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In retrospect, aside from the fact that it was the last day of Jacob Levin's life, there was nothing unusual about that Monday in November 1983. Until, that is, Jacob's wife, former screen star, Magda St. Martin called me for help. I was a private investigator. I was also a psychic. Five years before, I had searched for Magda's missing teenaged daughter. I had never found her, and the case has haunted me for years. Now Magda had lost two husbands and a daughter under mysterious circumstances. She wanted me to protect her from whomever was stalking her family and to independently investigate the case. From the beginning, I knew Magda, her secretary, Laurel and her gardener, Rolf were lying to me. As I uncovered secret after secret, I felt farther and farther from the truth until the final macabre moments.

I was in my car when the news came over the radio that Royal Blue was dead. Shocked, the world seemed to stop moving for a while. Once or twice in a lifetime there arises a star the brilliance of Royal Blue. The world would eventually become used to his loss, but like the ripples on a pond, his essence would never really die. The surface of the music world would never again be still. I drove on that day, little knowing that with the passing of years my life would become entangled with the lives of those Royal Blue had loved. Though I didn't yet know the players, they were waiting in my future to affect me to the end of my life. And though the case was finished long ago, I dream about it still. In my sleep I'm standing on the edge of hell with a madman.

There had been three murders and most likely more by the time I realized that death was again stalking the Pacific Northwest. In that summer of 1984, fear was already flooding the cities, towns, highways and forests of Washington State. We residents were well familiar with serial killers. Ted Bundy and Gary Ridgway had been able to fulfill their terrible agendas because they were able to hide in plain sight. They had families, girlfriends and jobs. They stood behind us in the grocery line, they sat next to us in the movie theaters. They acted like us. They looked like us. They were just like us. Unknown to everyone, though, there was another killer hunting for victims in those years. One who remained unnamed by the press, unrecognized by the authorities. An unknown, free to pursue and eliminate whomever the mystery killer wished. So skillful were the murders, they were not believed to be murders at all. The press never did name the perpetrator nor did the authorities ever recognize the fact that a third killer roamed the area. I knew, though, that in the colorful world of the local art scene, someone was watching, making plans and waiting for the moment to strike. I knew about the killer I came to call the Raven.