Charles D. Cunningham

“ Nononono. Fear. Terror. Hate. Block. Withdrawal, but incomplete....
Coming out of his Probe, Keller saw the result of his last implanted thought: Radcliffe, now in a tight fetal ball, lay on the floor.
His face was absolutely devoid of expression. His conscious mind was a constant gobble-gobble-gobble.
Keller entered the next room, to find Sally sprawled limply across her desk. Mindless, soulless, as if she had never had a mind or soul—Keller lifted her tenderly onto the floor and chose the most merciful way out, disintegrating her body with an atomic gun from the closet. ”

“ But it was not a lie; no non-tele could block a lie, and Keller scanned the truth in Radcliffe's brain.
"Wait a minute, Radcliffe. Are you sure it's not murder by accident—unintentional manslaughter, as the police term it? Or it could be suicide. Had you thought of that?"
Radcliffe shook his head impatiently. He rose out of his chair, pacing the floor nervously. "It could not possibly be accident. You'll see that when you investigate the case. Suicide? It's possible. Anything is possible, I suppose, but I would lay any kind of odds against it. We had just been to the theater. ”

“ Keller read grief, fear and love in his memory.
"How had she been killed?"
"It was a handgun, Mr. Keller. Her face was all blackened and charred. Barely recognizable. But I knew it must be her. Our rooms connect, you see. There are two other doors to each room; one to the outside hall, and one to each bathroom.
"When she was shot, my door was locked on the inside—triple-locked, I remember, because I felt like being left alone that night. It was locked by chain, bar and bolt. It's a fairly ancient apartment house. We like it that way. ”