December 11, 2014

Interview with Tory Allyn, Author of ALTER EGO {Excerpt}

*What would you be doing right now if you were not an author?
 I would be a professional manny.

*5 years ago: what were you doing?
 I had started writing my second novel, ALTERED STATE. It’s book 2 in my 3-book series entitled, THE DAVENPORT DECREES.

*Do you have a certain writing ritual?
 Yes, I pour a cup of coffee, put Enya on low on my cd player, then I let the creative juices flow.

*What has been the toughest criticism given to you as an author?
 My editor told me that one of my characters, a California guy, used the word ‘like’ too much and that I had to incorporate more surfer-dude lingo.

*Is there an author you'd like to meet?
Yes, John Grisham.

*Biggest writing pet peeve?
Too many commas.

* Do you read other's reviews of your books?
Yes…and thank God they have been 4 and 5 stars on Amazon.


Fun Five:

Fav Color 

Fictional Character you'd like to spend the day with?
The Wicked Witch of the West

Fav food
Pepperoni, sausage and extra cheese pizza

Fav song and/or singer
‘Only Time’ by Enya

Guilty pleasure
Dark chocolate

Tory Allyn currently resides in Upstate New York. Although born in Syracuse, he was raised in the quaint town of Baldwinsville with his brother and two sisters, who drove him into becoming the crazy person he is today. As a child, he made up many a tale. Some funny; others dark and brooding, but all started him on the path to writing. Today, his nephew, lovingly referred to as The Monster Child, is his partner in crime. Most days, you will see them playing ball at a nearby park, going for a dip in the backyard pool or snowboarding on a popular mountainside. Tory has written his first novel titled, ALTER EGO, has completed a second novel titled, ALTERED STATE, and is currently working on the third which will be titled, ALTER BOUND. All three are a series entitled, THE DAVENPORT DECREES.

Informed by his Captain to retrieve the remnants of a disfigured body, Special Agent JACK STANWICK exited FBI headquarters and raced toward Rockfort, Virginia. As sirens echoed in the distance, he approached the old gravel road that led to Granite's Mill. Jack knew what he was about to see, and with most of 'the brotherhood' dispatched away, outside help was needed. So the experts at the DAVENPORT DETECTIVE AGENCY had to be hired. BREN WILLIAMS, DEREK O'ROURKE and RUSS MUNROE are detectives under the guiding eye of former police chief, RAYMOND DAVENPORT. All four were ex-cops who turned over state's evidence on corruption in their respective precincts, only to be ostracized by the remaining brass. If anyone can immerse themselves fully into ALTER EGO, they can!  

Sirens echoed in the distance as Jack Stanwick entered the rural town of Rockfort, Virginia. There had been another discovery and the local boys were claiming jurisdiction…but the Bureau had their own ideas and were about to pull rank. After slicing through the necessary red-tape and securing the needed sanctions, FBI Director Gordon Weaver issued an order to survey the tragedy and retrieve all remnants from Granite’s Mill.

With hardly a resident looking his way, Jack hastened through the four-way stop and hurried up Old Gulch Road. The car gained speed and careened along the crushed-stone route as loose gravel struck the bottom like a hail of bullets. All the while, the screeching cry of police horns blared louder with each impending tread and put him on high alert. As the adrenaline surged, he raced over a hill and caught sight of the glaring flares which inflamed his path and immediately improved his view. The crime scene was now visible.

Jack pulled ahead of the pack of scattered cars. He shut the engine off, peered out the windshield, and eyed the disarray of yellow police tape encircling the crime scene.  All the grave facial expressions gave weight to what lie just ahead. He reached over to unlock the glove compartment and removed a mini-recording device. He pushed the corresponding buttons and cleared his throat, then spoke in a deep and sturdy voice, “This is FBI Special Agent, Jack Stanwick. It’s Monday, the twenty-seventh of October at exactly…” He looked at his watch and continued logging the rest of his statement. When finished, he shut off the gadget and shoved it into his jacket pocket.

He unbuckled his seatbelt and thrust the car door open. Jack emerged from his car and was overtaken by a brisk wind that stiffened his face and stirred his spine. He quickly zipped up his jacket and advanced toward the group of men who were gathered around as if in a football huddle. One of the local cops approached him.

     “You must be the FBI agent?” Out came a hand. “I’m Deputy Morton Talbot.”

     Jack grasped it. He noticed how the gun holster hung loosely around the deputy’s waist, seemingly held up by a uniform that was one size too big.

     “You got here mighty quick.”

     “Yeah, I drove like a banshee.” Jack turned and stuck his head between the congregated men. “Why’s everybody just standing here?” He looked down at a body that was partially covered with leaves.

     “We don’t want to touch anything until Chief McAllister gets here.”

      Jack pulled his head out from the group. “Where is he?”

     “The chief’s on his way up from Gallagher County. He’s been visiting his brother over the weekend.” The deputy looked at his watch. “He should be here any minute.”

Jack was raised to be respectful but also knew cops from the South played by their own set of rules. If things weren’t done their way, an investigation could come to a screeching halt and critical clues would be lost. “I take it you haven’t started processing the crime scene? His eyes squinted. “You know, crucial evidence is disintegrating.”

     “Like I said before, we’re waiting for the chief.”

Realizing the jig...a name he called the dance, Jack prepared for another whirl. “You can initiate things. Aren’t you second in command?” He wanted to plant the seed.


“Where’s the CSI team?”

“Right behind you

     Jack spun his head around and noticed they were from Richmond. “C’mon, people, you can at least take pictures.” He pointed down. “I need those tire marks cast.”

     Nobody moved.

     “Damn it!” His body wrenched. “Where’s the camera? I’ll start this investigation, myself.”  

     “Oh, no ya’ won’t,” bellowed a loud, crass voice. The man bustled his way through the crowd. “This here’s my case that happened in my county that happened in my state.”

    Jack stood in the presence of the South’s Wyatt Earp. He was a short, portly dynamo. Stuffed in an old suit with cowboy boots, he looked like a real hellcat. “You must be Chief Denton McAllister?”

    “You’d be right.”

    “I’m FBI Special Agent Jack Stanwick.” He stuck out his hand.

The chief ignored it, reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a cigar. He bit off an end after running it under his nose then popped the blunt into his mouth and lit it. His eyes darted toward Deputy Talbot. “So, what’s all this excitement about?” he asked, his heavy drawl languishing. “Have ya’ found Jimmy Hoffa?”

     A sharp burst of laughter erupted from the men.

     “No,” answered Deputy Talbot. “It’s more like a freak show.”

     The chief took a steady puff of his stogie. “A freak show, huh?”

“I wouldn’t call it that,” stated Jack.

“I reckon I’ll be the judge of that,” declared Chief McAllister.

Jack gritted his teeth. These were backwoods boys and he knew nothing would get done if they weren’t treated with kid gloves. “You know by all accounts, the FBI would be taking over this case once we were informed,” he said, his voice calm and steady.

“I know the playbook, son,” said Chief McAllister, the fiery tip of his cigar floundering with every word. “Your boss called the Governor and raised a hell of a dickens.”

“I don’t know anything about that. What I do know is I’ve got to haul this body up to our Medical Examiner…and soon, so I need the CSI team to do their job.”

     The chief blew his noxious mist into the air. “Can I at least take a gander at the body before these fellas get in my way?”

     Jack piped up. “Just don’t drop any ashes on the crime scene.”

     Chief McAllister clutched the cigar between his stubby fingers and stared him down. “Son, I’ve been doin’ this job a long time. Pert’ near close to forty years, now…about as long as ya’ been in swaddlin’ clothes and ya’ got the where for all to be tellin’ me how to do my job?”

     Jack didn’t flinch. “No, sir…I wasn’t.”

     The stogie slid back into his mouth. “I didn’t think ya’ was.”

     Jack realized the conversation was going nowhere fast and that things had to be done differently. “Chief McAllister, I feel we started off on the wrong foot. Look, I’m just here to oversee the investigation, grab whatever the CSI team finds, and take the victim back to Washington, DC…that’s it. I’m not here to step on any toes. Can we make this happen?”

The chief drew a lengthy hit off his cigar and his head bobbed up and down. “Ok, son, do what ya’ need,” he quipped as the smoke billowed out of a half-cracked smile.

     “Thank you, sir.” Jack turned, took a pair of gloves out of his jacket pocket and put them on. He crouched down and gently brushed the remaining leaves off the body. After inspecting it, he stood up and stared at Chief McAllister. “Go ahead, sir, take a look…but prepare yourself.”

     “Son, I’ve pert’ near seen everythin’.” He squatted down as much as his protruding gut would allow. “What in tarnation is this?” His breath rasped. “Where in God’s creation did this thing come from?” Wheezing sounded. “Talbot, help me up.”

    The deputy grabbed onto the chief’s hefty arm. “I told you, sir…it was freaky.”

     McAllister’s eyes blazed. “This here some kinda’ joke…” He shifted around, his face flushed with fury. “Who’s pullin’ my leg?”  His glare ended on Jack.

     Agent Stanwick flung his hands out. “Look, I’m just down here doing my job.”

     “Show me them credentials!” ordered McAllister. “I wanna’ make sure I’m not bein’ taken a fool.”

     Jack reached into his back pocket, yanked out a leather case and flipped out his badge. “Here you are, Chief.”

     McAllister grabbed it, gave it a stern eye then handed it back. He faced Talbot. “I’m not amused.”

     The deputy stepped back.    

    Jack edged forward. Now that Chief McAllister had gotten a glimpse of his badge, the game had played out. It was time to enact his authority. “I’ll tow the body away as soon as it’s bagged and tagged.”

     “Boys, process this here crime scene for the agent.”

     The men scrambled.

     “I appreciate your help, sir.”

     “Nothin’ doin’, son

     “Do you have any theories about the case?” asked Deputy Talbot, inching in.

     Jack didn’t want to comment.

     “Did you hear me?”

     “Yeah,” replied Jack. “It’s too early to speculate.”

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