A Rage To Kill And Other True Cases

psychic capacity or the spiritual growth that she had possessed before he met her. So he stopped.
    But Marcia Moore continued. For fourteen months, Marcia took the drug daily—the only human on earth known to have ingested it with such regularity.
    One of Marcia’s friends, an author himself who had written a number of books about the human mind, begged her to stop. He told her that he had experimented with it, too. He warned her that he had become addicted to it. “Marcia,” he pleaded, “my wife found me face-down in the swimming pool. I barely survived. I’m telling you, you are a damned fool to mess with ketamine . . .”
    Marcia wouldn’t listen. She was even able to convince a few of her close friends to try ketamine, but none of them liked the sense of falling away from themselves that resulted.
    Marcia and Happy invited Elise to spend the night with them in their duplex. “It was a small town house,” Elise remembered, “but it was attractively decorated with all the treasures that Marcia had purchased on her travels to the East.”
    Although she had never been much of a homemaker before, Marcia cooked a lovely meal of stir-fried vegetables and tofu. “The two of them were just like little kids telling me about their plans with ketamine,” Elise remembered. “They felt that they were a perfect duo—he an anesthesiologist, and she with her background in psychology. It was as if the sixties had passed them by and they thought that ketamine could do what Leary thought acid would do with psychotherapy.”
    Elise didn’t want to hurt their feelings, but she felt they were deluded. “I thought it was all nonsense.”
    Undeterred, in 1978 Happy and Marcia published
Journey into the Bright World,
a book about ketamine. Everything seemed to be working beautifully for them. Marcia’s capacity for creative work had always been high, but now she had multiple projects going. She was writing a book using astrological projections about the Kennedy family for her brother’s publishing company. It would be timely, considering the upcoming presidential elections. Marcia confided to her brother that Ted Kennedy must not run for president, that his karmic involvement was such that he didn’t deserve to win, couldn’t win, and would be destroyed trying.
    She was also working on another book that unveiled the beauty secrets of Cleopatra, whom Marcia felt she had known in a past life.
    Marcia Moore was thrilled with what she had discovered; she felt she had something to tell the world, and wondered, “Can it be that the so-called common man is as deserving of a mystical experience as he is of the opportunity to take a plane trip?”
    And so, by January 1979, Marcia Moore appeared to finally have reached the happiness that she had sought for half a century. She was fifty-one, still beautiful, wealthy, married to her one love for fourteen months, and engaged in work that consumed her.
    What happened on January 14 is as inexplicable and eerie as anything Marcia Moore ever visualized as a psychic or experienced under the effects of ketamine.
    On that Sunday evening, Happy Boccaci asked his wife if she cared to see a movie with him. She shook her head and smiled, he recalled, saying that she was going to get up early the next morning to begin work on a new book. He left her cozily ensconced in their apartment and went to the show alone.
    When he returned at one A.M. , he was a little alarmed to find that Marcia was not in their duplex. Her purse, her wallet, and all of her cash were there. Her passport was still in their home too. He expected her to pop in at any moment; perhaps she had gone to visit a neighbor in one of the other units. Boccaci searched the place inside and out, and then, even though it was a bitterly cold night, he walked over to the nearby Floral Hills Cemetery to look for her there. Unlike less hardy and more fearful women, Marcia often enjoyed solitary walks in the huge, well-kept cemetery. But she was not there. She wasn’t anywhere that Happy Boccaci looked.
    Early in the morning, Boccaci called the Snohomish County Sheriff’s Office, and reported that his wife was missing. Sheriff Bob Dodge, a retired long-time Seattle police officer, dispatched investigators to check the Boccaci duplex. There was no sign that anything criminal had taken place. The doors and windows showed no evidence that they had been forced, and there was absolutely nothing that would indicate a struggle. The ground