Dr. Saul Geier had a grudging respect for wordplay, though he rarely admitted it. While others sipped morning coffee and scrolled headlines, he attacked the crossword in the back of the Times like a general planning a siege. Words were puzzles, and puzzles were a way to keep entropy at bay.

Susan Lark, on the other hand, openly adored word games. She liked their whimsy, the slyness of double meanings. She didn’t need the structure; she simply loved the dance.

On one particular morning, she was already in the office, perched on the edge of Geier’s desk, red pen in hand, tapping the paper thoughtfully.

“Here’s one,” she said, peering over the crossword. “Eight letters. Where secrets go to die.”

Geier didn’t look up from his notes. “Therapy.”

She smiled. “That’s seven letters. The answer’s cemetery.  But I like yours better.”

He finally glanced at her. “What’s the real reason you’re here early?”

She slid the paper toward him. In the margin, scrawled in sharp black ink—darker than the crossword font—were five words: “Dr. Lark will be next.”

Geier’s brow furrowed. “You didn’t write this?”

“No. It wasn’t there when I started. It… showed up. After I filled in 23-Across.”

He checked. 23-Across, nine letters: “Professional listener” — the answer she’d penciled in: therapist.

A Puzzling Death

By noon, they were at the precinct with Detective Vasquez, who already had a file open.

“You’re not the only one who got a personalized crossword this week,” he said grimly. “Yesterday morning, Dr. Henry Chasen—former psychoanalyst, retired—was found dead in his apartment. Slumped in his armchair. No forced entry. His Times puzzle was in his lap. Last word filled in: ‘Suffer.’”

Geier scanned the coroner’s report. “Massive cerebral embolism. No sign of struggle. No toxins. Neat.”

Lark leaned in. “Let me guess—he also got a message?”

Vasquez nodded. “Written faintly in the bottom margin: Next is the one who knows best.”

Lark went still.

Geier caught the shift in her posture. “You knew him.”

She nodded. “He supervised my post-doc for a year. I hated him.”

Vasquez blinked. “Why?”

“He told me grief was a choice. After my mother died…” She exhaled. “He said people decide to break. I never forgave him for that.”

Geier’s voice softened slightly. “Your mother?”

Lark nodded. “Suicide. When I was seventeen. I’m a psychologist because I spent years trying to understand what she was thinking… and why no one saw it coming.”

Geier didn’t say anything. He just held her gaze a beat longer than usual.

A Killer’s Vocabulary

Over the next two days, three more crossword puzzles surfaced—one mailed to a private school counselor in Brooklyn who narrowly escaped a break-in; another printed, bizarrely, in a local zine with clues like “Bleeds without wounds” and “Knows your darkest hour.”

The fourth was left in the waiting room of a hypnotherapist, Dr. Mnemonist’s office on the Upper West Side. The receptionist thought it was trash—until the doctor found it and recognized his name as the answer to clue #9, ironically nine letters: “One who forgets nothing.”

Geier spread the puzzles across his desk, studying them like case files. “Hmm, a puzzle within a puzzle. These aren’t just games. They’re psychological profiles.”

Lark agreed. “The clues are layered. Riddled with guilt, shame, projection. Whoever’s writing them knows our field … deeply.”

“Someone who resents therapists.”

“Or someone who once was one.”

The Old Crossword Club

Their digging led them to an obscure organization called The Cruciverbal Collective, an elite group of crossword constructors who meet monthly in a now-defunct bookstore in the Village. Dr. Chasen had been a member.

So had one other person: Eleanor Penn, a former therapist-turned-puzzle writer who left the field after a malpractice suit.

Her online presence was practically erased, but Lark found an address in a dusty 2008 membership roster.

They visited her apartment—neat, tidy, aggressively normal. The kind of place where nothing screamed, and everything whispered.

Eleanor Penn was dead. Weeks dead. Heart failure, they were later told. But a puzzle sat on her dining room table.

Unfinished. Except for one clue:

“They think they help.”
Answer: “theydonot.”

A Pattern?

Back in the office, Lark stared at the puzzle copies.

“It’s like they’re not finished. Like they’re waiting to be… solved.”

Geier tapped his pen. “These aren’t warnings. They’re confessions. The killer isn’t picking targets. They’re working through something—grief, rage, remorse—by leaving behind linguistic fingerprints.”

“And now they’re escalating.”

He looked up. “Meaning?”

Lark pulled a folded crossword from her coat pocket. “This morning’s puzzle. Look at 31-Across.”

He squinted. “A small songbird, known for its cheerful singing.’ Four letters.”
She slid her pencil across the answer:
“Lark.”

The Last Clue

That night, Lark couldn’t sleep. The words clawed at her: unfinished business. Dr. Lark will be next.

She returned to her apartment and sat with the puzzle one last time. She reread each clue aloud—until one jumped out:

“One who understands better than the dead, seven letters.”

Her pen trembled. She wrote the answer: “Mother.”

The apartment went silent. The radio clicked on.

Static. Then:
“You didn’t hear me then. Will you now?”

****

Next?

Two days after Lark found her name in the puzzle, more bodies turned up.

The first was Dr. Alice Marston, a retired linguistics professor from Columbia. She was discovered in her study, slumped over a crossword from the Atlantic Monthly, one hand still holding a fountain pen.

No signs of trauma. No suicide note. Just one word in the puzzle stood out—scratched deeply into the page with excess pressure:

“Genius.”

The second was Carla Mendel, head librarian at the East Apple Public Library. She was found in the reading room at her desk after hours, her crossword grid half-finished, with one clue circled in red:

“One who hoards knowledge but shares nothing.”
Answer: “Archivist.”

Both women had no apparent connection to the previous victims—no background in therapy or psychology. But they had one thing in common, as Vasquez revealed during their next meeting.

“They were both members of Mensa.”

Lark blinked. “So were Dr. Chasen and Eleanor Penn.”

Vasquez nodded. “And at least two others we missed in the first round of cases.”

Geier folded his arms. “We’ve been looking for a psychological motive when the through-line is intellectual. It’s not who they helped—it’s what they represented.”

Smart Enough to Die

They dug into the local Mensa chapter. The East Apple branch met monthly at a wine bar uptown. The surviving members were on edge, whispering about a “Crossword Killer,” speculating wildly. Some believed it was a jealous ex. Others floated conspiracy theories about A.I. gone rogue.

Geier, ever the contrarian, kept quiet.

Lark scanned the most recent attendee logs, cross-checking with the victims. “Every one of the murdered members was in the top ten percent of IQ scores nationally,” she said. “And all had been featured in the Mensa Monthly for some kind of puzzle-related contribution.”

Geier raised an eyebrow. “Then we’re dealing with someone who values intelligence—but also resents it.”

Vasquez looked up from his notes. “I found something. There was a test-taker two years ago, name redacted, in the public file, who missed the Mensa entrance threshold by one point. IQ of 131. Scored highest in math and logic but flunked verbal reasoning. Caused a scene at the testing site. Had to be escorted out. Filed a complaint. Got rejected again the following year.”

Lark’s eyes narrowed. “What’s her name?”

“Application was made under an alias: Clara Mentis.”

Geier snorted. “Latin for ‘clear mind.’ Subtle.”

A Breakthrough?

It was a crossword from a free weekly magazine that broke open the case.

The clue:
“Rejected but still sharper than you.” (9 letters)
Lark wrote in the answer: “Outcasted”—not a real word.

But the letters in the corner squares spelled out something peculiar:

“T-L-M-E-R-I-C-A.”

Geier rearranged the letters. “Try removing the extra E.”

Lark’s pen scratched across the page: “Claritica M.”

A name.

With Vasquez’s help, they found her: Claritica Monroe, a failed Mensa applicant and former adjunct logic professor turned freelance copy editor. Fired after threatening a co-worker with a stapler when her crossword submission was rejected from a major national contest.

She had no fixed address. Lived off the grid. But she had recently filed for a library card at East Apple Public Library under the name Clara M.

A Battle of Wits

Through the unlocked doorway, they saw Claritica Monroe seated on a folding chair, pencil poised above a custom crossword board. The walls of the warehouse were papered with her obsession: newsprint grids, Mensa rosters, rejection letters, and red string webbing them all together. Her expression was serene, but her eyes danced with calculation.

“Crosswords and victims’ pictures like a murder board. Isn’t this enough?” Geier asked.

“Could be just an obsessive following the crimes, or maybe an Internet sleuth trying to solve them. We need to tie her to the committing of the crimes like a confession,” Detective Vasquez said.

Vasquez held back outside and called for backup. Geier stood by the door, staring. With the rays of sunlight streaming through the large window and illuminating Claritica’s face, it reminded him of a famous painting. He just couldn’t remember which painting.

“Let me try something…”  Lark stepped forward into the dim, dusty light, calm and alone. The smell of cigarette smoke hung in the air.

Claritica didn’t look up. She took a puff of her Camel. “Finally. The muse arrives.”

Lark’s voice was measured. “Claritica Monroe. You created the puzzles. You sent the threats. You killed them.”

“I merely arranged words. The rest was interpretation.”

Lark crossed her arms. “Then let’s play a game. One-on-one. Word for word.”

Claritica smiled faintly. “Very well, doctor. I’ll start. Four letters: ‘Blind admiration for the intelligent.’”

Lark: “Idol. Here’s one for you: ‘Revenge by surrogate, five letters.”

Claritica: “Proxy.”

Lark: “Too easy. Try this: ‘You don’t qualify, so you do this instead—seven letters.’”

Claritica’s lips twitched. “Avenges.”

Lark: “Wrong. The answer is projects. You projected your failure onto people who had nothing to do with your test score.”

Claritica stood, slowly. “They had everything to do with it. They built the wall. I simply pointed out the cracks.”

Lark held her gaze. “One more. Final clue. ‘This slips through the cracks: five letters.’”

Claritica’s hand trembled around the pencil. “Truth.”

“No.” Lark stepped closer, voice low. “The answer is guilt.”

Claritica’s breath caught.

Lark pressed, “You don’t need to confess. You already wrote your confession in 82-Across of Dr. Chasen’s puzzle. The word ‘Suffer.’ That wasn’t a clue—it was an echo.”

Claritica stared at her, and the mask slipped. Just for a moment.

“I warned them,” she whispered. “And they didn’t listen.”

“You mean you weren’t heard,” Lark corrected gently. “That’s what this was always about.”

Tears pricked Claritica’s eyes. Then her body sagged as if the tension drained all at once. She smirked. “I left one more. It’s in the grid. You’ll see it.”

In the evidence box, they found her notebooks. Page after page of vengeance written in black ink and blocked into neat little squares.

The Final Puzzle

Back at the precinct, Vasquez laid the latest crossword from Claritica’s apartment on the table. Unlike the others, this one was only half-finished.

Geier and Lark studied it in silence.

The center held one clue, boxed in, not yet answered:

“He watches but does not speak. He waits.” (5 letters)

In the margin, written with hardly legible scrawl: “I wasn’t alone.”

Lark exhaled. “There’s someone else.”

Geier stared at the final blank entry.
The clue: “Observer. Analyst. Or target.”
His fingers moved before he realized.

He wrote: “Geier.”

Endnote

That night, the crossword sat untouched on Geier’s desk. Lark stood at the window, arms folded.

“Do you believe her?” she asked.

Geier didn’t answer immediately. He lit his pipe. “Clever lies stay unsolved the longest.”

She looked at him. “So, what now?”

He tapped the page. “Now we finish the puzzle.”

-END-

We’d love to know if you are enjoying the mystery stories of Dr. Geier and Dr. Lark. If so, please leave a comment below.

For more stories like this, check out: The Last Appointment: 30 Collected Short Stories
Catch up on my original fast-paced thriller NOT SO DEAD and the Sam Sunborn Series
They are available on Amazon and BarnesandNoble.com
Or my children’s adventure book: Nougo and His Basketball.

And read for FREE some of Charles Levin’s short stories:

The First Appointment
The Last Candy Store in East Apple
I’m Processing
Books Unread
Nora Delivers the Package
The Permission Slip
10 Life Lessons I Learned from Playing Poker
Missing the Ghost in the Palace Theater
Moon Landing Memories
Word Drunk

Oh, and please do join the Mailing List for future stories and posts