Brownstonelit's Blog

2/24/10
I am reminded today of a song that was sung by Peggy Lee. Those of you old enough to remember her will remember this song… “Is That All There Is”. Know then that I have fought with both head and heart these last few days over information I have received. Incriminating information that, to the best of my knowledge was never been made available to the public. Information from the face of justice itself. Information that could have altered the course of countless lives- their destinies, their legacies and those of their children’s children. Information that could have changed the face of an entire community. The receipt of this information has escalated and propelled this case into a higher stratosphere than ever I could have imagined.

It is one thing to suspect a thing… it is another to find it an absolute. For where does one go from there, but to those who share in the responsibility for its execution? There is an unwritten responsibility that comes with knowledge of the absolute. A pact of scared trust between the gods who have granted such intercessions and the recipients there of. A pact which begs of both to use whatever spoils distributed- be put to use for the betterment of mankind. That these gifts of information be reviewed with omnipotent eye, governed with clarity of mind and dispensed with purity of heart. Each day I work this case, I find I ask for more patience and guidance from those who lead me. Now too I must ask for their temperance and wisdom; for solid counsel and a steely stomach to digest and ruminate what I have discerned.

Whatever part of me once thought writing this book would remain the better part of folly, no longer entertains such naiveté. Knowledge of a crime, without the sharing of that knowledge…makes one as guilty as the perpetrator if that is where one’s integrity in the matter ends. Knowledge of, and silence about– begets collusion. I cannot in good conscience sit idly beside and share in the duplicity of another’s ego. No matter the intention or perceived nobility of the act. Silence is not the right of the observer. It is the right of the victim to choose what is and is not shared! As Betty Davis once said in one of her films (All About Eve, I believe)… “Hold on to your seats! It’s going to be a bumpy ride!”

As of today, I take off the kid gloves and prepare to do real battle with those living who have information… with those living who withheld information and those dead who took that information silently to the grave!

2/23/10
Today I write with heavy heart. A very dear friend of mine told me when I began this to be careful. That once I opened Pandora’s box… I would not be able to put the lid back on it. They were right.

I apologize in advance if it feels as though I have taken on the mantle of witch hunter. I have not. I am merely frustrated by the difficulties of my research. So many files unavailable, or in my ignorance of due process—out of my reach. I continue to hone skill sets of investigation, yet irony finds that sometimes it matters not how I approach this situation- but how unable I am to affect its outcome. Sometimes articles and documents simply no longer exist. Still I go back to the fact that this man was employed by our Federal Treasury Department and that, in and of itself should have warranted some kind of immemorial paper trail. While I beat my chest and caterwaul about the inconsistencies of due process of law in this case… I am reminded that this was another time and another place from my own experience. People there and then suffered under watchful eyes that held both power of life and death. Players who held all the cards and dealt from the bottom of the deck, because there was no one more powerful to tell them they couldn’t. It is a caricature of a world that I have little natural bearings to navigate in. I am a Midwestern gal… land of practicality, corn, pigs and black dirt. I did not understand even the most colloquial of sayings when I first ventured south of the Mason Dixon over 30 years ago. Terminologies such as; ‘frog stranglers’ and ‘gully washers’ figured not in my limited repertoire. ‘Jerk a knot in your tail’, ‘just being ugly’ or ‘down the road a fair piece’ were things of uncommon literature and not one’s daily vernacular. Further, I fully confess to be stymied by the thought that indoor furniture eventually suffices as outdoor furniture once completely devoid of all practical use… or that sweet iced tea could become a preferred breakfast drink. While these and other such southern idiosyncrasies plagued my early arrival, I always tried to understand the people who shared them. In that vein, it makes more sense that Charley has asked me to be point guard on this project. That and my sheer ignorance of any dangers involved in reopening this local wound.

As I told his daughter,” Maybe I’m not smart enough to know I shouldn’t be asking these questions…” So I am hopefully then, that those I press for answers are tolerant of my ignorance and share with me whatever they can in my desire to help solve the mystery of the coffee pot conspiracy and Charley Covington’s murder.

To those of you who have helped me thus far I give great, good thanks and return to my task. Pounding the metaphorical streets like a cop, going over and over my interview(s) notes there is a pattern that has emerged. Something mentioned that corroborated information from the journal and several interviews. There was a reference in the journal to “other work” Charley had been working on that would have placed him in danger. I talked with another former law enforcement officer last week who told me he had seen Charley at the courthouse late one night while he was covering the desk for someone. When he asked Charley what he was doing out so late at night… Charley told him he was getting ready to go meet a guy in Lake Park to get some information. When the Trooper asked him what he was working on, Charley told him he couldn’t tell him yet, but that it was big. When the trooper asked him how big? Charley replied, “Big enough to blow this county wide open!” (According to several others interviewed, he had said that to at least two other individuals.) The Trooper cautioned him to be careful and to let someone know where he was going at all times for safety reasons. And that preferably he should not go alone.

Two weeks later Charley was dead! Dead after getting a phone call from Henderson, the snitch about an alleged “moonshine deal” that went down every Sunday night between 9:30 P.M. and 10:00 P.M. out by the river on Clyattville-Nankin and Rocky Ford Roads respectively.

Everyone from the funeral home ambulance attendants to the State Troopers who worked the scene that night saw the body and said it wasn’t suicide. One individual (a first responder) said Charley’s body was laid out like he was already at the funeral home; legs straight, left arm across his chest and his right out to his side holding the gun. (Which of course does not jive with print reports that say he was face down, with the gun under his belly.) First responders agreed Charley could not have killed himself and the physical evidence at the scene that night bore that out. (This is why crime scene photos would be so important to have.)

Two interviewed, told me the Deputy Sheriff arrived on the scene hours later that night, drunk as a skunk. So drunk that he could not stand straight and fell against the car, while announcing in slurred voice he’d be taking over the investigation. (Incidentally, certain witness information given by other first responders never sees the light of day again once the Deputy Sheriff has it in his hands. Information that does not get disseminated before or after the inquest. But more importantly… questions that never got asked because certain people were not notified of the inquest hearing until after it had happened.)

So that begs the question? Why were these people kept out of the loop? Why would their testimony and/or presence have been so threatening if the local law was so convinced that it was suicide? What were they afraid of? And why didn’t the other Federal investigators follow the clear leads from the crime scene itself? How many shells actually were spent from Charley’s gun that night as opposed to how many bullets were pulled from his body? And why didn’t other agencies question the mere impracticality presented by the logistics of the crime scene?

The obvious questions are the easy ones.
For example:
How many bullets were taken from the victim’s head?
Answer: Two.

The less than obvious questions that should have been asked.
How many shots were fired? How many shells were spent?
Answer: More than two!

WHY?

And there are others not quite so obvious that must be asked too. Questions like; if this road was such a hot bed of moonshine action… how many more times did the local law and ATTD work that specific stretch of road after Charley was killed. Who took Henderson’s (the snitch’s) calls after that? Or… is that where the calls ended? Local scuttlebutt places two men and one woman at the crime scene? Who were they and why was there no follow up on such rumblings? Rumors generally have a small speck of truth in them somewhere, so… why did they spend only three weeks investigating? Why the rush to inquest and why not re-open the case after reclassification? I have other questions as a matter of curiosity. Questions like; when did Charley’s partner arrive on scene that night? Did he know about the “big” project Charley was working on? And why was he later transferred out of state? Who was it Charley was meeting out in Lake Park late at night that was giving him regular information? And was this “big something” Charley was working on, the huge illegal gambling ring that involved the Valdosta Amusement Company and the Fraternal Order of Eagles? The very same crime ring that Edward Wray Crockett Jr. and Jewell Futch were indicted and sentenced to prison for almost ten years later?

Those would be interesting questions to find answers for, don’t you think? My misfortune is that there does not seem to be much of a paper trail on this and that so many of those involved are now dead. A Federal Agent was killed… where’s the file? I can see the loss locally for reasons I shall expose later. But I should think there would be standard protocol to keep files on any events that lead to the subsequent death of an agent in the employ of the Federal government. It seems odd to me that we can track the path John Wilkes Booth took after jumping from the box seats in Ford’s Theatre, but we can’t track down a file on a Federal Agent killed in the line of duty in 1966?

2/17/10

With generosity of spirit and compassionate guidance, I continue to be led to people still living that played a role in the events of that evening- not the perpetrators, mind you- but peripheral innocents that became a part of the story through mere association. Thus far I have been aided by sources that I shall keep close to my vest… but they have been marvelous in raking through years of memories and misconceptions about the circumstances surrounding that night.

The transcript from this point forward, names too many names. Not be mindful of the fallout that would ensue after, would be irresponsible. Some of what could be printed would not be much in the way of surprise, as their names appeared in various print media of the time for infractions and suspicions both large and small. In fact almost all the names connected and woven throughout the transcript of my session have seen ink from time to time. But as I say, to be fair to those who cannot deny or defend themselves in the here and now, I shall wait until I have all the pieces to the puzzle before I take to print with my educated theory.

The more I read and the more I hear…I am convinced that this case should be re-opened. Life in Lowndes County; Valdosta in particular at the time was managed by many, but governed by few. Men drunk with power, libation and opportunity committed crimes of unspeakable horror without fear of recrimination. A Federal Treasury Agent was killed and yet the scream of outrage never came from the collective brotherhood of law enforcement there. Only from the widow and a handful of independents brave enough to cry foul play. Those few who found their voices, learned all to soon that they would bounce most singularly between the pines of the Clyattville –Nankin Road swamps without echo to follow. Those few, who continually sought assistance from the local law, asking… why and how such a travesty could have happened, found their answers in the form of home invasions and errant bullets. Innocents, that asked why such an investigation was never turned over (before and/or after the reclassification) to a trained and impartial law enforcement agency for further discovery?

And what kind of gullibility ran rampant within the State and Federal agencies involved in that investigation that they could not see the crime scene read like a bad Mickey Spillane novel? Decision makers who swallowed local law whole and did not vomit on the garbage they were fed? Those men and those agencies who obstructed the due process of the law, I hold responsible for the rush to Coroner’s Inquest and the subsequent misclassification of Charley’s death. How dare these men who carried both badge and gun, be allowed even in death to call themselves ambassadors of justice.

An unfaithful brotherhood, that could not step outside themselves for one brief moment to understand the damage of the legacy they helped to build by their ambiguity and apathy in the wake of Charley’s passing. Should not those who committed these crimes and this abuse stand before the court of public opinion and be called to answer for the damage that they have wrought? When it comes to an unsolved murder, which I believe is the case with Charley; I can say without hesitation that justice delayed- should not remain justice denied! I share in the frustration of a soul who has wandered above the veil of this earth since 1966 patiently awaiting his chance to speak his truth and ask… where are the heroes who would step forth gladly and resurrect this man’s name along with this case so that the truth of October 9, 1966 become known?

Keep talking Charley… I’m listening.

(Session Transcript cont.)

“She began again…
He is showing me a letter G. It is a name. A unisex name; it can be either male or female. Do you understand this?
I nod. She continues.
The G is perpetrator—suspected. G- He shows me an injury. He shows me his heart- broken heart. Injuries endured from this person— both emotional/physical. The reaction seems more current than it should be. He has not had enough time to process.
He is showing me a red car… or a red truck.
He is showing me a tire… an impact. A domestic dispute that happened before this event.*

(* It is unclear as to whether this dispute is between Charley and his wife or Charley and G. Though if one were to parse words, I believe it would be referring to dispute at home. There is confirmation that such an argument took place within the house the day of his disappearence.)
G has to do with abdominal impact. Perhaps emotional or physical. A shock, something unexpected. Something others would have known about. He keeps referring to G as someone who moves from hurting an animal without conscience to hurting a human without the same.
He continues to show me a tire. Showing me the impact. A shock, an unexpected blow- his body moving back and forth from the tire.

At this point she asks to see something personal of his. An article of his… I hand her the plastic baggie holding the wallet. She removes it carefully and runs it over in her hands and then opens it and asks, “Was it wet?” I nod confirmation.
She tells me he breaks in to ask about his daughter.
She asks if I understand. I nod. ‘Does he have a daughter?
I nod confirmation. She says he keeps repeating, “My little girl. My little girl…”
He is showing her a location. It is woodsy… there is water… swampy.
She asks if I understand. I nod in confirmation.
She asks me to tell her where this might be. I give her the information I have about the Clyatteville- Nankin Road where his body was found. She asks if there is water. I nod confirmation. There is a river (Withlacoochee River) that acts as border between Brooks County Florida and Lowndes County Georgia. His body was found approximately 1000 yards from a river.
She asks if the area is swampy. I nod confirmation.

She continues.

He is showing me things. He is showing me injuries he has suffered from this person before, leading up to… He is showing me an object. I will try to describe using something I recognize. It is a tool. A tool you might find in your garage.
May I borrow your pen?
I hand her my pen and she begins to draw what appears to be a small coping saw.
Do you understand?
The tool is like this. The handle is like this and the other areas are jagged edges, like a saw blade.
Do you recognize such a tool? I nod confirmation.

May I tell you something? She nods.

He built houses on the side. I believe this to be a coping saw. It is a fine saw used for delicate carpentry work- angles on chair rails, quarter rounds for base boards. She thanks me and admits it is outside her scope.

He is very definite about this tool. He shows me lacerations from this tool. He concentrates on his arms again.
He is showing me about G. She is showing me, G =’s “that bitch”.

She advises me; they do not judge on the other side, but he is showing me so that I might understand what he felt about G.

He is showing me another object.
May I borrow your pen again? He is showing me a mallet or a gavel type object. It has a handle like this and a T shaped top.
I asked if the T portion at the top was elongated or cropped.
She responds …cropped, like a judges gavel. But not to say it was a judge’s gavel.
He is showing me an older man with a lot of money. He shows me the letters, L and T. Again he shows me G and shows “that bitch”.
There is an association- a connection between G and the older man LT.
He then shows me the tire and a secondary injury/second to an initial impact. Something impacted first at abdomen. I am uncertain if this is physical or emotional.

Next; he is showing me the area on the back of his head. There is energy from the side. This is the first definite physical impact.
He is showing me a second energy on the left side of his head -a second impact. First impact a blow, then the second to the left area of the head. Great energy there. Do you understand? Do you know what this is?

I nod confirmation and ask if I may tell her something. She nods.

I tell her there were bruises found to the back of his head and that the fatal shot was behind and just above his left ear.
(I do not mention the other wound to the chin as I am assuming that will be demonstrated next.)
She acknowledges and he shows her energy to the left side of his head.
(At this point I wanted to ask about the second wound, but hold my tongue as she is trying to redirect.)
He is showing me G. He is showing me; black widow, calculated, evil.
Do you understand what this means? Do you know who this is?

At this point I ask her if I can tell her who this is. She nods confirmation and says yes.”

What if it really is all about the hokey-pokey?

This was not only the wording on a bumper sticker that my sister found, but the running gag between myself, my mother and my youngest sister. (AKA my cosmic twin.) The Hokey-Pokey, while a very animated dance generally known to accompany wedding receptions, Bar and Batmitzpha at a point when most patrons are duly baptized with libations… was also the code name my father gave to the curious fascination the three of us shared about all things commonly seen as taboo. Things like; near death experiences, life after death, clairvoyance, paranormal activities, locutions, synchronicity and various other abnormal disciplines that give persons of religious fervor heart palpitations. In sharing with a few siblings the revelations of last Friday in regards to my parents, the comment was made how ironic that my father would have made an appearance, as it was he first and foremost that insisted such an alliance would be seen an act against our Catholic upbringing. My answer to that now is, apparently it’s never too late to teach an old dog new tricks! And seeing how my father now has the upper hand when it comes to knowledge of what it is or is not taboo as seen through the eyes of eternal love, I remark and applaud his participation throughout the experience. What I witnessed last Friday; in having an opportunity to receive not only pertinent information about this case, but having shared a reunion with my parents; tells me that in deed there are greater things in heaven and earth than man can comprehend. So for my siblings, I grant you the gift of confirmation, that great love can indeed pierce the veil of death and that your parents are together and happy to be so. As much as we like to think we spend our days walking paths alone, Friday has taught me that we do not. Those we love and have lost are always at our side. So it seems my friends, it turns out in the end that the bumper sticker was right after all! In the vernacular of the peasantry then let me say to you all, as insane as it may sound…

It REALLY is… all about the Hokey-Pokey! (For you dad.)

As for the transcripts:
I need to get some logistical issues taken care of before I commit further to pen for you here. I see now I will not be able to share the entire transcript with you in this format for the following reasons. Firstly, this is an ongoing investigation for me and I have several unanswered questions that I must find resolution to before going to print. Secondly, there are names… places and people who will be called to task by what has been revealed to me. Many who have passed and so cannot defend or deny their actions. In fairness to them, I will be seeking counsel for what should happen next and will schedule another meeting with the expert to continue to flesh out the circumstances and players of that night and the reasons for why they would commit such a crime.

Once small talk and instructions had ended… the session began in earnest. Without fanfare or warning, she told me a man had come to visit her two days prior. She had been in her car and when she looked up, he was walking towards her. She made a mental note at the time that she felt he might have something to do with me. Two days earlier she had had a visitation. Two days earlier I had begged Charley to talk to me. Apparently that’s when he had started the conversation. Now two days later, it was all I could do to try and catch up.

The recollection and description she gave me is as follows:

A man came towards me, looking as though he had been sitting in a mossy mess for quite some time. He appeared damp, wet, moldy…
He came to visit two days ago. He was murky looking-as if he was coming through water. His clothing… how to put this? Best description—zombie-ish. He was not a zombie- but appeared zombie-ish. He wanted to find out about his skin. Obsessed and very confused about his skin. He was showing me wounds, lacerations…fixating on his arms. He was rancorous.

I did not know who this person was, but felt that he must have had something to do with the author, TA. He appeared and left without word.

My gut became pinched with bile. Two days ago I had asked for him to make contact. At this point the waiter came by and asked for our order. My stomach lurched at the thought of receiving more acid- even high dollar acid, so I searched the menu for something with fewer octanes. She opted for a specialty hot chocolate. I applauded her choice and echoed a similar selection with caramel. Not more than three minutes into the session, my most auspicious moments thus far had now been interrupted by a waiter, but it was a blessing in disguise. Without electrical outlet at my disposal, I surmised my lap top battery had a shelf life of about 45 minutes. Not nearly long enough to record everything imparted, if infact I was lucky enough to have Charley make an appearance at all. In the wake of our waiter’s departure, I acknowledged my lack of recording device and asked if I might run out to my car and trade my computer back pack in for my writing pad. She agreed and I donned my coat and rushed out the door into the pelting rain to secure. Upon my return, she told me the man with the moldy skin had escorted me back in. I pulled off my coat, sank into my chair and opened my notebook. In silence, I positioned my pen above a blank page of paper and began recording the remainder of what you will now see here… all the while bearing in mind I was in the presence of an entity, I came to believe as Charles Gordon Covington, Julie’s deceased father.

2/10/10

I have spent the better part of the last few days transcribing the session of Friday and relive the event each time with greater understanding of what has transpired. People, places…names, numbers and initials have begun to have a life of their own. I am piecing things together now that did not seem to fit before, but now show clear segues to one another. And each day, sometimes hourly other intuitions flower and unfold before me. I continue to be mindful that not everyone sees this for what it is. Grateful to some extent that they do not, as this continues to be a work in progress and comments one way or another at this point would seem grossly premature.

While information garnered did not come in your typical fashion, it remains information none the less and must be substantiated to reach the benchmark necessary to warrant validation. Therefore, I am hesitant under such rigorous recent scrutiny to place anything in print. Yet, if that become the margin by which I process, then while I am left more socially palatable, I am also left unfaithful to my craft and the task at hand. To those then who might take religious umbrage with such methods, I merely answer:

What is the definition of praying? Take your answer and extrapolate from there…

Until later then

2/7/10

Preface: She knew nothing about the case prior to this meeting. She had instructed me not to share anything with her. No names, dates, premises or locations- nothing that would taint or compromise her reading. She had stressed that from our very first meeting back in December at the Cold Case Research and Investigation Institute/Moores Ford Bridge award ceremony. She wanted no information ahead of time and bid me call her after the holidays. I complied and late in January I called to set a date.
I am going to record what took place during my interview with the psychic detective on Friday. This report may seem disjointed at points, but this is the fashion in which it occurred and I want to try and remain as close to the experience as possible.
We were to meet at a designated coffee house in midtown Atlanta at 10:00 in the morning. As fate would have it, it was raining like a son-of-a-bitch; a fact at the time that registered more as annoyance with me, than grossly appropriate. In hindsight now, I realize the weather couldn’t have been any other way. It was perfect. In fact, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had told me Charley had arranged it that way. Two days and two blogs earlier I had openly begged Charley to talk to me, so there was no way I could not be there when fate had finally led me to someone who might be able to speak for him. I just hoped what she had to tell me would be enough to fill the metaphorical coffee cup from my title.
I wanted to know if the rumors about his affair had been true. That it all had started and ended with an innocent cup of coffee the way I had guesstimated in my teaser. Had he really decided on the spur of the moment to leave his wife and kids and commit suicide? Or were my suspicions about all the inconsistencies in everything I had read thus far, correct? I needed to know if I was right about the significance of the rain that night. If I could confirm my timeline theory based on the omission about the windshield wipers… if he could help us identify who it was at the front right tire when the first witness drove by. Whether or not he pulled the trigger at his chin and how it was they found traces of nitrate on his right hand. Was I correct about which shot was fired first? Was there really blood on the right side of the window, or had it been staged that way? (You’ve read the previous blogs. You know the suspicions I have written about. The many theories I have promoted thus far in my investigation of this case. Use them as control specimens for this experiment.) I wanted to ask how Charley’s body got moved from where it should have fallen– to where the second set of witnesses found it several minutes after the first witness had driven by. I wanted to know if I was on the right track to discovering who else might have been involved that night. And most of all, I needed to know if I was doing the right thing by everyone, but especially his daughter by asking all those questions to begin with.
I can tell you now that I received all of the information above at the hands of a woman so gracious with her soul, it made me re-access the generosity of my own. An individual so compassionate and gifted that I awed in her presence and hoped she would be kind in her appraisal of whatever elements of my own soul bled in kind before her. Things and secrets I could not hide from her. For the first time I understood what it was to be naked from the inside out… and I worried I was not worthy enough to sit across from her.
The drive in from Athens on 316 went fairly well, until I got within a mile of merging with 85 south. Then of course, Murphy’s Law set in along with a horrendous bank of fog and rain that tormented me through equal parts. I called her at approximately 9:50 a.m. to tell her that I would be about ten to fifteen minutes more. She granted me leniency and gave me a heads up on the parking accommodations.
Inside my trunk lay a large clear plastic storage container. It was filled with a myriad of personal papers, print media clippings, photos; letters and telegrams I thought might be useful. The rain continued to pour while I hedged my bets thinking about the secret weapon in the plastic baggie, (his bloodied wallet), and wondered if it would be my best ticket to solving the mystery of his death. I went through the rest of my checklist mentally. My personal files, plus another binder that held the GBI crime lab report, the indictments (506F and 514F) for F and both C’s, Jr. and Sr. sequentially-check. The register book from the Carson McLane Funeral Home and Charley’s 8×10 tinted photo–the one I have been talking to now for months-check. Beyond that I had belly full of butterflies and a pot full of questions I had no idea if I would be able to ask.
The rain continued to accost me as I set the bin to the curb, grabbed my book bag with laptop and my purse. Once inside I told the waiter I was meeting someone and he immediately escorted me across the room and down a slender alcove filled with heavy wood, chocolate perfume and Mediterranean ambience. Introductions made, menus dispersed, she set about explaining what was about to take place.
As she spoke it became increasingly clear there had been no real need for my computer; only my leather notebook, a pen and an open mind. I quietly assured myself everything else I needed factually had already been etched into my brain and everything else she was about to afford me would be etched upon my heart. She motioned towards the bin on the floor. I explained I was just trying to be prepared. She smiled again and I was uncertain as to whether or not I should be embarrassed. Had it been out of place to bring so much? In my defense I told her, having never interviewed an entity before I brought everything I thought might spike a reaction. Psychic/medium and writer in place… all we needed now was a visit from Charley. Had I known from the start how the rest of the morning would go, I would have known I only needed to bring one thing. The thing that started an avalanche of information that damn near buried us all for the next two and a half hours… the initial G.

2/5/10
Drained… but more importantly, rejuvenated and reinvented. It has been a long fruitful day. I did meet with the psychic, but choose not to share any findings at this point. Suffice it to say, I am in awe… spent… and even more determined to help, knowing that I am following the path I am meant. I continue to pray for guidance and listen intently to what is presented. I fear if I write more tonight, I may say more tonight and I need to process this information carefully. I try to parse words and let you know that there are people who I must continue to search for. People whom I thought peripheral, but not so. I make the commitment to stop writing for the night and then there in the Register of Visitors from the Carson McLane Funeral Home I see it. The name.
Until later…