Tattles Bedazzling Birthday! (Tattle-Tell-Me-All Childrens Book Series 7)

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Changes last until the Reset list button is pressed or the page is reloaded. To make your modifications slightly more permanent, press Use as default to replace the original list with the current list. The current list will thereby survive resets but will revert to its original contents on a page reload. Show words Reset list Use as default. Tell me whatever you know about the mystery word using the following form. Fill in any line you can, press the associated Process button, and repeat this step until you've provided all the information you have about the mystery word.

Let me select a word or letter, depending on the game for you to try. Although it may seem counterintuitive, selecting words from the original list rather than the current list generally helps identify the mystery word in fewer guesses. By way of explanation, if you know that the mystery word begins with R , there's usually more information to be gained by guessing a word that does not begin with R. If only one word remains, then that ought to be the mystery word.

Click on Show words to see it. To use the program, simply fill in any line of the command form and press the associated Process button to process that command. Operations are cumulative. Hence, if you first specify that the mystery word starts with A and later specify that it starts with B , then all candidate words will be eliminated from the list as no word can start with both A and B.

Filtering commands are cumulative. The Show words button reveals the list of remaining words. The list is hidden by default because some Web browsers are extremely slow at displaying and updating text boxes containing large amounts of text. The list can be edited manually if desired. Consider a game like Lingo in which players have to identify a five-letter word of which only the first letter is known at the outset.

Each turn, a player guesses a word and is told which of the letters in that word are in the correct location in the mystery word, which letters are in an incorrect location, and which letters do not appear at all in the mystery word. Suppose that the given initial letter is P. One approach is as follows:. Each type of game may favor a different set of commands for filtering the word list. You are not allowed to embed Scott Pakin's handy-dandy word-filtering program within another Web page e.

Hide instructions. The word must contain exactly at least at most letters, not necessarily unique all unique. Intelligently Randomly select a word letter from the original current list honoring current word lengths. The best candidate found after seconds or less is displayed below.

Try guessing. Das ist streng verboten! Das ist zuviel gesagt. Das mache ich im Schlaf. I can do it on my head. Decke : manta, blanket; cubierta, techo, ceiling usu. Zimmerdecke [IE. Die Sache hat einen. Donner : thunder [IE. Du bist mir ein feiner Freund! A fine friend you are! Du brauchst unbedingt Hilfe. It would be this very decision that drove him into bankruptcy.

Eigenschaft predicate, quality, property, qualify Eigenschaften qualities, attributes, properties. Einrichtung constitution, installation, setup, institution Einrichtungen facilities, establishments,. Er entging knapp dem Tode. He just. He thinks. His life is no bed of roses. Er hat Schiss!

Er hat Schwung. He is to blame for it. Er ist ein alter Hase. Er ist ein. Er ist ein arger Tunichtgut. He is all talker. Er ist ein paar Jahre zu jung. Er ist ein paar Tage verreist. Er ist ein Spielverderber. Er ist ein Stubenhocker. Er ist ein toller Kerl. Er ist ganz der Vater. Er ist ganz in Ihrer Hand.

Er ist gut in Form. Er ist ihm nicht gewachsen. Er ist im besten Alter. Er ist mir ein Dorn im Auge. The victim says no. The suspect restates his demand. The suspect puts one hand on her mouth and sticks one hand down the front of her bra. The victim digs in and pushes her weight against him. Four prior victims ID him. A station detective contacts Koury and Meyers.

They interview the kid about the Scales job. He says he suffers blackouts. He snapped out of blackouts twice and found himself messing with women. He has problems with women. He could have done things in blackouts. The kid denies killing BettyJean Scales. He denies the rape and attempt rapes that the victims made him for. He says he was never at Durfee Drugs. Koury and Meyers reinterview the kid. He denies killing Betty Jean Scales. Koury and Meyers press on the Scales job. The kid invokes his right to silence. The kid remained in custody. His sentence: an open-ended stretch of Youth Authority time.

It was the second unsolved homicide in El Monte history. It followed another body dump by fifteen-plus years. The killer dumped my mother on a road next to Arroyo High School. He may have killed her there. He may have killed her at another location. It went down early Sunday morning. The road was a local tryst spot. It met established standards for short-term concealment. Street access was good. Shrubs cut down the street view. The killer raped her or had consensual sex with her. He strangled her with a cotton cord and her right nylon stocking. He dumped her in an ivy patch. She was fully clothed and disheveled.

She left the house at 8:oo P. She was alone. She drove to the Five Points strip in El Monte. My mother and the Swarthy Man hit the Desert Inn—a nightclub that caters to Okies and middle-aged drunks. A blonde woman walks in with them. The three drink, dance, and talk. They leave at midnight. They sit in his car. The Swarthy Man has coffee. My mother has a late snack. The house is 1. The pizza joint and bar are just south. The Desert Inn is seven blocks west. The dump site is 2. My parents were divorced. I spent that weekend with my father.

I was 10 years old. I was a cold little kid. I hated and lusted for my mother and went at her through postmortem surrogates. I buried her in haste and burned flames for other murdered women. It liberated and constrained me concurrently. It mandated my mental curriculum. I majored in crime and minored in vivisected women. I grew up and wrote novels about the male world that sanctioned their deaths. I ran from my mother. I put years and miles between us. I ran back to her in I was 46 years old.

Fate intervened. It sparked a confrontation. A friend called me. He said he was writing a piece on unsolved murders in the San Gabriel Valley. My friend set me up on a hot blind date. I saw the file. I read the reports and saw my mother dead at Arroyo High School. It was shocking and revelatory. I knew that her death shaped my curiosity and gift for storytelling. It was long-standing knowledge. It was coldly reasoned and mockobjectified. I sensed the full weight of it now. I sensed that it carried a debt of recognition and homage.

I sensed that I came out of her in a way that superseded all ties of shared blood. I sensed that I was her. A Homicide detective showed me the file. His name was Bill Stoner. He was 53 years old and set to retire. He worked Homicide for fifteen years. Stoner impressed me. I appraised him as he appraised me. I glimpsed a powerful and orderly intellect. I sensed that he balanced a vital compassion against strict levies of judgment.

I sensed that he could teach me things. Stoner retired from active duty. We studied every paper scrap in the file. We contacted the surviving witnesses. We installed a toll-free tip line and logged hundreds of worthless tips. We stalked the Swarthy Man extrapolatively. Was he a salesman passing through El Monte? Did he book racetrack bets at the Desert Inn? Did the Blonde work with my mother or frequent the same cocktail bars?

We extrapolated. We combed the San Gabriel Valley. We stalked my mother back to Chicago and rural Wisconsin.

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We found people who knew her sixty years ago. We did not find the Blonde or the Swarthy Man. We heard the oral history of bumfuck L. People told us intimate things. They liked me because I loved and hated along their lines of rectitude. Bill Stoner became my closest friend. Our commitment ran bilateral and exceeded the investigation. Our worldviews meshed and expanded to encompass two distinct visions.

We discussed crime for hours running. Bill told cop stories. I described my petty-crime exploits and county-jail stints twenty years back. We laughed. We satirized macho absurdity and admitted our complicity in perpetuating it. Bill gave me things. He empiricized L. He embellished it with great verve and let me place my mother in context. We talked about her. We did not defer to her status as a murder victim or my mother. We bluntly discussed her alcoholism and bent for cheap men.

We followed the evidentiary track of her life and charted the detours. We shared a genderwide and wholly idealized crush on women. We were indictable coconspirators in the court of murder-victim preference. Bill reveled in the luxury of a sustained investigation with a probable dead suspect and negative outcome.

It let him live with the victim and explore her life and honor her at leisure. The investigation faded out. The Swarthy Man became less relevant. We targeted a killer and amassed facts on his victim. I wanted to write a book and give my mother to the world. I wanted to take what I learned about her and portray my arc of recognition and love. I wrote My Dark Places in seven months.

I went at it with deliberate intention. I did not want people to think that I loved her in spite of her unconsciousness and erratic and negligent acts. I wanted people to know that I loved her because of them—and that my debt of gratitude derived from the fact that she was precisely who she was—and that the specific components of her ambiguously defined psyche and her sexual hold on me all contributed to shape and save my life.

My Dark Places was a best-seller and a critical success. I booktoured in America and Europe. Bill Stoner joined me in France and L. We took camera crews to El Monte. I reduced it to comprehensible sound bites. I gave her to the world in a spirit of passion and joy. The book sparked a string of worthless tips. Bill checked them out. I went home to Kansas City and researched my next novel.

My mother stayed with me. She stormed my heart at unpredictable times. I welcomed her insistent presence. I toured for the paperback edition. I gave more readings and more interviews and took my mother public again. I told her story with undiminished passion. The repetition did not wear me down. I went home wanting more.

I went home wanting something new and altogether familiar. I lived there for four months in I left the day my mother died. I stayed away for thirty-six years. It was hot, smoggy, and dusty. Rednecks and wetbacks reigned. My mother died and scared me west to my father and Central L. Her ghost kept me out and pulled me back. Arroyo High was still Arroyo High. My old house was still standing. I reembraced my mother in the town that killed her. El Monte was our prime communion zone. My first visits scared me. Sustained contact wiped the fear out. Bill and I made friends with the cops and the man who owned my old house.

We dined on the spot where my mother danced with her killer. I wanted to give El Monte the power to shock and drive me again. I wanted to find a workable case and write about it. Bill was still a Homicide reserve. He told me he was scanning old files for DNA submission. The captain ordered a big file review. DNA was a hot new ticket. A lot of old unsolveds might be solvable now.

He called me back and said he found a body dump.

It was just as tight and local as the Jean Ellroy case. Crime-scene shots and Teletypes and reports stuck in a blue notebook.

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Scales spoke slowly and carefully. He lived to race. He should have won a trophy last week. His bike was not street legal. I studied a stack of ID photos. Betty Jean Scales alive: a prim woman with long hair and granny glasses. I studied the crimescene shots. Betty Jean twenty-seven days dead: a bloated mannequin and insect repository. I studied the perspective shots.

The pits looked like moon craters. I pictured local acidheads grooving on the landscape. I thought the line referred to a semen stain. Some men secrete identifiable blood cells in their ejaculate; some men do not. We lived two blocks west of Peck Road. Arroyo High flanked Lower Azusa. Betty Jean vanished en route to Five Points. I read the sex-assault reports. I cleared the laundromat freak.

He worked late nights and north El Monte exclusively. He was convicted for one attempt rape. He assailed his consummated victim in dark seclusion. Betty Jean was last seen at Durfee Drugs. The kid worked at a print shop two blocks away. I called Bill. He cosigned my assessment and urged me to remain circumspect.

We should sift evidence and refrain from prejudicial conclusions. I was to look, listen, and ask questions judiciously. Bill said he had calls in to Koury and Meyers. They both retired to Missouri. We had to get their assessments. I mentioned the secretor notation. Bill said we should go by the property vault and retrieve the evidence bags. That was the standard pre-DNA procedure.

He might have done the same thing with Betty. He might have wiped his penis with her sweater, panties, or bra. DNA procedures did not exist in DNAcertified semen stains can be compared to cell scrapings taken from present-day suspects. The lab could determine the presence or absence of DNA with absolute certainty. Fabrics retain DNA cells indefinitely. I mentioned Bill Scales and vaginal drip from normal intercourse. Bill Stoner said we had to find him and take a blood sample or a mouth scrape. We had to differentiate his fluid cells. He said the stain placements were crucial.

If the killer wiped himself with the panties, the stains would be wide and diffuse. I slept poorly that night. I tossed and transposed the file statistics of Betty Jean and my mother. Durfee Drugs: a small corner store with wraparound parking. The bank: gone. Vons Market: a big corner store with a big parking lot. The gravel pits: a skyscape of scoop cranes and rock piles.

No description

Fenced-in access roads and Keep Out signs. The Baldwin Park Post Office: still in its old location. The gravel pits and Vons Market: walking distance for a kid jacked up on fear and adrenaline. They remembered the Scales case. Ankeny said the husband was their first hot suspect. Clayton said they popped a rape-o around the same time. A Latin guy sandbagged a girl by some railroad tracks. A witness scared him off as he forced the girl to strip. He was grilled and cleared on the Scales job.

We stood outside his office and bullshitted. I looked down the hallway. My mind wandered. Thirty-nine years had intervened. I was still obsessed and hungry at the cusp of He worked out of a PD adjunct building. Bill ran down the Scales case. Armstrong keyed on the kid. Bill said full was essential. We had to know him before we tried to find him. Joe is a civilian crime analyst. He knows computer search systems. He hit. Scales was fifty-one years old now.

He lived in Rancho Cucamonga. Bill said Valley folks never strayed far. I said the Valley was a fucking life sentence. Evidence bags were stored on shelves stacked twenty-five feet high. The vault looked like an airplane hangar. Two dozen shelves ate up most of the floor space. Technicians accessed them with forklifts. I put the dress she died in to my face and caught a trace of her perfume. Bill requisitioned the Scales bag. A technician found it. We examined it in a small room next to the vault.

Bill filled out a routing form and placed the items in a cardboard box. They looked like cheap stuff purchased at Sears or JC Penney. They smelled like dust and old synthetics. A serologist named Valorie Scherr logged them in. She explained DNA in a wholly precise and stupefyingly soporific manner. Scherr said the prescreen would take ten days. They had to identify semen or other fluids first.

The amount did not matter. DNA could be successfully typed off a single cell. Dissipation might factor in. The event occurred twenty-four years ago. The stains might have eroded during storage. Scherr gave Bill eight swab sticks and containers. She said he should tell the husband to scrape the inside of his mouth vigorously,. They might not have a valid victim sample. A colleague tapped the DMV computer. He got a hit on Bud Bedford. His last known address: a trailer park in Fresno. Bill got his number from Fresno information. He called him and stated his business.

Bedford agreed to be interviewed. He said his ex-wife was still in Fresno. He gave Bill her number. We broke it off for the day. I went back to my hotel room and stared at a picture of Betty Jean smiling. I sensed that things went stray for her—beyond her already low expectations. I wanted to know how they stood on the night she died. He was tall and rangy and an old His voice matched the voice on the interview tape down to subtle inflections. Bill stated our business and stressed that he was not a suspect.

Bud Bedford still thought he did it.

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He ran it down deadpan. Bill interposed questions. Scales answered them and jumped back to his basic narrative. He rolled over for authority figures. I knew it was a long-term practice. Scales said she was a dingbat. She was mousy, easygoing, and submissive. She talked a mile a minute like a true nutcase. Simple tasks flummoxed her. I used to call my mother a drunk and a whore the same way. He was living in Bell Gardens.

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She was living in Downey. Her father set her up in a pad. He found Betty in bed with a boy and cut off his support abruptly. Betty was going to high school then. Bill Scales moved in with her. He got her pregnant and married her. He raced motorcycles and hung insulation. Betty worked on the assembly line at Avon cosmetics and quit to be a full-time mother. They had a son. He was 3 months old when Betty died. Leah married a guy named Baker.

They had two kids. Leah was fat. He had a second family and raised Leah and her brother with them.

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Leah did not appreciate it. His candor was praiseworthy and appalling. He impressed me as a control freak with a dark self-knowledge learned the hard way. He cut his losses and lived inside rigid boundaries. His subtext was all male pride and self-pity. She was on the Pill. The sperm on her panties might turn out to be his.

He looked like an Okie transplant and employed perfect grammar. He set out to refute his roots every time he opened his mouth. He said Bud Bedford sicced a P. The guy tailed him to a siding job in Temecula. The apartment was small and overfurnished. I heard kids back in the bedrooms. The husband sat on the living-room floor and observed the interview. He introduced me. I smiled. He said my mother was a murder victim. It fell flat. Leah Baker looked right through me. Bill asked her if she remembered her mother.