he played along.
It didn’t prove to be one of his better decisions, however, as the
next thing he knew, he was being detained by the FBI under suspicion that he
was a double agent. And where was Robert Gleason, the man who had started
this whole fiasco, the unemployed eccentric who lived in his
grandmother’s basement in a retirement community while he was learning
to talk to self-aware computers? He was nowhere to be found.

Knowing he was out of his league to investigate a missing persons case,
Jesse hired private investigator Rebecca Marte, hoping she could unravel a
case that one minute looked like a spy spoof and the next, a terrorist plot
that would plunge the United States into financial pandemonium.

About the Author

Bruce Perrin has been writing for more than twenty-five years, although you
will find much of that work only in professional technical journals or
conference proceedings. After receiving a Ph.D. in Industrial/Organizational
Psychology and completing a career in psychological research and development
at a major aerospace company, he’s now applying his background to
writing fiction. Not surprisingly, most of his work falls in the
techno-thriller, mystery, and hard science fiction genres, examining the
intersection of technology and the human mind now and in the future. Besides
writing, Bruce likes to tinker with home automation and is an avid hiker.
When he is not on the trails, he lives with his wife in Aurora, CO.

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by Jennifer Reed/ bookjunkiez | April 9, 2024 · 5:00 am

In the Mind of a Spy Teaser Tuesday

The Mind Sleuth Series #7

Mystery; Spy Thriller

Date Published: 04-25-2024

Publisher: Mind Sleuth Publications

Excerpt from the first night Jesse Bolger went to Robert Gleason’s
home

“… a cone of silence, of a sort, is why I wanted you to come
over here tonight. We need to talk and I’ve got the perfect
place.” Gleason raised a hand toward a cube of about six feet on a
side. It was covered with a shiny fabric. “That’ll keep our
brain waves safe from prying sensors.”

Jesse could feel himself scowling as he tried to make sense of the words.
“Is that supposed to be something like a tinfoil hat?”

Now, it was Gleason’s turn to look perplexed, but his confusion only
lasted a moment. “Oh, yeah. Like people wear so the aliens won’t
listen in on their thoughts. That’s pretty funny, but don’t be
ridiculous.”

“Yeah, I didn’t—” started Jesse.

“A tinfoil hat would only protect you from aliens who were directly
overhead. I’m not too worried about them if they’re still in the
air. But on the ground ….” He slowly shook his head.
“Now, that would be bad news. Really bad.”

Jesse was struggling for a reply when Gleason continued. “Anyway,
that’s a SCIF, giving us protection on all sides.”

“A SCIF?”

Gleason nodded.

SCIF stood for Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, a fact that
Jesse knew from his job. They were acoustically and electronically shielded
rooms in which classified discussions could be held, and Ruger-Phillips West
had several for their government projects. But Jesse had never heard of a
private citizen owning one. “Where on earth did you find the stuff to
build a SCIF?”

Gleason got one of those you’ve-got-to-be-kidding smirks on his face.
“If you’re not running cables in and out—and I’m
not—then acoustic and EMF radiation shielding are all you need. For
the latter, just type ‘EMF radiation shielding fabric’ into any
search engine and you’ll find lots of it. I split my orders among a
half-dozen stores so I wouldn’t call attention to myself.”

“Someone would care if you bought it in bulk?”

“Are you kidding? They care about everything you look at, everything
you buy, and even what you don’t buy. Sure, eventually they may piece
it all together, but why make it easy on them? With a small purchase, they
probably think I lined my billfold to keep someone from reading the data on
my credit cards.”

Jesse wasn’t sure who “they” referred to, but that
question only came in second. “So, you think whatever it is you have
to tell me is so sensitive that you built a SCIF to discuss it?”

“Hardly,” Gleason said with a laugh. Jesse started to return
the chuckle when Gleason added, “I already had it before any of this
came up.”

Jesse figured his puzzled expression asked the question for him as Gleason
explained, “I came to Denver because of that state representative who
wanted to start the center for extraterrestrial communications. And, as he
pointed out, the brain emits electromagnetic radiation in the form of brain
waves. They are faint, and we have to put electrodes on the scalp to pick
them up. But with more advanced civilizations …?” Gleason held
out an empty hand in a shrug. “Who knows?”

Jesse recognized the story about the state representative. It had been all
over the news a few years ago with his potential re-election
opponents’ comments ranging from “it’s a waste of the
taxpayer’s money” to “you can bet Uranus he’s after
the little green man vote.” The representative had lost his seat in a
landslide in the next election—extraterrestrial communication
wasn’t a platform that sat well with Colorado voters. “Well,
I’m not sure—” Jesse started.

“Oh, I know he was a kook,” said Gleason. He paused, his nose
wrinkling a bit. It took a moment before the odor reached Jesse.

“Jeez, Charlie. I’m going to stop giving you those stuffed
mushrooms,” said Gleason. “It’s either that or break out
the gas masks.”

Surprisingly, Charlie looked like he had been chastised as he whined once,
then laid his head down on his paws and looked up at us with eyes that
looked even sadder than before. If the stench hadn’t been so bad,
Jesse thought he might have laughed at the dog’s expression.

“Anyway,” continued Gleason, “you don’t need to
tiptoe around that guy. His ideas sounded good at first, but they never
panned out. So, after a bit of this and that, I got started on my current
gig, talking to the other sentient beings in our world.”

“Animals? You’re working on some type of job that involves
communicating with animals?” Jesse glanced at Charlie, who, though he
had seemed to understand before, now seemed as confused as Jesse felt.

Gleason paused a beat, then said, “Yeah, I suppose animals are
sentient … in a way. But I meant computers. Computers with artificial
intelligence.”

Jesse could feel himself sit back in the chair as if another half-inch of
distance between them would change his perspective. It didn’t, and he
wasn’t sure what to say other than, “Oh, look at the
time!” But Gleason spoke first.

“Yeah, not everyone thinks that machines are aware of the world
around them. I think they are and that other people just haven’t spent
the time necessary to get to know these beings. But if AIs aren’t
aware yet, I’m fine with being ready to meet them when they are. And
that’s why I’m studying prompt engineering.”

It was the last two words, “prompt engineering” that pulled
this conversation back from the brink of irrationality for Jesse. Prompt
engineering had been a growing technical discipline since the introduction
of AI Large Language Models in late 2022. At its heart, the discipline
involved designing and testing inputs that would get these systems to
produce useful outputs for a given purpose.

“So, getting these LLMs to give you what you want is tricky?”
Jesse asked. He was pretty sure he knew the answer but wanted to keep the
conversation moving away from the question of machine sentience.

“It can be,” replied Gleason. “They always produce
answers that sound factual, but sometimes, they are just making stuff up.
Those are called hallucinations. But more often, they just don’t
understand what you want.”

Gleason paused a moment rubbing his chin. “You work on a lot of
training projects, right? Enough that you know a lot of the
principles?”

“I work the procurement end of them, but you can’t do that
without picking up a bit about the technology.”

Gleason nodded. “So, suppose you wanted to know the best way to teach
pilots the steps of an emergency procedure so they don’t forget them
in a pinch? If you ask an AI system that, I’d expect …. Better
yet, let’s ask and find out.” He grabbed a laptop from the
workbench and started to power it up.

“Do we need to go into the SCIF for this?” Jesse asked.

Gleason gave him a quizzical look, followed by, “No, why would we?
And besides, I need the Wi-Fi, and it won’t work in
there.”

After a moment, he opened an application on the laptop that Jesse
recognized as part of a publicly accessible large language model. Gleason
typed in a prompt about training pilots on emergency procedures, and in a
second or two, the system responded.

Jesse skimmed the answer, somewhat surprised by what he saw.
“You’re right. The question you asked seemed right on the mark,
but the AI took it to be something about getting information into human
long-term memory. It covers things like breaking the procedure into small
steps or using visual aids. I thought the real issue was more about how to
make sure people can perform under stress and time pressure. That would get
into making the pilot’s reaction nearly automatic, something that he
or she doesn’t need to think about to do.”

“I can’t say that I understood everything you just said, but it
seems I made my point,” replied Gleason. “You gotta know how to
talk to these beings.”

As for his beliefs that machines were or would soon be sentient, Jesse
couldn’t decide if that made Gleason the perfect prompt engineer or
perfectly wrong for the job. Would the belief that he was talking to a
sentient being make his prompts better or taint them with a touch of
delusion … assuming his belief was delusional? But getting to the
bottom of that issue wouldn’t answer what the heck Gleason was so
anxious to tell him, and it was time to move on to that question.

“So, your grandmother thinks we’re down here saving the world.
Or was that just a figure of speech?”

About the Author

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Tagged as Bruce Perrin, In the Mind of a Spy, Mystery; Spy Thriller

by Jennifer Reed/ bookjunkiez | April 25, 2023 · 5:00 am

The Beating Heart of a Mind Teaser Tuesday

The Mind Sleuth Series #6

Psychological thriller

Date Published: 05-02-2023

Publisher: Mind Sleuth Publications

photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png

Bullied to death in the boardroom?

Private Investigator Rebecca Marte doubted it. Since when would the
president and CEO of a highly successful company find the criticisms of his
subordinates so destructive to his self-image that he would commit suicide?
That, however, was what her new client, Nicole Veles, claimed.

Nicole painted a toxic, if not criminal, picture of defamation leading up
to the man’s death. His problems were more than just the
company’s bottom line. They ranged from public ridicule of some of his
out-of-date marketing concepts that had been leaked to the press to a police
report from a young man who claimed the president and CEO had propositioned
him. And after his demise, one of his most vocal detractors ascended to his
position. That was enough to raise Rebecca’s suspicions. She took the
job.

But as she began her investigation, hints that Nicole’s beliefs were
tainted by her history became difficult for Rebecca to ignore. Two years
earlier, Nicole had been kidnapped, and she still bore the mental and
emotional scars of abuse and captivity. She’d cut all connections to
her friends and fled her past by relocating to Colorado where no one knew
her. She took a job where long-term relationships were impossible, save one
stubborn older woman who wouldn’t take no for an answer—and who
just happened to be the wife of the suicide victim

While everyone else thought the man’s death, while tragic, was just
the consequence of high-pressure business and depression over the loss of
the company he had founded, could Rebecca trust anything to the contrary
that her new client told her?

“Tension is well-developed, whether it’s psychological revelations
that involve Rebecca more deeply in her client’s life than she’d imagined,
the wedge between client and investigator driven home by the victim’s
wife, or the probe of a business structure that supports dangerous
undercurrents.”

-Midwest Book Review

EXCERPT

It’s not what you look at that matters,

it’s what you see.

Henry David Thoreau

American naturalist, poet, and philosopher

FRIDAY, MARCH 26

Midnight, Jen’s Place, Lone Tree, CO

Conditions were far from ideal for what Kyle Logan had in mind.

He pulled a pint of whiskey from a back pocket and leaned on the front
fender of his battered brown pickup truck to consider his options. His gaze
tracked up and down the lonely road. Empty, as he expected at this hour. So,
he tipped his head back for a long pull on the bottle, his gaze following
the tilt of his head. The moon, although only three-quarters, shone like a
searchlight, its rays unfettered by the thin cold air of the high
plains.

His eyes came back down to the ghostly outline of a massive old house
across the road, previously the home of a local rancher. Now, it was
Jen’s Place, a temporary shelter for survivors of domestic
abuse.

In the front, a porch ran the length of the building. Two sconces carved
arches of light in the darkness cast by the porch’s roof. Their rays
revealed two doors—a larger main entrance to the shelter and a smaller
door well to its right. Otherwise, the porch lay in shadows, the windows
mere rectangles of still darker voids. Having seen the structure by day,
however, Logan was under no illusion that the feeble rays of those two bulbs
were the only security for the building. He’d seen two
cameras—motion-sensitive no doubt—on each corner of the
structure. There were almost undoubtedly other cameras on the sides and back
of the building.

A gravel driveway cut through a xeriscape yard, ending in a circle in front
of the house. The native shrubs and grasses of the plot were brown and
brittle from the long winter, matching the vacant lots on either side of the
building. The area behind was undeveloped, although whether it was just
waiting for a new housing project or was part of the Colorado Open Space
Alliance, Logan didn’t know. And he didn’t care because the wind
that might have covered the sound of his approach through the dry
landscape—a wind that had howled down from the mountains or across the
face of the front range most of the month—was eerily quiet.

Yes, the conditions were far from ideal. But since the shelf life of
Logan’s information was limited—probably measured in hours
rather than days—he had to act soon. And since he couldn’t
hasten the new vegetation of spring or command the wind to blow, tonight was
as good a night as any. He drained the bottle of whiskey and tossed the
empty into the bed of his pickup.

“To hell with sneaking around,” Logan snarled into the
darkness. He pulled a knife from its cover, admiring the sheen of the blade
in the moonlight. Growing up, knives had been his weapon of choice against
his peers who always seemed bigger and stronger. Now, it would serve him
well once inside.

But to get beyond the front door, he needed another of his tools. He
returned the knife to its sheath, walked to the back of his truck, and
lowered the tailgate. Laying on the bed was a post driver—a
thirty-inch, weighted section of pipe with handles used to drive metal posts
into the ground. Though lighter than the equivalent law enforcement
battering ram, it was much cheaper and considerably less incriminating. And
unless the new owner of the ranch house had seriously upgraded its door, the
driver would work. He picked it up and quietly closed the tailgate.

As Logan started up the drive, lights mounted below the cameras came on.
The beams overlapped on the drive, and Logan had to pause a moment to shade
his eyes with a hand. He broke into a slow jog. His quickened pace
wasn’t to limit his time in view of the cameras. After all, before the
night was over, it would be clear to everyone who had visited the home.
There would be no doubt because, one way or another, he’d be leaving
with what was rightfully his.

Logan hit the porch steps at a full run, only slowing to ready his
makeshift battering ram. He slammed it into the door just above the knob.
The door held although he could hear the frame crack. He hit it again and
the door exploded inward, splinters from the shattered wood flying across
the entry hall. He dropped the post driver on the floor and pulled the knife
from its sheath.

There were rooms on the right and left with their double doors open. Their
interiors were dark, but even so, Logan could tell they were large communal
areas with chairs, couches, and desks. Beyond the doors, the hall split with
a stairway on the left while a narrower hall continued on the right toward
the back of the house. From his surveillance earlier in the day, he knew he
wanted a room in the front right corner of the second floor. He took the
stairs two at a time, reversed direction on the landing, and sprinted to the
door. He turned the knob. Finding it unlocked, he burst inside and switched
on the lights.

A woman was sitting up in bed, covers gathered up around her neck. Her eyes
blinked under a hand that partially shaded them, her understanding of the
situation coming slowly. But when it did, she screamed. Logan sprang forward
and slapped her hard across the face. With her head turned from the force of
the blow, he grabbed her roughly by the hair, sat beside her, and held the
knife in front of her eyes. She froze, her sobbing the only sign she was
still alive.

“What the hell am I going to do with you, Linda? I thought after the
last time you’d forget all this crap. You belong at home. With me.
What do I have to do to make you see that?”

“Please don’t hurt me,” Linda whimpered.
“I’ll do better.”

“Like hell, woman.” Logan raised his hand again, this time
slowly closing it into a fist. He drew his hand back.

“Don’t you dare touch her,” came a voice from behind him
.

About the Author

Until ten years ago, I was a human factors psychologist doing research on
cutting edge technologies like virtual reality and artificial intelligence
at a major aerospace company. The aim? Fit these technologies to the way
people learn, remember, and do their jobs, not the other way around. But if
the world can be shaped to work with us, it can just as surely be molded to
destroy us.

Now, I’m an author writing “The Mind Sleuth Series”,
stories where the evil side of research and science too often surface.
Sometimes the devastation is unintentional. Sometimes, it’s motivated
by greed or passion, but it’s always a race to see if and how my
heroes—Doc, Nicole, Rebecca—can turn the tide.

For special features, giveaways, and previews of my upcoming books,
subscribe to my newsletter at brucemperrin.com.

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by Jennifer Reed/ bookjunkiez | May 18, 2022 · 5:00 am

A Wrinkle in the Mind Blitz

The Mind Sleuth Series

Mystery, Suspense, Thriller

Date Published: May 18, 2022

Publisher: Mind Sleuth Publications

When Violet Cruz accused U.S. Representative Alan Barclay of being
“the spawn of a Martian whore” and took a shot at him, everyone
agreed that she was delusional. It was just another conspiracy theory in
Washington, DC, where such bizarre claims had become all too common.

Tiring of the media harassing the family, however, Cruz’s cousin
brought the case to Private Investigator Rebecca Marte. She figured that the
public was probably right. Rebecca was, however, willing to give the case
another look as Cruz’s sudden, total break from reality without any
apparent cause was almost as strange as her beliefs.

With his background in psychology, working with Sam “Doc” Price
made sense to Rebecca and she welcomed him as a consultant. But soon, the
two, who had worked so well in the past, found themselves at each
other’s throats. She dropped him from the investigation, but with his
“dog with a bone” determination, Doc went on alone.

Unfortunately, the now-divided team was going after an adversary more
cunning and more ruthless than any they’ve faced before. If
they’d realized the odds of their survival apart, they would have
found a way to put their differences aside before it was too late.

Excerpt

Chapter 1

There are some people who live in a dream world, and there are some who
face reality;

and then there are those who turn one into the other.

Desiderius Erasmus

Dutch philosopher

Wednesday, April 6

Morning, The National Mall, Washington, DC

“At least you didn’t have to take a bullet for the
guy.”

Renee Portnell heard the words but made no attempt to find their meaning in
the fog of pain that filled her mind. Rather, she watched in numbed
disbelief as a trickle of blood inched closer to a Washington Senators
baseball cap that sat on the sidewalk. She had to be ten yards away sitting
on a park bench and the sun was just beginning to crest the buildings
ringing the National Mall, but with a half-dozen Washington DC Metropolitan
Police Department cars now parked on the grass, all with their headlights
blazing, she could move another ten and the horror of the scene
wouldn’t fade.

“Government, right?”

Portnell slowly turned toward the sound of the voice beside her, an MPD
officer, his name already forgotten. “What?”

“The guy? I heard he was a senator or something. Figured you’d
have to take a bullet for him if it came to that.”

“U.S. Representative Alan Barclay,” said Portnell, every word
drawn out like she was from the deep south rather than Connecticut.
“Although, that’s Secret Service, not private protection
services.”

Portnell shook her head to clear it, each of her senses slowly returning to
the here and now, each becoming preternaturally acute for an instant before
succumbing to the next. She heard the murmur of voices filled with urgency
and authority all around. She registered the acrid smell of car exhaust
mixing with the sickly-sweet of cherry blossoms that had reached their peak
the week before. She tasted gunpowder on her tongue, her saliva no match for
its bitterness. But when her gaze fell on the woman lying on the sidewalk,
the round-robin of sensations ended. She couldn’t pull her eyes away.
And all the while she wondered, how could Barclay’s ball cap have
landed so close to the woman and so far from him?

The police and paramedics had already moved away from the female. Portnell
wasn’t surprised. She’d always been an excellent shot and any of
the four rounds she’d squeezed off could have been fatal. The only
difference between them and the thousand she’d fired before today was
that the previous ones had only penetrated paper. These last four had found
flesh and bone, blood and muscle. As she watched, the woman’s blood
inched ever closer to the cap.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Portnell knew. In her eight years
with the military police, she had never fired her sidearm in the line of
duty. And when she had retired, her recruitment into the private sector had
emphasized the fact that female body guards were often instrumental in
de-escalating violence. But when the threat is shooting at your client,
gender is not going to stop the onslaught. Only a bullet could.

“Renee, look at me.” The drop in his volume pulled
Portnell’s eyes to the officer’s face. “From what I hear,
you got nothing to worry about. The shooting was righteous. She shot first
and you have the right to protect yourself and others from deadly force.
Only question seems to be, she get off two shots or three?”

Portnell thought it could have been more. Hadn’t she stared in
disbelief for seconds? Hadn’t she fumbled with her firearm when
drawing it from her shoulder holster? The only thing that had gone smoothly
was the Weaver stance-aim-fire sequence, a routine that was burned into her
muscle memory from those thousand practice shots at targets that she
couldn’t harm.

“Not that you need insurance, but she was obviously a wacko,”
said the officer. “I mean, what the hell was it she said?”

Portnell stared at the man’s face, wondering how many times she was
going to have to repeat those words? Of course, it wasn’t like
she’d ever forget them. “When she first approached, she said,
‘You must find it hard to represent the folks back
home.’”

There was nothing particularly memorable in that part of her statement, but
her voice was so melodic, almost childlike. Perhaps that was why, when
Portnell started forward to ask the woman to move on, Barclay had given her
“the signal”—a hand held low at his side, palm facing
backward. Of course, the woman’s physical appearance may have played a
part in his decision as well. Although Barclay had a reputation as a family
man, even he could dream and the woman was the stuff of men’s
dreams—a dark, exotic beauty in a pure white dress.

“Then, she said, ‘I mean, it’s gotta be tough for the
spawn of a Martian whore like you.’”

“Spawn of a Martian whore,” said the MPD officer, chuckling and
shaking his head. “Where the heck do these kooks get this crap? I
mean, you knew the guy better than me. There’s no truth to her words,
right?” The officer laughed again like it was the funniest thing
he’d ever heard. Portnell just stared.

She suspected that it was the incongruity of the hate in the woman’s
words and the lilting tone that had carried them to her ears that had caused
her hesitation. She remembered thinking, could this be real? She knew, of
course, that this might happen one day. But in her mind’s eye, it was
always the silhouette of a crazed man. It was the practice target of the
firing range given life.

But while her response had been hesitant, the woman hadn’t
vacillated. A gun materialized in her hand where moments before there had
been none. The crack of her first shot brought Portnell out of her trance.
She reached for her handgun, but it caught for an instant on her jacket. The
woman fired again. Portnell saw Barclay spin to the ground out of the corner
of her eye, perhaps as a defensive reaction, but probably from the impact of
the round. His cap flew from his head, which now explained where it had
landed on the sidewalk.

Her handgun came free and from that instant on, she no longer needed to
think. Each of her four shots produced a new bloom of red on the
woman’s simple white dress. But unlike Barclay, she stayed upright, as
if she was one of the paper targets hung from the carrier at the firing
range. Finally, the woman crumpled to the ground.

“Two,” said Portnell, the words indistinct in her ears.

“What?”

“She fired twice.”

The officer didn’t say anything, but Portnell could hear him moving.
After a moment, the man crouched down in her line of sight. Her vision
dimmed and she collapsed to her back on the bench. The officer yelled,
“Get a paramedic over here. She’s going into shock.” It
sounded like he was twenty yards away, not standing over her.

Lying down helped, and Portnell’s vision and hearing cleared a bit.
She rolled to her side, watching as the trickle of crimson reached the bill
of the baseball cap. Now, the darkening fabric marked the slow march of the
woman’s blood. She stared at the woman’s face. Once, it had
reflected an energy to match her voice, but now, it looked more like frozen
stone, her naturally dark complexion faded from the loss of blood. Only her
eyes seemed to show signs of the person she had been; they twinkled with an
inner light, although Portnell knew that was impossible.

Another man appeared in her line of sight. “Stay with me,
ma’am.” He turned away. “Get that stretcher over here.
Now!”

It was help, and Portnell thought she should feel relieved. She
didn’t. She knew no one could help her with what she needed
most—getting the image of the beautiful woman in white with the
melodic voice out of her mind forever.

About the Author

Bruce Perrin has been writing for more than 25 years, although you will
find much of that work in professional technical journals or conference
proceedings. But after completing a PhD in Industrial/Organization
Psychology and spending a number of years in the research and development of
advanced learning technology with a major aerospace company, he’s now
applying his background to writing. Not surprisingly, most of his work falls
in the techno-thriller, mystery, and hard science fiction genres, examining
where technology and psychology meet, now and in the future.

In addition to pounding the keyboard, Bruce likes to tinker with home
automation and is an avid hiker, logging nearly 2,500 miles a year in the
first eight years of Fitbit ownership. When he is not on the trails, he
lives with his wife in Aurora, CO. For a closer look at his writing life,
book reviews, and progress on his upcoming works, please join him at
brucemperrin.com.

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