 
The Klumps Mysteries

Season One, Episodes One through Seven

Episode 1, Murder at the Diner

Episode 2, The Painting

Episode 3, The Mole

Episode 4, The Warehouse

Episode 5, Counting the Bodies

Episode 6, Travis and Chester

Episode 7, Follow the Scent

By DL Cook

The Klumps Mysteries Season One. Copyright © 2013 by Liza Lopez and Dmitry Nirenberg. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

Smashwords Edition

The Klumps Mysteries is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons (living or dead), is coincidental.

dlcookauthor@yahoo.com

@dlcookauthor (Twitter)
Episode Summaries

Episode One – "Murder at the Diner"

When a body is found behind a diner, inexperienced and hard drinking Police Commissioner Don Klump has his first murder case. He and his team explore the treacherous underbelly of the town.

Is it the dog walker? The victim's girlfriend? Or someone even closer to him?

Episode Two – "The Painting"

When a painting disappears from a local museum, an inebriated Don Klump makes finding it a department priority. The investigation takes an ominous turn when someone kills the curator.

Who stole the painting? Why? The Klumps brave the seedy world of art to find out.

Episode Three – "The Mole"

A suspect is murdered and evidence goes missing. A cop car is damaged. Worst of all, the Klumps suspect one of their own is responsible.

Is it the forensics assistant? The reporter who is hellbent on bringing down the department? And who is the mysterious woman pulling the strings?

Episode Four – "The Warehouse"

Deputy Commissioner Libby Klump makes a gruesome discovery while looking for a lost pet. Meanwhile, Don Klump and the rest of the police department hunt for a killer nurse after the Medical Examiner discovers that poison played a role in a disgraced officer's death. They continue investigating the mole. Don and Libby can't help thinking that these and their prior cases are related.

Episode Five – "Counting the Bodies"

The warehouse investigation continues.

With the crime rate rising faster than gas prices, the Klumps face off with the Town Council about the police budget. Deputy Chalmers must brave Methton alone while ghost-fearing Tom is put in charge of exhuming the body of a suspected murder victim.

Meanwhile, time runs short for two small girls.

What can possibly go wrong?

Episode Six – "Travis and Chester"

The warehouse investigation hits a snag when the detectives discover the Medical Examiner might be involved.

In the meantime, Don Klump and his team race to find Travis Quinton, prime suspect in two murders and child kidnapping.

Episode Seven – "Follow the Scent"

Libby takes charge of the police department as evidence is destroyed. Her husband and Commissioner is missing and may have been abducted, unless he's lying drunk in a ditch somewhere or with another woman. He better not be.

Deputies Lucus and Tom close in on the Ice Queen when they discover the identity of her right hand man.

Episode Eight – "Revelations" COMING January 21, 2014

The final episode of Season One. Many loose ends are tied, while some are inadvertently (or on purpose???) unraveled. Meh, whatchyou gonna do?

Libby Klump faces off with the Town Council while an assassin lies in wait.

The police department scrambles to find their chief before it's too late.

Don Klump has a battle of wits with his captor.

Oh dear.
Episode One

"Murder at the Diner"

The phone jarred Police Commissioner Don Mettler-Klump awake. His wife Libby groaned in disapproval and fell back asleep.

"Hello?" Don's deep voice reverberated in the receiver.

"Sorry to wake you sir," a deputy said. "They found a dead corpse by the diner."

"What time is it?"

"Just past 11, sir."

"You sure it's dead?" Don rubbed his forehead.

"Yes sir."

"And it's a corpse?"

"Yep."

"Alright. We'll be right over. Call Peggy. I guess we'll need her."

"Yes sir."

Don put the light on and gently shook his wife. "Honey, we have to go. Someone died by the diner."

A clump of curly black hair emerged from under the covers. His wife squinted at him. "What time is it?"

"Eleven something."

"I'm not awake yet."

"They found a dead body. Police work, my honey pie. Don't come if you don't want. But last case you yelled at me for not waking you."

"I never yelled." She stretched out of bed with a yawn. "And getting the kitten out of the tree was dangerous work. You have allergies."

"We gotta keep quiet though," Don whispered. "Don't want your mom to come with us."

There came a knock on the door. "Leeeeee-ber-taaaaaaaaaaaad! You awake? We got a case, let's go!" Marcy's voice could raise the dead.

Don sighed. "How'd she find out?"

Libertad dressed. "Coming mom!" To Don she said, "they must've called Tom and he told her."

"Stupid Tom."

"Don't make fun of my brother."

"Okay," Don rolled his eyes. "Let's go." The door handle fell out of his hands. He swore.

"My dad probably borrowed the screws to fix the lawn mower," Libby explained.

Don drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in the darkness. "I don't understand why she has to come. And why can't your dad drive her? And what's with the lawn mower? Like he'll ever use it."

Libertad snored in reply.

Marcy stomped out of the house half an hour later, a canvas supermarket bag in the crook of her elbow. She woke her daughter and made her get in the back.

The flashing lights of a few squad cars and an ambulance greeted them at the scene.

"What's going on, Lucus?" Don asked.

"Hey chief. We got a dead body in back of the diner. Looks like Joe McCaliker."

"He owns the place, right?"

"Yes sir."

"Peggy here yet?"

"Came about ten minutes ago."

"Alright. This way?"

"Yeah."

Peggy's assistant Duncan took photos. The town's forensics expert rolled toward Don to give her report. "Evening Chief, Deputy Chief."

"Hey Peggy. What we got?"

"Dead male, thirties. Two gun shot wounds. One in the gut, the other in the back of the head. He fell forward after the gut wound. Then the killer shot him point blank from behind. Recovered two shell casings." She pointed at faint chalk outlines on the concrete. "ID on the vic says it's Joe McCaliker. Probably taking out the trash when it happened."

"You check inside yet?" Libertad yawned.

"No sign of disturbance. Cash still in the register."

"So it wasn't a robbery," Don mused over the body. Libertad helped him put his latex gloves on.

"Okay people," Marcy clapped to get everyone's attention. "I know what to do. I watch Dexter. Now the blood spatter pattern over here is indicative of suicide. As you may be aware, we have an unusually high suicide rate in this town. I suspect it's the fluoride or microwaves..."

Peggy Johnson scowled. "Mrs. Klump, please don't disturb the crime scene. Don, she really can't be here. Especially after what happened." Peggy referred to Marcy's handling of a previous case. The incident ruffled a bigwig's feathers. The Town Council, wrapping up a previous investigation of the police department, passed a sternly worded resolution to fire Marcy. As the politicians controlled the budget, Don did as they wished (though in truth he could've been more direct with her than having Libby make up some lie about there not being enough money to keep her on full time).

Don sighed and shot his wife a look. Libertad shrugged. Don motioned to Deputy Chalmers. "Lucus, can you please assist Mrs. Klump over there? Help her find clues beyond the yellow tape. Thanks."

"Sure thing Don."

As Don continued questioning Peggy and examining the evidence, shiny plastic caught Libertad's eye. She stooped to pick it up, revealing her butt crack. "Fermented tofu," she read the ingredients on the food wrapper before crinkling it into her coat pocket and hoisting up her pants. They immediately rolled down under her small belly pouch.

"Libby. Come 'ere. That look like a footprint to you?"

"Yeah."

"What is that, mud?"

"Dog poopers, I think."

"Duncan, take a couple of pictures of this. Peggy, you're gonna get a mold, right?"

"Already on it," the muscular woman rummaged behind her wheelchair.

Don stroked his chin. "What we got in the way of witnesses?"

"Nothing that I know," Peggy said. "Lucus might have something."

Don squinted toward the edge of the parking lot where Marcy gesticulated at Deputy Chalmers. "Alright. I'll ask him later. I think I'm gonna get that book at the library. On police procedure." Joe's death was the town's first murder to Don's knowledge. People died, naturally. As for the occasional unnatural death, the town's previous coroner, Libby's mother, had ruled them all suicides.

"Good idea."

"Who called this in?" Don asked the sleepy faces around the conference table in the morning.

"They didn't give their name. It was a man," Jackie said.

"You took the call?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." Don leafed through a children's detective manual Libertad downloaded and printed for him. The library was closed at this hour, and Don just learned that waking the librarian at her home was not the best idea. He rubbed his shoulder where the she hit him with an encyclopedia. He paused, his other finger resting on a key paragraph. "Peggy, can you trace the call?"

"On it."

"They don't have to call you again or anything? And then you have to keep them talking for a while so the trace does its thing? 'Cause I'm sure Marcy will be more than happy to take over phone duties."

"No. We should have a record of the number. And I'll have the gun information for you as soon as the new coroner is done with the body."

"Great. Libby and I will be at the coroner's. The rest of you canvas for witnesses. Call when you find something."

Peggy called en route with the name and address of the caller. Don dropped Libertad off at the Medical Examiner's office and headed to interview one Robert Powell of Sycamore Drive.

Libertad didn't look forward to meeting the new coroner by herself, but she agreed this would save time. She knocked on the door of the cooled room, suppressing a shudder so as to appear professional.

"Come in, come in. I'm not doing anything unseemly."

Libertad took a deep breath and waddled in. "Are you the new coroner?"

"Name's Mort Freeman." A tall man in a lab jacket smiled down at her, his buck teeth pearl white.

"Deputy Chief Libertad Klump-Mettler. Nice to meet you. Whatchyou eating?"

"Peanut butter and jelly. Go ahead and help yourself. An extra one's over there."

"Thank you," Libertad brightened. Nothing like a mid morning snack. "It's safe to eat in here?"

"Yeah, why not?"

"With the dead body and all..."

Mort shrugged. The old man seemed experienced enough. He explained about the bullet wounds and angles and a bunch of other complicated stuff. She could usually focus on one thing at a time and the sandwich won out. Libertad made noises as she ate. Mort took these as assent to one of his questions. As a result she was treated to a puppet show of sorts with Joe McCaliker as the star.

When she left, Libby forgot all about what Mort had told her. Good thing that he gave her a printed report with pictures. The peanut butter and jelly thumbprint next to Mort's signature reminded Libertad of the delicious sandwich she had eaten. She liked Mort.

A dog barked at Don when a gaunt man answered the door. "Mr. Powell?" Don flashed his badge. The man's eyes widened. "It's okay. Just here to ask a few questions, if you don't mind."

Powell muttered something inaudible, stepped out on his porch, and closed the door behind him. His thin, long gray hair streamed behind him as he crossed his arms. His open bathrobe flapped in the wind. Don avoided looking in that direction.

"You called the police last night, Mr. Powell?"

"That was supposed to be arnomynous," he coughed.

"Apparently it's not. Didn't even have to trick you into it or anything. I actually know a lot about you. On the ride over Peggy sent me some information she gleaned from your Facefriend or Bookface, or whatever the hell it's called. Your dog's name is Dan, for example."

Powell glowered. "That's private."

"Oh yeah? I guess they make it visible for the police account? I don't know. Libby's pretty analog, and I just visit the news sites, you know? And Netflix. But that's 'cause we don't have a TV." Don shifted from one foot to the other and cleared his throat. "Sir, would you mind closing your robe?"

"What is it, against the lar?"

"Going commando? I don't know. I'll ask around...Uh, anyway, I came by just to ask what exactly you saw last night."

"Nothin'"

"But you called it in. Obviously you saw something."

"A body."

"Right. What were you doing there, may I ask?"

"No."

"Sorry, uh. That was just a figure of speech. What were you doing there?"

"Walking my dog."

"Behind the diner? It's kind of far from your house, isn't it?"

"I like to walk."

"Fair enough. Kind of a weird place to walk your dog though, no?"

Powell glared.

"Did you see anything or anyone suspicious?"

"No. Just the body."

"Did you know Joe McCaliker?"

"No."

"Just one more question. How soon after you found the body did you report it?"

"Right away."

"Okay then. If you think of anything else, please give me a call." Don handed Powell a piece of paper with his phone number. He'd been meaning to get cards. "I might come back with more questions."

The door slammed in his face.

"Well, thanks for your help," Don returned to his car.

Back at the station, Don flipped through the coroner's report. "Says here the time of death is between 9:30 and 10:30 PM last night. Two shots, one in the gut, one in the head. The one in the head killed him." Don stroked his chin. Libby snored in the chair next to him.

Don shuffled through the papers on the conference table. Where was that call log? He meant to put it in the folder marked "klews," but he couldn't find it either.

He glanced at his "to be filed" pile, a mountain of documents just below the missing persons bulletin board (which Marcy papered over with printouts of inedible recipes). Don shuddered. He'd look in there only if he had to.

Arthur the janitor clattered in with a broom, singing.

Don started. He'd concentrated so hard that he dozed off too. He rubbed his eyes and asked Libertad's uncle if he saw a folder called klews.

"Oh my, you scared me," Arthur jumped. "Can't say that I have. But I suffer from CRS." The man swept around dust bunnies and crumpled paper, making sure that the broom's bristles touched nothing but clean floor.

"What's seearess?"

"Can't remember."

"You can't remember what it means or it means you can't remember?"

"I can't remember. I'm gonna go get the mop." He rested the broom against Don's shoulder.

Don got up and leaned it against the several overflowing garbage cans in the corner. That's where he found his folder. "Stupid Arthur," he muttered and examined the call log.

Powell's call came in at 10:57 PM. To the side Peggy added the location. Don recognized it as Powell's address.

Peggy wheeled herself in.

"Hey, let me ask you something."

"Shoot."

"Something about this Powell guy doesn't add up. He walked his dog behind the dumpster. Why? His house is like 30 minutes' walk away from there. Why go there?" Don checked his notes. "Says he called right away, but he called from his house. With his cell phone. Why not call from the scene?"

Peggy shrugged.

"He's hiding something."

"If he walked home before making the call, his presence at the scene puts him in the window of the time of death."

Don tapped his nose. "You're right. Think he did it?"

"You have anything for motive?"

"Not yet. Didn't get to that chapter," Don waved at the papers on the desk. "You have the ballistics?"

"Yeah. Two 22LR bullets. Very common. From the report the new coroner sent over, looks like the killer used a rifle. Something strange about the bullets though."

"Oh yeah?"

"A sort of film on them. Organic material. If I had to guess I'd say it was peanut butter and jelly."

"The killer had a snack when he loaded the gun?"

"That's my theory," Peggy said. "So how is the new coroner?"

"Haven't met him yet. Libby got the report. She may have more to say after her nap. But he came from the big city with the highest recommendations. Marcy was against it, says he's sloppy and plays with dead bodies, but you know her."

Peggy chuckled. She answered her phone. "Interesting. Okay. I'll be right there." She dropped the phone into her lap and said to Don, "Duncan found a video surveillance system at the diner. We missed it last night because it was dark. I'll let you know what we find." She rolled out of the room.

Don reclined back in his chair. A few hours later his cell phone startled him awake. "Mettler-Klump."

"Hey Mettler," Libertad's brother Tom said. "I wake you?"

"No. Just working really hard, piecing together the evidence."

"I think I found a couple witnesses. Two teens said they saw something last night."

"Did you question them?"

"Not really."

"What does that mean?" Don braced himself.

"I'm taking them to the station for questioning."

"Are they handcuffed in the back of your car?"

"Yep."

"But we discussed this. You only arrest people when they commit a crime in front of you or when you have a warrant."

"Sorry. I forgot." He breathed hard into the phone. "You want me to let them go?"

Don sighed. "Might as well bring them in."

Now that the diner was closed Libertad went home to make lunch. Don stayed to question the teens Tom arrested.

"These are the kids right here," Tom pushed them into the interrogation room. "Get in there, get in there," he gave them his psycho look. Sweat dripped from under his hunter's cap. His massive gut expanded and contracted with heavy breathing.

"Cut down on the pizza. It's going to kill you," Don said.

"I'm trying. Gotta hit the gym," Tom pawed his big belly. "What's for lunch?"

"She mentioned something about Ethiopian food," Don said. Libertad loved experimenting with new cuisines.

"Oh well. Pizza it is."

"You're putting that guy's kids through college."

Tom chuckled and slapped his belly again.

Don examined the kids. Seventeen years old, boyfriend and girlfriend. High, the both of them. He read something about unreliable witnesses, but at the moment it escaped him. As they didn't complain, he didn't apologize. "So you guys saw something last night?"

"Yeah."

"What did you see?"

"We was in the parking lot, just sitting in my dad's car, you know?" The blond boy said, his hand around the girl's shoulder. Both chewed gum and had the vacant look teenagers get when they talk to adults.

Don asked them to elaborate.

"There was this guy with a dog by the dumpster. He left kinda in a hurry, you know?"

"Did he hold anything besides the leash?"

"Yeah. He was carrying something in his hand."

"Any idea what it was?"

"No."

"A gun perhaps?"

"Could've been," the girl said. "It was long and dark."

"Like my—" the guy's girlfriend elbowed him in the ribs.

"What time was this?"

"I don't know," the guy said.

"Around 10:30. 'Cause I had to be home soon and my parents called."

"What can you tell me about the guy?"

"It was dark."

"Was he short, tall, fat?"

"Skinny," the guy said.

"And tall," the girl added. "And he had long hair."

"Oh yeah, and he had like a trench coat or something on. It was open and his junk hung out."

"You hear anything?"

"Yeah. Firecrackers, maybe. I know a couple of kids who set them off around there sometimes."

"How many firecrackers?"

"I dunno. Maybe two or three?"

"You heard it around the time you saw the guy?"

"Yeah, I guess."

Don thanked the two for their cooperation and set them loose. "Good job, Tom. Just remember not to arrest witnesses in the future."

"Yeah, no problem," Tom looked up from his cellphone porn.

Libertad brought lunch. The food's odor filled the room. Don and several officers checked their armpits to make sure they remembered to wear deodorant.

"You forgot the forks?" Don probed Libby's bag.

"You're supposed to eat with your hands, silly. It goes with injera bread. But I didn't have time so I brought regular bread."

"Your mom didn't make it, did she?" Don recalled his last bout of food poisoning.

"No. Remember that bread machine I got myself for Christmas?"

A faint bell rang in Don's head.

"I used it to make fresh bread. Now dig in and tell me you like it."

Don did as instructed. It didn't taste like armpits. Despite his initial skepticism Don enjoyed it. He was sorry there wasn't more. Tom sat across from them, devouring a pizza pie. The rest of the crew assembled, and Lucus found the bottle opener for their beer. On his third bottle, Don filled them in on what he had so far. "We're looking for a tall man with long hair and a dog. His balls might hang out. That's got to be our killer. Anyone have any idea who it might be?"

Libertad pursed her lips. "Sounds like Bob P."

"Who?"

"Um, um, um. This guy. He walks his dog and leaves dog doo. Some of the shop owners complained. Also, I think Arthur goes to church with him."

Don stroked an imaginary beard. "Tom, find out where this guy lives. Lucus, you find anything interesting in the dead guy's apartment?"

Tom balanced his empty pizza box on the mountain of trash before leaving to find his uncle.

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Lucus replied. "Mr. McCaliker had a girlfriend. She lives there too. She wanted to know if she should identify the body."

"That's a good idea," Don said. He opened his fourth beer. "In here it says family members and friends are often the murderers. Lucus, find out about McCaliker's family. Does he have any brothers or sisters? Maybe this Bob P. is his brother. Also check into the girlfriend. Find out where she was last night and if she might have any reason to kill her boyfriend."

"Will do. Thanks for the food, Libby." Lucus trotted out.

An hour later Peggy came with the hard drive containing the diner surveillance footage.

"What are we looking at?" Don asked Peggy and Libertad.

"The ground, next to where we found the body," Peggy explained. "It's either shoddy work or whoever set it up had a reason to put it at such a strange angle."

Don nodded to mask his lack of understanding.

"There! Stop! Go back!" Libertad cried.

"What is it?" Peggy complied.

"Oh, I don't know. When they do that on TV they find evidence," Libertad explained.

Peggy resumed the footage. She showed them the relevant parts. "At 9:57 a dog takes a dump," Peggy tapped her long red fingernail on the screen. "See how it's yanked away by its leash? Someone scared them off. There, you see the feet. He's chasing the dog and its owner. Steps in the crap. That's the deceased, by the way. Boots match, and there's dog crap on them. He goes back a minute later." She fast forwarded. "There, that's him going back into the diner." Peggy forwarded the footage once more. "Now at 10:23 he comes out again. That's his feet. He goes out of view. Whoever he's talking to never goes in the frame." She hit the forward button. "At 10:25 there's two flashes. See it? That's McCaliker getting shot. Then," she forwarded a couple of minutes, "the dog is back. See it? It's grainy, I know, but that's its tail, et cetera."

Don nursed his fifth beer. He suppressed a belch. "Working theory," he said. "A Bob P. has his dog take a crap near the diner dumpster. McCaliker catches him in the act. Confronts him. Maybe some words are exchanged, and so on. Bob P. gets mad. He comes back half an hour later and kills McCaliker."

Peggy and Libby agreed with Don's assessment.

"What I don't get," Don continued, "is why the guy who called it in, a," he flipped through his notes, "Robert Powell—why didn't he see the perp? He just found the body he said."

Libertad furrowed her brow, harnessing all of her mental resources.

"Bob P. and Robert Powell are the same guy," Peggy suggested.

"Um, um, um, um, um, so, so, so, so, what was I going to say?" Libby said as she often did when her mouth got ahead of her brain. "She could be right," Libby got it out eventually.

"Get in there" Tom interrupted Don's concentration. The deputy pushed a handcuffed man into the interrogation room.

"Who's that?" Libertad asked.

"Duey McCaliker," Tom said. "Lucus switched jobs with me. Had me bring in Duey, the dead guy's brother."

Don wobbled to his feet. "What did I tell you about arresting people?" The room spun around him. "Did he break the law?"

"I don't think so."

"Then why is he in cuffs?"

"Um."

Don smacked his brother in law's head. The hulking man whimpered away. Libertad went after him to make sure he was alright.

"Terribly sorry," Don slurred at Duey. "But thanks for coming in to make a statement."

"No problem," Duey said. He rubbed his tattooed wrists. "Me and Tom go way back. We were in the same class all through school."

"I'm sorry about what happened to your brother. I hope you don't mind answering some questions to help us catch the killer."

"Anything I can do to help. You mind if I eat in here? Haven't had my lunch yet."

"Yeah, sure. Go ahead. You want a beer with that?"

"No thanks. I'm straightedge."

Don eyed him with suspicion. "What's that?"

"I don't drink or do drugs," Duey unwrapped a funky smelling candy bar.

"You don't drink?"

"Yes sir."

Don reminded himself not to have his opinion of Duey's lifestyle choices cloud his judgment. Libby was always into trying new food. "What's that you're eating?"

"Fermented tofu jerky. It's vegan and gluten free."

A tofu eating, tattooed man who didn't drink. Don immediately suspected Duey as the killer. "Just as a formality, can you tell me where you were last night between 10 and 11?"

Duey thought about it. "I was at home watching TV."

"Was there anyone with you?"

"No, I was by myself."

That sounded like a shoddy alibi. Don's heart raced. "What did you watch?"

"Deadliest catch."

"Can you tell me what it was about?"

Duey could and did.

Don's suspicion eased. "Do you know if your brother had any enemies?"

"Yeah. There was this guy, Robert Powell. His dog kept crapping in the back of the restaurant. My brother's been chasing him away almost every night. He said he called you guys, but..."

"Oh yeah?"

"That's right. Powell even threatened him the other day. Do you think it's him?"

"Sorry, I can't comment on that. But you've been very helpful."

"No problem. Can I get a ride back? Tom sort of kidnapped me from my house."

Don called Tom in. "Drive him home."

"Get over here," Tom took his handcuffs out.

"What did I tell you?"

"Sorry, Mettler. I forgot."

"I warna see my lawyer," Powell insisted.

"Like I said before, he's on his way." Don rubbed his temples. Whoever said coffee was a hangover remedy was an idiot. "We know that you killed Joe McCaliker. Your dog's on tape. Witnesses place you at the scene, carrying a gun. We have a witness whose name we won't disclose at this time. He says you threatened to kill his brother Joe McCaliker. You don't have an alibi. Make it easier for everyone. Confess."

"I didn't do it. Where's my garddamn lawyer?"

"You will cease and desist badgering my client," Norman Mettler shoved past the door with his briefcase. "Now get out of here and let me confer with my client."

Don stumbled out of the room. He dozed on an uncomfortable chair across from the interrogation room.

"Wake up. Come on, wake up."

Someone kicked Don's sneakers. His eyelids didn't want to open.

"Are you drunk? Drink some coffee," Norman told him. "What the hell are you doing? Arresting innocent people, drinking on the 'job.'"

Don groaned.

"Come on, stand up and give your pop a hug."

Don did as instructed.

"Now I'll tell you what. You're going to apologize to Mr. Powell and then you'll let him go."

"Sorry, can't do that dad."

"Why the hell not? You got nothing on him." Norman shook his head. "I don't know why you 'work' here. You have a good head on your shoulders, my stupid boy. How much does this 'job' of yours pay? You got your law degree. You passed the bar. You could've been a millionaire already, doing this childish police work as a hobby."

Don rolled his eyes. "Every goddamn time," he muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," Don stared at his feet.

"When will you grow up? Look at me when I talk to you. You're thirty five years old—"

"—thirty one—"

"—You're thirty five years old and you still act like a child. How long before you realize that you can—don't sigh at me. Don't look away."

"Dad, I'm not letting Powell go," Don steadied himself against a wall.

"We'll see about that. The writ of habeus corpus has already been drafted. I just have to file it. Youl have a lawsuit on your hands."

Don sighed. "As you know, Joe McCaliker was murdered. Powell did it. We have him at the scene—"

"Spare me the summary. I heard it. It's wrong. Now you'll go in there, question my client, and then you'll let him go."

Don staggered back to the interrogation room, but he wasn't about to set Powell loose. Coughing behind the mirror made Don straighten. The prosecutor had arrived.

"Alright, Mr. Powell. Let's go over this again." Don pretended his father wasn't glaring at him. Libby strode in to give him support. With renewed strength Don said, "You had a confrontation with Joe McCaliker around 10 last night. Don't bother denying it. We have you on tape." Don thrust photos of the deceased across the table. Psychological pressure, the manual called it.

"Yeah. So whart of it?"

"McCaliker chased you away. So you got angry. You came back with a gun. Do you own a rifle, Mr. Powell?" Don fingered the gruesome photographs.

"That's narn of your bursness what I harve and don't harve."

"What an interesting accent you have there, Mr. Powell. Did you pick it up in prison?"

"That's irrelevant," Norman said.

"You ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, loaded your gun, and came back around 10:30. You shot McCaliker. Twice. Once in the gut. He squirmed in front of you, begging for his life. Then you shot him in the head. Isn't that right?"

"I didn't do it!"

"We know you were there. We know you threatened the deceased. We know there was animosity between the two of you."

"If I did it, why did I call it in?"

"To throw us off the track. But here's a question for you. Why did you call from your house, half an hour after?"

"I left my phone at home. And I'm allergic to peanuts."

Don stammered, "But we have you on tape, and witnesses..."

Libertad's hand tightened on his.

He regained his composure. "And the gun you were seen holding?"

"My client carries a big stick when he walks his dog, as is his right. Now, he is willing to acknowledge that he has disobeyed the ordinance to pick up his dog's litter. He's willing to pay the fine. But this murder nonsense...we will drive the town into bankruptcy. I will not stand idly by as my client's rights are violated."

The prosecutor popped her head in. "Don, a word with you?"

"What's up Leslie?" Don stepped out into the hall.

"You're going to let this guy go. The evidence doesn't hold up. And he's suing the town for $10 million."

"He's guilty. If we can search his house I'm sure we'll find the murder weapon."

"That won't happen. Let the man go. And find the real killer, if there is one. Marcy's been on the phone. She says it's suicide."

"She says everything is suicide," Don scoffed.

"Either way, let Powell go."

Don told Lucus to cut Powell loose. "Also, bring the girlfriend in. I want to see if there's a cheating/jealousy angle." He didn't know why he bothered. Powell was their man. Or that Dooby, with his vegan tofu, tattoos, enlarged earlobes, and no alcohol.

Brenda Hollis, girlfriend of the deceased, came to make a statement. Libertad escorted her to the interrogation room, the conference room at this time being used for a foosball tournament. A shiny wrapper in the overflowing garbage can attracted Libertad's attention.

"Did you eat this?" Libby narrowed her eyes at Don. She didn't like it when he cheated on her food. And she didn't like it more if he found something new and tasty and didn't share it with her.

"Uh, no." Don said. "I think it was that tattoo guy, Dooby. Yeah, the dead guy's brother ate that. Smelled terrible, some sort of tofu. You sitting in on this interview?"

Libertad missed the question. She rushed to the locker room for her jacket.

"That better not be the doing of what we ate earlier," Don called after her.

Libby felt for the wrapper in her pockets. It crinkled in her hand. She compared the wrappers. Identical. She jostled past the foosball players to Don's desk. She shuffled among the clutter for the "clews" folder. Not there. Nor was it atop Don's to be filed pile. Libertad scanned only the surface. To do a more thorough search risked toppling the precariously balanced tower. She found it on top of the garbage. Stupid Arthur. Libby copied down Duey's work address and flew out the door.

The foreman pointed the way. Libertad traipsed around heavy machinery and pallets. Burly men wearing hardhats supervised the one guy working. Libby found Duey in an out of the way corner soldering something. It took a while to get his attention because of all the clatter.

Libertad flashed her badge in case the uniform wasn't enough. They left the site for a quieter place to talk. They stopped near a dumpster, which Libertad thought was appropriate.

She pulled out the wrappers. "I was wondering, do you like SoyVeggie Fermented Tofu Jerky?"

Duey raised his eyebrows. "Yeah..."

"Did you visit your brother's diner last night?"

"No." His eyes shifted to the side.

"Where do you get the Tofu Jerky?"

"Online. What's this have to do with anything? Listen, I have to get back to work."

"Just a couple more questions and I'll let you go. Do you think anyone else in town eats Tofu Jerky?"

Duey snorted. "Doubt it. The people here, they're..."

"So if I found a wrapper somewhere, like this one at the police station, would you agree that it belongs to you?"

"I guess."

"Do you know where I found this one?"

Duey shrugged.

"I found it near the diner's back entrance. But you say you weren't there last night." Libby gulped. Why didn't she bring backup?

Duey, twice her size, seemed to come to the same conclusion. His face twitched and he lunged. Libby grabbed her handgun but it didn't fire. She closed her eyes before the impact. Wind hit her face. As she waited for the fist or elbow, she slid the safety off her gun.

Libby tired of waiting and opened her eyes. Duey was gone. She turned just in time to see him round the corner.

Libby made to give chase. She dropped her gun in the excitement. It fired. Libertad tripped over her untied shoe laces and fell on the concrete. Her eyes teared. She grabbed her radio. "Officer down! Officer down! Shots fired!"

Don arrived first on the scene. The ambulance got there soon thereafter, but it was unneeded. Libby's injuries consisted of a couple of scratches on her palms. She felt better after Don kissed them. "I guess I just had the case of the Klumps," Libertad said.

They put an APB out on Duey McCaliker and drove to the courthouse.

"Not enough for a warrant," Judge Hand scowled at them. Perhaps Libby was correct in suggesting that they not barge into his chambers without waiting to be let in. The judge gathered his various implements while a woman dressed in black latex watched.

"We know Duey was at the crime scene."

"The wrapper doesn't place him there at the time of death. It's his brother's establishment. One would expect brothers to visit each other. That wrapper could've been there a while, and might not even be his," the judge said.

"He ran when confronted about it. At the very least he's hiding something. Brenda Hollis, the deceased's girlfriend, spoke of the brothers fighting. Duey has a solid motive, he got the business when his brother died. They fought over it for many years. Joe McCaliker was going to marry Hollis. The wedding would take Duey out of the inheritance. Several neighbors have corroborated her statement. We need a warrant for his home before he gets rid of the murder weapon."

"You said all that already. And I said no." The judge replaced his spiked collar with the robe of his profession. After handing her a roll of money, Hand ushered his "friend" out. "This guy, he have an alibi?"

Don nodded. He couldn't get past that. Duey's alibi was airtight. He knew exactly what the show he claimed to watch was about. Don checked the episode synopsis.

"So you have him somewhere else at the time of the murder, if that's what it is. I have Marcy calling me saying it's a suicide. I can't give you a warrant because you have a hunch. Besides, didn't you just arrest another guy for the alleged crime? I had your father in here raising hell. Twice in one day with you Mettlers."

"Please, sir." Libby said.

"I'm sorry sweetheart. The law's the law. You don't get to invade a man's privacy without more."

"But he ran, sir."

The judge slumped into his chair and put his glasses on. "Any number of reasons for that. You said he ate some kind of weird food. Maybe he had stomach trouble. Is there anything else?"

Libby and Don sighed.

"Please close the door on your way out."

Deputies Swinton and Hanson found Duey at home. Don ordered them to keep watch and apprise him of any changes. With dinner a short time away, Libby and Don went home. They were exhausted from all of the hard work they'd done.

They ate a microwaved pizza and watched cop shows on Netflix on their bed. During the third episode Tom's footfalls thundered in the hall outside. He barged in, remembered what had been discussed with him many times, and knocked.

On the most important matter he asked, "Is that pizza on the kitchen table for me?"

"Sure is, bro," Libertad paused the video.

"Cool," his double chin jiggled. "Hey Mettler, later on can you hook up my PSP to the WiFi? It says it's not recognized."

Don grunted. Tom always interrupted the most interesting parts. Don thought the perp was the guy with the shifty eyes, but he wouldn't find out until Tom left.

"So how was your day," Libby ignored Don's annoyed muttering.

"Not bad, not bad. Didn't get to hit the gym," he rubbed his giant belly. "But I got some exercise though."

"Arresting all those people?" Don said.

"Yeah. And I helped Duey bury a gun or something in the woods. Well, thanks for the pizza."

Tom was still squeezing through the door when Don hit the resume button and mysterious music filled the bedroom.

Libby snored peacefully next to him, but Don's brain refused to shut off. Something about Tom nagged at him. It wasn't that he'd have to do extra work tomorrow so Tom could play video games. Nor was it Tom's eating the pizza Don had mentally claimed for himself. That happened all the time and never really bothered him before. Less than he complained about it, anyway. And the night ended on a good note. Much to Libby's surprise, Don predicted the outcome of the episode. The shifty eyed guy did it.

Around four in the morning Don bolted upright. Libertad muttered "sleep," and turned over, taking the blankets with her. He shivered for a while, his mind turning. His hand stopped stroking his imaginary beard when he realized it.

Don leaped out of bed. He cursed after stubbing his toe, but eventually got his shoes on. He hurried out of the house in his pajamas, pausing only to grab the car keys. He knew where Duey lived. More precisely, the GPS knew. Good thing Don didn't pay particular attention to it. He narrowly avoided driving into a ditch on its instructions.

He parked behind the squad car keeping tabs on Duey. Deputies Swinton and Hanson, were asleep. Don shuffled past them and hammered on the trailer's door. "Open up McCaliker! I know you did it. I have the murder weapon!"

He tried the door, pulling and pushing. The weak lock snapped. Don heaved himself up and through the threshold. "I know you're in here," he said. "My deputies have been keeping tabs on you," Don bluffed. "Come on out into the light. Back up's right at the door." His hand found the light switch. He moved deeper into the trailer. It was roomier than it appeared from outside.

Don moved toward Duey, who held his breath against the wall with a knife ready over his head. "Make it easier for everyone. I hear the prison lunchroom serves vegetarian loaf."

Don stopped beside Duey. He scratched his butt. He'd have to have a talk with Libby about the new fabric softener. Don thought he might be allergic to it. "I have a logical mind and a keen sense of observation," Don's suspicion that he spoke to an empty room grew with every second. He began to feel foolish.

Duey pounced as Don turned. Don hit his ankle on a coffee table. "Son of a," he hopped around on one foot, Duey's knife swooshing by his nose. Duey came at him again, but Don lost his balance. He teetered this way and that as the knife went that way and this. Don planted both feet on the floor, but that didn't help. Nor did swinging his arms like a large flightless bird. Don crashed to the floor, taking Duey with him.

The deputies, awakened by the commotion, swooped in.

"Freeze!" one of them said.

"Chief?" said the other.

"Yeah, it's me," Don got up, his face red. "Everything's under control."

"Drop the knife, scumbag!" Swinton advanced with his gun drawn.

"Good work, Chief," said Hanson. He holstered his revolver and kicked the knife out of unconscious Duey's hand. It took a few tries.

"Well yes, um, thank you," Don managed. He rubbed his ankle.

"You okay Chief?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"But how did you know I threw the rifle in Miller's Pond?" Duey asked in the interrogation room.

"I um, er. Good police work," Don said. He was sure the gun was buried in the woods. Before he could correct Duey, however, Libertad burst in.

"Oh honey! Are you okay? I was so worried."

"I'm fine," Don hugged his wife. "Duey here is just about finished writing his confession."

"So why'd you kill your brother?" Libby asked the shifty eyed perp.

Duey explained that Joe stole the diner from him. Their aunt left it for the both of them. Because of their many disagreements about the menu and use of the space (Duey wanted to serve vegetarian food and have the diner be a venue for hardcore concerts) they hired a lawyer to mediate, Jim Flannagan. Flannagan struck a secret deal with Joe and they swindled Duey out of his share. Duey killed Flannagan and Joe, not only to have the diner back, but also "for the principle of the thing, you know?"

Don nodded.

Upon further questioning, Duey stated that he had debts to settle with someone called the Ice Queen. He needed collateral as fast as he could get it.

Don put that distraction aside. "And the gun you used to kill Flannagan is buried in the woods?"

"How did you know?"

"Little gets by me," Don said.

Peggy matched the rifle in the pond to Joe McCaliker's murder. Flannagan's body was found in his apartment. With Tom's help the gun that killed the lawyer was recovered from the woods.

They would have gone to the diner to celebrate, but it was closed. Libby made tika paneer with basmati rice. Everyone at the station checked their armpits.

"I still think it was suicide," Marcy commented after asking for seconds.
Episode Two

"The Painting"

Don rolled his eyes. Libby tugged on and squeezed his hand to prevent a groan. If Marcy noticed, it didn't stop her lecture about the painting in front of them. They moved on, finally, to the next one. Don sighed. He had a hunch Marcy planned to go through the entire museum.

This next one didn't even have a frame. Don stared at the blank rectangle a couple of shades lighter than the surrounding wall.

"Modern Life by Gerald Oakley." Marcy squinted at the title and description of the work. "A portrait of a man..." she trailed off. "This is brilliant. Look how the color depicts a blankness. In the context of the being-question, which I discussed with the last three works, these words 'modern life' do not name a human comportment but a manner of the essential swaying of being. The canvas is gone, replaced by wall. What does that say about 'modern life?' Hmm? Ted?"

Her husband started. Don envied his ability to sleep on his feet. "Absolutely, dear. I'll get right on it," Ted said.

"Is there even a painting there?" Don whispered in Libby's ear. In his view the painting had been taken down and Marcy was lecturing about the wall.

"What's that Don? Do you have something to share with us about this painting?"

Don was cranky enough to stand up to his mother in law. "I don't think there's a painting there at all."

"Exactly! I couldn't have put it better myself," Marcy admired the mounting hooks. "Modern life is vacant. Empty. Technology has taken the heart and soul. It has taken what it means for us to be human. Look at these right angles. This is what modern life is. Rigidity. Blank rigidity."

Don muttered an excuse in his wife's ear and went in search of the bar. He needed a drink first to endure the art lesson and second to prepare for his court appearance later that morning. The case against murderer Duey McCaliker rested on his testimony. Judge Hand, who Don thought was biased against him because of an earlier incident, threw out the two murder charges. Although Duey confessed to killing his brother and a local lawyer, the confession was invalidated because Don and his officers didn't Mirandize their suspect. Duey remained on trial for attempted murder of an officer (Don) and resisting arrest.

Don asked one of the guards the way to the bar, his customary question at museums (usually followed half an hour later by an inquiry about the bathroom's location). Don and Libertad had visited a museum once in the big city. There the guards scoffed at him. A museum wasn't complete without a bar, but the big city was a peculiar place.

Don ordered a scotch. The bartender blew dust off a bottle. The fifty-ish bald man a few stools down nodded at him. Don nodded back.

"You're the police commissioner aren't you?"

Don paused with his glass at his lips. "I'm off duty," he scowled.

"Oh. I didn't mean anything by it. Just wanted to say hi. I'm the curator here."

Don nodded. "What's that, like the guy who makes beef jerky?" He wouldn't mind a snack, but he saw no menu.

The man laughed. "Oh no," he downed his drink. Don swore to himself that he'd arrest the guy if he mentioned tofu. "I buy the art, choose what to display, that sort of thing."

Don slumped back in his seat. "So there's no beef jerky then?"

"Afraid not. Name's Godfrey, by the way."

"Don."

They nodded at each other again. Don got the bartender's attention and pointed at his empty glass.

Several glasses and as many minutes later Don said, "Lemme ask you something. There's a thing over there," he waved behind him, "called 'Modern Life' or something like that. It's like an outline of a picture on the wall. I'm not into modern art. I don't understand it. Art died in the eighteen hundreds. But if you don't mind me asking, how much did something like that cost you?"

"I recall the title, but the description...You mind showing me? I'll be happy to answer any of your questions."

Don sighed. He didn't want to get into a whole big thing about it, but he didn't want to appear rude. "Yeah, why not?" Don's stool nearly tipped over as he led the way.

Marcy still had her family admiring the artwork in question. "It has no truck with bisexuality, preoedipal symbiosis, unalienated labor, or other seductions to organic wholeness through a final appropriation of all the powers of the parts into a higher unity," she pointed at the wall.

"Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt," Godfrey said.

Marcy went on with her lecture, oblivious.

"He's the curator," Don said.

That got her attention. "This is a stupendous find! An excellent buy!" Marcy congratulated the man. "Thank you for the invitation to your fine museum."

"Oh my," the curator said. "The painting's gone!"

"Gone?" hiccuped Don. Libby kept him steady.

"It's supposed to be hanging here. Oh dear. There's nothing in the back at the moment. It was stolen, it seems."

"Stolen you say?" Don suspected a crime was afoot.

Libby was way ahead of him. Her notepad was out. "Sir, when did you last see the painting?"

"Hmm, um, well. I'll check the logs. But this wing hasn't been changed for a year, probably more. I can't believe no one has noticed."

Don snorted. Libertad's elbow turned it into a cough. Marcy stopped listening to the curator and resumed her lecture. Ted snored.

Don and Libby accompanied the curator to his office, where he checked the maintenance logs. Don examined the papers. Baffled, he gave them to his wife.

"Um, um. It could've been missing for a year and a half," Libby explained, "that's a lot of time. Have any of your employees changed since that time? I'd like to see your duty rosters."

"Now hold on a second." Don stroked his imaginary beard. "What's in it for us, investigating this?"

"We're the police."

"I know that. But what's in it for us? How about you spice it up, what's your name again?"

"Godfrey."

"Gadfreed. How about you add a cash reward? The painting's worth what, one, two dollars?"

"At least two hundred," the curator said.

"Two hundred dollars?" Don shouted. "For this?" He pointed at the catalog photo. "Then the reward should be at least $50. A museum that can afford to buy such extravagant 'art' can afford a nice reward."

The curator sighed. "Very well."

"You're in excellent hands, Godfried. You have the entire police department investigating the case. As commissioner I will personally look into this matter." Don stroked his chin. He wandered off in search of the bathroom as Libby gathered more information from the curator.

"Um, um, um. So how is it that this place stays in business, if you don't mind me asking," Libby said. She had wondered about how the museum stayed open, and was able to afford such extravagant works of art, even though it had no visitors besides those Marcy dragged in.

"Ah. You are right that the art does not bring crowds. It is very unfortunate." He explained that on the occasional weekend the museum hosted weddings. They played heavy music, served lots of booze, and used the finest plastic cutlery. "Not tacky at all," there was no sarcasm in Godfrey's voice. "Would you like to see the kitchen?"

Libby did. She liked all things related to food. "Oh wow."

"Indeed."

The way Godfrey acted, Libby expected shiny and expensive equipment, Viking ranges, All Clad pots and pans, and so on. Instead he took her to a small cobwebbed room with a toaster oven.

They returned to the curator's office where he found the name and address of the subject of the painting, Dan Flemming. Libertad called her brother Tom to ask Flemming a few questions about the painting that depicted him. If she had to go to the museum on her day off, her brother could do a little work himself. "You got it sis," Tom shouted over the video games in the background.

Before she left, Libertad asked the guards a few questions. As expected, none had noticed that the painting was missing. All agreed that it was a good job, which paid well above the industry average. None of their colleagues had left for other work or otherwise quit in the last few years.

"One last question," Libby popped her head into Godfrey's office. "Is this place a nonprofit? I mean, do you get donations and stuff?"

"It's actually a for profit corporation," the curator said.

Libby thought about asking to see the books. But that didn't seem relevant. "Thanks," she said instead. "Call us if you remember something."

Don shuffled into the creaky witness chair after swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help him God.

"State your name for the record."

"Donald Norman Mettler-Klump, but you can call me Don. Hi Leslie."

"Hi Don," the prosecutor said. "Can you please tell the court what happened on the night you arrested defendant David "Duey" McCaliker?"

Don recounted his heroic struggle against a knife wielding maniac. "I was able to wrestle him to the ground and subdue him until backup arrived. That's him right there," he pointed at the defendant.

"Thank you, Commissioner" said Leslie Hall. "I have no further questions for this witness."

Norman Mettler jumped out of his seat next to Duey. "So tell me, Commissioner, have you been drinking?"

"Objection, irrelevant," the prosecutor said.

"Goes to credibility of the testimony, your honor," Norman leaned against the wooden railing, smiling at the jurors.

"Overruled. Go ahead, counsel."

"Have you been drinking, Don?"

"When?"

"Isn't it true that you're drunk right now."

"It depends, really."

"Let the record show that the witness does not deny it. Also that his speech is slurred."

"So what if I am drunk?" Don teetered on his chair. "So's half the jury."

Norman raised his eyebrows. Good point there. "But did you drink at the court bar like the rest of us? I remind you that you are under oath."

"No. I drank at the museum."

A gasp escaped from the jury box. The reporter in the gallery scribbled furiously. Don imagined tomorrow's front page: "Commish Boozing at the Museum."

"I was there with the wife," Don added quickly. "What could I do?"

The jurors nodded with understanding.

"Plus we are investigating the disappearance of a very expensive painting."

Norman switched to a different track. "Did you identify yourself as a police officer when you entered Mr. McCaliker's home?"

Don couldn't remember. "I must have."

"Isn't it true that you did not?"

"I don't recall."

"Tell me something," Norman took up a conversational tone. "If some strange man poked around in your house at night, in the dark, what would you do? Would you not attack him with a knife? You're lucky my client didn't have a gun. You could've been shot, and he'd have every right to."

Don shook his head, which started to hurt. "He didn't have a gun because he disposed of both murder weapons earlier that day."

"Objection."

"No need to shout, Mr. Mettler. I am but three feet away from you," said Judge Hand. "Jury will disregard the witness's last statement.

"It's the truth!" Don fumed.

"Order, order in this courtroom." Judge Hand pounded the gavel.

"Isn't it true that you were there to harass my client for no other reason than because he has tattoos and is vegetarian?"

"No," said Don, although that was partly the reason.

"Isn't it true that you made derogatory statements against vegetarians?"

"I was just agreeing with something you said, dad."

"Let the record show—"

"I was there to arrest him, it being made known to me that he discarded a rifle, which he used to kill—"

"Objection."

"Don, you cannot discuss your reason for being there," the judge instructed.

"What? Why not?"

The judge bent toward him and lowered his voice. "As I'm sure the prosecutor explained to you, certain evidence was ruled inadmissible. I am inclined to agree with defense counsel that that includes any mention of why you were at the residence. Understood?"

"Yes sir."

"Resume your questioning, Mr. Mettler."

"Thank you, your honor." Norman brushed his comb-over into place. "Tell me, why were you at Mr. McCaliker's residence if not to harass him?"

"Because he disposed—"

"Objection."

"I'm warning you," the judge pounded the gavel.

"But he's asking me. He's the one bringing the evidence in," Don nearly fell out of his chair.

"Don't quote the law to me," Hand sneered.

Don sat in silence.

"There you have it," Norman waved his arms dramatically. "A policeman who likes to drink at museums, comes in the middle of the night to harass my client, and he does not even have the decency to tell us why."

The prosecutor shrugged apologetically at Don and then avoided his withering glare.

Don waited outside the courtroom while the jury deliberated. Norman joined him on the bench. "What, you no longer say hello to your father?"

"Hi dad."

"What's new?"

"Nothing much."

"What do you mean nothing much? You just got trounced in court."

"You were there for that, dad."

"Just making sure you're paying attention. You know that 'Duey'? He's the owner of a diner now. One he got from his brother. He's a millionaire. What have you been doing with your life besides this police nonsense? Your Libby is a fine cook. Why didn't you open a diner? You could have been swimming in money. Then you'd be a free person, able to do whatever you want. Even be a policeman if you want. Or you could've been a lawyer. For the life of me boy, I don't understand you. You have everything you need, but you threw it away. Got the degree and everything. From a prestigious school. Do you know where I'd be if I had your brain and your education? You will agree with me some day, I hope for your sake sooner rather than later. Be a lawyer. You will roll in the dough." He rubbed his temples.

"Listen, I have a favor to ask of you. Are you listening to me boy? Look at me when I talk to you. Are you muttering under your breath?"

"No."

"Look at me. Son, I need a favor. One of my clients refuses to pay me for services rendered. Robert Powell. You've met him. I get him out of trouble, and what does he do? Says check's in the mail. He's lying."

"So what do you want me to do about it?"

"Use that brain of yours, stupid boy. I want you to go scare him a little. Let him know the police take it seriously."

"I'm not your bill collector, dad. I can't rough people up or threaten them just for the hell of it."

"Doesn't even help his own father," Norman shook his head. "I have to go confer with my client. Give your pop a hug. There, that's better. Your mom wants you and Libby over for lunch. I told her you're coming this afternoon."

"Dad, you can't do that. I have plans."

"Oh, come on. When will you grow up and be a normal person? I'll see you later, boy." Norman trotted off. Don watched his old man disappear around the corner.

Libby arrived in time to accompany Don into the courtroom to hear the verdict. Duey was found guilty of misdemeanor resisting arrest, and the judge set him free for time served.

"Sorry, hoss," old Robert Powell told Don. "The evidence just warn't there."

Don chased Duey into the parking lot and pinned him against the wall. "I'll be watching you, scumbag," he fumbled with the man's shirt collar and nearly poked his own eyes when he did the "watching you" motion.

Duey sneered. He adjusted his shirt with a snort and walked away like a thug in a rap video.

"We'll get him for something else," Libby reassured Don. She kissed his stubbly cheek. "Let's go to the diner. I'll buy you a burger."

"It's open?"

"Yeah. Under new management."

"That was quick," Don raised his eyebrows.

"Duey practically gave it away, I heard." Libby filled her husband in on what she learned about the missing painting when he was in court. "You know how the museum stays in business?"

Don shrugged and almost ran over an old lady crossing the street. "Come on! Watch where you're going."

Libby patted his head to comfort him. "They have weddings for hardcore people."

"Duey's people."

"Yep."

"I know they multiply like rats, but is that really enough?"

It was Libby's turn to shrug.

"Maybe Peggy can do some digging."

"Don't we need a warrant for that sort of thing?"

Don snorted. "How are we supposed to do solid police work with all these limitations? We can't even spy on people, for God sakes. How are we to protect the public? Did you ask to see the museum's books?"

"No."

"Why the hell not?"

"I didn't think—"

"You didn't think," Don sighed and glared at her as they got out of the car.

"You don't have to be mean about it."

"I'm not!"

"You're yelling at me."

Don rolled his eyes. "No I'm not."

"You're being just like your father."

"Whatever."

Libby hated it when Don got cranky. But she decided to let it go. Don had every right to be angry. She just wished he wouldn't take it out on her.

The place was so crowded with tattooed ruffians that Libby had to order their veggie burgers to go. As they pulled out for the station Libby spotted Duey's celebratory group in one of the back booths.

They ate at the conference table at the police station. Arthur the janitor scuttled around them, throwing up dust with his broom. Don grumbled while Libby showed him a photograph of the missing painting.

"The blank space on the wall was an improvement," Don flicked at the lettuce stuck on Libby's cheek.

"That's Dan Flemming."

"The walrus looking guy here?" Don left a mustard stain on the postcard.

"No. That's his doggy. Isn't it cute? That's Daniel Flemming there."

Don couldn't see it. "It's not upside down by any chance?"

"No."

"I hate modern art."

"I know honey. Anyway, my bro's asking Dan questions. He should call soon."

"You sent Tom to question him?"

"Yeah, why?"

Don scoffed. "Speak of the devil."

"Get in there," Tom pushed a handcuffed man into the interrogation room.

"That's why," Don sighed.

"Don't be mean to my brother," Libby scolded.

"I assume you didn't ask him any questions?" Don glared.

"No," Tom lifted his hunter's cap to scratch at his head. Cheese and crumbs from his lunch had collected in the corners of his mouth.

"Did this man break the law?"

"I don't think so."

"So why'd you arrest him?"

"Sorry, Mettler. I forgot."

Don sighed and joined Libby in the interrogation room. "Thanks for coming down Mr. Flemming." They uncuffed the man.

"No problem," the middle aged man regained his composure. "Do I need a lawyer?"

"Oh, no. We just have a few questions for you. Our deputy gave you a courtesy ride to the station."

"Well, thank you."

"Don't mention it," Tom said from the hall.

Don went in search of his klews folder. Libby closed the door behind him. "So how are you today Mr. Flemming?"

"Fine thanks. What's this all about? For a minute there I thought I had unpaid parking tickets or something."

Libby made a mental note to check Flemming's driving record. "No sir. We asked you here today to help us with a missing painting. As you may be aware, there is a painting missing from the museum. It may have been stolen."

"I heard something about that."

Libby slid the postcard across the table, like a TV detective slides a murder photo. It caught on something sticky, however, and bent out of shape. Nevertheless, Libby was confident that she produced the intended effect. Flemming gulped.

"Is there something about this picture that makes you nervous," she asked in her most authoritarian voice. It did not come easily. She hated bullying people. Perhaps she was in the wrong line of work.

"It's just that it brings back some painful memories."

"Oh yeah?"

"I sat for Oakley. It came out terrible. I refused to pay for it. So he tried to blackmail me. He said he'd sell it to the museum for all to see, unless I paid double his original price. So I said, 'fine, take it to the museum,' figuring no one would be dumb enough to buy it. I was wrong. Godfrey Leser, that idiot. I guess I should have checked the museum first. Anyway, he bought the painting. My lawyer Flannagan sued to get an injunction. But he did a terrible job. Don't know if he was paid off or what, but I lost the case. Guess I can't hire him again even if I wanted to. So anyway, I hate that painting, is what I'm trying to say."

Libby regarded the man with her best poker face, narrowing her eyes and tilting her head slightly.

"I didn't take it," Flemming shouted. "I see the way you're looking at me. It's not true."

Libertad thought otherwise, though she wasn't sure how Flemming knew her feelings.

"No one ever goes to the museum. After I lost the lawsuit I decided to go there and stand in front of the painting so no one else would see it and know my shame. But it was empty. The curator himself told me no one ever goes there. He blamed the town's sophomoric interests, but I think it's the other way around."

Don, who'd been monitoring the interview behind the mirror, burst in. "The way I see it, Flemming," he echoed his wife's thoughts, "you stole the painting after you lost the lawsuit. You had the motive. You had the opportunity—you yourself admitted to going to the museum."

"Why I, um..." Flemming was too flabbergasted to say anything coherent.

"I thought so." Don stuck his head out the door. "Klump! Get in here and guard this man while we get a warrant to search his house."

"Okay! I admit it. I took it. You don't have to go anywhere. Let me sign a paper to that effect, whatever you need," a stream of sweat ran down his face and the sides of his neck. "There's no painting though. I threw it out."

Don shook his head and wagged his finger. "Oh, you won't trick us so easily. I know what you're doing. You're trying to get the $50 reward. Not gonna happen, buddy. Now you sit tight or this big man here," he patted a smiling Tom, "will clobber you. Come on Libby."

Learning from experience, they knocked on the door to the judge's chambers. Hand called after a moment for them to come in.

"Oh, Commissioner Mettler-Klump. What can I do for you and your lovely wife? I was just sitting here with Norman talking about the stock market."

"Hi Judge. Hi dad."

Norman cast his drink aside, then hugged Libby and kissed her cheek. "My dear girl. How are you feeling? It has been so long since I last saw you. We are so excited about having you over for lunch this afternoon."

Libby looked like a confused bird for a second, then shot Don a look. "I'm quite well, Mr. Mettler. How are you?"

"I won't complain," Norman said.

"We've come for a warrant, judge," Don returned everyone to the business at hand.

"Not one of my clients, I hope," Norman sat back down.

"Dad, maybe you should leave the room?"

"My son, the lawyer," Norman mixed pride with sarcasm. He stepped out of the carpeted room.

"As you may know, a painting has gone missing from the museum."

"Indeed," said the judge. "It was in the afternoon edition. Front page."

"Well, we have a suspect. He all but confessed," Don said.

"We need a warrant to search his house," Libby added.

"Absolutely," Hand took Libby's form. "The address is missing."

"Oh, sorry about that. One forty two Meadow."

"Wait a minute. Is this Dan Flemming's house?"

"Yes, sir."

"He's been a contributor to my reelection campaign. I have appearances to worry about, you must understand."

"Of course."

The judge crossed out Don's chicken scratch and wrote a very specific instructions. "I want you to follow the Fourth Amendment to the letter on this one, you hear? Only search in places where the painting may be. No looking through drawers or under couch cushions. Just the two of you. Understand? I don't want you making a mess. And be quick about it. Don't make me regret giving you this warrant."

Don and Libby arrived at Flemming's residence a short time later. They opened the door with Flemming's spare key. Don scanned along the walls while Libertad checked in the refrigerator. She didn't expect to find the painting there (though one never knew). Libby was always curious what other people ate. It was empty.

"What are all of these baggies?" Don pointed at the table.

"Looks like powdered sugar," Libby said.

"Is Flemming a baker?"

"I don't know."

Don stuck a finger in one of the piles and put in his mouth. "Ewww. Imusespoil. Makingmanum."

"What?"

Don swallowed. The sugar reminded him of sore throat spray. "I said it's making my tongue numb. It must be spoiled."

"Hmm." Libby tried some too. "Yriyt."

"What? You have to eeee-nun-see-ate."

"I'm emunciating! I said you're right."

"Damn straight. I was going to say, if he needs so much sugar, it'd be cheaper wholesale. But I kind of understand all the small packs, 'cause it's spoiled. Didn't know sugar spoiled." Don played with a small electronic scale for a bit before heading upstairs.

No paintings there. Libby reported the all clear from the basement.

Back in the car a disappointed Libby said, "What if he stole it and threw it away? What if he destroyed it? I thought that's what he said."

Don shook his head. "The painting's too valuable to get rid of. Call it a policeman's hunch. If Flemming took it, we'd have found it. No," he accidentally backed the car into a fire hydrant, "I don't think he took it." They drove away with a geyser behind them. An old man waved his cane at them. Don waved back.

"I think you're right," Libby said after a time. "But why would he confess?"

"There was something in his house he didn't want us to see."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Maybe he's embarrassed about the decor."

"It was kind of shabby."

"Or he's using substandard sugar in his baked goods," Don mused. "Either way, that's the health department's problem. And I'm not telling them anything until they get rid of Arthur."

Norman Mettler met them at the police station. "I demand that you let my client go."

"Who's your client, dad?"

"Daniel Flemming."

"He's still here? He's free to go."

"In that case," Norman moved toward the interrogation room. Behind the small window a sweaty and pale Daniel Flemming adjusted his tie. "I'm taking you home for lunch. Your mom's been cooking all of last night."

"Before they change their mind," a surprised Flemming said to Norman and rushed to the exit.

"He's a strange one," Libby said.

"If he's in such a hurry, he could've used the bathroom here," Don observed. "You don't think that stuff will make us sick?"

"No," Libby shook her head to comfort her husband, but she was worried herself.

Lea Mettler hadn't finished lunch when they got there, which was just as well because they'd recently eaten. This gave Norman an opportunity to ask his son and daughter in law "what's new?" a couple of hundred times and to tell them which persons he speculated were millionaires.

Don nodded or shrugged depending on the tone of his dad's voice. He never liked these get-togethers. Libby took the time to wipe Lea's raspberry colored lipstick off of her cheek. Next, she worked on Don's forehead, where he still felt his mom's slobbery kisses.

"At last the food is ready. About time," Norman said.

"Don't rush me," Lea replied.

Libby squeezed Don's hand while his parents bickered.

Don examined the afternoon paper as he nursed his soup. Hand was right.

"The whole town's excited about it," Lea pointed at a blowup photo of the missing painting.

Don wiped away the flecks of food that his mom launched at the newspaper. He reread the statement by Deputy Tom Klump about how the police department would drop all other matters until the case was solved.

"Are you on that case, son?" Norman asked.

"I told you already, the first dozen times you asked 'what's new.'"

"Never in my life have you told me anything about it."

"But I did," Don turned to Libby for help. She nodded.

"As God is my witness. I swear on my health that you never told me anything about it. It's interesting, art theft. I would have paid close attention."

"We talked all about it on the ride home. You were talking about how you knew 'a good for nothing' painter and how he was a millionaire now. You told me that I should be a painter." Heat went to Don's face.

"For what, like dry wall? I never said anything of the sort."

"Then what did we talk about on the ride home?"

"As if we could talk about anything. I asked you questions and you said 'I dunno.' Always with the 'I dunno's.'" Norman sighed and rubbed his temples.

"Who's ready for the main course?" food flew out of Lea's mouth.

As was always the case on such occasions the one-sided conversation turned to when Don and Libertad would provide the Mettlers with a grandchild. Libby made the customary excuses. Don fiddled with his soft gray meat and squishy vegetables. He could've taken a picture of his plate, sold it to some yuppy, and became a famous artist.

"That's it!" he said.

"What?" Everyone looked at him.

Except Norman, who was busy explaining how to do the activity that led to conception. "Trust me boy, it works. That's how we got you."

"Fame," Don said with a shudder. He tapped the newspaper. "That's the motive."

"What does that have to do with anything? You know Jack? Jack Feldman?"

"Vaguely."

"He had lots of children. As happy as can be. And you know where he is now?"

"Is he a millionaire?" Don rolled his eyes.

"No, stupid boy. He's dead. But his brother. His brother's a millionaire. Can you imagine that? Shoveling manure. You could've done that. You have the brains for it. If only I was your age."

"Fame is the motive?" Libertad said.

"Yeah. You know how the museum doesn't have any customers? And it's running as a for profit business, for God's sake."

"Uh huh."

"This is just the thing to generate ticket sales. I bet you the curator stole the damned thing himself."

Libby thought about it. "That makes sense."

"Time for dessert," Lea yelled.

"What's the matter, ma?"

"No one has complimented me on the food."

"Oh, it was delicious," Libby said and Don nodded.

"Ma, I liked how everything was sour."

"I didn't overdo it?"

"Nah, nah."

"Because I was worried and—"

"It was great, mom. Wasn't it dad?"

"Yeah, yeah. My mother, may God rest her soul, made that dish much better." Norm turned to Don. "So what's new? When are we going to see a grandchild?"

"Give it a rest," Lea patted her husband on the back. "Leave them alone about that."

"What? What did I say? He's my son, and I love him very much. Don't tell me how to speak with my son. What's the matter with you? Why are you making those faces? Oh, here come the deep breaths. That woman, she's lost her marbles I tell you." He rubbed his temples again.

"You okay dad?"

"Fine, fine. Just the blood pressure. This woman will be the death of me, I tell you."

Lea turned to them. "It's all the carbs he eats. He's not allowed to eat carbs, but he can finish a family size bag of chips in one sitting."

Norman beamed with pride.

"Oh my God! Don does that too!" Libby smacked Don's shoulder. "Well, um, um, I don't know about carbs, but salt isn't good for high blood pressure."

Lea made a face and waved the suggestion away. "Doctors don't know a thing these days. Salt doesn't have any carbs. Salt is fine. You know what's bad though? Exercise. I feel horrible after exercise. Your father is always running around from the courts to the police station. That's no good for him."

"Salt and stock market stress," Don countered.

"I told you, salt has no carbs. Stock market, hmm. You may have a point there."

"The stock market is my life. Could've been a millionaire. Then the market crashed," Norman shook his head sadly. "Every time that happens. Every stock I buy goes down. It's like they're watching me."

Libby nodded while she enjoyed the chocolates Lea gave her. She liked sweets of any kind, but especially the chocolates Lea made. "Mmmmm. Can I have another one?"

"Sure, my sweet baby," Lea went off to get them while Don glared.

"What?" Libertad batted her eyes at him.

"I better not hear about how your tummy hurts," Don said.

He made the motions of getting ready to leave. It was always a long process. Finally they were out of the home Don grew up in. Norman offered them a ride but Don insisted, despite Libertad's expectant look, that they walk home. They both rubbed freshly planted lipstick and saliva off of their faces.

"My tummy hurts," Libby said.

Don didn't do too well himself. He spent most of the afternoon in the bathroom, leaving only when Libby had to go. Libby had expected this, but neither Don nor his mother wanted to hear about his meat intolerance.

As Don was in no condition, Libby paid a visit to the curator on her own. Her mother and father were still there, Marcy continuing her lecture on the space where the now famous painting had hung.

The office door was ajar, so Libertad let herself in. There she found the curator gagged and bound to his chair, a bullet exit hole in his forehead.

"Definitely suicide," Marcy popped her head over Libby's shoulder. The odor of sweat and wet clothes meant Ted was near. He hadn't showered in a month because of his depression, and Marcy's halfhearted attempt at doing laundry didn't do him any favors.

That didn't keep the yuppy tourist crowd away, however. They crowded at the door. "Is that an installation piece?" inquired one of the city dwellers.

"This is a crime scene. Get back everyone," Libby stretched her arms wide and advanced on the crowd. Don would not be happy.

Don stumbled through the police tape to get a closer look at the body. Peggy, the forensics expert, informed him that cause of death was not the bullet to the head. She would wait for the coroner's report, but if she had to guess, "the man died from fright."

Deputy Chalmers ascertained the time of the gunshot. Marcy and her students heard it around two in the afternoon. They thought nothing of it. One student shrugged the sound off as Marcy eating questionable beans for lunch that day. Another agreed. The two were glad they didn't eat what Marcy offered. She shared her food with former commissioner Wallace Williams. He left for the bathroom soon thereafter and hadn't been seen since.

"Alright, alright. I don't need your life story." Don stroked his imaginary beard, spreading the pink from his Peto-Bismol mustache to his stubbly chin. "So it's not a murder per se..."

"Suicide," Marcy said.

"Ma'am, can you please get back behind the tape?" Peggy wheeled around to glare at her former colleague.

"There is no tape."

"New age gibberish," Peggy muttered.

"She's right," Don said. "I accidentally knocked it down. Lucus, can you please put the tape up and help Ms. Klump look for clues outside of the museum? Marcy, you were super helpful last time. I'm sure you'll find something out there."

"I'm on it," Marcy straightened up. "Let's go," she clapped a sighing Lucus on the shoulder and pulled Ted along with her.

Don's stomach bubbled. He sat down on the corpse to catch his breath. "Ooops. Sorry." He jumped up and took another swig of the comforting pink stuff. "So here's what I'm thinking," Don pondered the sheet of paper Libby had been examining. "The curator steals the painting. This gets the ticket sales up. That was our theory, and now I do believe we've been proved correct, as he died and then someone made sure he was dead."

Libby failed to see the logic there, but she bade him to continue.

"Now this thing here," he flapped the paper, "looks to to my trained eye like a contract between the deceased and Oakley. Godfrey Leser was going to be Oakley's agent. Both were involved in stealing the painting so as to make money from the publicity."

Libby cocked her head. Maybe her husband was right. "We have to find this artist then."

It was time for Libby's nap, and Don hadn't yet recovered from lunch with his parents. They left the scene in Peggy's competent hands. As they got in the car Don noticed that Tom replaced Lucus Chalmers in supervising Marcy and Ted. He remarked about it to his wife, but she was already asleep in the passenger seat.

The phone woke Don at dusk. Libby growled and snuggled under him as he reached for the receiver.

"Good work," Don said and hung up. He couldn't recline any further because Libby took his spot. He got up instead.

"Whereyougoing," Libertad whirred.

"They found where the artist lives. Peggy's on her way there now to look for evidence. Oakley's been evicted, so the landlord let them in with no warrant. Lucus got a lead. Says Oakley's known to hang out in the seedy art district."

"I'm awake," Libby sat up, her eyes hidden by her cheeks.

"We need to smoke him out," Don mused.

"Who?"

"The artist, Oakley. We can't just go there and find him. The homeless network will warn him."

"You're right. So what do we do?" Libertad suppressed a yawn.

"I have an idea," Don said.

An hour later they gave Ted a pushcart and dropped him off at the border.

"Don't worry, he'll be okay. He's perfect for this. As Peggy said, no makeup necessary. And it'll help him out with his depression. Something new and exciting." Don hoped the car would air out soon. Libby shivered already. Soon she'd ask to roll the windows up.

"I think you're right," Libby said, her voice quivering with worry.

Ted pushed the cart as he wobbled into the art district. One of the front wheels squeaked. He made a mental note to oil that later. Perhaps he'd drain some of the oil from his car for that purpose. A shame that they didn't give him any money. A pizza or steak would hit the spot. But Don said that might give him away, and the homeless network would warn the artist away. Don was so smart. He knew about everything.

Ted paused to lift his pants over his belly. He lost 25 pounds recently (though no one seemed to have noticed) and now they kept rolling down. He spotted a friendly looking guy on the next corner. Ted pushed his cart in that direction. What a far walk. Had he known in advance this assignment would entail so much walking, he'd have pretended to be asleep. Still, it was a welcome respite from his wife's perpetual lecturing.

Ted reached the man ten minutes later.

"Whatchuneed bro?" The man offered him an assortment of drugs.

"Asprin?"

"Don't got that."

"Anything for the pain? My feet are killing me. I've been walking a great distance. My daughter and her husband, they sent me here on a mission. So the first thing we did was get in their car. Then Don started the ignition. Then—"

"Yeah, I got sumptin for da pain. My boy Flem hooked me up wit da good stuff, yo. How much money you got?"

"They didn't give me any. Said I wouldn't fit in otherwise."

"You got no money?"

"No."

The man sighed. "You one of dem artist?"

Ted thought the man wanted an affirmative answer. He nodded.

"Why don't you go paint sumptin an den sell it. Since dat famous paintin you get all sort of art connoisseur up in here buying all kinds of shez. You know I'm sayin? So you make sumptin, sell it, den come back here. Yeah, yeah, no problem," he shook Ted's thrust out hand and nodded at his thank yous. "Glad to be of help. Yeah, this way, this way."

Ted didn't make it far before he decided to take a nap on a bench. That nice young man pointed him in the right direction. Ted felt bad about not having any tipping money. He drifted off, his deep snore rattling the dilapidated shop windows.

He came to when someone made off with his rattling cart. Ted had no choice but to go deeper into the art district. A yuppie tourist couple gave him a dollar and ran away when he said hello to them. Ever trying to stick it to the man, Ted promptly spent it on a cola. Take that, everyone who was worried about his diabetes.

With sugar giving him a brief boost, Ted lumbered around some more until he found a group huddled around a burning trashcan. Since they seemed like nice guys he joined them. The one who had everyone's attention reminded Ted a lot of his wife. Come to think of it, it was Marcy. She was giving one of her lectures on inequality and art or something like that.

"Oh there you are," she paused. "Come over here. I'd like you to meet someone."

"Gerald," a thin man wearing a bandana and a hoodie thrust his hand out.

"Ted."

"Nice to meet you Ted."

"Yes. Nice to meet you." Ted's eyes drooped.

For some reason Gerald really liked him and they wound up talking on a bench just outside the crowd encircling Marcy.

"I'm a painter, you know," Gerald said.

"Uh, huh. Painter," Ted's chin sunk to his chest. He fought sleep like a house cat, his head rising and falling, so it looked to Gerald like Ted was nodding.

Gerald took that as a sign of interest. He expounded on his dream of the perfect painting. "It's all theoretical, you see," he said amid the snores.

Ted caught bits of it, though none of it made sense to his sleepy mind.

"...a human comportment...the essential swaying of being...the otherness of the other's other sameness..."

A few hours passed and Ted hadn't reported in as instructed.

"I'm worried," Libby said at the conference table. They were looking at Mort Freeman's report on the curator. Peggy nailed it. The man died of a heart attack. The gunshot came afterward. A search of Gerald Oakley's apartment revealed bloody boots that linked him to the crime scene. "We should never have sent him into such a dangerous situation. That artist might be armed and dangerous."

"So far as we know, he only shoots dead people," Don tried to comfort his wife.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "That's not funny. We should call him."

"No. That might give him away. I wish we could track him somehow, figure out his location. Can't believe we didn't think to put a bug on him earlier."

"Actually," Peggy said, "as long as he has his cell phone we can do just that."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah, where've you been the last few years? We can even turn his mic and camera on, listen and watch."

"Do that then," Don said.

Peggy spun around on her wheelchair to get her laptop. "Let's see here," she moved the mouse around with lightning speed.

"I thought you'd have to type a lot."

"You watch a lot of movies, Don."

"Yes," Don took that as a compliment.

"What's the number?"

Libby gave it to her.

"Alright, here we go."

The screen went dark.

"Is it working? What do you have a Mac or something? I heard those suck," Don said.

"It's working. The phone's just inside his pocket." Peggy turned up the sound.

"What is that? Is he being tortured?" Between a nasal voice going on and on about "the technology of art in modern life" was a deep rumbling.

"No. That's just dad snoring," Libby said.

"Oh my God. They've drugged him," Don had a bad feeling about this. "Do you have a location?" he asked Peggy.

"Yeah. Corner of Wilton and Reid."

Don raced to dispatch, grabbing the mic away from Jackie. "Calling all cars, calling all cars!"

"Don, sweetheart, you have to push this button," Jackie said.

"Oh, this is too confusing! We don't have time!" Don let Jackie do it.

"This is dispatch. Who's near Wilton and Reid?"

"Tom here," heavy breathing came from the speakers. "At the pizzeria a block away. I'm waiting for my mom. What's up?"

Don instructed Tom to rescue his dad.

"Oh, what's the big fat idiot done this time?"

"No time for this, Klump. Go help your dad. We're on our way."

They jumped into the car. As they peeled out of the parking lot the flasher Libby stuck to the roof fell off. It dangled under the passenger window as the out of tune siren blared over the engine's roar.

Tom finished his pizza. He muttered as he wiped his face with greasy wax paper and headed out the door. His keys laughed at him from the ignition. Tom stuck his massive hand through the crack in the window, but it didn't reach far enough to open the door. He was in a hurry, damn it. He'd have to run the great distance. It was his dad, though. He could do it. But his hand wouldn't come out. "I'm stuck," Tom made his worried face.

"Are you listening to me, Ted?" If Ted were awake he'd see a psychotic gleam in Gerald Oakley's eye.

"Hmmm, hrrrmm."

"Good. I thought for a second that you might have dozed off."

"I'll get right on it," Ted said automatically.

"Yeah, so as I was saying," he slowly and stealthily pulled out a black metallic object from his pocket. "I don't like it when people don't pay attention to me, Ted. Godfrey never listened to me, and he's dead now." Were Ted awake, he'd be aware that Oakley pointed a gun at him.

An old lady crossed against the light. The paper shopping bag in her hands was almost as big as her. Don skidded to a stop. The line of cop cars behind them somehow avoided a series of rear end collisions. Don honked. He didn't have time to watch a snail cross the road. The sound startled her. The bag ripped and all sorts of round fruits and vegetables rolled around her. She stooped to pick them up, spilling more from the top of the bag.

"Seriously?" Don honked again. So much for the short cut in taking this narrow street. He glared at Libby like it was her idea. "Never should have listened to you," he told his wife.

"I never told you to go this way," Libby countered.

"You never told me not to."

Men.

The car rocked back and forth. Tom tried his hardest to dislodge his arm. It had reached equilibrium, refusing to move in or out. He pulled his gun out to threaten the car before the realization of how silly that was made him put it back.

Oakley brandished the weapon in his hand. "I don't think you're listening to me, Ted. I hate it when people don't listen."

The old lady finally got out of Don and Libby's way. Their car stalled. It cackled like Arthur the janitor, but it wouldn't start.

Just for good old time's sake Tom tried pulling the door handle. It opened and a number of burger wrappers spilled out into the street. Tom tried to get in, but his stuck hand prevented him.

Oakley pointed the gun at Ted. "You awake there, buddy?"

Don and Libby got out of their car. With the help of Deputy Chalmers, who had been waiting behind them, they pushed their vehicle off to the sidewalk. They got in Lucus' car and the long police convoy resumed its trek.

Tom managed to start his car. The plan was to open the window to take his hand out. But the cruiser had plans of its own. It rolled down the street. Tom ran alongside. It was either that or be dragged. He tried desperately to hit the window button. As if to taunt him, the rear passenger window slid up and down.

Gerald Oakley toyed with the trigger. Ted reclined further into the bench, oblivious. The artist's dopey smile became a smirk.

The window opened and Tom extricated his arm. He panted with his back on the ground. "Stupid Christine." The squad car crashed into a mailbox. The impact turned the steering wheel and the car swung around toward him. "I didn't mean it!" He hobbled out of the way. Don's voice erupted out of his radio, asking why he didn't report in yet and commanding him to hurry. Tom jogged around the corner where he found a man pointing a gun at Ted.

Tom unholstered his weapon. It slid from his sweaty palms and clattered to the road. The sound attracted the gunman's attention. He cursed and made to escape. Ted awoke and accidentally tripped the fleeing painter. Tom scrambled to his feet, arrived at the fallen suspect, and sat on him to catch his breath and make the arrest.

"You have the right to not afford an attorney," he began, but that didn't sound right.

He took the gun out of Oakley's hand. It crumpled in his grip.

"My sculpture!" cried the painter.

"Sorry," Tom said, "I thought it was a gun."

"That's what they're supposed to think," Oakley managed. It was hard to speak with the giant upon him.

"Who?"

Marcy waved at Tom from the burning trashcan. "I'll be a few more minutes," she said before resuming her lecture.

Ted snored again beside Tom.

"They're trying to kill me," Oakley said again. That's why he was hiding out in the art district, he explained. Oakley confessed to taking his painting from the curator. "It wasn't my idea. Made me take it," he said. "I'm so damn broke, I went along with it. Then they killed Gerald. Please, you've got to help me."

Tom thought about it. "Where did you hide the painting then?"

"It's in my apartment under the floorboards."

That seemed plausible enough. Tom was about to slap handcuffs on the guy when he remembered how Don yelled at him every time he brought someone in for questioning. He got up and pulled the man with him. "Thanks for the information. Here's my card. Call me if you know anything more," he said as he had practiced a thousand times before a mirror.

"Watch out!" Libby cried.

Lucus swerved around the oncoming police car. "It was empty. What the hell?"

Libby shrugged.

They pulled up to the burning trash can. The cop cars scared the homeless and artistically inclined. Marcy's students scattered.

Libby jumped out of the car and ran to her father. "Are you okay?"

"Oh hi dear," Ted yawned. "That pharmacist over there offered me something for the pain, but I didn't have any money." The man he pointed at ran into an alley.

"What hurts? Have you been injured?"

"I'm all better now, don't worry about me, dear."

"Where's the artist?" Don asked.

"After he confessed that he stole the painting, I let him go so you wouldn't be mad." Tom flinched away from Don's smack. "What? You're always yelling at me."

"Why didn't you arrest him?"

"You yell at me for arresting people."

Don sighed. "When they're not committing a crime. But he confessed to a crime."

"Oh. Sorry about that, Mettler."

"Klump, did you read that police manual I gave you?"

"I'll read it tonight."

"That's what you say every time I ask."

"I'll read it tonight. I promise, Mettler."

"Did he say where he hid the painting?"

"Under the floor at his apartment."

They found the painting and went back to the station to celebrate. Marcy's lecture put her in a good mood and she bought everyone pizza.

"So here's how it went down," Don said between chews. "Oakley needed money. The curator needed ticket sales. They conspired together to steal the painting for the publicity. When the theft made the news—it was my discovery that set the events in motion—demand increased for the artist's paintings and the museum had more visitors. The curator and the artist then got into a disagreement about their contract in which the curator would act as exclusive agent. The artist threatened the curator, the latter of whom died from fright. The artist then shot him, not only to increase the publicity, but also to make a statement to his future sales agent."

That didn't make sense to Libby. Why wouldn't the curator report the theft right away if he stole the painting to generate publicity? Why did he wait for someone else to discover it? And where was the murder weapon? She didn't say anything because she didn't want to spoil her husband's moment in the spotlight.

"Don's so smart," Ted said.

"Indeed," Marcy agreed. "He needs a raise. Three cheers for Don!"

"And three cheers for Ted, without whom this case would never be solved," Don raised a beer.

The next day the Deputy Mayor held a ceremony for Tom for his successful recovery of the painting. It was returned mostly intact. Removing it from the narrow space under the floor in one piece proved more difficult than they thought, but they won that tug of war. Don grumbled as Tom, his arm in a harness, received a $50 gift certificate to the McCaliker Diner (the new owner kept the name).

Across town, Gerald Oakley raised his shoulders against the wind. He looked behind him once more. A police cruiser approached. Oakley tried to act nonchalant. The police car slowed down next to him, its brakes hissing. Oakley bolted.

The car's engine revved. It turned into him as he ran across the street. He bounced off the hood and roof, falling face down in back of the squad car. Its rear lights flickered on and the engine revved again. First the back wheels and then the front rolled over him. The lights blinked off as a uniformed arm put the car into drive. The car rocked over the artist again and sped away.
Episode Three

"The Mole"

Tom giggled at the Gawker article on his phone while his brother in law yammered about two bodies.

"Tom, you listening?"

"Huh?" Tom started. He accidentally closed the tab. A naked lady stared up from the screen. He quickly covered her with his palm.

"I said, have you been listening?" Don glared.

"Yeah, sure." Tom hastily lowered the volume so Don wouldn't hear the moaning.

"Then what did I say?"

"Some stuff relating to police matters," Tom winged it.

"Alright then. I want you to go canvas the area where Gerald Oakley's body was found. You know, that painter? Find out if anyone witnessed the hit and run."

"Okay," Tom reconnected to the station's WiFi. He hadn't watched any conspiracy videos lately. He rummaged through his pockets for his earphones.

Tom jumped when he realized Mettler hunched down in front of him. "What? I'm not watching porn." Technically true because he wasn't looking at his phone at the moment.

"Why are you still here?"

"Um..."

"Get out there and find me some witnesses."

"Okay," Tom headed for the exit.

"Klump?"

"Yeah?" Oh, what did he do now? He checked his fly. Closed. Good. He checked his uniform. Only a few grease stains. Good.

"Remember. Repeat after me: handcuffs for law breakers, smiles for everyone else. Come on, repeat it."

"Handcuffs for law breakers, smiles for everyone else."

"Good, good. Keep going. Out with you," Don waved him away and then turned his attention to those around the conference table. "Now to more important things. Someone damaged one of our cars. I want all available man power on this..."

Tom knew the way to the crime scene, but he drove in the opposite direction. The pizzeria would open soon, and there was nothing like having the first pie of the day. He'd have to wait an hour, but he had his PSP with him. Tom checked his pocket for the remainder of his tax refund. He kept the money with his video game collection, taking a little each day to buy pizza. One thousand five hundred dollars, it had been. Don, who did his taxes, advised him to invest it or put it in the bank. Tom promised he would. But now with ten bucks and fifty cents left, it appeared he broke that promise. Don would be mad. Nevertheless, Tom felt no guilt. A teacher in high school taught him about inflation. Money spent today is worth more than money saved for tomorrow. Tom took it to heart. He commenced his stakeout of the pizza place.

A woman's screams distracted Tom from his game. She yelled for help as a man wrestled for her purse. Tom's heart beat a tad faster as he wondered what to do. He got his phone out to call the police. The home screen was frozen, a result of certain websites Don forbade him to visit on the station's computers. Tom remembered he had a radio. Then he remembered that he was the police.

He squeezed out of the squad car, promising to hit the gym. After removing himself from the door's grip (Libby would have to fix the tare in his shirt), Tom hustled across the street. He grabbed the purse snatcher and slammed him against a mailbox. He tried to be gentle, but the excitement got to him. He hoped the guy was okay.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"Yes. Thank you," the victim said.

Tom wanted to correct her, to explain that he was talking to the man, but she shut him up by kissing his cheek. Tom blushed and pressed his weight against the perp.

"I...can't...breathe," the man said in a strained voice. His skin turned blue.

"Oh. Sorry about that." Tom put him upright. Now what came next? Oh yes, Don had told him to smile. Something about handcuffs and smiling. Tom remembered all those times Don hit him, and his sister Libby gave him her disappointed look when he brought someone to the station handcuffed. Tom's blank face became a smile. His mouth curled up to reveal crooked, gaped teeth. The rest of his face remained the same.

The man squirmed. Tom guessed that meant he was ill at ease. Eye contact was important. Many people told him that over the course of his life. He stared at the man's forehead, widening his eyes, just as he practiced in front of the mirror every morning. The man whimpered. Tom lifted him off the ground to make sure he wasn't bleeding or anything. Nothing seemed the matter. He set the man down, smiled again with his wide eyes, and shook his hand. There. The man hurriedly stumbled away.

The pizzeria opened across the street. Tom waited for the light to cross.

"Tommy my boy! You bring a friend today?" the proprietor asked.

Tom smiled back, for the first time noticing that the woman came in with him. He ordered his pie, which the woman insisted would be her treat. That meant an extra pizza tomorrow. "Thanks, you shouldn't have," Tom said like Libby practiced with him. He scarfed down his pie, oblivious to the woman.

Marcy called. "Hi mom." Tom should've looked at the caller ID. Stupid phone only worked when he didn't need it. Marcy wanted a ride for her errands. "Why can't the fat man do it?" That's what he called Ted, his father. He put her on speaker to wipe his mouth.

"Oh, he's busy fixing something."

Tom sighed. "Alright. But I have work to do. Police business."

"I work with the department," Marcy said. "I'm sure it's nothing that can't wait. Are you here yet?"

"On my way." Tom pressed the button to end the call. "Stupid woman."

"I heard that," Marcy said.

"Stupid phone," Tom's fat finger finally found the button.

And so Tom spent most of the morning shopping with his mom. They went several towns over to buy what was cheaper in town. Sometimes Tom thought his mom just liked being driven around. He ate several more times and quite forgot about his assignment. Playing video games in mall parking lots can do that to a fellow. But Don reminded him with a demand for a status report. Tom explained that he was working very hard, which was true because at the time of the call he was lugging his mom's many purchases into the house.

At last Tom made it to the scene of the crime. If Marcy weren't with him, he wouldn't know what to do. He took Marcy's lead, asking every passerby whether they witnessed the suicide there yesterday.

Don and Libby hovered over Peggy as she inspected the damaged cruiser. The car hadn't been logged out, so whoever drove it took it without permission.

"Have you dusted for prints yet?" Don asked.

"Doing that right now. Duncan, give me a hand," Peggy said to her assistant. He worked on the areas she couldn't reach because she was wheelchair bound.

"What do you think happened?" Libby wondered aloud.

"The car hit something, not sure what yet."

"Like something fell on it in the garage?"

"No. It was definitely moving at the time of impacts. We have at least four. One on the bumper, one on the hood, another on the roof, and there's a little something on the trunk. Not confirmed yet, but preliminary evidence suggests that it was the same object. Struck in the front and went over toward the back."

"Hmmm." Don stroked his imaginary beard.

Lucus flipped through the logs. "The vehicle was last driven five days ago by Hanson," he said.

"Get Hensten over here," Don ordered.

"Hanson, boss."

"Not Hensten? I picture him like a chicken, all round and feathery...womanly, like a hen."

"Good image, but his name's Hanson."

Don shrugged. He answered his phone. "Uh huh, hmm, uh huh. Listen Mort, we're conducting a very important investigation here. Uh huh. Misuse of a police vehicle. Someone's gonna get a stern talking to. Uh huh. Mort. Mort. I'll call you back, okay? Mort. I don't have time for this." Don ended the call. "That was Freeman over at the morgue. Something about the evidence in the Oakley case. What is it with these coroners? Why don't they mind their own business?"

Libby shrugged and rubbed her husband's protruding love handles to comfort him. She didn't want him to be stressed out.

Officer Flannery returned with a man in a tweed jacket.

"That's not Hensten," Don said. Not that he remembered everyone's name or what they looked like. "Is it?" he said after a moment's doubt.

"Finnemore Dunn," the man said, taking out a notepad from his pocket and a pen from behind his ear. He looked like one of those movie drunks to Don.

"What do you want? Who let this man in here?"

"Uh," Flannery stammered, "he said 'freedom of the press.'"

"You let a journalist interfere with a potential workplace infraction?" Don fumed. Libby comforted him as best as she could, but she prepared for the screaming to follow. "We're the police! What does freedom of the press have to do with us? No press in here!" He pointed to the sign on the wall, spilling some of his beer with the motion.

Flannery tried to escort the man out, but Dunn resisted. "You have a possible murder on your hands and you're wasting police resources on a vehicle use infraction?" Dunn demanded.

"This is none of your business. How the police department conducts its affairs is my purview, not yours. Get this man out of my sight!"

Libby wondered if Don already read that day's newspaper editorial, penned by Dunn. The article excoriated the department over the recent and dramatic rise in murders. Now Dunn would have material for another article. She rushed after him to make sure he hadn't recorded anything.

After Don finished interrogating Hanson, who'd been out with a cold and just came back to work that morning, Libby pulled her husband aside. "Now don't yell at me, but I think maybe that reporter has a point."

"Damn liberal media," Don grumbled.

"Maybe we should be investigating the two latest murders. The people might think—"

"I don't care what the people think," Don said, but from his tone Libby knew that she persuaded him.

Mort Freeman stood over the body, a sandwich in hand. Libby thought it was peanut butter and jelly. Her tummy rumbled, which alerted the coroner to their presence.

"So what was so important?" Don said.

"Sandwich anyone?" Mort replied with a question.

"Yes please," Libby said.

Mort opened one of the refrigerated chambers where he kept his food. He assembled the ingredients and proceeded to make two sandwiches.

Don lightly slapped down Libby's hand. "You can't eat that. It's disgusting."

Libby pouted. Mort shrugged and took a bite.

"Why are we here?" Don asked.

"Ah," Mort tried to chew more quickly. He held up an index finger so they would give him a moment. "Gerald Oakley, this fine specimen here, suffered from anhidrosis."

"What's that mean in English?"

"He couldn't sweat."

"So? What does that have to do with anything?" Don said.

"The boots recovered from his apartment, the ones with the curator's blood on them, have sweat inside. He couldn't have worn them, unless he shared with someone else. Besides the sweat problem, the shoes wouldn't have fit him. They're too small. Look at these clown feet," Mort jiggled Oakley's toes. "Size fourteen. The shoes with the blood on them, however, are size ten."

"So you're saying he was framed?"

"That would be my theory, but you're the detectives." Mort started on the second sandwich while Libby looked on hungrily. "I've taken the liberty of sending the boots to Peggy for finger print testing."

"She's been busy with other stuff," Don said. "I'll get her on it." He phoned the forensics department.

"Here's my report," Mort handed Libby a stack of sheets with peanut butter and jelly prints on them. "Death occurred when his neck broke, most likely on impact with the cement after tumbling over a car." He had drawn a little cartoon in the corner of his report. Mort thumbed through the pages, animating a stick figure and poorly drawn car.

"Excellent work," Don said. On their way out he dialed Tom for a status report. "He says he's working very hard, but it sounds like he's at the gym or something."

"My bro at the gym?"

"Yeah, more likely he's in the bathroom."

Marcy analyzed the tread patterns when Peggy's van pulled up.

"What are you doing here?" Peggy said over the mechanical hum of the wheelchair lift.

"I'm helping my son do his police work," Marcy replied. "Clearly a suicide. Involving a bicycle."

Peggy snorted. "Clearly an automobile. A bike does not have an axle, or such thick tires, as is evident here. A bike wouldn't leave such widely spaced tracks. You need two wheels for that. Front wheel drive, I'd say."

Marcy snorted back. "Two wheels? Of course. Clearly. And guess what has two wheels? A bi-cyle. Bi means two. Cycle means wheels. Q.E.D."

Peggy closed her eyes and shook her head. "And that makes for a suicide how?"

"Ah, well that's the mystery."

"You don't say," Peggy scoffed.

"What are you doing here anyway, Margaret? Shouldn't you have collected all of the evidence before the body was taken away? That's how I'd do it. But I'm a professional."

"Alright Mrs. Klump, that's enough. Kindly move aside and let me do the job they pay me for."

"Ah, so you're avoiding the question."

"I'll have you know that I did collect samples immediately after the crime was reported. They are missing, however, and so I had to come back here. I hope that you have not destroyed the evidence."

"Oh my. How dare you..."

"Can you get her out of here?" Peggy whispered to Duncan.

He knew the drill. "Mrs. Klump, check out that shiny sign over there."

"Oh yes. It is awful bright. I'll get to the bottom of it," Marcy wandered in that direction.

Tom, meanwhile, finished a doughnut. Perhaps one day he could have a shop. There'd be no one yelling at him about eating the merchandise. Maybe Don would, but he was always yelling about everything.

A young woman crossed the street in a hurry. He hadn't asked her yet. "Ma'am, excuse me, ma'am?"

She saw him waving, hesitated at his uniform, and made a run for it. Tom's huffed after her, his big belly bouncing up, down and sideways. Maybe she didn't see him? Why was she in such a hurry? No matter, he smiled and made his eyes wider. The just swallowed and partially chewed doughnut made its way up his throat. Tom had to stop or he'd throw up. When he recovered, the girl was gone.

Oh well. That was that. He found his mother and drove to the station. It was almost past lunch time anyway.

"You found no one?" Don asked between bites of his sandwich. "How could that be?"

"Hey bro. Hi mama! Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?" Libby asked.

"Sure," Tom and Marcy said.

As they ate, Marcy told them all about her day. How she investigated a brightly lit sign, how Tom took her shopping—

"Wait a minute. Klump. You were supposed to canvas the area where the artist got hit by a car," Don got up.

"I did that too," Tom replied. "Can I have another sandwich please?"

"Sure bro," Libby reached for the bread.

"No you may not," Don stayed her hand. "How long did you look for witnesses?"

"Um, an hour," Tom guessed.

"I'd say around ten to fifteen minutes," Marcy said.

"Klump!"

"What?"

"Get back out there. Knock on doors. Talk to the shopkeepers. Someone must have seen something. Lucus, go with him. You're partners now. I want Klump to learn."

"Sure thing, Don," deputy Chalmers said. He threw his paper plate on top of the overflowing garbage pile that covered the trash cans. "Thanks for the sandwiches, Libby."

Tom wanted to eat and play video games. A nap would've been nice too. But Don had to send Lucus with him. Tom grumbled under his breath as he drove. Deputy Chalmers tailed in his own car.

They didn't split up as Tom had hoped, so Tom switched to plan B: feign ignorance of the simplest things, claim or demonstrate an inability to do anything, or do things in such a shoddy manner that his frustrated companion would insist on taking over. That's why Libby tied Tom's shoes the first twenty years of his life. That's why Don did his taxes for him and hooked up all his electronic equipment. And that's why Lucus Chalmers would do all the canvasing while Tom zoned out beside him.

Tom stood slack jawed as Lucus knocked on apartment doors. The residents that answered claimed to see nothing. A couple of old ladies insisted that the two young gents stay a while and have a cookie while they tried to recollect. On both occasions Tom interrupted Lucus' excuses and accepted the food.

The girl in one of the shops looked familiar. "You're the one I chased earlier," Tom made his smile face. She cringed behind the counter, her eyes searching for escape.

"What do you mean you chased her? Miss, we're just going around asking questions about the hit and run. We're wondering if you saw something," Lucus raised his hands to calm her.

"I didn't see nothing," the young lady said. "I swear."

"Relax," Lucus said. "We're the good guys. We just want to know what happened. You saw something, didn't you?"

"You're not here to kill me?"

"Why would you even think that? Do you fear for your life because of what you saw?"

She nodded.

"What did you see?" Lucus' voice expressed concern. Tom would have to practice that.

She looked around.

"You don't feel safe here? We can take you to the station," Lucus suggested. "We'll protect you there."

The girl nodded.

"Wait. I have an important question," Tom said. "Is a large Coke in meal number three included in the price, or is that separate?"

"Separate," the girl said.

"Too expensive then," Tom said.

They escorted her out of the sandwich shop. There Tom attempted to handcuff her.

"What the hell are you doing?" Chalmers asked. "It'll be alright, sweetheart. Don't be afraid."

"Handcuffs," Tom said. "When we take people to the station, they wear handcuffs. I heard Don—"

"We handcuff dangerous law breakers," Chalmers tried to explain, "not witnesses."

"Handcuffs are police procedure," Tom insisted.

Lucus sighed. "Might as well get this over with. Sorry, miss. Just get in the back here. I'll be right behind in my car. Straight to the station, right Tom?"

"Absolutely."

"Where are you going?"

"I have reconsidered my position on meal number three."

"But she's already in the car."

Tom considered it. "You're right. There'd be no one to ring it up."

They were on their way. Tom radioed ahead that he was bringing a witness. Don congratulated him for a job well done. "See what happens when you put a little effort in?"

Tom thought about stopping by McCaliker's Diner to celebrate. He had a gift certificate in his pocket. Lucus flashed his lights and said over the radio, "straight to the station" when Tom put his blinker on. He just couldn't catch a break.

The girl behind him became talkative. "You're not as scary as I first thought. Before I thought you were him, trying to kill me too. Cause he was wearing the s—"

"Are you telling me what you saw?" Tom spoke over her.

"Yeah."

"Don't do that. You can't tell me."

"Why not?"

"Police procedure. Because Lucus interfered with the process—God I hate that guy—you weren't properly Mirandized. So I can't hear what you have to say until Don says it's okay."

"Um. Okay. I'll be quiet then."

"Excellent."

A gloved hand gripped an icepick. It stabbed, sending shavings flying in all directions. A door creaked open and a man stepped into the darkness. It wasn't the cold that made him shiver.

The icepick plunged into frozen flesh. The hand left it there like a flagpole. "You have something to tell me?" a woman's voice said.

"Yes ma'am," the man stammered.

"What is it?" the icepick was exchanged for a longer, sharper instrument. It glinted in the dim light.

"There might be a witness," he said.

"Might be?"

"I mean, yeah. They have a witness. Some girl. They're bringing her in right now. It's no big deal."

"No big deal?" the voice cut deeper than the cold.

"I'll tell him to take care of it," the man stammered. "But will he? He's—"

"Oh he will. For his daughters' and wife's sake."

The man moved quickly around the vats, trying his best to avoid the frozen eyes of the dead staring up into the darkness.

Libby and Don arrived at Peggy's office, a cramped place with all sorts of equipment everywhere. Don knocked down a microscope. Libby caught it near the floor.

"What you got for us?" Don carefully backed away from the table, only to crash into something else with his butt.

"How about we go out into the hall?" Peggy suggested. She rolled out without waiting for them to agree. "So there are a number of things. First, the car."

"No. That can wait. Did you read the paper today? I have a mind to come downtown and raid their office. See how they can write their stories without their fancy pens and typewriters." Don turned red.

"It's alright, my snugglepuss," Libby tried to calm him.

"Not in public," Don hissed at her.

Peggy did her best to suppress a laugh. "The two are related, Don. And in more ways than one. So, as to the car, the flashers on the roof had a bit of cloth on them. The cloth matched Gerald Oakley's sweater. There's a rip in Oakley's sweater." She pointed to a photograph. "That's the first thing. Second, Mort Freeman sent over the artist's boots for analysis."

"What did you find?" Libby asked.

"It's what I didn't find, actually. There were no fingerprints. You'd expect at least a couple of partials. People tie their shows and so on. But there was nothing. You know where else I didn't find prints? In the damaged squad car. No prints on the outside or inside. The boots and the car were wiped down."

"By the same person?" Don asked.

"No way to tell. Could be one. Could be more than one."

"So, so, um, um, someone planted evidence in Oakley's apartment to implicate him in the curator's death. Then that same person, or someone helping him, stole a car from the station and used it to kill the artist," Libby mused.

"And then they tried to cover their tracks by returning the car and wiping it down," Don finished for her.

"Not only that. Someone stole my analysis of the tread patterns and tampered with my samples. I suppose the car could've been taken and returned by an outsider, but for someone to mess with my stuff they'd have to know where to look. They'd have to know about what I've collected." She paused. "I think we have a mole."

A loud crash startled them.

"Sorry about that," Don picked his gun up from the floor.

After Don finished boasting about how he was right all along to investigate the damaged squad car, they found Tom in the conference room eating a muffin.

"Where's the witness?"

"Secured in the interrogation room," crumbs flew everywhere.

Don grunted and Libby smiled at her brother.

The girl had her head down. Her hair covered part of the table.

"Hello, thank you for coming," Don said. He looked to Libby when the interviewee didn't respond. "If she's drunk or on drugs, she may not be very reliable," he said.

"Hello?" Libby approached the young woman.

"She was awake when I put her in there," Tom had a new muffin in his hand.

Libby gently shook the witness. The body moved back and forth, slack. Libby felt for a pulse. Not finding it, she lifted the girl's hair. The face was frozen in terror. A ligature mark wrapped around her throat. Two more were on her bluish fingers. "She's still warm," Libby said.

"Holy shiitake," Tom said, "is she dead?"

Don looked to Libby, who nodded.

"Who drove her here? You?"

"Yeah," Tom shielded his eyes with his massive palms so as not to see the dead body.

"Did she tell you anything about what she saw?"

"I tried to ask her, but she invoked her right to remain silent."

"But she wasn't under arrest! Did you tell her that?"

"Yeah."

"And she still wouldn't talk?"

"Nope. Sorry. She did imply that it was a cop, though."

"And you didn't see fit to warn us that someone at the station might be a potential danger to her? And then you left her all alone?"

"My bad."

"Alright," Don said, suddenly sober. "Klump, get Lucus over here, then call Peggy and Mort. Then go stand by the front door and let no one in or out. No exceptions. Got it?"

"Got it," Tom rushed away.

"There's a killer in the building," Don said.

"You wanted me, Don?" Lucus stuck his head in the door. "Is she..."

"Yeah. Lucus, I have a job for you. Assemble the officers into two men teams. Have them guard all of the exits. No one in or out. Everyone else should gather in the conference room until further notice. Got it?"

"Yeah."

"After you do that, compile a report of everyone who's out of the station right now, and everyone who's supposed to be here. Okay?"

"Yes sir." Deputy Chalmers marched out.

Don saw Flannery in the hall. "Hey Flannery! Go with Chalmers. Don't leave his side."

"You got it, Don."

"The mole," Libby said, walking around the body.

"Yep. Only one reason he'd do this, kill the witness."

"Because she saw him kill Oakley?" Libby said.

Don was having trouble with the special latex free gloves Libby had gotten for him. "Oh. That's even better than what I was thinking."

"Which was?"

"Never mind that. We'll go with your idea for the motive."

"So this must also be the guy that planted the evidence on the artist, and shot the curator."

"Who could it be?" Don gave up on the gloves and scratched his head. "Someone that could scare a person to death. Do we have anyone that scary working here?"

"There's Ben."

"Hmm. No, he's just ugly."

"Yeah, you're right. He's got those green things in his teeth..."

"I never noticed that. I was thinking about the crusty stuff in his ears."

"That's Joe."

"Oh yeah."

The discussion continued like that until Peggy rolled in.

"We'll have to wait for Mort to confirm it, but looks like suffocation. A cord or something was wrapped around her neck from behind. Our mole?"

"That's what we think."

"Any idea who it could be?"

"I have a plan to find out," Don stroked his chin, "but for now I hope setting everyone up in teams of two will prevent the culprit from getting away."

"What's your plan?" Libby asked.

"Lucus is assembling the officers. Most will be in the conference room. We're gonna go there and by each of the exits. We'll let slip that we found some evidence on who killed the dead girl and Peggy left it to be analyzed in one of her contraptions. We'll set up a video camera at her office, and see who goes looking. Everyone's a suspect, except us, of course."

"Sounds good," Peggy said. "What if it's Duncan? I need his help setting the trap."

"Have some fake evidence. Something that'll stain his fingers if he takes it. If no one else comes looking in your office, Duncan will be the prime suspect, with the ultimate proof being his stained fingers, should he try to tamper with the 'evidence.'"

"Give me ten minutes," Peggy left to make the preparations.

Don's phone rang. "Mettler-Klump. Uh huh." Don sighed. "I'll be right there." He put his phone away. "Your brother's not letting Mort into the building. Will you be okay by yourself?"

"Yeah."

"Don't let anyone get behind you."

"Don't worry my honey pie."

Don kissed her and left. He was met in the hall by Finnemore Dunn.

"You have another murder victim in there?" the reporter asked.

"None of your damn business," Don said. "Why is this man unsupervised? You two, put him in a cell."

"Right away, chief." They dragged him away.

Dunn kicked and screamed. He threatened to sue.

"It's for your own safety. There's a killer on the loose," Don said. He added another suspect to the list. Dunn had been poking around the station all day, possibly the day before. He could've stolen the squad car and killed Oakley. He could've scared the curator to death, perhaps threatened to do a report on how the curator stole the painting with Oakley, then shot the man and framed the artist. His motive? Newspaper sales. His ego was too large for this town. He wanted to move up to the big city. What better way than reporting about three murders that he committed himself?

Don came to the lobby. "Klump, let Mort in."

"Sorry Mettler. Can't do that. I'm under strict orders not to let anyone in or out."

"I gave you those orders."

"Yes."

"Well now I'm modifying them. Let Mort in."

"Sorry. You said 'no exceptions.'"

Don sighed and tried to get past his brother in law. Firm arms blocked the way. Don tried the other side but bounced off a big belly. "I'm not kidding around, Klump. Let me unlock the door."

"Sorry. But Mort isn't authorized into the building."

"But you're the one who called him here!"

Tom shrugged. Don made as if to smack him, but the big man did not flinch.

Don sighed again. "Fine. You stay here and do as you're doing."

"No problem, Mettler."

Don pulled his phone out. "Mort, we have a problem with the front door. I'll meet you at the side."

They went through the entire building. To Mort's mystification, Don kept telling him about how Peggy had found evidence, which was now being analyzed, unguarded, in her office and marked "critical evidence concerning the dead girl."

"I heard you the first six times. Are you okay, Don? I'm starting to wonder if you're having a stroke."

"Hoping for a stroke of luck," Don replied. "And here we are," he led the coroner and his two helpers into the interrogation room. "Will you guys be okay on your own now?"

"Uh huh," Mort put his glasses on and knelt by the body. His helpers, who had to drag a stretcher through the building and up and down several flights of stairs just glared at him.

Don and Libby went to check on Peggy's progress in a utility closet, where she had set up a video feed. "All ready," she said.

"Great," Don replied. "Call us as soon as you see anything."

"Where are you going?"

"Finnemore Dunn is a suspect. Libby and I are going to interrogate him. It occurred to me that since he's locked up, he won't have the opportunity to walk into our trap." Don told Libby his theory on their way to the cells.

"My readers will hear about this," Dunn shouted when he saw Libby and Don.

That presented Don a perfect opportunity to say something witty about hearing and reading, but as at all such times, his mind went blank. Perhaps for the first time ever, Don had found his klews folder without difficulty. He opened it now and gazed sternly at the reporter. "What size shoes do you wear, Mr. Dunn?"

"What?" The question confused him enough to stop shouting about his Constitutional rights.

Libby tugged on Don's sleeve and whispered into his ear.

"Oh yes. Finnemore Dunn, you are not under arrest. You are in this cell for your own safety only. However, for technical reasons (future planning, really) I will tell you your Miranda rights. Um. You have the right to, um. Oh God damn it. How does it go again?"

Dunn finished it for him.

"So do you want a lawyer?"

"I want you to let me go!"

"You're not in custody. You're being protected during an emergency. The way I heard it, you didn't want a lawyer. So tell me, Mr. Dunn, what size shoes do you wear? Those look like size ten. Am I right?"

"What of it?"

Libby asked the paper man where he was when the curator and artist were killed.

"I was working."

"Anyone see you?"

"I was alone."

"How convenient," Don said. "And where were you when the latest victim died, not too long ago at this station? Why, you were here. Unsupervised. Interesting, isn't it? How did you know about the body so fast anyway?"

"I hear things. I'm great at that. It's part of my job."

"Of course."

"Listen, I'm sorry about ridiculing you in the paper. I think you're doing a fine job. But that doesn't sell papers, you know? Now, if you'll just let me go..."

"Mr. Dunn, why are you in such a hurry to leave?" Libby asked. "Are you not afraid of the murderer on the loose?"

"Or are you the murderer?" Don finished for his wife.

Dunn scoffed. "Yeah, and I'm trying to get out of here so I can destroy the evidence in the forensics office."

"I knew it!" Don exclaimed. "You are now under arrest for the murders of Godfrey Leser, Gerald Oakley, and that girl whose name I don't recall." He turned to Libby. "Do I have to Mirandize him again?"

She shrugged. "Better safe than sorry."

"Oh my God. I was kidding. I was being sarcastic," Dunn said.

"Sounded like a confession to me. That Peggy has evidence being analyzed was not released to the public. So you wouldn't know about that unless you were the murderer."

"What the hell are you talking about? You yourself told me a couple of times when you tried to scare me with that crazy looking lab guy and the men with the gurney. And those knuckleheads over there," he pointed at who Don thought were Henston and Kirk, "have been discussing it the entire time."

"Hmm." Perhaps Dunn had a point. Don's radio crackled. "Go ahead, Peggy."

"Movement in the forensics department," she said.

"On our way," Don and Libby raced up the stairs. "Who is it?"

"You won't believe it."

"Tell us."

"It's Tom," Peggy said.

Tom waddled into Peggy's office, looking for the critical evidence. He paused to unwrap a candy bar. And scratch his butt. Now where was it? He found something that looked like a liquid sweetener. The jar had a little black skull and cross bones on a white background. "Pirate sugar," Tom muttered, trying to twist the cap off. His fat fingers couldn't find a grip. He replaced the jar where he found it.

Ah. There it was. Tom squeezed between two lab tables. His utility belt hooked of them and dragged it with him. Maybe if he took his gun out.

"Drop it," came a voice from behind. "Turn around. I said drop it."

Don pointed a gun at him.

"What you doing Mettler?"

"I have the same question for you."

"I'm looking for the critical evidence," Tom replied, wondering what game Don was playing.

"Put down the gun."

"Okay." Tom did as he was told.

"I can't believe it was you all along."

"Um. Okay."

"But why did you do it?"

"I didn't mean to. It just happened."

"You just happened to kill three people?"

"What?" Tom was confused. "I thought you were talking about the toilet on the third floor."

"What?" Don furrowed his brow.

"Never mind."

Don lowered his gun. "You're too dumb. What was I thinking?"

"Let's not be mean, Mettler."

"So what the hell are you doing here?"

"Like I said, I'm getting the critical evidence." He pulled on the latch and was sprayed with a cold blue liquid.

"But why?" Libby said. She recovered enough to make her way inside the lab.

"Swinton asked me."

"Who?" Don asked.

"Scott Swinton?" Libby asked and Tom nodded. "He's on the force."

Don made a face.

"Oh honey. Remember how last year you got really angry because that Councilman made us hire Swinton? Basically said he'd slash the police budget if we didn't."

That rang a faint bell.

"Swinton asked you to come here and destroy evidence?"

"He said it was an order from you," Tom said. "What is this stuff? Is it toxic? Am I gonna die?"

"I'm sure you'll be fine. Let me guess, he said he'd replace you at the door?"

"How'd you know?"

"Because he's the murderer," Don said. "He's long gone. Chose the weakest link."

"A little help here?" Tom had a hard time extricating himself from between the two tables.

Police vehicles fanned out across town, searching for Swinton. Peggy reported that he ditched his phone and so couldn't be tracked. Although Don didn't like him, he let the reporter go.

"Is there any other way to track Swinton?" Don asked.

"I don't think so," Peggy said.

"How about his radio? It doesn't have a tracking device?" Libby asked.

"No, I'm afraid not. The police union said that was an invasion of privacy."

"Oh yeah."

Lucus called Don to inform him that the roadblocks were in place.

"Excellent. We can't find him, but he can't leave. He's bound to make a mistake. We'll get him."

Although he didn't understand the look Don and Libby gave him, Tom knew he messed up. He left the station, got in his car, and drove to the old mill. He went there when he needed to be alone and he ran out of food money. He hid his car in the overgrowth, climbed to the second level of the building, and plopped down on the ledge. There he swung his legs in the breeze and played video games.

Finnemore Dunn flopped into his car and exhaled. He had enough material for several articles on police incompetence and the violation of his many rights. Dunn couldn't wait to get started. He got out his dicta-phone and rewound a few seconds, searching for a choice quote from Don. Gosh there were so many. The town council would want Don's head on a stick. Dunn forwarded to the end and pressed the record button. He cleared his throat. "I was falsely imprisoned," he began. Something rustled behind him.

"Don't turn around," cold metal pushed against his temple.

"Wh—"

"Shut up. Give me that," the man behind him snatched the recording device and chucked it out the window. "Start the car and drive slowly out the lot. Then go to the abandoned mill."

Dunn did as instructed, already longing to be back in his cell. On the other hand, if he survived this, there might be a book deal in it for him.

Arthur the janitor did his patrol of the parking lot, mop in hand. He dragged a bucket behind him. Water slopped over the edges and made a trail from the police station's front entrance. Arthur muttered about being rushed. Normally he had an hour to do this, but because the station had been on lock down, the time he allotted himself for this task had been reduced to a third. Still, he made good progress. The mop turned the patches of dust on the concrete into mud, which Arthur spread around as best as he could.

His mop collided with something solid. It first rolled out of the way and then got entangled in the strings. Arthur produced an exasperated sigh. He grimaced and knelt down, a hand on his back. When he saw that no one watched, he stopped pretending and fluidly knelt the rest of the way. He disentangled an electronic device and dropped it in his pocket. He hurried to finish his cleaning, already late in mopping the conference room.

Don, Libby, Peggy, and Duncan sat at the conference table. Their brainstorming session on how to track Swinton produced nothing in the way of results, but it did make them hungry. Libby ordered Chinese food while Don coordinated the search with his cell phone. The department was under strict radio silence, as Swinton had a radio.

Lucus searched the apartment where Swinton lived alone. He found nothing suspicious, nor any clues about where the murderer might hide. Swinton had transferred from a couple of towns over about eleven months prior. He didn't make any friends on the force and largely escaped everyone's notice.

"What's his motive?" Don said while attempting and failing to scoop noodles into his mouth with chopsticks. "The girl is obvious. Speaking of which, we should identify her and notify the family. He killed her to cover his tracks. But the other two, the curator and the artist. I don't know."

"Maybe it was a murder for hire?" Peggy suggested.

"Hmmm," Don stroked his chin.

Arthur came in and disrupted their conversation. He spread mud between their feet. Don sighed loudly and scowled. The prior Christmas he and Libby gave Arthur a book they found at a yard sale. How to Clean Everything by Alma Chestnut Moore. Clearly he hadn't read it. Although Don didn't either, he was sure that the book didn't advise spreading mud. A reputable publisher like Simon and Schuster wouldn't sell something like that.

"Libertad," Arthur said in his very loud voice, which made the rest of them jump. "Can you help me with this? I wanted an mp3 player, but I don't know how to use it. He handed the device to Libby. Don immediately gave her a look. She knew that she'd have to wash her hands as soon as she gave it back to the janitor.

"It's not an mp3 player," she said. "Maybe D—" her husband glared at her. "Maybe Peggy can take a look to be sure." She gave the device to Peggy and went to the kitchen to wash her hands. Don smiled at her.

"It is a dicta-phone," Peggy said. "Where'd you find it?"

"In the parking lot. Not a lot of time for mopping there today, I'm afraid."

Peggy rewound a little bit and pressed play. They heard Dunn. Then they heard his captor.

"Swinton's got him!" Don said.

Peggy shushed him. "There's more." But it was garbled. "I'm going to enhance this in the lab."

Tom watched a car drive past the mill's main gate. It stopped below him. Finnemore Dunn got out with his arms raised.

"Please don't hurt me," he whimpered.

Tom was about to say he had no intention of doing so when Swinton got out. Tom's colleague had his gun drawn and pointed at the reporter. The unorthodox tactic kept Tom from revealing himself. Swinton made the reporter enter the building, where they were lost from view. Tom recalled what Don said. Swinton was the murderer. He killed Tom's witness. That was mean. Tom didn't like mean people. He thought it might be a good idea to call Don, but orders prevented him. Strict radio silence, Don said. Cell phones did not use radio waves, but did Don know that? Tom decided not to risk it.

"Shut up and let me think," Swinton answered one of Dunn's inquiries. "I did what she said. I did it. And now..."

"Who said?"

"Shut up!"

The creaking from Tom's movement drew Swinton's attention. "Who's up there?"

Tom went into stealth mode. He said, "probably just a bird or something." Realizing that wasn't stealthy, he clapped his hands over his mouth and hoped his stomach wouldn't rumble.

Swinton, who must have thought it was the reporter speaking, seemed satisfied for the moment. "Shut up and let me think," he said again. "What are you doing?"

"Just taking down a few notes for my book," Dunn replied.

Tom heard Swinton grab the implements and toss them aside. "Sit there and be quiet. I haven't decided whether you're valuable as a hostage or dead, if at all."

"Definitely as a hostage and not dead," Dunn said shakily.

"For the cops maybe, but not for her. Although you could be frozen..."

"Okay...one thing though. Why are we cooped up in here? You could've been miles out of town by now."

"They'd have roadblocks up right away. Don's a smart guy."

Dunn snickered. "Does he even know that it's you?"

"I hoped he wouldn't, but the silence," he tapped his radio, "says it all."

"Still don't see why you couldn't leave town."

Swinton pointed the gun at him. "Don't question me."

"Alright, alright. I don't want to be number three or four. You mind telling me for the record? How many did you kill? And why?"

The floor creaked again. Tom held his breath, his hands still clasped over his mouth.

"What animal is that heavy?" Swinton said.

Dunn replied. "I never said it was an animal."

"You said it was a bird."

"I never said anything."

"Who's up there?" Swinton demanded.

Tom suppressed his urge to say "no one." Instead, a squeak escaped between his fingers.

"I've enhanced the audio," Peggy said.

"Let's hear it," Libby leaned next to the speaker.

Over the pops and crackles (which made Libby crave cereal) they heard Swinton's voice. "Start the car and drive slowly out of the lot. Then go to the abandoned mill."

Don was instantly on the phone. All cars were instructed to block access to and from the mill and to ignore anything they heard on the radio. Don called Lucus and instructed him to coordinate the ground operation. "Now play along," he told the deputy. "We got him. It was Tom. He resisted, but he's in a cell now," Don said into his radio as he and Libby rushed out of the building.

"It was Tom?" Lucus replied.

"Yeah, he's responsible for the murders. All units, stand down. Repeat, stand down and come on home. We need to locate officer Swinton. He's missing. Tom might have hurt him."

"You hear that? They're looking for you at the station," Dunn said. "They think you're a victim, possibly hero."

"Then I don't need you anymore, do I?" Swinton pointed the gun back at Dunn, who closed his eyes and whimpered.

Tom didn't understand Don's radio message one bit. Was someone impersonating him? Sherlock Holmes, one of his favorite cartoon animals, said something like, once you eliminate the impossible, all that remains is the truth, no matter how improbable it might be. Someone at the station pretended to be him. He had to get over there. Not only to straighten things out, but because that was Don's order. They were looking for Swinton at the station. Tom would help them. Boy would they be surprised that Swinton wasn't there at all and that, in fact, he was the real killer. Maybe Tom would get another gift certificate for solving the case.

He crept away from the peep hole toward the stairs. Something cut into his ankle. Tom howled and hopped on his other foot, and onto a patch of rotten floorboards. His weight, concentrated into the narrow point of his toe, obliterated the floor. Tom plunged to the lower level. Whatever he landed on cracked like a potato chip. Swinton's gun fired. Tom passed out.

"He's waking up," Libby said.

"About time," Don said. He folded the day's newspaper, which featured a front page editorial by Finnemore Dunn. The reporter heaped effusive praise on the "gentle giant hero Tom Klump."

"How long was I in a coma?" Tom asked groggily.

"Coma?" Libby asked.

"You were asleep," Don said. "You went to the bathroom a couple of hours ago. And a couple of hours before then you talked to my dad about workers' comp."

"I see," Tom said.

"Maybe he hurt his head," Libby worried.

"No, he's always kinda doofy," Don tried to reassure his wife.

Marcy walked in and smacked her kids on their heads, as she was wont to do when she was excited.

"Hi mom," Tom rubbed his head.

"Someone from the mayor's office came by to give you this," she handed him a gift certificate. "Now if you'll excuse me, I must go shopping." She woke her husband, who snored by the window.

Tom lifted his bandaged leg. "Was I shot?"

"No. You walked into broken equipment."

"Oh. Will I still get a purple heart?"

"You're not in the military, genius."

Tom grinned. "Did you ever find Swinton? Because I know where he is."

"He's on the other side of the hospital," Don said. "You wouldn't recognize him, all bandaged up like that. I can't even say what parts of him you broke. The doctors are surprised he's alive."

"Will he be alright?"

"I don't know. Sure would save us a trial. But if he ever wakes up from his coma, maybe he can explain a few things."

"Did you catch the imposter?"

"Who?"

"The guy pretending to be me."

"Um. I wouldn't worry about that," Don sighed. His phone rang, no doubt another reporter. He excused himself out of the room to take the call.

A woman wearing purple nurse's garb slunk into the room. Amid all the mechanical beeps and whines lay a bandaged figure. The woman examined the chart to make sure she had the right patient. Replacing the chart, she took a syringe from her pocket. She filled it from a small vial and injected it into the IV.

Alarms sounded. Doctors and nurses rushed past her in the hall. She walked out into the sunshine and got into a waiting car. As it drove off she removed her wig.

Episode Four

"The Warehouse"

"Good riddance to that," Don hung up and balanced his feet on the mound of papers on his desk.

Deputy Chalmers gave him a questioning look.

"Swinton died from his injuries," Don explained. "I guess some of these," he rustled the documents, "can be filed now that we've found the mole." He'd do that as soon as he got up.

They hadn't seen the filing cabinet in months, buried under various garbage that Don refused to throw away because it might someday be useful. His wife Libby glanced where the cabinet most likely stood. Don turned away. "I have a system," he said.

Libby smiled and shook her head.

"There was always something off about that guy," Chalmers poured himself coffee. "I'm sorry I didn't realize what it was..."

"He did have all those tattoos," Don mused. "Well, what you gonna do? Don't worry about it, Lucus. If I fired someone for incompetence I'd have to fire the entire department," Don tried to reassure Chalmers.

The deputy furrowed his brow.

Libby decided to change the subject. "It's almost eating time. How do tamales sound?"

Don nodded eagerly. Lucus accepted.

Libby asked if she could sign out a squad car.

"Where's our car?" Don asked.

"My mom and dad borrowed it," she said.

"Where's their car then?"

"In the driveway. It doesn't work."

"What's wrong with it?" Don wrinkled his nose at the thought of Ted sitting in his seat. He wondered where his tablet was so he could look up the cost of steam cleaning.

"It doesn't have oil."

"How the hell did that happen?"

"Dad drained it so he could fix the cart."

"What cart?"

"I don't know," Libby said. "Do you want me to find out?"

"No," Don sighed.

Lucus gave Libertad the sign out sheet.

"I'll be back in an hour, so work up an appetite," she kissed Don's bald head and left.

Don knew better than that. He moved to get up. "Better get a snack." The documents on his desk crashed to the floor. Don cursed.

Lucus helped him with the papers.

"Thanks. Just put them anywhere." He sighed. "Not there, or there. Give that to me. Thanks."

"Sorry Chief."

Don waved the apology away.

"I heard that lawyers are already challenging Swinton's arrests, is that true?" Lucus asked.

"Indeed. Nothing to do with us, as far as I know," Don leaned against his desk to catch his breath. His dad mentioned something about it earlier in the hospital, after he spoke with Tom. Norman complained about not being hired by anyone yet. One case in particular interested him. It involved the son of a local business leader. The man, whose name escaped Don for the moment, was involved in some kind of weird stuff. Don didn't remember that either. Cannibalism maybe? Or cannabis? In hindsight he should've listened more carefully instead of saying "uh huh" and nodding every few seconds while thinking about how funny it would be if he drew a mustache on the sleeping Tom. Anyway, Norman complained that that particular criminal already had a lawyer. A team, actually, from the big city. And they had already filed all the paperwork. Norman wondered how they found out about Swinton so soon, as it hadn't even been in the paper yet when they petitioned the court.

"Uh huh, very interesting dad," Don had said as he ushered his father out of the hospital room.

"I wonder if any lowlifes are coming here because of that," Don headed for the vending machine.

"I'll try to find out," Lucus replied.

Thoughts of tamales made Libby's stomach growl. She took a deep breath, trying to remember the self hypnotism for weight loss she listened to every night. Her weight remained the same, but the droning of the man's voice helped her sleep. Don scoffed when she told him about it. He insisted she didn't need help sleeping.

The breathing made her tummy louder. One small treat wouldn't hurt. Libby drove to the new bakery. She had been meaning to stop by and try a little something.

She wobbled out of the squad car and paused at the display window outside the shop. It had all sorts of delicious looking sweets. She wondered which one she should try. On second thought maybe just one treat would not be enough. After all she should get her family and Don some too. A creamy and multi-layered cake caught Libby's eye. Tiramisu. It sounded so exotic. The lady inside greeted her.

Libby smiled back.

"What can I get you?" said the lady.

"Hi, ummm, can I please get a tira..." Libby pointed at the exotic sweet.

"Tiramisu. It is one of my favorite desserts. My grandmother taught me how to make it the way she did in Italy. To go or to stay?"

"So it is Italian? It looks so delicious. Maybe to stay."

"Great. Would you like anything else"

Libby looked around. She couldn't choose.

"What do you recommend?"

"Maybe a Napoleon?"

"Yes! I will take three Napoleons and ummm three, no four tiramiiisos?"

"To go?"

Libby nodded as she devoured her pastry. It was as creamy and delicious as it looked. She never had anything like it. Libby decided to find the recipe when she got home.

The lady packed everything and placed it on Libby's table, handing her a tissue. Blood rushed to Libby's face. She wiped cocoa powder off her nose and cheeks, muttering a thank you. The lady laughed. "You remind me of my daughter."

"Thank you, it was delicious!" Libby bowed. She bet Tom would eat here all the time once she told him about it.

A small girl bumped into her at the door. dropping a sheet of paper from the stack she carried. Libby picked it up and found a picture of a very cute dog.

"He is so cute!" Libby smiled.

The girl cried and ran to the shop owner. Libby was not sure what to do and was about to start crying herself.

"That is Estrella, our dog. She has been missing for two days. We looked everywhere and put up posters. Sofia misses her so much" the owner told Libby as she hugged the little girl.

"She ran away because I called her fat," Sofia explained between sobs.

Libby blurted out that she was a detective and that she would find Estrella. She remembered that she had lost a teddy bear last week and how sad it made her. Sofia stopped crying, which made Libby feel better.

On the walk to her car she began to worry. Don would be mad at her. To cheer herself up she took out one of the pastries and ate it. She rubbed her tummy with a satisfaction.

The final gate buzzed open. A guard trailed the prisoner to be released at a distance, palming his baton. A gasp of relief ran through the prison, like a wave at a ball game. The officer waiting in the property office bit his nails. The keys hanging from his side jingled with his body's involuntary movement.

"W-w-w-one comb," the officer's wavering voice mimicked his shaking hand. The manilla envelope crumpled as he took its contents out. "One g-gold watch," he avoided eye contact with the grinning con. "One pack of cigarettes. Two spoons. Corduroy underwear..."

Mort's call snapped Don and Libby out of their afternoon nap. The tamales hit the spot. Don didn't care much for the pastries. The coroner requested their presence in his lab.

"Something about Swinton," Don replied to Libertad's sleepy look.

When they got there Mort led them to a table with the cadaver. He snapped on a couple of latex gloves and picked up a purplish brown thing. Don and Libby squirmed. Mort chuckled softly. "Do you know what this is?"

"Put it away," Don wrinkled his nose and cast his glance sideways. "Why are we here?"

"Officer Swinton's liver," Mort answered his own question.

Hearing the soft plunk, Don judged it was safe to look back in Mort's direction.

"Swinton was a registered organ donor. So when he expired a surgeon at the hospital went to extract the organs. He discovered, however, that there was damage. You see here," he lifted the liver up again.

Don closed his eyes and motioned for Mort to put the organ away.

"It was not just the liver. The kidneys, the lungs, the heart. All damaged."

"Well yeah, he was in the hospital. Tom fell on him. Bound to cause some damage," Don said.

"Absolutely true, but not of this kind," Mort replied. "Anyway, the case was referred to me." Mort proceeded to explain his investigation and discovery of something with a long chemical name.

"In English please, Doctor."

"Swinton did not die from the injuries he sustained when Deputy Klump squashed him. He died from multiple organ failure. He was poisoned. And had he not been on the donor roll, no one would have known."

"So you're saying..."

"Murder, my detective friends. Swinton was killed in his hospital bed."

"You're killing me here, doc."

"Don?"

"The murder rate. Ever since you got here, it's shot up through the roof. Our biggest problem before was suicide. Now we have people killing each other instead of themselves. You're sure about this?"

"Would you like me to go through my analysis once more?"

"No, no. We got it. If only the damned hospital were a little further west. Sheriff what's his face would have to deal with it in the next county."

Before they left for the station Libby gave Mort the last of her dessert purchases. He nodded in appreciation.

"I don't understand you," Don said during the drive. "You buy all these sweets and then give them away. We're not made of money, you know."

Libby smacked her lips plaintively. "They were so delicious. I had to give them away or I'd eat all of them."

"Why'd you buy them in the first place? Aren't you on a no-sugar diet?" Libby was always on a no-sugar diet.

"Stop yelling at me."

They gathered around the conference table. If Don wore glasses he'd put them on now. This was serious business.

"So here's what we know," Don surveyed the expectant faces. "Swinton was a mole, a spy. Someone poisoned him in the hospital. Before that Swinton killed at least two people, possibly three if we count Godfrey Leser's heart attack. Don't know if he was there, but he was involved. Why would I hire such a person? That's what you're thinking, isn't it? I never would. I assure you. Got his employment file?"

Lucus Chalmers was ready. "Yes boss." Don's filing mountain on the side of the room was reduced to a series of hills, but Lucus's efforts did not come to naught. He opened the manilla folder before him. A photo of a stern Swinton gazed up at the peeling ceiling. When Don nodded at him the deputy took out a sheet. There in Don's handwriting it said, "I don't want to hire this guy. Don't know who he is." Lucus read it aloud.

"Damn right," Don said. "My officers may not be the smartest or the strongest, but I hire people I can trust." He scanned the faces around the table. They nodded at him. "When you have officers you can trust, you have the best damn police department in town."

"Hear hear," someone said. A couple of others clapped.

Tom looked up from his PSP and gave Don a thumbs up.

"Swinton, I didn't trust," Don continued. "What's it say there? Why'd I hire him?"

"'Hiring him because Councilman insists on it. In charge of budgets. Threatened to cut funding. Coffee machine and accessories too important.'"

Don's memory was hazy on the matter. "Ah, so I had no choice." He cleared his throat. "Okay people. The first thing we have to do is find out why this Councilman—what's his name?—made me hire the mole. We have to pay this guy a visit. But we have to be careful, as he's a powerful guy, able to order me around like that. What's his name, Chalmers?"

"Uh, I don't know." Lucus flipped through the pages. His phone rang and he stepped out of the room.

Peggy, who had a knack for paperwork took over for him. "It doesn't say, boss."

"Okay. So the first thing we have to find out, then, is who the Councilman is. Theories?"

"We can find out who was the head of the budget committee when Swinton was hired," Libby suggested.

"Brilliant!" Don beamed at his wife.

Libby was all smiles. Don reached to wipe some chocolate off her cheeks.

Chalmers returned with a sheet in his hand. "That was my contact at the Pen getting back to me. Turns out there's one town resident getting released early because Swinton was his arresting officer. In fact, he's already been released."

"My dad said something about that," Don stroked his chin. He looked at the mug shot the state penitentiary faxed to Chalmers. "Scary looking guy. Alright people. Here's the plan. I'm going to work the town council angle, see what I turn up there. Lucus, you take Tom and follow up on this Travis Quinton. See why he was arrested and convicted. Why was he released so soon? You two," Don pointed at a couple of officers whose names escaped him, "head on over to Swinton's former stomping grounds—where he used to live before he moved to town—and see what you can dig up on him. We still don't know why he killed Gerald Oakley. Peggy, find out about Swinton's death. Review security logs, and all that."

Don never liked going to Town Hall. It made him nervous for some reason, and there was always a line. The building had its own security and they treated him like everyone else. That he had a badge and a gun and was there on official police business made no difference.

"To the end of the line," the one uniform who wasn't sleeping directed him around the corner.

"But I am the Police Commissioner," Don began.

"I don't care if you're the President. Back of the line," the man pointed and shook his head like Don was the dumbest person in the universe.

It took him half an hour to reach the entrance and metal detectors again.

"Empty out your pockets, put them in the pan," the same man droned. "Belts, coins, anything metal, goes in the pan."

Don simply walked through. The magnetometer went crazy.

"Sir, did you empty out your pockets?"

"No," Don replied.

The man huffed and rolled his eyes. "Go back through and empty your pockets, sir."

"I'm not an idiot," Don muttered.

"Um hmmm," the man said, "change, belt, anything metal. Come on sir, you're holding up the line. These other people have important business here."

Don glanced back apologetically. He threw his coins into the pan. He removed his gun and his belt. He placed his car and house keys next to the weapon and extra ammo clip. Don stepped through the metal detector. It blared.

"Sir! Step back and remove all metal objects!"

Don frisked himself. His badge. That's what he forgot. He threw it into the pan with a sheepish smile. The pan made its way through the x ray machine as he stepped once again through the metal detector. Blessed silence. Don caught his falling pants and waddled over to the conveyor belt to collect his things.

"There. That wasn't so hard, was it? You are holding up the line sir. Please take your things from the collection area.

Councilmen from the past watched from their portraits as Don reassembled himself. He found the sign for the elevator bank and followed it. All but one of the elevators were out of order. Typical. When it arrived the woman operating it wouldn't let him in.

"For council members only," she said from behind her desk, which took up most of the elevator.

"How am I supposed to get up to the fourth floor?" Don didn't bother to conceal his annoyance.

She shrugged. "Beats me. Take the stairs."

"It says they're for emergencies only."

The woman shrugged again and jammed the button to close the door. Don put his arm in the way and made to get in.

"Sir. You can't be in here."

"The elevator is empty!"

"Sir, you are interfering with council business. Let go of the door so that I may pick up my waiting passengers."

"Where are they waiting?"

"On the fourth floor."

"That's where I'm going! Let me in. This is official police business."

"Sir, step out of the elevator or I will call security."

"I will arrest you for incompetence!"

The woman rolled her eyes at him and popped her gum. She pressed a red button, sounding an alarm. "Every day it's something..." she muttered.

"It's you!" Don shouted before sliding into profanity. Burly guards, unhappy about being roused from their slumber, escorted him out of the building. So ended Don's every visit to Town Hall.

"I don't know why I bother," he told Peggy and Duncan back at the station.

"I was going to say—but you left before I could—that they have a website." Peggy turned her laptop so it faced Don. "Douglas Hadiger was chair of the budget committee when Swinton was brought in."

"Oh yeah." Don sort of recognized the fat face. "You think he'll talk on the phone? Or maybe I should send Tom to fetch him."

"No. You can't do either."

"I know he's powerful and all, but this is a murder investigation. I'm sure he'll want to avoid bad press, and for once it won't be about us."

Peggy shook her head. "He's dead. Six months ago."

"How'd he die? Was there an investigation? I don't remember."

"I'll see what I can find out, but this obituary says it's suicide."

Don sighed. "Marcy was the coroner then?"

"Yes sir."

"Do you remember that case?"

"No. But six months ago, didn't half the station go to that retreat at Sunshine Valley Lake?"

"Yes." Don recalled freezing his butt off, huddled with Libby in a tent. It poured the entire week, swelling the so called lake to the size of a car. "Libby is forbidden from buying anything off that deals site again."

"I was away then too, visiting my folks in Georgia." Peggy sent her assistant Duncan to find the records on the Hadiger case. She typed on her laptop and turned it to Don again.

"Is that the hospital surveillance footage?"

"Hmm hmm."

"Anything interesting?"

"Watch."

Don watched. He saw nothing suspicious. Libby went looking for a dog or something and so wasn't there to ask questions while he collected himself. "Those doctors and nurses are running to Swinton's room?"

"Yes."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing."

"Then why are you showing this to me?"

Peggy tapped the screen. "She's out of place," she pointed at a blond nurse.

"She's just walking there. Ah. She's walking away from the scene, but one would expect her to run toward it."

"Precisely," Peggy froze the grainy image.

"But that doesn't necessarily prove anything," Don mused, "because you wouldn't expect all of the doctors and nurses to come running when there's an alarm. Maybe she had somewhere else to be, was on break, and so on."

"Absolutely," Peggy agreed. "Still, I made Duncan scour the surveillance footage to see where else she was that day." She opened another file with a few mouse clicks. "This is another camera, in the next hall, a few minutes after what you just saw." The video showed the woman exiting the hospital. It blinked to another angle, showing the woman getting into a waiting car.

"Okay, so it was the end of her shift and she was going home," Don said.

"Except," Peggy clicked open another file, "she just entered the hospital not twenty minutes before. That's her wandering the halls. See there? Doesn't really know where she's going. Not what you'd expect from someone who works there. Recognize that man in the video?"

Don watched himself talking on his cell phone, probably outside Tom's room. The blond woman came up to him. Don shrugged and the woman turned away. Then he called her back and pointed with his free hand down the hall.

"Do you remember what she asked you, Don?"

"I think she asked me where the ICU was. I met our suspect..."

"It didn't strike you as odd that a nurse was asking you directions?"

"I didn't think about it, you know? Some reporter was bothering me about what happened. Two officers down, one a murderer. My brother in law was in the hospital. I had a lot on my mind. If I noticed the nurse's uniform, maybe I thought she was a stripper or something, or it was her first day, I don't know."

"Probably a good idea to get the sketch artist in here?"

"No. I don't remember what she looked like. I have trouble with faces. And anyway, Caspar is an abstract expressionist. His sketches never helped identify anyone. They're nice to hang around here, though." He pointed at one, a jumbled mess of lines, swirls, and clumps. "Livens up the place."

"True," Peggy agreed. "Shame the union doesn't let us get a real sketcher."

"Pffft. Whatcha gonna do? We have any footage of the car? Enough to identify the model, maybe the license plate?"

"The computer's working on it," Peggy said. "But these images are of such low quality, I don't have high expectations."

"Yeah, I don't understand how we're supposed to use this surveillance footage. It's never in HD." Don squinted at the enlarged pixelated face of the fake nurse and prime suspect in Swinton's murder. He had Peggy print him a copy anyway. "There's no footage of her going into Swinton's room, is there?"

"No. The camera in that hall was out of order."

"Of course it was," Don sighed. "Still, I think you're right that she's involved. If anything, we should find her so she can explain what she was doing in the hospital that day. Good work, Peggy. This is a solid lead. Finding Swinton's killer will go a long way toward solving his crimes."

Deputy Cinthia Evanovich pulled to the curb when her partner Kurt Dunce said they arrived. It was a nice neighborhood and all that, but she really didn't want to be here, some thirty miles from home.

"We always get the shit jobs," Kurt said as he slammed his door closed. "Mettler-Klump doesn't even know our names."

Cinthia made a face. "Of course Don does. Remember, he said he only hires good people because we're the best police department in town."

"The only one too," Kurt snorted.

"I'm sure that's not how he meant it."

"Whatever. Made us go halfway across the state to do what, exactly?"

"Don's super smart. He knows what he's talking about. If he thinks we'll find something, if he has enough confidence in us, then we better not disappoint him."

Kurt shook his head. "Like I said. He don't even know our names. That's why we got assigned on this wild goose chase in the middle of nowhere. I say we find a bar, get a couple of brewskies, then head home and tell him we found nothing."

"Maybe that's why he doesn't know your name. You've done nothing to make him notice you."

"Whatever, let's get this over with."

Cinthia rang the bell. After a few moments she opened the screen door and knocked on the wooden one behind it. When there was no answer she knocked again and tried to peer in the window, cupping her hands around her eyes. She saw the floor through the cracks in the blinds, but not much else.

"No one's there," Kurt said from the lawn. "Just as I expected," he added.

"Can I help you folks?" An old man emerged onto the porch of the neighboring house.

"No," Kurt said and headed back to the car.

"Yeah," Cinthia said. "Does anyone live here?"

"Oh, not for a while," the old man supported himself on the fence. "Nice family lived here, but moved away without a word. I thought at first they went on vacation, but it's been a year. I don't think they're coming back. I still take their mail and mow their lawn, but...did something happen to Scott and his family?"

"I'm not sure," Cinthia replied. "One day they're all here and the next they're gone?"

"Yes, pretty much. Do you want to take a look around? I have a key."

"That would be great, thanks."

The house was empty of furniture. "Did you see a moving truck or anything?" The dusty floor creaked. Their steps and voices echoed throughout.

"Not that I recall," said the neighbor. "Maybe they came at night. I'm a sound sleeper."

One of the bedrooms upstairs had something left on the door, the remainder of a child's drawing. "Do you know if they pulled their daughter out of school before they left?" Cinthia interrupted the old man's story about his new blood pressure medication.

"Such sweet girls. I don't know, I'm sorry to say." He went on to talk about his own children and grandchildren.

When they finished the tour Cinthia asked if they could take the mail. The man was happy to provide it. He was still talking about the new mail carrier when they drove away.

"Well that was pointless," Kurt said from the driver's seat.

"I wouldn't say so," Cinthia thumbed through the mail. "I think Don will be pleased."

"What, that we listened to an old man's life story?"

"He was a nice enough guy, but no. We found out Swinton has a wife and kids. Two daughters. The question is, where are they? That the family suddenly moved is also new information that might be useful."

"But we know they moved. Swinton got a job with us because he knew some politician's nephew or something."

"But why the sudden move? And the house was gutted. Did you see that? They even took the pipes. And all in the middle of the night. That old man has nothing to do, so he'd know all about it if it happened during the day."

"If you say so," Kurt shrugged.

The tattered siding, cracked porch, the stink of rot all reminded Lucus Chalmers of the movie Deliverance. He had a bad feeling about the house. This was not a part of town he'd visit willingly, so he was glad for Tom's company.

Lucus urged Tom to put his PSP away and then knocked on the door. The address numbers rocked back and forth with the motion. Either no one was home or they pretended not to be. He reviewed the fax to make sure they had the right place. The house didn't seem appropriate for someone who could afford a team of big city lawyers.

"You wanna check around back?" Tom didn't quite know what to do with his free hands. He drew them together to clap lightly.

Lucus considered the giant snarling dog behind the chain link fence. "Better not."

"Okay," Tom clapped. "I think someone's inside though, and they're up to no good."

Lucus had the same feeling. "What makes you say that?"

"Someone just looked out the window and made face at me."

"What kind of a face?"

"Like they're crazy." Tom contorted his facial muscles to show what he saw.

Lucus imagined someone tied up or in a cage. "You hear that?"

"What?" Tom clapped.

"Like a muffled scream maybe?"

"Nope."

Chalmers had the urge to knock down the door and go in with his gun drawn. Something wasn't right. But what if he was wrong? Maybe it was just this creepy house. This neighborhood. It always made him jumpy, with its mountain hicks in their meth dens. If he barged inside without permission or a warrant and there wasn't anything illegal going on, a team of lawyers would destroy him and the department. But still...Lucus knew in his gut that something here was seriously wrong. Perhaps they should try the old policeman's trick, something that would excuse them if they found nothing wrong. A good probable cause excuse to get in. Some kind of imminent danger to the house's occupants and neighbors.

"Say Tom?" Lucus motioned with his head at the door and winked.

"What's up, Chalmers?"

"Do you smell gas?"

"Sorry about that."

Lucus expected a yes or no answer. Yes if Tom was with him and no if he thought it was a bad idea. "Say again?"

"I think the tamales might not have agreed with me," Tom patted his stomach.

Another muffled sound. Perhaps someone struggling. "You hear that? Come on, you had to hear that."

"Sorry about that," Tom smiled sheepishly and patted his stomach. "Tamales..."

"Have you been passing gas this whole time?"

"Yes. Sorry about that."

Lucus began to doubt what he'd heard. But still, the vibe this place had...there was something wrong here. As they walked back to their car Lucus took out his pad and wrote down the license plate numbers of the nearby vehicles as well as their models. He made special note of the green Honda Civic because it was parked directly in front of the house. It also had out of state plates, which was fairly unusual in town, especially in this area. On their drive back to the station Lucus asked Tom to lower his window and advised him not to eat so many tamales in the future.

Duncan came back from the records room with a thin manila envelope. "That's all we have on Doug Hadiger," he took out three sheets. One was a photograph of the councilman slumped over his desk. Another was a group portrait of the officers at the scene, behind the body and no doubt organized by Marcy, the photograher. The third was titled "Coroner's Report." It named the deceased, pronounced suicide as the cause of death, and contained no other information except Marcy's handwritten shopping list off to the side.

Don closed his eyes and counted to ten. "So we have absolutely nothing on the councilman. Was he cremated?"

"The article says he's buried at the new cemetery."

Don put Peggy in charge of getting a court order to dig Hadiger up, and once they did to coordinate with Mort.

"Good work. You might even get a promotion for this," Don finished his call with one of the two out of town deputies. "Swinton has a wife and two daughters. Kirk and Samantha are coming back soon with the details," he told Chalmers who had just returned.

"You mean Kurt and Cinthia," Lucus corrected.

"Right, right. Jeez, what's that smell?"

"Sorry about that," Tom said.

"You're rotten inside, Klump."

Tom chuckled. "Tamales..."

"I ate them and I'm fine. What else did you have, Klump?"

"Nothing."

"You didn't have that pizza I saw you eating? Or the bag of popcorn?"

"Yes. I had those too."

"Did you also go to that new bakery?"

"No," Tom said, his tone signifying the opposite was true.

"Uh huh. You have powdered sugar on your nose, liar. Don't slander your sister's delicious food. So what have you guys got to report? What did Quilton have to say for himself?"

"Quinton, boss."

"Right. Well?"

"We didn't get to talk with anyone, though Tom saw someone in the window," Lucus said. "I had a bad feeling about that place, Don. Something's definitely wrong there. But we had no probable cause. I didn't want to get any more heat on the department."

Don nodded. "Good thinking. But your hunches are often proven right. You know you could always do the old trick. You know the one: 'do you smell gas?'"

"Sorry about that," Tom looked up from his video game.

Don wrinkled his nose. "Oh my God." He coughed. "Something died inside you and my eyes are burning. I can't see!"

"Sorry about that," Tom beamed with pride.

Don thought for a moment. "I have a job for you, Klump. Head on over to Town Hall. See what records you can find on the late Douglas Hadiger."

"You got it, Mettler." Tom slumped into a chair.

"Right now would be nice."

"I'm on my way," the stink lingered.

"So you were saying, Lucus?" Don wondered where his air filter was.

"That place creeped me out. We couldn't really look around. There's a vicious dog protecting the back. I did write down what cars were parked in the vicinity."

"Good work."

"Alright," Peggy said and they all turned to her. "We have partial plates and the make of the car. They're—"

"What's the meaning of this?" Marcy barged in. "You're exhuming someone? How dare you question my legacy!"

Her outrage was directed at Peggy. Don remained quiet, letting the forensics expert take one for the team. He'd get her a nice Christmas present.

"Lucus," Don began.

"I know the drill, boss." Lucus wrapped his arm around Marcy's shoulder. "Ma'am, there's a matter that requires your urgent attention..." he escorted her out of the room.

"God bless that boy," Peggy said. "How did she find out so fast? Anyway, as I was saying, the computer's resolved images of the car our suspect, the fake nurse, got into. Partial plates, out of state. The car's a Honda Civic, green, 1998 model."

"Great work," Don said.

"It's going to take a while for the other state to get back to us about possible owners. I've already put in the request."

"Excellent. Now that we know the car, more or less, is there any way to track it? See where it's been? Where it went?"

"Hmm."

"I mean, Tom's always sending me articles about how the government tracks our every move with drones and cell phones and cookies and satellites. Is there any way we can use these things?"

"We can try, but I doubt the Feds will share with us. What we can do is look at traffic light cameras and surveillance video from shops on the street and so on."

"Great. Get on it. I want to know where that car's been and where it went."

Libby got a good tip from Mrs. Marlow about seeing a couple of dogs by the warehouse on Pine Road. One of them could've been the beagle she sought. Sofia would be so happy to have her dog back. Libby waved her hand in front of her face and took a sip of water to fight back tears. There it was. Something furry scampered across the parking lot toward the dark entrance of the building. Libby got out of her car and followed it.

After she got over the shock of seeing a cop in her warehouse, Ingrid Quinton turned her mind to what to do about it. But how had she found the place? Did she know about the bodies? No. If she did, she would have backup. Ingrid could emerge from the shadows and introduce herself. She could steer this woman away from the refrigerators, tell her she trespassed on private property. She wouldn't have a warrant, and so she would have to leave. Ingrid could even inquire as to why the policewoman was there.

"Here Estrella," the officer said. Her tone, to Ingrid's ear, sounded of discovery. The officer found something and was radioing a colleague. She had to be dealt with. Whoever came too. Then this place would have to be stripped down and burned.

Ingrid took out her gun and aimed.

But the officer pulled first. "Freeze!" she shouted. Her gun pointed straight at Ingrid. How could she see her in the dark? Ingrid raised her hands but didn't drop her gun. The officer fired. A bullet whistled past Ingrid's ear and ricocheted off the wall behind. Ingrid turned and fled as fast as her old legs could carry her.

"Estrella!" the cop yelled behind her, no doubt summoning her partner.

Libby entered the warehouse. The dog had to be around here somewhere. She wondered what attracted the animal to the place. It had a strange smell, like that weird Sharper Image air filter Don liked so much. Perhaps it was the buzzing of some sort of electronic equipment that attracted the dog. Though now that Libby was inside the building she began to doubt her hunch that the doggy was here. Maybe she saw a big squirrel or imagined the whole thing.

Just in case she called it, "here Estrella." Nope, nothing.

It occurred to Libby that this was one of those creepy warehouses that they always had in the detective shows she watched with Don. She pretended someone lurked in the shadows ahead of her.

"Freeze!" she yelled. Libby thought it wonderful practice. One never knew when the real thing would happen. Wanting to put it away, she fumbled with the gun. She accidentally squeezed the trigger, firing into the darkness.

Libby flushed with embarrassment and adrenaline. Don always yelled at her about putting the safety on. She thought she heard something aside from the ringing in her ears and her thudding heart. Maybe the dog was here after all and she just scared it. "Estrella," she said again, probably much too loudly. Good thing no one was around to see her. Libby felt fresh warmth rushing to her head.

She found the shell and went to see where the bullet had gone. Hopefully she didn't cause any noticeable damage. Libby got her flashlight out, scanning along the wall. She found the dent and followed its angle. She concentrated on the floor.

"Owww!" Libby rubbed her head.

"Stupid pipe." It came out of nowhere. Who'd put a pipe there anyway? She shone the light on it, still rubbing her head. She decided not to tell Don about it. Or he'd insist on her wearing a helmet. Everyone would think she was special. But she was just a little clumsy, nothing more. The pipe ended at some sort of contraption. Libby moved to investigate.

She gasped when her flashlight beam hit a face. "Hello?" No, the person was dead. Frozen in a block of ice and looking up at the ceiling. And he wasn't the only one. These blocks of ice went at least as far as the flashlight. Libby called Don.

Peggy used traffic camera and shop surveillance footage to trace the green Honda's progress through town. She tapped the map on the computer screen. "This is where the trail ends."

"And where the footwork begins," Don said. "Good thing they didn't go to Methton."

"Yeah," Duncan replied. "All the cameras there have been stolen."

"The people there are animals. Did I tell you I once drove there with Libby? We took a wrong turn and by the time we made a U they stole our hubcaps and nearly got a wheel."

Peggy nodded. Don told that story once a week, each time with a fresh embellishment.

"Alright then. Good work guys. Keep me posted on the plate trace." Traffic cameras yielded a full plate, so Peggy had submitted another request. With that Don left the station.

He drove to a gas station at the last intersection where the suspects' car was seen. Don asked the attendants whether they saw a green Honda with out of state plates. That didn't ring a bell. He thanked them for their time and was about to get back in his car when he had another idea. A long shot, really. Don whipped out the enlarged, pixelated photo of the suspect from the hospital security cameras.

"Have you seen this woman? I mean, it's hard to tell with all, I don't know what you call it—static? It's a woman, though. With blond hair. Looks like a nurse but that's not necessarily her profession."

The attendant studied the photo carefully. "Hey Billy, come 'ere. You seen this girl?"

Billy also studied the photo, turning it this way and that.

Don grew impatient. He checked his desire to snatch the photo away from them and drive off. It was too blurry to be of any use. He wouldn't even know it was of a person if he didn't know where it came from. It looked more like one of Caspar's sketches than anything else.

"I seen her," Billy said. "Yeah, she comes by here every once in a while."

"Do you know who she is? Her name?"

"No, sorry." He swatted at his colleague. "You seen her around, right? At first I was like, 'no, never seen her,' but yeah, I know that chick. What made it hard was the hair. She ain't usually blond."

"Oh. Oh, yeah. Now I see her. I thought she looked familiar. Ain't she like a stripper or something?"

"Yeah, I think so. She's got these..." he made squeezing motions with his hands.

"Is she usually by herself or with someone?" Don asked.

"I seen her with someone," Billy said. "Like a boyfriend or something."

"Can you describe him."

"Nah. Not really. I wasn't looking at him, you know?"

"Does he have any distinguishing features?" Don paused to think of some examples. "Like a big nose, spots on his face, makeup?"

"Um. Does tattoos count?"

"Tattoos," Don repeated, writing it down in his notepad. "Most criminals have tattoos, so it can go either way. You remember what they're of?"

"Nah. Like I said, I don't really look at him. He'd just get out and pump the gas, you know? The girl goes in here to pay and whatnot."

"Do you have security tapes from those cameras there?" Don pointed.

"No. They're fake. We just keep 'em around as a detergents."

"You mean deterrent?"

"Yeah."

"So you say this woman in the picture is a stripper?"

"Yeah, I think so," Billy said.

"Do you know where she works?"

"Nah. Not the strip club." Unfortunately for Don, the town had a lot of strip clubs. "I don't go to the ones around here. But I think she's got this other job. Complained about her boss making her lift chemicals. Not something a dancer does, you know."

"Good use of logic there," Don said, relieved that he might not have to visit all of the strip bars—although Lucus might enjoy that...

The man nodded and pointed at his mullet. "First one in my family to graduate high school."

"I didn't know I was in the presence of a scholar," Don said.

"No shit," Billy grinned with pride.

"Do you know where this other job she works might be?"

They thought about it for a moment. "Probably the warehouse by the tracks."

"Yeah," Billy agreed.

"Where's that?" Don asked.

Billy pointed down the road. "Five miles on Pine," he said.

Don thanked the men and drove away, thinking that he'd been right all along that the suspect was a stripper. He found the warehouse easily enough. It was a large, squat building with no signs or logos anywhere. The weeds growing between the cracks in the concrete parking lot suggested that it had been out of use for a while. A squad car stood in the building's shadow. Don raised an eyebrow. He was about to contact the station to see what was going on when Libby called.

"Honey pie, I think I found something bad," Libby told her husband when he answered the phone.

"Where are you?" he asked her.

"I found it by looking for Estrella. She's a doggy."

"Where are you?" Don asked again.

She heard the crankiness in his voice, so she tried harder. "I followed her here, but I don't think she's here. Not a good place for a dog."

"Where is this 'here'?" Don growled back.

"Honey pie, I found a bunch of bodies. They're all frozen and scarey looking."

Don sighed into her ear and muttered something under his breath. "What did you find?"

"I'm at a warehouse on Pine Road," Libby replied.

Her husband chuckled.

"What?"

"Nothing," he said. "You left your car running with the door open."

"Yeah," she was surprised. "How'd you know?"

"I'm outside."

"Then what are you waiting for? Get in here my pompookalus."

Don did as his wife asked. She saw his flashlight beam in the gloom.

"Over here," she waved her own light to get his attention. "Be careful. There's pipes and stuff hanging from the ceiling."

"Did you hit your head?" he said in his parental tone.

"No," Libby did her best Tom-caught-red-handed impression.

"Did you rub it like I showed you?"

"Yeah."

"Does it still hurt?"

"No," Tom-red-handed.

"You sure?"

"Maybe it still hurts a little."

They embraced and Don kissed her head. He sighed and said, "You should wear a helmet."

"No I shouldn't. I don't need one and people will make fun of me."

"You hit your head all the time. How many times did you hit it today?"

"I don't remember."

"That's part of the problem. You should get a helmet. It can be bright pink with ribbons and stuff."

"I'm not retarded!" Libby pushed him away but he grabbed her again and drew her close to him. "I'm just a little bit Klumpy."

"I rest my case." He squeezed her love handles gently. "Now, what is it you found?"

She pointed her flashlight at the frozen vats.

They decided not to call in their discovery just yet. "All of the corpses are frozen," Don said. "We haven't done much to contaminate the crime scene. So we can wait a while to have Peggy go over everything. And there's an advantage to not having our guys crawling over all of this. We can wait and see who comes here and for what purpose."

"A stakeout?"

"A good old fashioned stakeout," Don nodded.

"Okay," Libby said. "Let's go buy the potato chips."

Ingrid Quinton wondered why there wasn't a swarm of flashing lights, cops, and coroner's personnel in her parking lot. The cop must have called for backup by now. Indeed, she heard her do it. The response wasn't this slow, this incompetent. Was it? She smiled at the thought of an article Finnemore Dunn might write if he ever got wind of this. Her choice of Don for Commissioner was shaping up to be the best long term business decision she made in a while, even with Marcy Klump's termination.

She made a U turn and came around for another pass, debating whether she should enter the parking lot. Ingrid had escaped through the back. When she drove out there was just the one police cruiser, no doubt belonging to the cop that shot at her. It was gone now. Shots fired and no other cops rushing to the scene? And the cop already there splitting? Was Don Mettler-Klump a dream come true?

Ingrid spotted a cruiser by the side of the road, surprised she hadn't noticed it previously. It wasn't exactly hidden by the couple of twigs and flowers on the roof. Ingrid only missed it because she so concentrated on her factory. That, or a senior moment.

Two cops sat in the front. Light reflecting off the windshield blocked her view of the one in the passenger seat. Mettler-Klump himself sat behind the wheel. They made eye contact, then he angrily waved her away. A stakeout. Good thing she didn't turn into the lot.

Ingrid stopped further down the road. She found one of her prepaid phones in the glove box. After dialing she said, "tell the expendable one to come to the warehouse on Pine with a truck. Tell him to move all of the equipment." She ignored the objections. "And get Charlene to a safe place." She pulled the phone's battery and sim card and threw everything out the window. Wally sometimes had good objections, but not this time.

"Honey pie, can we stop eating sugar for a while pretty please?"

"Sure." Don munched on his chips.

"Starting tomorrow."

"Why not starting today?"

"That fig newton is looking at me," Libby batted her eyes.

Don smiled. "Every week you start your no-sugar diet. Just eat whatever you want. Exercise is key. That and moderation.

Libby nodded and took out a fig newton from the assortment of junk food on the dashboard. They'd been sitting there for maybe twenty minutes and already she was getting tired. Apart from calling Peggy to have her find out who owned the warehouse, they'd done nothing but sit and eat things Libby promised her groaning tummy she wouldn't eat anymore. She could have exercised that morning. What was it that prevented her?

"Patience, my love," Don patted her hand.

Libby resumed telling him about her search for the dog. "She has to be around here somewhere," she said. "I feel it in my gut."

"You sure it's not that fig newton?"

"No, silly." She smiled and rubbed her belly.

"Look at this old lady," Don fumed. "What the hell is she doing?"

"Don't worry about it my snugglespuss," Libby tried to comfort her husband. "She's probably just lost or something."

The woman stopped her blue Cadillac to stare at them.

"She's blocking my view," Don complained. "Get out of here," he motioned for her to continue driving. "Hurry up, we don't have all day."

Seeming to remember herself the woman complied. "Old people," Don muttered and shook his head.

"Will you be okay here by yourself for a while?" Libby asked.

"You want to look for the dog?"

"Yeah, and stretch my legs."

"Be careful and keep your radio on. I'll let you know if anyone comes by."

"Loves you," Libby pecked Don on the lips and crossed the road. She pretended she was on safari. She spotted a blue jay and followed it to a large tree. It flew away. She had lived here all her life but had never seen this area. It was like a small woody nook, bounded by railroad tracks and the warehouse.

She would bring Don hiking here, if he ever agreed to go hiking. Several chirps got her attention. Maybe the blue jay had baby blue jays in the tree. But the chirps didn't come from above. She rounded the tree and found Estrella with two puppies and another dog. It was a happy family. She couldn't wait to tell Don all about it.

"Hello Estrella. Your Sofia asked me to find you. She misses you a lot. I am sure she will be happy to see your beautiful pups. May I touch them?"

Libby remembered that you should always let a new doggy smell your hand first. She held out her hand and Estrella licked it.

"I'm not sure what your name is mister dog but it is a pleasure to meet you. You look like a friendly guy," Libby told the pit bull mix as he smelled and licked her hand.

She decided to take them all back with her since she heard it might rain later that day. She gathered the puppies in her shirt. Estrella and the other dog followed her to the car.

"Snuggles, guess what?" Libby said to Don, who was trying to figure out his binoculars.

"What?" Don asked absentmindedly.

" I did it. I solved the case." Libby beamed.

"Really?"

"Yes, I found them hiding behind a tree and I brought them back."

"Where are the culprits?" Don looked around. "There's no one here."

"Right here." Libby showed him the pups. "And this is Estrella and her husband. Doesn't he remind you of Tom?" she giggled.

"I don't know," said Tom. He balanced his PSP on his leg, an ice cream cone in the hand not using the phone. "My sister said I'm not supposed to hang out with you." The PSP slipped. Tom lunged to catch it. The ice cream threatened to smear across his face. But Tom was faster than it. He turned his mouth and the entire thing went in. He caught his video game with the now free hand and swallowed his treat with minimal chewing.

Tom let out a satisfied belch and debated whether he should buy another cone. He already had six, but was that enough to reward him for completing the assignment? He patted the thick manila folder, tarred with chocolate and feathered with fuzz, that the nice clerk gave him at Town Hall. All the public files on Douglas Hadiger. Don expected it to take a long time, so Tom figured he had the rest of the day off.

"I don't know," he said again to Duey. "I have to hit the gym." His sweaty blubbers vibrated as he patted them. "Hmmm." Maybe Duey was right. Moving boxes and stuff could be considered exercise. He checked his pockets to see how much money he had left. Pity his tax refund savings were gone. "If you buy me pizza afterwards you have a deal...Okay. Where is it?...On Pine?...Be there soon."

Don frowned at the dogs in the back seat, but said nothing. Libby cooed softly at the puppies, letting them lap at her hand while petting their sleepy faces. He turned forward just in time to see a truck pull into the lot. He tapped Libby's shoulder. "We got something."

He got out of the car and his wife followed. "Should we call for backup now?"

"I don't know. What do you think?" Libby closed her door gently and waved at the dogs.

"I asked you first," Don said.

"I asked you second," Libby replied.

"Why are we whispering?"

"I don't know. I'm whispering because you're whispering."

"Alright. Let's go," Don said in his normal voice. He drew his gun.

They had to wait a minute for a sudden stream of cars to pass before they could cross the road. By the time they got to the building's entrance the truck's occupant or occupants left the vehicle. Don motioned to Libby like lieutenants and captains did in war movies. She shrugged back at him. Of course. Such films were always too intense for her and he had to watch them by himself, until they became too intense for him. Then they snuggled and discussed their future vacations.

Don shook himself out of his reverie. Libby thought he was making fun of her and gave him an icy glare. Don gave her a questioning look.

An "oh shit!" from inside reminded them why they were there. They crept in. By now Libby had her gun out too. A man stood in the semidarkness, scratching his head. Don motioned for Libby to go right while he went left. He was on the lookout for accomplices but so far it appeared the man was alone.

They were getting close. About time to yell freeze and cuff the bastard. A soft metallic thud reverberated through all the pipes overhead. Libby's "owww!" followed shortly after. Don swiveled in her direction, almost losing his balance. His gun went off. The bullet punctured a pipe and steam bellowed out of the ceiling. "I'm okay!" Libby yelled over the roar as Don radioed for backup.

The suspect bolted.

"Freeze! Police!" Don shouted to no avail. They huffed and puffed after him along the maze of iced bodies and equipment.

Tom pulled up to the warehouse's front entrance, next to Duey's truck. He thought about pizza toppings as he strolled toward the door. Duey rushed out and crashed into him. Tom barely felt the impact. Duey, meanwhile, bounced off and sprawled on the ground.

"Sorry about that," Tom made the I'm sorry I bumped into you smile he'd practiced with Libby. He stooped down and picked Duey up. "Are you okay?"

Before Duey could answer, Don emerged, sweaty and rumpled. "Cuff him."

Tom followed orders. Don clapped him on the back and Libby said, "Good job bro."

"Do I still get a pizza?" Tom was puzzled.

"For responding so quick, damn right," Don said. He shoved Duey in the back of Tom's cruiser. "Drive him to the station and put him in a cell. I have to wait here for forensics. Libby, go ahead and deliver the dogs."

Tom's sister smiled. "Snugglespuss, if they let me keep one can I pretty please?"

"Not in public," a red faced Don said through gritted teeth.

"Sorry, snu—hon--Commissioner D."

"She found some missing dogs," Don explained to Tom, who nodded. "Now what are you still doing here? Get to work!"

Libby smiled and tried not to cry as Sofia hugged her beagle.

"Thank you so much," Rosa Marie said. She ruffled her daughter's hair. "Soph, what do we say?"

"Thank you," said the happy girl. "Where did you go?" she asked Estrella.

Libby waited for the dog to reply. When it didn't, she explained that she found it near the tracks by the warehouse on Pine Road. "She was with this guy," Libby petted the brown pit bull who sat next to the nursing pups.

"I know what happened now," Rosa Marie said. "We fed this dog from time to time back at our old house. He followed us here. It's almost 100 miles. And Estrella wasn't getting fat. She was pregnant."

Libby waved her hand next to her face, unable to suppress the tears any longer. "It's so beautiful," she managed.

Rosa Marie agreed. Then she said what Libby hoped to hear. "We don't really have any room for all these dogs. That's why we didn't take this one in at our old place. This apartment is even smaller..."

"I can take them!"

After consulting with Sofia, Rosa Marie and Libertad decided that Libby would take the pit bull and his favorite pup, the one curled up by his side.

"I feel like we're breaking up the family," Libby said.

"They can visit all the time, can't they mom?"

"I suppose," Rosa Marie said.

"Yay," Libby and Sofia said together.

They agreed that Libby would pick the dogs up when the puppies were weaned. Libby hoped that would give her enough time to prepare Don and Tom. Both men in her life hated change. But she would convince them by dropping little hints.

"I'm getting doggies. Doggies, doggies, doggies," she sang on her way to the station.

They watched Duey sweat in the interrogation room from behind the mirror. Don examined the paperwork on the ownership of the warehouse and thanked Lucus for a job well done. The two officers that had gone out of town came back not long after Don arrived at the station. "Excellent job, Kirk, just excellent," Don had said while the female officer (what was her name? Vanessa?) fumed. Don asked whether she had something to say, but she declined.

"What's the ETA on getting that radiator fixed? It's as hot as a jungle in there." Don said.

"Maintenance said they'd get to it yesterday," Lucus replied.

Don let out an exasperated breath. "Arthur, aren't you in maintenance?"

The janitor, who'd been sweeping dirt at their feet and generally getting in the way in the tiny room jumped. "Oh my. You've startled me. What was the question?"

"The radiator in the interrogation room. It doesn't turn off."

"Oh yes. There's just so much cleaning to do."

Don closed his eyes and exhaled again. "So Swinton has a wife and kids, who are missing. Kirk checked with their relatives. No one has seen them in a year. Are they on the run? Did Swinton kill them? Does someone else have them? Tom got what might be a treasure trove at Town Hall. How did you do it, Klump?"

Tom shrugged and swallowed his pizza.

"How did you make it through security so fast?"

"I have a pass."

"How'd you get a pass?"

"At the Town Hall PSC."

"The what now?"

Tom bobbed his head as he said the word in his mind and counted on his fingers. "The Public Servants Center."

"They give you a pass and then you don't have to stand in line? They let you use the elevator and everything?"

"Yeah. What kind of an idiot would stand in line?" Tom wondered.

Don looked away. The janitor bumped into him and pressed him up against the glass.

"Arthur. Must you really clean in here now? At this moment?"

The janitor started. "Oh my. I didn't realize anyone was in here."

"Really?" Don fumed. "Why don't you go throw out the garbage that's been piling up in the conference room since last year" he shouted and shewed the janitor out the door. Slamming it shut he said, "I've been complaining to Town Hall about him since my first day, but he's still here. Anyway, where were we?"

No one remembered.

"Right. Lucus, Tom brought a stack of documents on Hadiger." He picked the manila envelope up with a tissue, dubious about the brown stuff on it. With Tom one never knew. He handed it to Lucus. "Comb through it and see what you can find. I also want you to be there to supervise when they dig up the body. I can't be there myself because of all these new bodies. We're stretched pretty thin."

"Got it boss," Chalmers left the observation room.

"You ready, Leslie?"

The prosecutor nodded.

Don plopped down across from Duey. "So I knew you were a scumbag, what with all your tattoos and killing your brother. But this," Don laid out a few of the photographs from the warehouse that Peggy sent over, "is something else. You are one sick bastard."

"I don't know nothing about that, and where's my lawyer," Duey replied with an affected calm.

Don knew better, as he felt the table shake from Duey's fidgety legs.

"Don't play dumb with me. We caught you inside."

"I was just there to move some boxes."

"So that's your excuse? 'I didn't kill no one. I was just there to rob the place,'" Don mocked. "Give me a break. You can't rob a place if it's yours." He took out the documents Lucus found on the warehouse.

"Mine?"

"I'm not falling for it. No point in acting surprised. As you well know, Intrepid Quality Waste Collection Services owns the warehouse. You're the CEO and sole shareholder of the company."

"What?" Duey leaned back. "I never heard of that company before. I never set foot inside the place before today."

"Uh huh. Is this not your signature?" Don showed him a local tax return.

"Yeah, but..."

"Let's look at the list of charges, shall we? When they hear about this the members of the jury that let you off will regret not sending you to jail for killing your brother. We have theft of a truck, resisting arrest, and prior to that shooting at me—"

"What? You shot at me!"

"We'll find the gun, you scum bag."

"I don't have guns anymore!"

"And then there's also all those bodies, which come with a list of charges all of their own. There's so many, forensics is still going over the scene. You're one sick bastard."

"I never seen those bodies before in my life."

"Uh huh," Don rolled his eyes. "You killed them with your eyes closed? Wise guy."

"Where's my lawyer?" Duey lost his fighting spirit.

Don basked in his fright. At last an open and shut case.

"Where's my lawyer?" he asked again, his voice wavering.

Norman Mettler stormed in.

"Right on cue," Don muttered.

"Stop harassing my client," Norm dropped his briefcase on the desk. "Well? What are you still doing here?"

Don gathered his papers and left. He sat in the conference room with the others of his team as they waited for Norman to signal that he was ready.

"He was Mirandized as soon as he got to the station, right?"

"Yep," Lucus replied. He didn't look up from Hadiger's file. Don noted that Lucus had forensics gloves on. He too was dubious about the brown stains on the envelope and documents.

"We didn't beat him up or anything."

"Nope."

"So what's my dad going to say we did wrong?" Don stroked his chin.

"There was no warrant to go into the warehouse," Leslie said.

"We have one now," Don said. "Libby was in the place on another matter entirely. She stumbled upon the bodies, quite literally."

"And you used this discovery as the basis of your stakeout?" Leslie asked.

"Yeah."

"Then you followed McCaliker into the warehouse to make an arrest?"

"Yeah."

"That might be a problem," Leslie furrowed her brow.

Don sighed. "We should've gotten the warrant before we reentered the warehouse."

"Perhaps you reentered to warn McCaliker to get out when you smelled gas?" Leslie suggested.

"Sorry about that," Tom said.

"All these damned rules," Don put his shirt over his nose, "they get in the way of police work. And anyway, he was arrested outside the building, so..."

Norman signaled that he was ready to deal with them. He didn't wait for the door to close before he said, "did you have a warrant when you entered the building and shot at my client?"

"Well, um," Don began.

"I thought so. I'm getting all of that thrown out. You can take the bodies out and all that, but they're not my client's problem. You'll hear from the judge on that score soon enough. Now as to the truck allegedly stolen—"

An unfamiliar man barged into the interrogation room. Everything about him said big city lawyer. He examined them for a second and then said to Norman "you're fired. Leave at once."

Norman scoffed at him. "Like hell. Who is this shyster?" he asked Duey.

The suspect shrugged, his eyes wide. The city lawyer leaned in and whispered into his ear. Duey's eyes grew wider than Don thought possible. He swallowed hard and in a cracked voice said, "Norman Mettler you're fired. You're no longer my attorney."

"My word!" Norman got up so violently his chair crashed into the wall behind him. "Does this ambulance chaser know the local officials? Does he know the judge? Does he know the procedures? Stick with me and you won't spend a day in jail."

"Sorry," Duey looked down at the desk. "You're fired."

"Well then," Norman refused to look at his former client, "I'm charging you for the hour. With this city hack you'll receive my invoice in prison." He stormed out.

"Give me some time to confer with my client," the dapper man said.

Don scanned the suddenly pale Duey's face. "Um. This is your new lawyer?"

Duey nodded.

"Can I see your credentials?" Don asked. The lawyer showed him his bar pass and ID. "Alright, then. Call me when you're ready."

Everyone whispered excitedly at the conference table while Don tried to calm his father down. "Don't worry about it dad. It's not good for your blood pressure. Besides, I'm sure Duey's gonna commit many more crimes. He'll hire you back."

"You think so?"

"Sure. Absolutely. And if not him, there's plenty of criminals in this town. They all need representation, and you're the first one they have us call."

"That's nice of you to say, son. But these damned big city lawyers. Why are they moving in here on my turf? Like the big chain stores pushing out the moms and pops. And this is the same law firm that stole that other case from me. What? The big city doesn't have enough cases that these sharks are coming here?"

"Take it easy dad. Here, sit down. Tell me about how the stock market went today."

"Oh, don't even get me started on that," Norman smiled at Libby, who just returned. He finished the water she gave him and crumpled the paper cup. "It's like they're watching me. I want to buy something, the price goes up. I want to sell, the price goes down. It's their stupid big city computers screwing around with the little guys."

"So why don't you quit gambling and get a nice hobby?"

Libby said, "You should get a dog. Dogs are awesome."

"You're a sweet girl. No. The market's my life. It's not gambling. It's trading. I just have to find the right system. All the big houses make billions of dollars. You're telling me I can't shave a few thousands of a percent off of that? Damned cheaters, making it hard for the little guy."

Duey's new lawyer stuck his head out of the room. "I gotta go, dad," Don said. "Promise me you won't go to Methton looking for new clients? I'll call you when we arrest someone, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'll just sit here a while if you don't mind." He took out a paper bag.

"Sure thing, dad." Don went back to the interrogation room. The shuffling behind the mirror told him that Leslie was in the observation room, probably jostling with Arthur for space. "So how has your story changed, Duey? What lies has this pettifogger concocted for you?" Don sat down across from them.

"My client has decided to confess," the lawyer said without emotion.

"To what?" Don prepared himself for some joke at his expense.

"Everything. Isn't that right, Mr. McCaliker?"

Duey, completely drained of color, nodded.

"The truck, the bodies...?"

"Yes. And he is prepared to sign a confession."

Don was nonplussed. "Why the change of heart?"

"He found his conscience."

"You don't say." Don wondered what trap the lawyer led him into. "Since you're in the talking mood, know anything about the murder of Scott Swinton?"

Duey opened and closed his mouth, then turned to his lawyer. The attorney said, "my client regrets his actions in that matter. He is responsible for Officer Swinton's death. It's all right here in Mr. McCaliker's confession, which he will sign in front of you," the lawyer placed a typewritten sheet in front of his client.

"We have video of a woman. Nothing of Duey," Don said.

"Yes. Her name is Charlene Atkinson. Mr. McCaliker sent her to check if Swinton was dead, after he poisoned him."

Don shook his head. "This doesn't make sense to me. Here's—"

The prosecutor cut him off. "We can work with all that," Leslie entered the room. "If Mr. McCaliker wants to sign the confession, that is his right."

On his advocate's nod, Duey signed and dated the document.

"Something doesn't feel right about this," Libby said.

"I agree," Don nodded. "Duey's a lowlife scumbag and murderer, and we caught him in the warehouse, but..."

"It's a win, Don. I agree that the confession lacks some detail, but we'll put him away for life," Leslie said. "It's a victory that this department needs, quite frankly."

"Oh, that's right. You're up for reelection."

"That has nothing to do with it."

"Really?"

"If you weren't such a good friend I'd be offended by that," Leslie put her hand on Don's shoulder.

Libby glared at her. Don moved out of her reach. "But are we not supposed to examine the confession? Any old crazy can come in and confess to something. Doesn't mean we should charge him. We have to investigate. It says so in chapter 8," he patted his manual (freshly reprinted, the first two having been lost in Arthur's cleaning).

"And so you will. You'll have plenty of time to interview Duey McCaliker after he's been transported to the pen."

"If he gets there in one piece," Don said.

"And why wouldn't he?" Leslie replied. "I'm starting to think the two of you have a predisposition not to accept good news. Instead of being all dour about it you should be celebrating. How about I take you both for a drink?"

"Thanks, but we have stuff to do at home," Libby pulled Don toward her.

"Suit yourselves." Leslie smiled. "I guess I'll find someone else to celebrate with. It's a win, guys. A win." She spotted Lucus working at his desk and traipsed in his direction.

Don and Libby went home. Libby yammered about doggies while Don wondered if perhaps Duey's confession was some sort of elaborate big city legal defense.

Meanwhile at a certain dwelling in Methton, a woman struggled against her restraints on the mildewed carpet. Her wide, bloodshot eyes stared at the grinning man standing over her. Her gag didn't quite muffle her screams.
Episode Five

"Counting the Bodies"

A sleepy Judge Ernest Hand slammed the gavel, making Duey McCaliker's confession official. A circle of cops whisked the convicted killer out of the courtroom to the waiting line of police cruisers. When Cinthia and Kurt got to their car, the con was already in the back seat. A jacket shrouded Duey's head. Cinthia didn't understand it, but Commissioner Don Mettler-Klump had his reasons. She didn't see him that morning, which was odd given the publicity surrounding the case.

The convoy pulled out of the courthouse lot amid the flash of reporters' cameras. All five of them were there, taking pictures and thrusting their recorders at the cars.

"Another crap job," Kurt said from the passenger side ten minutes later. He tapped his fingers on the roof through the open window.

"What are you talking about?" Cinthia replied. "This is the most important job of all. We're transporting the prisoner to the state pen." She glanced at the mirror. Duey sat motionless behind the jacket that covered his head and most of his body.

"Was my day off. That idiot makes us come to work...better be overtime in this."

"Like you do anything anyway," Cinthia elbowed Kurt.

"Don't see why they need so many of us to bring one scumbag to prison," Kurt fiddled with the radio dial. "And he gave us ear plugs last night. For what? We can't even listen to music in our cars anymore? Fuck that."

"Don has his reasons," Cinthia replied. "What the—" She slammed the brakes. Kurt hit his head on the dashboard and slumped over.

The cruiser in front of them was swept off the road by a large construction truck. The hood crumpled as their car barreled into it. Cinthia had her seat belt on, so she was okay. Kurt was bleeding but still had a pulse. The rear view mirror showed another truck. Not an accident, then.

She unbuckled herself and turned to check on the prisoner. He had a gun! She reached for hers, banging her elbow on the steering wheel. As she cursed Duey asked if she was okay. He'd pulled the jacket off of his head and freed himself from the restraints. "Defensive position, deputy," he said.

It wasn't Duey. It was Don. His eyes went wide and he fired through the side window. Cinthia's ears rang. Through the after image of the muzzle flash she saw Don screaming at her, spittle flying everywhere. But she heard nothing. She watched him get out, her body frozen in her seat.

He pulled her from the vehicle and dragged her toward the side of the road. Her body didn't comply until Don slapped her. They ran toward the thicket, Don firing behind them. He pushed her into the tall grass and reloaded. On the road, masked gunmen used her cruiser for cover. One dragged another toward the truck on the right, behind her squad car. Don screamed into his radio and fired another couple of rounds. Flashes to Cinthia's left drew her attention to Libby, who had joined them. Cinthia reloaded, realizing that she too was shooting at the masked men.

Lucus Chalmers wrinkled his nose and rolled down the window. "Have you been eating tamales again?"

"It's not me, I swear," Tom said. "I only smell like wet towel."

"Sorry you guys," Duey said from the back. "I'm a bit nervous."

The fresh air assuaged Lucus' nausea. He rubbed his temple and slowed to make the curve. Don had insisted that they take this out of the way road through the hills. It would take an extra hour, provided there weren't any fallen trees. The route was so meandering and inefficient Lucus was sure Marcy planned it. Don disabused him of the notion, calling it a precaution. He also insisted that Lucus and Tom wear plain clothes. He had a hunch someone would try to rescue or kill Duey.

The winding road and the constant up and down motion of the car didn't help his hangover. He regretted drinking so much with the DA. More so, he regretted waking up naked in her bed. Lucus swallowed down the eruption from his gut.

"Are you okay? You look kind of green," Tom paused his video game and adjusted his hunter's cap. "I'll ask my mom to wash my clothes again."

"I'm fine," Lucus lied. "Just tell her for next time that wet clothes shouldn't be left in the washer for several days before being put in the dryer."

"I don't know," Tom said, "she has a special method." He grinned like a psycho. That was his social expression. "So anyway, did you hear about..." Tom launched into the latest conspiracy theory he saw on YouTube.

Lucus was in no mood to hear about how the moon was a gigantic spaceship operated by shape shifting reptoids. "Not now T—"

The radio blared with Don's voice, amid pops and shouts. "We're under attack. I repeat, we're under attack. Four men, automatic weapons...get around the trucks, don't let them escape."

Lucus' first impulse was to make a one eighty and gun it back to town. But that would lead Duey right to his rescuers. He kept on their course, with Tom asking every few seconds whether their colleagues would be okay.

"Whoo!" Don shouted. Libby wasn't sure if her husband tried to act tough in front of the troops or if he still had an adrenaline high. "Did you see? I got one right in the chest. He never saw it coming!"

Libby nodded. Her hands continued to shake, two hours after the attack. She wrapped the blanket tighter around herself and leaned on the ambulance for support. Don got the message and hugged her. His heart galloped against her shoulder. It would be a while before he came down.

Lucus called earlier, informing them that Duey was delivered to the prison without incident. He and Tom were on their way back. Libby smiled as she recalled hearing Tom in the background asking if they could stop for burritos.

"I can't believe they all got away," Don murmured. As soon as that was apparent he had put out an APB on four guys wearing ski masks. The officers failed to reach a consensus as to the colors, but Libby didn't think it mattered. "The guy I shot must've been wearing a vest," Don resumed his story. His tone was a mix of disappointment and relief. "We're gonna go interview Duey again. I don't think these guys were here to rescue him."

Libby nodded.

"But first we're gonna stop by the hospital," Don continued, "to visit the troops." Five members of the force suffered injuries in the attack, all relatively minor. Some were trampled by their colleagues, others had bullet grazes from friendly fire. Libby was thankful that no one died. A dozen feet away Kurt, unconscious throughout the incident, related his heroic deeds to the tow truck drivers that had come to collect the broken vehicles. Cinthia stood next to him, her arms crossed in front of her chest, a frown on her face. Libby decided she'd make her cupcakes.

Before they left, Don got Kurt's attention. "Kirk, fine job today. I want you and Vanessa," he pointed at Cinthia, "to head on over to Duey McCaliker's trailer. See what you can find there."

"We've just been in a firefight, boss. You think maybe we can take a breather for a while?"

Don considered the request. "Rest after you get there. Just secure the scene asap."

Libby guessed Kurt didn't like that. But he said, "you got it, boss."

"He's a good guy," Don said when they got in their car. "I like him."

"What the hell were you thinking?" Ingrid fumed.

Her son stared back at her impassively. "What I thought was best."

"If the cops weren't suspicious before, they will be now."

Four heavily tattooed men cowered under her glare, but her son was defiant. "Give us the room," he motioned for them to get lost. They were happy to comply. "You're one to talk, mom."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Let's see here. They found the warehouse. They're investigating the death of that cop. I heard they're digging up that councilman you fiddled around with. Before you know it they'll be bringing Wally in for questioning."

"How dare you," Ingrid screamed and smacked his face. "All of this was for you. I had to get my boy out of prison. You have no love for your mama?"

"Not when you've gone careless." Travis held his cheek.

"I'm getting old," Ingrid softened, then remembered what they were talking about. "But you, stupid boy. You have no excuse for this morning."

"Duey's gonna crack. I had to try to get rid of him."

"How can he crack if they weren't going to question him anymore? They have his confession. They don't need any more than that."

"But wouldn't they think he had help? Installing all that stuff..."

"No! Have you met any of them? They're idiots. And if they did suspect anything, they'd go talk to Duey's loser friends. Who know nothing about any of this." She shook her head and muttered, "my stupid boy." After a pause she said, "and besides, we have Charlene Atkinson. Never underestimate the power of sentimentality. If by chance they did ask him questions, he wouldn't say anything. He knows we'd kill his love. But you had to go and—"

Travis interrupted her. "Um, about that," he scratched the back of his head.

"What did you do?"

"It was an accident. She tried to escape. I'll spare you the details."

Ingrid frowned at him. "I gave you a play thing. But you had to go and mess around with our insurance."

"We couldn't keep her forever."

"And we wouldn't. When I say I have a plan, I mean it. I was going to wait for the fires to die down and then Duey would have an accident in prison. Now we have to accelerate things." Ingrid sighed. "Where's the body?"

"Which one?"

"Charlene." Shame, that one. She was a useful girl.

"I took care of it."

"Oh did you now?"

"Yeah. We left it at Duey's house."

Ingrid's hand stung from the slap. She hoped Travis' face hurt more. "You idiot."

"What now?" Travis' eyes teared.

"They will look through his stuff. They're dumb cops, but they'll at least do that. And then they'll find the body."

"So?"

"Just like his father," she said to an invisible audience and shook her head. "They'll think Duey did it!" She smacked him again.

"Right. So what's the problem?"

"They'll charge him with her murder."

"Right. Puts the heat off us. I thought about this, mom."

"Did you now?"

He nodded. "And if you didn't have Alzheimer's you'd think of it too."

"So what do you think will happen when Duey finds out Charlene is dead?"

"Oh. I hadn't thought of that."

"'Oh. I hadn't thought of that.'" Ingrid swatted at him repeatedly. "He's going to tell the damn cops everything! Maybe you were better off in jail." She thought for a moment. "Go get the body before the cops find it. Chop it up. Get rid of it." Ingrid regretted turning down an opportunity to buy a pig farm last year. "Just like his father," she said to the empty room after Travis departed.

In her rage she thought about a certain night at the museum, except it was Travis' face she saw instead of her husband's. Godfrey Leser made a brief appearance in her mind's eye.

She returned to the present. If all this happened before Marcy Klump lost her job as Medical Examiner Ingrid wouldn't bat an eyelash. Don was by nature lazy and deferred to the official judgments of qualified professionals. It meant he didn't have to do extra work. But the damned cop also had a misplaced sense of duty, which compelled him to investigate tenaciously if wrong doing was suspected. And they did themselves no favors by leaving him a trail to follow. "Mortimer Freeman," Ingrid said the new coroner's name like a curse. She'd grown complacent over the years and now a competent ME rubbed her face in it.

They went straight to the cemetery when they got back to town. "They won't get mad and haunt us, will they?" Tom asked for the millionth time and rubbed his hands together vigorously.

Lucus had given up convincing his partner that ghosts didn't exist. "No. They want us to find out the truth," he repeated. "Hadiger wants his body dug up so we can find out if he really died of suicide like your mom thought. His spirit won't rest until we do that."

"Okay," Tom rocked back and forth. "Good plan."

"Hmm mmm," Lucus turned down the cemetery road. A small group of workers waited for them by a yellow excavator and an ME van. His phone rang. He stopped the car to answer it. The woman on the other end informed him about the license plate check he asked her department to run. The green Honda Civic was registered to Duey McCaliker. "Thanks very much," Lucus said. He put the car back in gear and aimed it toward the ME van.

"They won't get mad, though, will they?" Tom asked again.

"Don't worry about it." Something gnawed at the back of his mind.

"I have nightmares about that guy looking at me out that window in Methton. Do you think he was a ghost? He kept saying they were out of pizza." Tom adjusted his cap, holding it down like a helmet.

"I don't know." Lucus pulled up to the grave site. "Wait. What did you just say?"

"I'm hungry."

"No. What did you say out loud?"

Tom thought for a few moments. "I have nightmares about that guy. He's scary."

"Oh holy hell," Lucus muttered.

"Oh my God. Is he haunting me?" Tom brought one hand to his mouth. The other clasped his hat tighter.

"What? No. Jesus. Duey's car was parked in front of that house. I had a bad feeling about that place..." He called Don.

After the hospital Don and Libby drove to the prison.

"Good work," Don said and hung up. To Libby he said, "That was Peggy. The green Honda belonged to Duey. Which I guess if we think about it, we sort of already knew because Duey confessed to killing Swinton."

Libby nodded. They signed in and were escorted through the various gates to the interview area.

"We can still ask him about it though. Maybe it'll clear up a few things."

"Good plan," Libby smiled at her hubby.

Duey waited for them, strapped to his chair and the table. "I'm not here five minutes and you're already visiting me. I signed the confession. I got nothing to say to you."

"There have been developments that we'd like you to clarify," Libby said.

Don's phone rang. He walked to the corner. "Yeah, Lucus. Peggy just told us." He shrugged at Libby, his body language asking her why Lucus was calling. "Yeah, I understand...Yeah...The car is his...I was just telling Libby that we could've figured that out from the confesh—oh. I see," he gave Duey a look. "Yeah, definitely get a warrant...He'll be fine...Just tell him to protect the medical examiner's staff...Alright, put him on the phone...Hey Klump. Lucus has to go do some stuff in Methton. You'll be okay at the cemetery...that wasn't a question...No Tom, there's no such thing as ghosts..." he gave Libby a look. "She was just kidding...No. That's a cartoon character....No that's from a Stephen King book...Look Klump, you have to face your fears. We're short staffed and there's a bunch of stuff going on...I can't do all these things myself. That's why I have deputies..." He sighed. "Protect the ME guy from the ghosts, okay?...That'a boy...You're just there to make sure no one interferes with the exhumation. The guy has no family objecting. It should be easy. Where's your mom?....Good. So it's a piece of cake then. Just stand there and look pretty...No, not literally...I know you don't do modeling...Yes, I have pointed out on many occasions your lack of good looks...Listen, Klump. Just make sure the coffin gets into the ME van without any problems." Don hung up.

He returned to the table. Libby helped him with the chair. "Did you enjoy your ride here?"

Duey scoffed. "One of your guys stunk up the car and the other one tried not to throw up. And you made them drive an hour out of the way."

"That was on purpose," Libby said. Don nodded and tapped his bald head to signify that he was the brains of the operation. "And don't make fun of my brother," Libby added.

Duey rolled his eyes. "If that's all, I'm gonna head back to my cell."

"You sit down or I'll drag you down by your stretched out earlobes," Don threatened.

"I am sitting down."

"Good."

"We're here to find out whether the guys that attacked us this morning were there to rescue or kill you," Libby said.

"I know nothing about that," Duey said. Libby couldn't decipher his expression. Fear? Hope?

"How's that green Honda of yours?" Don asked.

"So you came here to gloat about auctioning it off?"

"So you do own a green Honda."

"Yeah, what of it?" Confusion spread over Duey's face.

"What were you doing in Methton the other day?" Don asked.

Fear replaced confusion. "Nothing."

"It was parked outside the house of one Travis Quinton. A convicted felon."

"I know nothing about that," Duey started sweating.

"Why do you look like you do?"

"I, um. I was getting high. Not at that house. At a different house."

"Oh yeah?"

Duey's face changed, as if he thought of something. "I don't have to talk to you pigs. I confessed already. Just leave me alone. Guard!"

"Time to leave anyway," Don offered a hand to his wife. "Mort wants to update us on the warehouse situation."

Cinthia stopped their car next to the silver trailer that had been Duey McCaliker's before he went to prison. Kurt sat next to her, describing in minute detail the blow by blow of their fight with the masked men. "They had a gun to my neck but I hit it away. I flipped one guy over my shoulder and hit the other guy with my head. That's how I got this broken nose."

"You're a real hero," Cinthia said and got out of the cruiser. She walked around empty beer cans and other trash to the front door.

"Hey, whatchyou doing?" Kurt leaned out the passenger window. "We just gotta secure the scene. We're here. It's secure. Unless you're going in there to find some beer..."

Cinthia paid him no mind. She wondered why the door was ajar. She crept closer and drew her revolver. Hearing nothing, she entered the hot, dark confines. The smell hit her before her eyes adjusted. She tumbled out of the trailer, doubling over and dry heaving at the dusty ground. It was worse than any smell Tom ever produced.

"What's the matter?" Kurt said behind her. By the sound of it he had entangled himself with his seat belt.

"There's something horrible in there."

"Oh yeah?" as Kurt tumbled out his gun went off. Someone yelped not too far off.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," Kurt got to his feet. "Probably hit a dog or something. Don't worry about it."

Cinthia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I think there's a dead body in there."

"Oh yeah?"

"Come have a look."

Kurt holstered his weapon and did as she suggested. A pickup truck behind them roared its engine, made a quick swerving u-turn, and shrieked away. Kurt shrugged.

Cinthia pulled her shirt over her nose and went back into the trailer.

"Oh Jeez that's nasty," Kurt was in after her.

Once her eyes adjusted Cinthia found the body right away. "Female, mid twenties," she informed the dispatcher. The victim's ID was right there on top of her body. Charlene Atkinson. It looked like her neck was broken. Her exposed skin had abrasions all over. They exited the trailer to get a breath of air.

When he finished coughing, Kurt theorized that Duey killed Charlene before he was arrested. When Cinthia finished dialing he snatched the phone from her and informed Don of his discovery.

Tom didn't like it. Not one bit. Ghosts didn't like getting dug up, and here he was in charge of one being dug up. He saw a video about this on the internet. It did not end well for any of the characters except that one annoying girl. He hoped he was the annoying girl in this situation, but he felt sorry for everyone else. And he hadn't eaten anything that day other than the box of cereal, pancakes, and the burrito Lucus bought him. He liked Chalmers now. Too bad his partner had to leave on urgent police business.

The excavator started up and then stalled. A crow squawked somewhere. Libby was always talking about omens. Tom didn't think this was a good one. "Can you please wait a little?" he asked the workers, who shrugged.

"I get paid by the hour either way," one of them said.

Tom did what he thought any grown man would do in such a scary situation. He called his mother.

Peggy greeted Libby and Don at the door. Mort waved to them inside the warehouse. The team had installed bright fluorescent lights and a number of platforms from which to make observations without disturbing the scene.

When Mort shuffled over in his specialized white plastic suit Don said, "I'm sure you'll be happy to hear that we have another body for you. Kirk found it by the trailer park."

Mort smiled. "The more the merrier, I always say."

Peggy gave him a look. "We're moving along here," she said. "Collecting finger prints, fibers, hairs. It's going to be a long process, but I think we're going to get a lot of good data here. Despite Arthur." Her upper lip curled.

"Did Duey do this?" Libby asked.

"Honestly," Peggy replied, "I don't think he's smart enough."

"Indeed," said Mort. "Some interesting work has been done to the bodies. The pineal gland has been removed from at least three. A few others were completely drained of blood. I suspect they were alive at the time. No signs of struggle. The cold has left them very well preserved. Some nice work, I must say. There are thirty bodies in all, but with enough equipment for another five."

Don and Libby went to have a look around. "Peggy, you or Duncan should probably go to McCaliker's trailer. I'd like to know how that went down and whether it's related to this or if we have another case on our hands."

"Yeah," Peggy rolled toward the exit. "We were just on our way."

"Good." Don turned to Libby. "I guess we have to talk to Duey again, now that we've found his girlfriend."

Duey waited for Don and Libby as before. "What now?" he said. "You keep harassing me and my lawyer will sue your ass."

"Yeah, okay," Don snorted. "Same lawyer that got you in here? I'm not too worried."

"So what you want then?"

"To ask you a few more questions," Tom's sister said.

"I told you pigs before, I got nothing to say."

"I thought you might change your mind when you saw this." Don held his cell phone in front of Duey.

Duey's blood left his limbs. His body went numb, except for the gut where it felt like someone punched him. His beautiful Charlene.

"Did you do this? The theory is you killed her before we arrested you at the warehouse. But judging from your ugly mug and my extraordinary perceptive abilities, I'd say it was someone else. You're a killer. But I know you didn't do what's written in your confession. Believe it or not we're on the same side here."

Duey couldn't control his tears. They had Charlene. If he didn't talk nothing would happen to her, they said. Now she was dead. Was Don trying to trick him? No. The stupid pig bastard wouldn't have thought to do that. They had nothing on him now. "Yeah," he said. "I mean, no. It wasn't me. It was the Ice Queen."

"Ice cream?" Libby said hopefully.

"No you stupid bitch. Ice Q—" Duey couldn't finish because Don slammed his head against the table.

"Watch your mouth you scumbag."

Duey spit blood, his mouth ablaze. "Do you want me to tell you what I know or not?"

Libby tried to see if Duey was okay. Don held her back. "Go on."

"I knew nothing about no warehouse. Charlene worked in there. Some kind of chemistry project, she said. She worked for the Ice Queen. No, I don't know exactly who that is. And yeah, I drove Charlene to the hospital that time. But I didn't kill no cop."

"What were you doing at the warehouse by yourself when we caught you?"

"They called me and told me I had to move all the shit out of the place. I didn't know there was bodies and whatnot."

"Who called you? This 'iced clean'?"

"Ice Queen!"

"You have to enunciate better. So this lady called you and told you to move stuff out of the building?"

"Yeah. But it wasn't a lady. It was this dude. W—"

"And he works for this 'Ice Queen'?"

"Yeah."

"And how do you know this?"

Duey thought about it. "He uses this code when he calls."

"What code?" Don's phone rang. "Hold on a second, I have to take this. Mettler-Klump...What!?...Are you sure?...When?...Oh God damn it...Yeah, thanks." He hung up. "We gotta go, hon—Libby."

"What's the matter," Libby's eyes widened. "Is everything okay?"

"I don't know."

"Is it your family?"

"No," he pulled her toward the door. "Town Hall has an emergency budget meeting. They want to cut our funding because of the rise in crime." He turned to Duey at the door. "We'll be back. You'll tell us the rest then."

"You're welcome," Duey called as the door clinked shut. He'd have to tell them about Travis and Wallace later. He never went into that house. He only dropped Travis off there. And it was true, he was getting high nearby. Whatever Travis did in that house, it was sick and Duey wanted no part of it.

He could really go for a cigarette. Those fucks killed his girl and put him in the joint. Now that he thought about it, the old Icy bitch had him framed. They made him come to the warehouse so he would be arrested. And that's what those papers were that they made him sign back in the day. Owner of the factory. Duey shook his head, tasting the blood on his lips. He was their insurance policy from the start, as soon as he borrowed money from Travis. He should've known something was up when they made him go pick Travis up from here. That guy was serving a life sentence and he was out just like that? Duey scolded himself. "I should've known."

Where were the guards? They were taking their sweet time. "Hello? Guard!" He'd fight this. He'd call Norman Mettler at the first opportunity. He'd get out of jail. He'd find Travis and kill him slowly. Painfully. But first he'd find out who the Ice Queen was. "Guard!" And he'd get Wallace too.

Keys scratched at the door.

"Finally. I was beginning to think you forgot me."

The scratching went on for a long time, as if the guard didn't know which key was the correct one.

"Jeez dude," Duey said to the big guy when the door finally opened. "What is it, like your first day or something?"

"Yeah, something like that," the guard said.

"Your voice sounds familiar," Duey observed.

The man shrugged. He had the same problem with the chains. After a few minutes' struggle he pushed Duey out of the interview room. Duey turned right, but the guard propelled him the other way.

"Hey man, if it's your first day, I understand. But my cell's the other way, ain't it?"

"Shut up and keep moving."

"Alright. You're the boss." Duey didn't like it. And the guy seemed familiar somehow. "Hey, aren't you Nick's brother?"

"I, ah, shut up and keep moving."

They passed a number of abandoned guard stations and then turned into a utility area. Duey swallowed. "Are you here to break me out or kill me?"

"This is far enough."

Duey turned to find a gun pointed at his chest. "Oh come on man. Don't kill me. Come on Aaron. It's me. Duey. Remember we used to smoke up in junior high? You can't kill me man. We used to be friends and all that. You know they killed my Charlene? What do you think they'll do to you after you kill me? Just let me go, man. As a friend, just let me go."

Aaron's outstretched arm wavered.

"Just put it down, man. You don't got to do this."

Aaron mulled it over. His gun hand dropped, moved up, dropped, moved up.

"Just put it down," Duey whispered.

Aaron's face hardened as he found his resolve. He raised his arm and fired. Duey felt nothing and for a moment wondered if his body had collapsed behind him and he was a ghost. Aaron threw his hands up to his head, dropping the gun. Duey lunged forward, shouldering him like a fullback. The guard dropped after his head hit the wall.

As Duey looked for the keys he noticed there was blood on Aaron's face. The bullet must have ricocheted off the wall and hit him. Duey shrugged and got his cuffs off. He stripped the man and put on his clothes. They were much too big on him and the pant legs dragged as he walked.

He got to a guard post and they buzzed the gate open for him. As he nodded nonchalantly the uniform's collar hid half his face. The pants made sweeping sounds on the floor and he tripped over them twice. Only luck prevented him from falling. No one seemed to notice.

"He give you trouble?" a burly corrections officer asked a couple of security checkpoints later.

"Hmm?"

The guy pointed at Don's handiwork on Duey's face.

"Um, yeah, a little bit."

The guy laughed and shook his head. Duey waited at the gate, but the man didn't open it. After a while the guy coughed. When he got Duey's attention he held out his hand. Duey didn't understand what the guy wanted.

After a long pause the guard said, "the other half?"

His heart skipped a couple of beats. He groped along the pockets. In the jacket he found an envelope. He handed it to the guard, who looked inside.

Satisfied, the man said, "pleasure doing business with you."

The gate buzzed and Duey stepped through. He nodded to a couple of other guards and they let him out after he confirmed that he was going out for dinner.

A phone rang. He found it in his pocket. "Hello?"

"Is it done?"

"Huh?"

"Did you kill McCaliker?"

That was his name. Duey was confused.

"Hello? Did you hear me? This stupid place. Can't get a signal here." Whoever called him slammed his phone on something.

"I'm McCaliker," Duey said.

"What was that? McCaliker?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Meet me at the bus station in two hours."

"Okay." Duey held the phone in his hand. That was weird. Must have been a wrong number, though the guy knew his name.

It hit him. It wasn't his phone. "Duh," Duey smacked his forehead a little too hard. He had to get out of here and there was one number other than Charlene's that he knew by heart. He called his friend Tom.

His mom and dad arrived a couple of hours after Tom called them. Marcy explained as Tom listened very carefully and rubbed his hands together. Ted ran out of gas and they had to hike to the nearest gas station. Although they followed the highway, they got lost. They ended up eating lunch in a diner and met the most interesting group of people. Marcy thought the group was just what they needed for the situation. A number of Native Americans got out of the car. Marcy had them sit on top of one another, but they seemed okay with it. Had Mettler been there, there'd be no end to his complaining. He was such a sourpuss sometimes.

"You should always carry some spare fuel," said one of the cemetery workers between sips of beer.

"Oh yes," Ted said and went on to tell the man about all the other times he ran out of gas.

"Alright!" Marcy said. "We're going to do some Indian chanting to make things better here. As long as we don't exhume Councilman Hadiger's body everything will be okay." She positioned the men and women around the grave and handed out copies of one of Tom's favorite pujas. "We have prasad in the trunk for after we're done," she announced, "so I hope everyone's hungry. I made it myself."

Tom felt calmer just by holding the prayer in his hand. He couldn't wait to get started, as it was an especially long one and his mom tended to be long winded even with the brief ones. The promise of prasad made him impatient. "Come on, let's go."

"Hey lady," said one of the assembled guests. "Is this Indian? Like from India?"

"Yes. Absolutely," Marcy replied and adjusted her glasses.

"But as we've told you repeatedly, we are Cherokee."

She smiled and squeezed the man's shoulders. "The ghosts don't know that." And then she turned toward the tombstone and bade everyone to chant with her.

As the sun began to set and the group grew increasingly delirious because of hunger and dehydration, Tom received a call. He grabbed some prasad and stuffed it into his mouth. Leaving his mom in charge of the exhumation, he took the Medical Examiner's van to aid his friend.

"What do you mean you didn't remove the body?" Ingrid scowled from above her newspaper. It was all going to hell. "Should've kept you locked up for your own good."

"The cops got there a little before us," Travis explained. "One of them was the guy we paid to tell us when they were gonna transport Duey. But the lady cop was iffy."

"So why didn't you kill them, put them in the trailer, and blow it up?" Ingrid shook her head. Didn't her son learn anything from her?

"We were gonna do something like that but the cops started shooting. Mike's hurt real bad."

"Why wasn't he wearing a vest?"

"It got broke during the raid this morning. He said it was poking him or something so he didn't have it on."

"Morons. Where is he now?"

"They're in the pool house."

"You brought them here?"

"What? What's the problem with that? We've been here a few hours. Tried to give him vodka for the pain, but he's straightedge. Don't know what to do. You know a doctor or something?"

Ingrid smacked her son in reply. "Take me to them." Her sweet boy, what would he do without her?

The three men gathered around a fourth got up when Ingrid and Travis entered the room.

"He's worse," one of them said. Ingrid guessed that was the brother. She kept a wary eye on him as she approached Mike. He had a gut wound, bleeding all over her carpet.

"Mom, you used to be a surgeon, right? Can't you help him?"

"Mmhmm. Give me some space." Still keeping an eye on the brother, Ingrid pulled out her gun and shot Mike in the head.

"Hey! What the hell? You shot my brother."

"Take it easy, Andrew," one of the other men said. But Andrew lunged at her.

Ingrid killed him too. "Clean up this mess. I'm going to check when I come back from my foundation's meeting. We're building a hospital in Africa."

"You heard her," Travis said. "I have to go take care of something too. It better be clean when I get back."

She walked out, gun holstered under her sweater and prepaid cell phone in hand. She had been waiting for it to ring for the past three hours. Finally it did.

"Is it done?"

"Yes."

"Get rid of the contractor."

"Already on it. Should be done within the hour."

Ingrid smiled. She took out the battery and broke the phone in half. At last she was free for the day to engage in her charitable pursuits.

Lucus waited outside the door for several hours now. Judge Hand's secretary informed him that the man was extremely busy in one of his "sessions." She had grown increasingly tired of him calling and told him that once the judge was finished she'd get back to Lucus.

So he waited. At first inside his car, then outside as bums knocked on his window and demanded money. He arrested one for trying to steal the hub caps, cuffing the disheveled man to the bumper. Now the man was gone, along with the bumper. Lucus had turned away for a second.

The panhandlers kept coming, each more aggressive than the last. It's like they smelled him from blocks away. Lucus had several cuffed and sitting on the sidewalk, but now he was out of plastic cuffs and running out of patience.

He could've broken down the door and examined the place, but something told him it was no longer an emergency. Better to do everything by the book than to have Norman Mettler get the case thrown out because a few t's weren't crossed and a few i's weren't dotted.

"Hey," he shouted at another denizen of Methton, this one trying to pry open the car door. "Get away from there. So help me I'll shoot you." The creature scurried away. This seedy, crime infested neighborhood was no place for a cop. He'd love some company, but the force was stretched thin. Five in the hospital, others securing evidence at two separate but no doubt related crime scenes, and the rest patrolling the streets where they were needed most, the wealthier neighborhoods.

Lucus checked his phone to make sure, first that he still had it, and second that it was on. Affirmative on both counts. He hoped the judge would be finished soon with whatever it was he was doing.

The phone rang. Lucus almost shouted for joy. He responded with a "thank you" to the secretary's voice before he understood. The rest of his brain caught up with him and he asked her to say it again.

"The judge had an accident. He's gone to the hospital for emergency surgery."

"Oh my. Is he going to be okay?"

"Yeah. He just got something stuck up his butt."

"What?"

"I'm not really supposed to talk about it. Listen, I'm heading over there now. I have the warrant right here. As soon as the judge wakes up I'll have him sign it. Then I'll take a picture and email it to you."

"Wow. Thanks. That's really nice of you."

"Yeah, no problem," the secretary said. "I just realized you're all alone in Methton and it's getting dark."

Don stormed past the guards at Town Hall. When one tried to stop him Don pointed a gun at his head and told him to sit back down. Libby smiled apologetically and showed the guards her pass. "He has one too," she said so they wouldn't be followed.

The budget committee was already in session when they barged in. A woman stopped in mid-sentence, aghast.

"What's this about cutting my budget?" Don demanded.

"Order, order," one of the suited men banged with a gavel. "If you are here to testify on the matter of the police department's budget, take a seat and wait your turn." He pointed at an empty row of seats. "You will be called in due order."

Libby worried that her husband would pull his gun on the town councilors. With all the mishaps lately she prayed that he'd control himself.

"Alright then," Don plopped down. Libby sat next to him and he took her hand.

"Now where were we? Ah, yes. Chair recognizes Madam Merwe of District Nine."

"Thank you, Mr. Chairman."

Libby guessed that the old man with the gavel was Douglas Hadiger's replacement. She and Don didn't have a chance yet to ask Lucus what he learned from Hadiger's files. She wondered whether the body had been exhumed. Tom confided his fears to her earlier that day about ghosts. Libby hoped her telling him that ghosts were nice people allayed those fears.

Lost in such thoughts Libby did not keep much track of what the politicians said. Don was on top of it, however. He startled her by leaping from his chair.

"How can you cut my budget because crime is up? We need more officers, not less."

"Order, order. Mr. Mettler you will be given a chance to speak after we have voted."

"This is not some communist country where you can boss me around like that. You idiot morons. Cutting the police budget because there is crime will lead to more crime. So then you'll blame me again, and cut the budget some more. That'll lead to more crime. What is wrong with you people?"

"Sit down, Mr. Mettler."

"No, I won't sit down. There is no reason for the budget to be cut."

"The town does not have enough money."

"What are you talking about? My boys and girls are writing tickets left and right for you. We've surpassed the quota every freaking quarter. What more do you want?"

"Alright, Mr. Mettler. I suppose we can do this now. Take your seat at the witness table." A clerk swore Don in.

"The police budget is in deficit, Mr. Mettler."

"How is that possible? We always have a surplus. I use Quick Books Premier God damn it."

The chairman sighed. "Someone give him a copy of the numbers. Thank you, George. Now, as you can see—"

"This is different from what I get. What is this helicopter expense? Limo expense? Spring water delivery service? Catering?"

The politicians exchanged whispers.

Don continued, "I heard of the helicopter thing once and I told you guys that we didn't need it. We can't afford it and there's no use for it. I don't even know what these other things are."

"Irregardless, Mr. Mettler, the police budget must be cut," the chairman took a sip from his personalized spring water fountain. Libby thought it looked very fancy and wondered how much it cost. "You must spend less money. You'll have to let someone go."

"I can't fire anyone. We're understaffed as it is. We can't even do regular patrols of Methton. That's why it turned into the dump that it is."

"Fire someone, do some fundraising, lower salaries. The ship has sailed. You must do more with less. Ah, here come the crepes."

A team of waiters set food out before the budget committee. Libby's tummy groaned, reminding her that they hadn't eaten dinner yet.

"Thank you for your testimony, Mr. Mettler. We shall vote now. Those in favor of cutting the police budget by the numbers specified in the proposal say 'aye.' Those against? Mr. Mettler, you don't have a vote. The ayes have it. This concludes the budget meeting." He banged the gavel. "Now let's eat everybody. No, not you, Ms. Klump. It is for town representatives only."

A guard escorted them out.

"What are we going to do?" Libby worried.

"Cancel all patrols where those bastards live and not respond to their calls," Don said.

"I meant about the money. You're not going to fire anyone, are you?" Libby couldn't bear letting anyone go.

"Maybe one of those in the hospital?" Don mused.

"No. That's mean."

"You're right. We can cut back on the repair budget. Officers can double up in their cars. Peggy won't get the latest gadgets."

"Is that enough?"

"Doubt it."

Libby got an idea. "What if we have a bake sale?"

"Like last year?"

"Yeah."

"That cost more than it took in."

"It was fun though," Libby looked at her feet. Then she got another idea, but she wasn't sure Don would like it. "What if we lower our pay?" she said meekly.

"God damn it," Don replied.

"Would that be enough?" Libby batted her eyes at him. He wouldn't resist for long.

"Depends how much we lower it. We can take a bunch from everyone, I guess."

"No," Libby said. "That will make them sad. I was talking about you and me."

"That's not gonna cut it."

"Even if we take half?"

"Half?" Don raised his voice as they exited the building.

"Yeah. Pretty please?"

"I guess that'd be enough if we cut down on all those other things and take a few percent from everyone else."

"Really? And then everyone can keep their jobs?" Libby waited.

"I have to run the numbers, but I guess it's doable. But can we live on one salary?"

"I have a plan. Don't you worry."

Don grinned at her. "The chances of winning the lottery are slim to none."

Libby exhaled and thought about it. "Okay. I have another plan. I can find missing pets for money. I'm good at it."

"And that'll be enough to make up for our dock in pay?"

"Absolutely."

"Alright. I'll think about it and run the numbers. But everyone better be doing their job real good. I'll be looking to fire someone. Stupid politicians. Irregardless isn't even a word."

That was as close to a yes as Don would get. "Yay!" joy flooded her body. "I'm hungry," she announced. Images of delicious food swam through her mind. She craved tiramisu.

They got in their car. "Let's go eat somewhere," Don said. "But first let me call Lucus and Tom to see what's going on."

Tom stopped at the prison parking lot entrance and Duey got in. "Thanks a lot man. I really appreciate it."

"No problem," Tom said.

"What's with the van?"

"Oh. I had to borrow it because Lucus took the car for police business."

"So is there like a dead body in back or something?"

"No. Because of the ghosts. So anyway, what are you doing out? Mettler said you had a life sentence."

"Early release program," Duey said.

"I see. That uniform's too big on you," Tom had a knack for detail.

"They gave me a job," Duey continued to improvise. "The ladies love a man in uniform."

"So anyway, my stupid parents ran out of gas again. I don't know what's going on with the fat man. He has brain damage or something."

"Uh huh. Turn right here. Your other right."

"Sorry about that."

"It's cool. Are you sure you don't have a body back there?"

"Yeah."

"Well something smells like it died."

"Sorry about that," Tom said again, "I ate prasad before I left the cemetery."

"Cemetery?"

"That's where the ghosts are. Libby said they're nice and Mettler said they don't exist. But my mom said they're angry. I don't like nightmares."

"Ghosts, nightmares, cemeteries. You're driving an ME van. What the hell do they have you doing?"

"Mettler wants to dig up a dead body. Lucus left me in charge because he had to go to Methton."

"What's in Methton?"

"They want to get a warrant to bust down a door of this house because you parked in front of it."

"Make a left here. Your other left."

"Sorry about that."

"What are they looking for there?"

"Some guy. Travis something. I don't know."

They wouldn't find Travis there, Duey thought.

They drove for half an hour in silence. As they passed familiar landmarks Duey grew more focused. Where was it that he dropped Travis off back in the day? He had a trailer somewhere around here. With some luck, he'd kill Travis with enough time to make it to the bus station.

"Do you mind if we stop at that gas station?" Tom didn't wait for Duey to answer. "I really have to go." He jumped out as soon as the van squealed to a halt. He undid his pants mid-run and fell through the convenience store door. The clerk inside directed Tom toward the restroom.

Duey chuckled and drummed his fingers on the dashboard. He looked over at the driver's seat. He looked into the store. He did it once more. Duey shrugged and scooted over. He closed the door and drove off.

Don couldn't reach Tom, but he got a hold of Lucus. Now he and Libby were on their way to Methton. Libby had trouble concentrating. The hunger monster living in her belly threatened to take over. At this point she could eat anything, even her mom's cooking. She wanted to ask Don about the warrant. What came out instead was, "I'm hungry."

"Soon," Don said.

"I'm hungry." That would make him cranky, but she couldn't help it.

They stopped behind Lucus' car. "Was the bumper always missing?" Don wondered.

"I'm so hungry," Libby replied. As soon as she got out, a horde of handcuffed people on the sidewalk started demanding spare change.

Don signaled Lucus over. Together the two men carried a mini battering ram to the door.

"So now we have to wait for the warrant," Lucus huffed. But Don didn't set the contraption down.

"Meg emailed me a copy as well. It's already dated. All it needs is the judge's signature. That's as good as having it. Plus, I think I smell something. Don't you?"

Lucus nodded. They turned to Libby.

"I'm hungry," she said.

"Alright then, on three."

The door was surprisingly strong, but it gave way after several whacks. The moldy carpet creaked beneath their feet as they advanced into the darkness. They put their flashlights away when Lucus found a light switch. Not long after, they discovered a dead woman. She was chained to the wall by her wrists. Her eyes stared up at them.

Don called Mort and Peggy while Libby went in search of the fridge. Nothing inside but orange juice. She guzzled it down.

"This is Maggie Swinton," Don said. "I recognize the necklace from the pictures Kirk gave me."

Lucus agreed.

With the hunger monster temporarily vanquished by juice and the scary sight of the dead body, Libertad's wits returned. "The Swintons had children," Libby said.

"That's right. What was that Travis guy in for?"

"Murder, kidnapping of children. Some real sick stuff," Lucus said.

"Alright. So we're going to assume for the moment that this is Travis Quinton's work. It's his house, or at least the forwarding address he left with the prison. Where would this guy be if not here?"

Libby watched her husband's mind work.

Lucus said, "Before all this commotion I was going to visit Quinton's mother. That's his only known living relative."

"Good idea. You happen to know where that is?"

Lucus wrote it down for him.

"Thanks. Libby and I are going to pay her a visit. You okay to stay here and wait for the ME?" Two officers, called in by Don from their patrol of the rich part of town, came in.

"We'll be fine," Lucus seemed amused by his colleagues' frightened expressions. "First time in Methton?" he asked them.

Don and Libby left for the Village Gardens. Tom finally answered his phone.

"He left the cemetery in the ME van? To pick up Duey? What?" Don almost ran the car off the road in his rage. "Klump you idiot," he grabbed the phone from Libby and yelled into it. "If you didn't have the best arrest record on the force I'd fire you on the spot. But you're dangerously close."

"Sorry about that," Libby's brother said on speaker. "I thought it was suspicious but he had a real good explanation. And he had a uniform and everything. What was I supposed to do?"

"Will you get home okay?" Libby asked him as Don glared at her.

"Yeah, don't worry. I'll call a cab when I'm done with the bathroom. I have to go again. I feel bad for the next guy that goes in here," Tom chuckled.

"Idiot," Don grumbled.

They turned into a long wooded driveway that after a couple of minutes opened to a mansion. Don and Libby ooed and ahhed as they got out of their car. A maid answered the door and escorted them to a lavishly decorated sitting room.

"It's too rococo," Libby said.

"This is just the kind of place I want to live in," Don countered.

"What can I do for you?" their host arrived through double sliding doors which the maid closed after her.

"Sorry to bother you at this late hour, Mrs. Quinton, but we are looking for your son."

"I don't have a son," the old lady sneered.

"Do we have the wrong house?" Don asked Libby.

She shrugged.

"Travis Quinton. Is he not your son?" Don showed her Travis' booking picture on his cell phone.

"Biologically speaking. I have not seen him in years. Last I heard he was in prison. What has my shame done this time?"

"He is a suspect in an investigation. It is very important that we track him down as soon as possible. Lives are at stake."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Detective Mettler," Ingrid Quinton said. "But as I've said, I haven't seen that boy in a long time."

"You have any idea where he might be?"

"No. I'm sorry I can't help you."

"Is it possible that he may be hiding somewhere on the property?"

"I doubt it."

"What's that building we saw to the side of the house? It had lights on."

Quinton glanced in that direction. "That's the pool house."

"You mind if we have a look there?"

"It's being fumigated at the moment. Nasty infestation of vermin."

"I see," Don said. "You have a license for that?"

"Of course. Now, if I've answered all of your questions, I will be heading off to bed. I'm not as young as I used to be. If you do find my son, please let me know."

The maid returned to escort them out.

"Well thanks for your time ma'am." Don got up and took Libby's hand. As they reached the door he turned around, "one more question if you don't mind. Have we met before? You look so familiar."

"Not that I recall," the woman said with a tight smile. "You probably saw my portrait at Town Hall. I was on the Council some time back."

Don grumbled.

"What's that?"

"Nothing."

"No, you can tell me."

"He's just a bit upset because they cut our budget today," Libby explained. She didn't know why she did. Something about this woman gave her the creeps. Or maybe it was just the hunger monster waking.

"Oh, I am sorry to hear that. Hold on a second. Let me get my checkbook. I'd be more than happy to give you a donation."

"It's really not necessary," Libby said.

"It's a pleasure. I insist."

"Fifty thousand dollars," Don said again and folded the check when they drove away. "Just enough to replace the ME van Klump lost."

"Won't insurance cover it?" Libby wondered. She turned onto the main road. She wasn't afraid of ghosts but going to the cemetery after dark frightened her a little.

"Our premiums are already through the roof. Better not to make another claim."

Libby nodded. As she drove, her husband sent out an APB on Travis Quinton. All officers not tasked with securing crime scenes were told to be on the lookout for Travis Quinton.

"What makes you think he's even in town?"

"He was in Methton," Don replied. "I have a hunch he's keeping the two girls nearby. As soon as we get this body business over with we'll get you something to eat. Then we'll coordinate with Peggy on the manhunt."

Tom's phone buzzed when he finally made it out of the bathroom for the second time. He had a new email from Don. He hoped it wasn't a pink slip. Then again, he could sit at home all day playing video games until unemployment ran out. He had a tinge of disappointment when the email turned out to be an APB on Travis Quinton, photo attached.

The wanted man in the photo looked remarkably like the man at the counter buying chips, candy, and soda.

"You got any toys?" he asked the clerk.

"In back," the clerk said. He eyed Tom. "You left the place as clean as you found it?"

Tom nodded. He remembered that it was important to make eye contact when meeting new people. He stared at the clerk's forehead.

"What's the matter with you? Are you gonna buy something or not? Bathroom's for paying customers only."

Tom dug in his pocket for change. "How much is that candy bar?"

"Dollar fifty."

"What's the cheapest thing you have?" Tom tried to act nonchalant when Travis Quinton's lookalike came back to the counter with a doll.

"Bubble gum in that row there," the clerk pointed. "Twenty five cents each."

"I'll take one please," Tom said. He picked fuzz off of the dime, two nickles, and five pennies he found in his pocket. Having paid, he remained in place, peeling the wrapper off the gum and flicking it into his mouth.

Travis Quinton's double managed to get around him. Tom leaned toward him as he opened his wallet.

"Hey buddy, do you mind?"

"Sorry about that," Tom leaned further, brushing up against against the man. He peered at his driver's license. It was blurry so he leaned even closer.

"Hey man, what's your problem?"

"Sorry about that," Tom straightened up. He got the information he needed, having positively identified the man as Travis Quinton.

He followed Travis out the door where he crashed into him when Travis stopped. "Sorry about that."

The man turned around and pointed a gun at him. "What are you, some kind of queer?"

Tom raised his hands and chewed his gum. "No. Are you Travis Quinton?"

"Are you a cop?"

"Yes I am," Tom said with pride.

Travis frisked him. "Where's your gun?"

Tom thought about it. "I left it in the van."

"What van?"

"It's gone!"

Tom guessed the expression on Travis' face was confusion. "You got handcuffs?"

"Yeah."

"Give me the key and put them on yourself."

Tom gave him the key. He tried to explain that he wasn't that good at putting on handcuffs, especially on himself, but Travis told him to shut up.

"Get in the car. A cop hostage might come in handy. I'll enjoy killing you later."

Don had the sick, frightened workers strap the coffin to the roof of the cruiser.

"This is wrong," Marcy said. She was one of the few that wasn't sick. "You're all throwing up because of the curse," she told the workers and chanters. "Doug Hadiger is mad that you took his body out of the ground."

"Keep working and ignore her," Don instructed. Normally he was less vocal in contradicting Marcy, but he was tired and hungry. Libby's tummy rumbled, reminding her of her own hunger.

"I left you some prasad," Marcy handed her a plate of spaghetti mush. "I made it myself. Delicious."

Don always told Libby not to eat her mom's food. And she understood why. But she was so hungry. Don slapped it out of her hand and shook his head at her. Libby groaned and felt her tears well up. Why was he being so mean?

Her mom handed her another plate. "Last one," she said.

Don knocked it down.

"A bit clumsy today, eh Don?" Marcy asked, but Don ignored her.

"One more strap and we're out of here," Don said.

Marcy initiated another chant to placate the spirits. She still had loads of energy. "Crazy energy," Libby called it. Everyone else, when not heaving out the contents of their guts, made only a halfhearted attempt.

Libby observed the sick people and worried that the ghosts weren't as nice as she thought. Since Don prevented her from eating the prasad the ghosts might haunt Don and her as well.

He saw it in her face, or maybe he just knew her that well. "There's no such thing as ghosts."

"But..."

"Your mom gave them all food poisoning."

That made some sense. "But how come she's not sick?"

"Have you ever seen her eat her own food? Ever? It's even worse than my mom's. The only one who can handle it is your dad," Don pointed at the sleeping Ted in the other car. "So don't worry. You'll be fine as long as you don't eat your crazy mom's cooking."

With the final strap in place, Don and Libby set out for the morgue. Libby hoped that Mort was there with his delicious peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Tom scratched his nose, then returned his cuffed hands behind his back. No matter how hard he tried he couldn't lock the second cuff. He hoped Travis wouldn't get mad at him. If Libby were here she'd help him. She was a good sister.

"What's that smell?" Travis said from the front.

Tom wasn't sure whether that last fart was completely gas, so he kept quiet. If he didn't confess Travis might never know it was him. He hoped what he felt was just sweat and not what he thought it was.

His captor turned onto a dark road and after a few minutes parked outside a decrepit trailer. He got out and opened Tom's door. Pointing the gun he said, "get out slowly and don't try nothing stupid."

"Okay." Tom climbed into the trailer upon Travis' instructions and sat down in a chair. Travis bound him to it with duct tape. Then he left the trailer. Tom assessed the two girls across from him, chained to the wall. They seemed okay.

"Dinner time," Travis came back with the stuff he bought. "I got you some toys too so you won't whine about it," he stroked one of the girls' chin. She flinched away from him, but couldn't go far.

"May I have a candy bar too please?" Tom inquired. "I accidentally swallowed my gum."

"No. Shut up. I'll tell you what, though. Before I kill you, you can watch me play with the young ones."

Tom raised an eyebrow at him. A drop of sweat went into his eye. The stinging made him squint. One of the girls saw his face and screamed.

"Don't scare my girls," Travis said. "The glands are no good when they're scared."

"Sorry about that. It's hotter in here than the merchandise in China town."

"Shut up."

"Sorry about that."

"Shut up," Travis pressed the barrel against Tom's forehead.

"That tickles," Tom said.

"I said shut up!"

Tom nodded. He looked on longingly as the girls ate their chocolates.

"I'll be back," Travis went out of sight and slammed a door. Moments later the shower started and Travis sang "Every Rose Has Its Thorn."

Tom sang along for a while. Poison was a great band.

He decided to call Don for some advice on what to do. He broke the tape with little trouble and reached for his cell.

Don's phone rang as they left the cemetery. "What's up, Klump?"

They skidded to a halt. Libby hit her head on the seat when her body whiplashed backward. The coffin, teeter-tottering on the light rack, sounded like it would crash through the roof.

"You're there with Quinton and you found the girls?...Then get the girls and get out of there...Yes, I'll buy you pizza afterwards, but hurry...Alright, see you soon." Don hung up and handed Libby his phone. "There's a family map thing in there. Find it please. I set it up after we had your dad go undercover. This way I can track all of you bozos."

Libby found it. "Getting directions now. It's over by Orchard Road it looks like."

Don gunned the gas, flattening Libby into her seat. The coffin crashed into the back. Libby thought maybe Don had a point about getting her a helmet. "All available units to Orchard and Stone," Libby repeated into the radio.

Tom thought Mettler gave good advice. He should have thought of it himself. He got up, cracking the chair in half. A part of it stuck to him with the tape, but he'd deal with that later. The girls screamed as he approached them. He made his most social smile, wide eyes and all. They screamed louder.

The shower turned off. "What's going on out there?"

"We're escaping," Tom said. He pulled on the chain of the girl closest to him. The wood splintered. A few tugs later it came loose. Her sister's chain was attached to a thin metal pipe. It was much stronger than it looked. He struggled, gritting his teeth. Wet footfalls sounded behind him. He turned around in time to get hit in the head with something hard.

"Oww," Tom said. That was mean. He pushed Travis away. The naked man lost his balance and broke through a table. Tom pulled harder on the pipe. It gave way, sending a plume of white dust down on them. Tom picked the girls up carefully by the backs of their shirts while supporting their legs with his other arm. That's how it said to pick up puppies on the internet. Libby said they were getting a puppy, so he'd been practicing.

Unsure of whether to push or pull, Tom burst through the trailer's door. It wobbled on its bottom hinge as he jumped to the ground. A bullet whizzed by his head and a gun fired behind him. Screaming with the girls, he ran toward the tree line.

"Come back here," more bullets flew by them.

Don and Libby arrived first on the scene. They found the trailer. Light emanated from behind what remained of the door. Libby followed Don inside, drawing her gun.

Don pointed to the broken table, chair, and burst pipe. "They had a fight."

Libby found a chocolate on the floor. She unwrapped it and stuck it in her mouth. "Will Tom be okay?" She hoped nothing bad happened to her brother.

"Yeah. I'm sure he'll be fine."

They followed the wet footsteps outside. "Looks like they went this way," Libby judged by the tracks in the mud.

"That way," Don pointed in the opposite direction.

"How do you figure?"

"That's what it says on the family map."

"You're a genius!"

They took out their flashlights and entered the woods. Libby grabbed Don's hand so as not to get lost.

The girls screamed in terror. Tom did too. He wasn't scared, really, but he'd learned that one way to be social was to do what others did. So screaming, they plunged deeper into the thicket. Every time Tom thought they lost the maniac another bullet shot past them. Tom felt a sting on what he considered his upper love handle. "Owww," he hollered. It made him run faster.

"You smell," said one of the girls.

"Sorry about that. So anyway," Tom huffed, "Mettler said he'd buy me pizza. If you stop kicking me I am willing to share."

"What kind?"

"Mushrooms..."

"Ewww."

"Olives..."

"Ewww."

"Extra cheese...So anyway, sometimes Mettler is cheap and I can only get one topping though." They reached a road. Tom ran alongside it for a while, then cut across and went into the woods again. When no one shot at them in a few minutes he slowed down and stopped to rest. The long run meant he could avoid the gym for a week. No, for a month.

There they spent the next half hour. Tom kept the girls occupied by telling them about his job as a policeman. They giggled and refused to believe he was a cop. He was nothing like their dad, said the older one. She missed him a lot.

"So anyway..." Tom ran out of things say. Then he remembered. "Did you hear that the moon is a giant space ship controlled by the reptoids?"

"You're weird."

"Ha ha. So anyway, do you know Alex Jones?"

"No."

"Hmmm." His phone buzzed, thankfully. Mettler asked him where the hell he was. Tom looked around. The moon afforded him a good look at the tree next to them, but not much else. "We're by a tree," he said. "It's got lots of branches and stuff. It's pretty big. Do you know it?"

"Klump! You're in the freaking woods. There's trees everywhere."

"Good point."

"Is Quinton with you?"

"No, we lost him. Do you want me to look for him?"

"Stay put, Klump. Don't move unless you have to run away from Quinton. How are the girls doing?"

"I think they're good."

"Alright. Hopefully we'll find you soon."

Don hung up. He and Libby came back to the trailer. The GPS tracking got them nowhere. They proceeded with Libby's plan of following the tracks. By this time two more squad cars arrived. Don updated his officers on the situation. They streamed out to look for Tom, the girls, and Quinton.

They found Tom an hour later, watching videos on his phone while the two girls slept on either side of him.

Don bought them pizza. Libby examined Tom's wound during their wait. His protective vest didn't let the bullet through, but he'd have a nasty bruise for a while.

"Stop babying him. He's fine," Don put a tray down in front of Tom and Swinton's daughters. "Extra cheese for the girls, and a slice of salad pizza for Klump."

Tom's face fell.

"Sorry Klump. That's all they had."

"Oh well. Thanks anyway, Mettler."

"Honey pie, stop being mean to my brother," Libby said.

"You always ruin my fun," Don replied. He took the salad pizza away and placed it in front of Libby. She almost devoured it all before Don brought Tom his mushroom and extra cheese pie.

"Thanks Mettler."

"No problem. Good work today. We'll discuss the van tomorrow."

"Okay."

Don took Libby to another table, out of earshot of Tom and the girls. "We'll find Quinton," he told her.

Libby nodded and stuck a piece of pizza in her husband's mouth.

"According to Tom the guy was naked," Don said between chews. "Hopefully we'll spot him soon. I wish we had dogs in the budget for this sort of thing."

Libby brightened. "We don't need a budget for that. We can get two awesome doggies for free."

Don frowned.

"You want doggies too. Admit it."

"Oh yeah. All the walking, picking up dog crap, feeding them. I'm real excited."

"Oh you'll love them, silly pie."

"I will 'love them'? What have you signed up for?"

"We're getting doggies," Libby batted her eyes at him.

"'So anyway,'" Don switched topics, "the way I figure it Travis had Swinton's family kidnapped. He made Swinton do his bidding so he could be released from jail. When he was done, he sent Charlene and Duey to kill him in the hospital."

That made sense to Libby.

"What I don't get, though, is why that Gerald Oakley and that curator guy, whatever his name is, were killed. Was it random? Was it something special? What's up with that painting? And then there's all those bodies we found in the warehouse. Quinton's connected, but he couldn't have done it." Don sighed wearily. "Those girls lost their parents. Duey's escaped. We don't know who he's been working for. The 'Ice Queen.' Our budget's been cut. We have a corpse strapped to our roof. And I'm sure the paper will write about all the stuff we did wrong."

Libby shushed him. "Everything will be okay."

"You promise?"

"Yes," she kissed the top of his shiny bald head.

"Can I have another pie please?" Tom called from the other table. The girls giggled.

"They're already making it," Don replied and Libby hugged him.

Marcy's Spaghetti Prasad, "An Improvement on Batali"*

Ingredients

3 heads of garlic, pressed

10 tablespoons garlic powder

3 cans crushed tomatoes

1 pound sun dried tomatoes, soaked overnight

3 packs dried spaghetti

1 pound mushrooms, chopped and dropped accidentally on the ground, wiped halfheartedly

1 quart olive oil

1 cup sugar, confused for salt

Directions

Combine ingredients with two quarts of water in pressure cooker. Cook until burnt on the bottom. Leave in trunk of car for three days. Serve immediately.

*Editor's note. WARNING: Do not attempt to eat. Not fit for human consumption. May protect against vampires.
Episode Six

"Travis and Chester"

Monday

The siren drew closer. Travis stopped chasing the fat cop who stole his play things. He leaned against a tree and fired his last round. If only he had one of those movie guns that never ran out of ammo.

He ran back the way he came. His bare feet stung from the rocks and twigs, but that didn't bother him. The cold against his wet skin did nothing to ruin his enjoyment. His senses were as taut as his muscles. Travis was aware of everything. The beetles crawling over dead leaves. The gentle breathing of sleeping squirrels. He was a god and it was exhilarating.

He was peaking. It would be all downhill from here. Had he captured his prey... His own escape was most important now, and an excitement of a different order.

Two fat meat bags got to his trailer before he did. From the shadows he watched them enter his home. He could kill the woman cop easily. The male too, if each were alone. Together they posed a problem. The police force around these parts accidentally discharged their firearms and landed lucky shots all the time. Travis knew that from experience. Nearby sirens announced more pigs. He put his phone on vibrate. He must have taken it out of habit when he left the trailer.

The car was off, locked even. The coffin, however.... Travis swung it open and slithered inside. He'd smelled worse stinks before. In his car an hour earlier, for example.

Travis lay on top of the corpse for a long time. The voices came and went. Eventually the car started and he was bounced around as the casket tottered on the light rack.

The car stopped some time later and its occupants got out. It'd be better to remain still, but he had almost removed the corpse's clothes. He had trouble with the shirt. His tugging made the coffin creak.

"Mettler, I think the ghost is in there." Whoever spoke had his mouth inches away from Travis' ear.

"Oh stop it with the ghosts already," replied another male voice, farther off.

"But the coffin was moving."

The other man sighed loudly. "Do you want me to open it and show you there's nothing in there except a dead politician?"

Travis tensed.

"No. That's alright. The ghost, though..."

"Klump, if you are so afraid of this ghost—what can it do to you? You think it can hurt you? You think it can kill you? Yeah? Well then let it. Then you'll have all the powers it has. And you can kick its ass. Alright? Nothing to be afraid of. You got that Klump? Attaboy."

Travis relaxed.

"So anyway, can I have mushrooms on my pizza pie?"

"A pie, Klump? What am I, made out of money? You can have a regular slice, which you'll share with the girls."

"Oh, okay," came the dejected reply.

A female voice mumbled something.

"I'm just having a bit of fun," said the male voice. Then louder, "you hear that Klump? We're getting you a salad."

The voices trailed off. Travis lifted the lid. He looked out into a parking lot next to a pizza place. He watched the three cops and his two girls in the brightly lit restaurant for a moment. The corpse's clothes were too wide and not long enough, but they would do for now.

An old man sat in his car. It wasn't every day that a cop car had a coffin on it. Rarer still was a naked man getting out of the coffin with a phone in his mouth. Understandably enough, the old man sat there slack jawed as Travis approached. Travis got in, pointed his gun, and told him to drive.

Wednesday

They were no closer to finding Travis Quinton. Peggy organized her notes, preparing to brief Don and the rest of the staff.

"How does a naked guy, with no food, water, or means of transportation not get found?" Don began the meeting. "This is not a rhetorical question, people. What have we missed?"

Everyone stared at the table, unable to meet his gaze. When Don sighed Peggy cleared her throat.

"What have you got for us, Peggy?"

"We've made some progress with all of the bodies we have in our possession. I'll begin with the warehouse."

Don nodded and took out his "Warehouse Klews" folder.

Peggy was surprised he hadn't made a big fuss about not being able to find it. Then she recalled the reason.

"Arthur's been getting in the way there. Mort and I feel that he's impeding our work and may corrupt the evidence."

Don scribbled furiously and for a second Peggy thought that maybe he paid her no attention at all. Then he raised his eyes in a scowl. "He's over there? I was wondering why it was so pleasant here this morning." He raised his head and his eyes narrowed. He uttered a quiet "god damn it," and then said, "please continue about your investigation."

"Despite some interference," Peggy cast her eyes on the janitor, who'd just entered and began raising a dust storm with his broom, "we've managed to make some progress. As there's no space at the morgue—Mort said 'there's no vacancy'—we're keeping the bodies in their freezers. Mort said it's an ingenious device. I tend to agree."

Peggy shuffled her notes. "We're about ready to start identifying the bodies. We're running their fingerprints through the database, so far nothing. It would be nice if we could get that facial recognition software I've mentioned previously." She paused as Don heaved a sigh. "In the meantime, the missing persons bulletin board might be helpful in that regard."

"We have one of those?"

"Yep. It's right next to your desk."

Don got up to check. "Vegan hemp milk and garlic," he said. "Orange and wheat grass shots. Thanksgiving shopping list. What is all this crap?"

"Um, that's Marcy's stuff." Peggy closed her eyes and rubbed her temples preemptively. "That'll have to be taken down. The missing persons' pictures are under all of the, er, 'recipes.'"

"I object," Marcy bounced up from her chair like a lawyer in a made for TV movie. "Those are very important recipes. They're good for health and soul. And they're for good luck, what with the curse unleashed by exhuming that suicide victim's body. Those nice Indian gents are still sick. I made them some mushroom risotto to make them feel better. But the curse is so strong. If you believe it, they got even sicker."

"Indeed," Don sighed and turned to Lucus. The poor man nodded. He got up and ushered Marcy out, telling her about some metaphysical emergency near the station's front entrance (one of the Halloween decorations was crooked). Peggy thought everyone would be better off if they simply didn't allow Marcy into the building, but she understood Don's reluctance. He lived in the same house as Marcy and she was his mother in law.

"Where was I?"

"The bulletin board pictures," Don said, grimacing at the recipes.

Peggy thanked God Marcy stopped using the station's kitchen. Sometimes the building stank so bad she had to wear a respirator to get from the front door to her office.

"Kirk, do you mind taking these down?" Don didn't want to get in trouble with Libby's mom.

"Sure thing, boss," Kurt grunted.

"Go ahead, Peggy."

"Right, so as I was saying, those pictures will hopefully help us identify some of the victims. If not, it doesn't hurt too much to try. Despite the interference," Peggy said as Arthur moved her back and forth in an attempt to dislodge his broom from the spokes of her wheelchair, "we found some prints. It looks like the place was cleaned regularly, so we were lucky to find the ones we did. One set matches Charlene Atkinson, the dead girl found in Duey McCaliker's trailer. The other has no match."

"Did you find any DNA? Hair follicles, skin flakes..." Don asked when he finished writing.

Peggy stared at Arthur. "Unfortunately a certain someone came in and started sweeping before we could do a thorough search."

"I'm sorry. I was just trying to be helpful," Arthur replied with a tone of deep indignation.

"Do you mind? Would you please stop moving me?" Peggy's self control waned.

"My word," Arthur left the room with his nose fixed at the ceiling.

Peggy continued, "most of the victims had something removed from their bodies, expertly. Whoever did this, or an accomplice, also made ice sculptures from the bodies. A kind of ice death mask. Sick stuff. We recovered an ice pick. I recommend we bring in a psychologist to draw up a profile."

"That's going to be a problem," Don said. "They're cutting our budget to the bone because crime is up."

Peggy shook her head. "That's stupid. And it's not even up. Everything was just suicide before Mort replaced Marcy."

"I agree with you, though I don't think we should blame everything on Mort. Some of these killings happened more recently," Don said. "Speaking of suicide, what have we got on Douglas Hadiger?" He looked around for Lucus.

"I have Deputy Chalmers' report right here," Peggy said.

Tuesday

Lucus parked beside the Medical Examiner's building. Tom stayed outside to "guard the entrance."

Lucus shook his head and chuckled. The big guy was such a wuss sometimes. He took the elevator down to the basement and then went through the double doors. Mort Freeman had done the work but left an underling to give the report. Lucus sought that person now, walking through the silent and dimly lit hall.

He hadn't been down here in a long time and so was unfamiliar with the layout. A handwritten sign with an arrow pointed to where "the bodies" were kept, but Lucus wasn't sure that was where he had to go. Where did the weird people who worked here hang out when they weren't dissecting someone? A door creaked behind him and a mop fell out. He jumped.

"Stupid," he muttered, telling himself that the goosebumps on his arms were from the cold. Just some careless janitor. He backtracked and returned the broom to the closet. He closed the door and found himself face to face with a zombie. He screamed. The zombie screamed too.

Lucus drew his gun. He realized it was Arthur.

"I didn't see you there. You scared me," the janitor uttered his familiar refrain. "You nearly gave me a heart attack."

"Sorry about that Mr. Jackson. You scared me too," Lucus holstered his weapon. "You happen to know where Clyde is? I'm supposed to meet him to collect some paperwork."

Arthur's crooked finger mimicked the bodies sign.

"Thanks," Lucus continued on his way. He rounded the corner and nearly bumped into the janitor.

Lucus jumped. Arthur screamed.

"What the—weren't you just back there?"

"Oh my. You scared me," Arthur replied and started sweeping.

After some difficulty Lucus got around him. He continued down the hall and through the double doors leading to the fridges. He didn't know the actual name for them, but that's what they were if you thought about it. He shivered.

"Hello? Anyone here?" His shoes crunched on the tiled floor as he passed a stainless steel table. On the next one sat a scale with something in it. Curiosity got the better of him and he peered into the bowel shaped pan. He wished he hadn't. "Ugggh," Lucus stepped back and suppressed a retch. He didn't know what that was, but it was nasty. White, slimy, and round.

Apart from a couple of other shiny metal tables and various equipment, the room was empty. Lucus turned toward the doors. Arthur stared at him through the windows.

Lucus yelped.

A grating attracted him toward the fridges. One of them opened. By itself. Gravity maybe? The wind? There was no wind and gravity would've made that thing open long ago. A broken lock, maybe? Lucus wished Tom had come with him.

He felt obliged to close the door. The body that rolled out would spoil and hamper an investigation. His heart raced as he approached.

Just push it in, lock the damn thing, and get the hell out of here. Freeman's assistant would email him whatever he needed, and the rest he'd get over the phone.

Arthur's face was gone from the window. Maybe Lucus was seeing things.

He looked back at the body. It sat up. It smiled at him.

Lucus yelped again and drew his gun. "Aim for the head," he told himself.

"Whoa. Whoa there buddy," the corpse jumped down from the gurney. "I'm Clyde Lee. Deputy Chalmers?"

"Yeah..." Lucus lowered the gun halfway. "What's going on here?"

"Sorry to frighten you like that. I was just taking a nap. I find the vibrations very soothing."

"Okay..." Lucus relaxed his arm, but held on to the gun.

The doors opened a crack and Arthur stuck his head inside. "May I come in?"

"No," Clyde sneered. "We're busy in here." He made a face at the janitor. "And we have a cleaning crew already. Go back to the police station." He waited half a second then told Lucus, "I hate that guy." He said it loud enough for Arthur to hear, no doubt on purpose. "Can't get rid of him. No matter what we try he slips by the security guard."

Lucus put his gun away. Perhaps Clyde wasn't so bad after all. "I didn't see a security guard."

"Must be on break. Would you like something to drink?" Clyde took a jar from another refrigerated drawer. It had a white thing on the bottom that looked just like the one Lucus saw on the scale.

"What is that?"

"Kombucha. Very refreshing. Lots of health benefits." He poured a cup.

"No thanks," Lucus couldn't help but wrinkle his nose.

"Your loss," the man drank and smacked his lips. "It's Libby's recipe."

"What's that white thing in the jar and over there?"

"Brains," Clyde said, his voice serious. "Oh, look at your face. Priceless. No, it's a SCOBY. Yeast and bacteria."

Lucus thought that was no better.

Clyde laughed again. "Yeah, I know. It looks like something Marcy would cook. But it's pretty awesome. Don refuses to try it too. So on to business." He opened a desk drawer and removed a file. He read the number on the corner and opened the bigger drawer of the refrigerated section. A body rolled out, all but the head was covered. "Douglas Hadiger. Didn't know the former councilman was a nudist. Anyway, saved us the trouble. Don wanted us to test for poisons. We found it. Matches the one that killed Swinton."

"Nudist?"

"Yeah. He was buried nude, unless someone took the clothes. I wouldn't put it past Arthur, but this room is locked when there's no one in here."

"Any idea how it was administered? The poison?"

"Sorry," Clyde shook his head. "The body's too badly decomposed. It could've been injected or put in the councilman's food. Marcy's already been here protesting. Sometimes I miss that lady. Didn't have to do a single thing when she was my boss. Sucks that I didn't replace her, but what you gonna do? I guess I need more experience or whatever."

"You happen to test Godfrey Leser's body for the poison as well?"

"That curator guy? Yeah. No poison. Looks like a regular old heart attack."

"Alright, thanks." Lucus collected the report. "While I'm here, you want to tell me about the dead women that came in?"

"Sure, hold on." Clyde slid Hadiger away. He got a couple of other files out of the drawer. He went through the particulars of Charlene Atkinson and Maggie Swinton. "We've concluded that both were killed by Travis Quinton. And if he didn't do it, he was involved. His semen is in both women. We got a DNA match from prison records." He explained that the causes of death were different, however. Mrs. Swinton died from a part of her brain being removed. Charlene died from blunt trauma.

"Anything else I can do for you?" Clyde sipped his Kombucha.

"We didn't find any brain matter at the scene as far as I know. Any idea what happened to it?"

"He ate it probably. But I don't know. Maybe if you catch the guy he can tell you."

"Well, thanks." Lucus went to leave. "Stay cool."

"Will do," the man called back, his arm raised in a half wave as he drank more of his beverage.

Chalmers shuddered as he stepped out into the fall sun. Tom thought about what Libby practiced with him. This seemed to fit the bill. He sent Mettler one last email from InfoWars, this one about the impending collapse of all civilization, orchestrated by the evil offshore banks that ruled the world. He cast his eyes firmly on Chalmers' forehead.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. That place just gives me the creeps," his partner said.

"That's why I stayed out here," Tom said.

"No," Chalmers stretched the word out for some reason, "and I thought you were guarding the door to prevent anyone from coming in."

"Ha ha. I tricked you," Tom said.

"Yeah... Actually I kind of missed you in there. Met your uncle. He's some piece of work."

"Oh yeah," Tom restrained himself from clapping. "He's got all sorts of mental problems."

After they got in the car and Chalmers finished telling him what he learned from the Assistant Medical Examiner Tom asked, "so where are we going now?"

"We're going to stop by the county clerk's office and look at some property records. You know how I've been telling you about Hadiger's file that you dug up at Town Hall? Well it looks like he was using his position as budget chair to pressure the zoning committee. I want to see which properties were affected and whom they belonged to. One area stands out. The committee approved a rezoning for zone E, that's where the warehouse with all the bodies is. Councilwoman Williams filed an objection. So I'm wondering what other properties were affected besides the warehouse."

"I see," Tom said.

"And before you ask, yes we can stop for pizza."

"Excellent. Can we also get pastries?"

"Sure."

Monday

Travis soon realized that the old man didn't know where he was going. He probably didn't even know his own name. What other reason was there for the guy to address him as "Bob, my dear son"?

That's when Travis saw the bracelet on the old man's wrist. He turned on the overhead light to examine it. "Chester Marlow, 327 Maple Drive," he read the inscription.

"That sounds familiar," said the man.

"It's you."

"That's nice," he smiled, casually swerving off the dark road and colliding with a tree.

Travis slammed into the dashboard. His gun tumbled out of his hand. As he searched for it he expected the man to get out of the car and run. But Chester didn't move. Maybe he died in the crash.

Chester announced that he forgot how to drive.

Travis sat back in his seat and rubbed his head. So the old man wasn't dead. He should have killed him at the start, but here was as good a place as any. "We're gonna go for a little walk in the woods," Travis told him. He put his gun into an oversized pocket. It had no ammo anyway and Chester wasn't especially frightened of it.

"Sounds good," Chester replied. His dentures rattled in his mouth when he smiled.

A spotlight shone at them as they got out. A squad car pulled up behind them.

"You folks alright?" the cop asked. He pointed his flashlight at the front of their car. "Oh man, that's nasty. Not gonna start that anytime soon."

Travis observed for the first time the smoke billowing from the hood.

"What happened? A deer get in your way?"

"Yeah," Travis maneuvered to get behind the cop. He dropped his arm into his pocket. Brain the pig with the gun, get his gun, take his car.

Through some sixth sense or luck, the cop turned around. Travis relaxed his hand and pulled it out of the pocket. The officer shone the light at their faces. "They like to play chicken, those deers," the cop said. "Say, you guys haven't seen a crazy naked guy running around with a gun, have you? He's about your height, sir."

Travis shook his head no.

Chester said, "I seen him get out of a coffin from a cop car. Then he took me for a drive. My boy Bob here saw the whole thing."

The cop pointed his flashlight at Travis. He shrugged and smiled sheepishly, pointing at Chester's wrist. "Sorry, Officer...?"

"Hanson."

"Sorry, Officer Hanson. My pop's not been well for a while."

Chester accommodated him by announcing that he might have had an accident in his pants.

"Oh, I understand. I was going to offer you folks a ride, but now I'm thinking I might call you a tow truck instead."

"No. All good. False alarm," Chester announced with a smile.

"In that case, get in. I'll drop you off at the strip mall," Hanson said.

"Thanks, that's nice of you," Travis and Chester got in the back.

"Yeah, no problem. It's my job." The cop u-turned on the narrow road. His high beams made the woods on both sides look like a fence. "Where were you two going?"

"The store," Travis said.

The folds on the back of Hanson's head jiggled with his nodding. "That's nice of you, taking your pop out like that. The moment I saw you I figured you were father and son. You look just like him."

Travis smiled and nodded into the rear view mirror, where the cop occasionally made eye contact with him.

"I'd drive you folks home, but I'm actually on a manhunt right now." He tapped Travis' mugshot on the screen between the front seats. "Probably shouldn't even have picked you up, in all honesty. But I thought, 'it's dangerous out there so I might as well help these nice folks.' It's like my wife says..."

Travis stopped listening, but he continued to smile and nod. Chester snored beside him, his slack mouth pointing straight up.

A while later Hanson pulled into a parking lot and let them out. "Well, here you go, folks. I hope this is alright for you. You can call a cab from here. You got change? Great. You should have a slice while you wait. The pizza's good here." He paused to look at the coffin on top of a patrol car several spaces down. "Have a good night now and be careful," he yawned and drove off.

Tuesday

They stopped at the new bakery. Tom gave Chalmers a couple of crumpled bills with fuzz on them and said, "Tiramisu please."

Chalmers paused at the passenger window. "You're not going in?"

"No thank you."

"But I don't even want anything from there."

"Thanks for getting it for me."

"But why don't you want to go in?"

Tom turned forward and looked down at his phone. Out of the corner of his eye he watched his partner enter the store and start talking to the lady. She was weird. She kept following him around for no reason and tried to touch him all the time. She didn't want him to pay for anything because he had "saved her from the purse snatcher." That was great. Tom loved a discount. But the weird lady made him uncomfortable. It was best to avoid her. But he couldn't resist her sweets. Chalmers was a lifesaver.

Speaking of discounts, Tom emailed his sister one that he found for a potentially interesting video game he might want for Christmas.

"4 my xmas present pls," he tapped into the message field. He hoped Libby would get the hint. Normally, he bought his own gifts and asked for money in return, but this year he was low on funds. His tax refund was less than usual and the price of pizza had gone up. Tom forwarded Mettler an article about taxes and then searched for something on commodity prices. Scanning the article quickly, he shared it with Don.

His stomach rumbled. Chalmers was taking much longer than he should have. His partner pointed at him through the window. Tom pretended not to notice by placing his hand over his face and peeking out through his fingers.

They were going to get dogs soon. Tom tried to find a good deal on Dog Whisperer DVDs. They were somewhat expensive, but he sent Libby the link anyway. Tom sent Mettler a fourth article on the funny congressman from NY (who had to resign because he was a pervert) when his partner opened the driver side door.

Lucus suppressed his smile as best as he could when he got back behind the wheel. He removed his key lime pie and tossed the bag to Tom, along with his fuzzy money.

"What's that?" Tom asked when Lucus popped open the deli container lid.

"Some kind of lime pie."

"Can I have it?"

"I guess," Lucus managed before Tom grabbed it. "Hey man, remember to chew."

Tom nodded, his cheeks puffed and his eyes bulging. He ate like a snake. A second later he was done. "Thanks that was delicious," he gave a green and white thumbs up and plunged into the bag to find his other treats.

Lucus started the car and pulled out into the street. "So what are your plans for Saturday night?" he asked.

"I'm going to catch up on the Walking Dead, play Dota 2 or Awesomenaughts and listen to Alex Jones," Tom said through a full mouth.

"Nothing important then," Lucus said. "That's not what you're going to do."

"It's not?"

"No. You're going on a date with Rose Marie."

"Who's that?"

"The woman whose tiramisu you're eating."

"I see."

"She likes y—"

"So anyway," Tom interrupted, "Douglas Hadiger. We're going to the county clerk?"

"Yeah," Lucus said. "Rose Marie said y—"

"So anyway, Douglas Hadiger."

Lucus chuckled at Tom's discomfort. "I told her you like pizza. Sh—"

"So anyw—"

"She said she'll bake you one. You're meeting her on Saturday at eight."

Tom looked down at his phone, no doubt firing off another slew of emails to Don. Lucus sighed. "You'll have a great time, dude. You'll thank me for it someday."

"Douglas Hadiger," Tom replied.

They arrived at the clerk's office and were shown the way to the records department. It was an old wooden building. Its mustiness reminded Lucus of church. The old man behind the counter smiled at them, dentures askew.

"Tom my boy!"

"Hi Mr. Marlow."

Lucus gave Tom a look. Tom didn't seem to understand, so Lucus whispered, "how do you know him?"

"Chester likes pizza," Tom explained.

"Pizza?" the records clerk leaned forward over the counter. "I don't see any." The sheet of paper he held crumpled as he righted himself.

The guy was a bit loopy. Judging from the bracelet on his wrist he should've been in a retirement home instead of work. "Sir," Lucus began, "we're here to find some records. If you don't mind I can find them myself. You can chat with Tom here in the meantime."

Someone out of view cleared his throat. "In your hand."

That reminded Chester. He read from the paper, "'no one is to go behind the counter unless authorized by me, Chester Marlow.' Hey, that's me," he said happily. "There's more here. 'What records do you want? I will give them to you.'"

"Douglas Hadiger," Tom said.

"No, I'm Chester Marlow," the old man smiled.

Lucus headed for the gate. Tom stopped him as he opened it. "Chester didn't authorize you," Tom said.

"The guy's got Alzheimers or something. We have to get the records ourselves," Lucus replied.

"You were not authorized," Tom said, his hand firm on Lucus' shoulder.

"Alright, you win," Lucus said. Tom let him go.

Lucus was about to make a run for it when the clerk said, "here you go." The old man placed a folder on the counter. Lucus caught a glimpse of someone in an oversized and yet somehow undersized suit disappearing behind the shelves. That explained it. Chester had an assistant who did his work for him. Probably a shy guy like Tom who didn't want to talk to people.

"Is this a copy for us to keep or do we have to return it to you?"

"Yes," Chester replied to Lucus.

"Which one is it?"

"Yes."

"Alright. When we're done we'll bring it back to you."

"Have a nice day," the old man said as they left.

Wednesday

"What did Lucus find in the records?" Don asked.

Peggy scanned the report. "Lots of property dealings. Hadiger participated in at least two dozen in the last year of his life."

"Okay, so he dabbled in real estate..." Don said.

"It's the way he did it," Peggy went on. "Lucus suspects Hadiger used his power on the budget committee to influence the zoning committee to mess with property values. They made certain things impermissible, making the land useless. Unable to pay their mortgages, the owners sold for cheap. The land was rezoned, making the use permissible again, and then sold for much more."

"Why didn't any of these people sue the town under the takings clause of the Constitution?" Don remembered something he learned in law school.

"The previous owners haven't been asked because they haven't been tracked down yet." For the time being, she decided not to mention one person that could be asked.

"So who was making a profit here? Hadiger?"

"Yep."

"Alright, so Hadiger was fleecing these people. One of them got pissed and poisoned him," Don mused. "Same poison as Charlene Atkinson used on Swinton?"

"Yep."

"So it could've been her. Did she own any of the properties?"

"No."

Don stroked his chin. "A hired assassin then? If it was her."

"Possibly," Peggy said.

"Whoever told her to kill Swinton, if they had her kill Hadiger, could've been angry about getting their land taken away."

"That's a possibility," Peggy said.

"This poison, is it hard to get?"

"Oh yeah."

"So what are the chances that these poisonings are not related?"

"Slim," Peggy had approximated the odds but she didn't think Don would care about such information or how she derived it. "Very slim. If I were a betting woman, my money would be on Charlene. On the topic of money, Lucus also got a hold of Hadiger's bank records."

"Rich bastard?"

"That's just it. He was broke. He had a negative balance."

"That why he was buried naked?"

Peggy shrugged. That was as good an explanation as any.

"If Duey were still in prison we could've asked him. Did you know the guard he beat up and impersonated in his escape—it was that guy's first day." Don shook his head. "The world we live in. Alright, good work. Let me have that report. I'll read it over on my own. Anything else interesting in there?"

"The records clerk is senile," Peggy said.

"What is it with the people around here? I hope it's not something in the water." Don took the documents from her and proclaimed the meeting adjourned.

Peggy waited for the room to clear, gave Don a nod, and wheeled herself to the forensics office. One thing wasn't explicitly in the report, as Lucus hadn't made the conclusion. Peggy kept it to herself, not wanting to stress Don out any more than he already was. (The budget situation was probably worse than he let on. Why else would Libby embark on a new business venture, what Don called "Ace Ventura-ing"?) But maybe she should have brought it up. She'd have to wait until Don read the report. If he came to the same suspicion, he'd let her know.

Mortimer Freeman lost money on three of the properties Hadiger was involved with. Moreover, he was certainly capable of synthesizing the poison and setting up the freezer machines in the warehouse. And now he was in charge of analyzing the bodies.

If he were responsible for the bodies, they had the perp conducting the investigation. Bad. But if Mort had nothing to do with it, and she told Don she suspected the coroner, they'd have to sideline the best man for the job. They might never find out what happened. She should've mentioned it to Don. No. Let him figure it out.

She rolled into her office just in time for the phone to ring. She had to look for it under piles of documents and assorted newspaper clippings. No one ever called the land line anymore. Peggy had forgotten that her office even had one.

"Hello?"

"Hi Peggy."

She recognized the childlike voice right away. "Hi Libby. What are you doing calling this number?"

"It's me, Libby," Libby said.

"Yeah, I know, honey. What's wrong?"

"Um, um, um, um, um. What was I going to say to you?"

"I don't know, dear. You called me." Poor Libby suffered many head injuries throughout her life.

"Oh yeah. I lost my phone. Can you please use that tracking thing the way you used it for my dad's phone to find mine? Don's gonna be so mad if he finds out I lost it."

"Sure thing," Peggy cradled her phone in the crook of her neck and shoulder. "Let me fire up the laptop."

"Oh never mind," Libby said, suddenly happy. "It was in my hand the whole time. Sorry about that."

Peggy snorted. "No problem, child. We're all under a lot of stress." A document stack caught her eye. Peggy ended the call with some more friendly words, but she hardly paid Libby any attention. She dropped the receiver and rolled to the stack. Duncan had delivered it that morning. Duey's cell phone metadata. Dates, times, numbers, and GPS coordinates. Libby's call reminded her of how useful these could be.

According to Don, Duey said that the "Ice Queen's" man ordered him to the warehouse before Duey got arrested. She calculated the time that would be and scanned through the phone records. She highlighted the number. A reverse look-up on the computer told her it was a prepaid, throwaway phone. Peggy started the tracking software. As it loaded she filled out a warrant form.

Monday

His mom was not happy. "Well you can't come here," she barked into the phone.

"Why not?" Travis said.

"Because they're looking for you. They even came by here. Sometimes I wonder whether you've been switched at the hospital and my real boy is out there somewhere making something of himself."

"Oh come on, mom. Can I at least have some money?"

Ingrid hung up in reply. She was just mad because Duey survived and escaped from prison. The evening paper didn't have much detail on the escape. He would've gotten it done if they sent him. But whatever.

Chester emerged from the bathroom, his haphazardly tucked in shirt sticking out of his open fly. "I got lost in there," he said. "What's wrong with him?" he pointed at the motel clerk slumped over the counter.

"He suffered a head injury while dialing the cops," Travis explained. So much for staying at this motel tonight.

"I want to go home," Chester said.

"That's a great idea," Travis replied and dropped the newspaper where he found it. "Show me your bracelet."

They drove the motel manager's car about halfway and then used his money to take a cab the rest of way. Mrs. Marlow greeted them with relief.

"Oh thank God," she said. "Where did you find him?"

"He hit a tree on road 2. The police left him in my care." Travis smiled and played up his charm.

"Thank you so much. Please, stay for dinner, Mister..."

"McCaliker. You can call me Duey. I'd love to," Travis said.

"Are you a social worker, Mr. McCaliker?" Mrs. Marlow asked.

"Why do you ask?"

"You're dressed like one."

"Yes, indeed I am. You are correct on both counts."

"Are you assigned to my husband's case?"

Travis raised an eyebrow. "Husband? I thought you were Chester's daughter."

"Oh, Mr. McCaliker, flattery will get you everywhere. Come in, come in."

"Bob, my dear boy, who is that?"

Travis pushed him inside. "Your wife." He acknowledged that he was Chester's new caseworker and that he would observe his charge overnight, if that was okay with her.

"Please. I insist on it."

"You're not my wife. Where's my wife?"

Travis hoped the glands he ate would prevent him from getting dementia.

The food was awful. The woman didn't seem to know where anything was. She confused sugar with salt, or something else that was super bitter. Travis forked his food onto Chester's plate when she wasn't looking.

"Delicious, Mrs. Marlow. Aren't you going to have any?"

She smiled at Travis. "Oh no, dear. I've already eaten."

Chester shoveled the food like it was his first meal in years. Hardly any of it went into his mouth, however, dribbling down his chin and shoulder.

The woman eyed their empty plates with a smirk. "Good boys, I'm going to check on the laundry," she left the kitchen.

Travis yawned. So did Chester. Then Mr. Marlow drooped to the table, his wrinkled face planted square on his plate. Travis felt himself drifting as well. The bitch poisoned them. His eyes closed and he slumped backward.

The door creaked and someone shuffled in. He smelled her perfume. She touched his neck, probably feeling for a pulse. Next she felt through his pants and suit pockets, humming some awful tune. Travis listened to her count the money from the motel. The woman swore. "Cheap bastard. Barely covers the sleeping pills."

She left the kitchen again. Chester sure had a strange wife. Perhaps it was because he didn't eat very much of his dinner, he was young and fit, or he'd developed a tolerance over the years to various pharmaceuticals—whatever the reason, Travis was able to open his eyes and regain control of his body. He passed the snoring Chester out of the kitchen and into the dinning room. There he saw an open gym bag with all sorts of bric-a-brac: pearl necklaces, silverware, candle holders, and so on. He found his cell phone in there, then grabbed one of the heavier items and tiptoed through the living room.

He had not noticed how messy it was when they came in, so quick was Mrs. Marlow to usher them into the kitchen. It looked like a tornado swept through the area. Travis had to look up at the ceiling to confirm it was still there. Stepping over couch cushions he paused at the door. Leaving was definitely an option. But the old woman took his money and he was once again penniless. Travis removed his hand from the door handle and hustled upstairs.

The first room he encountered was as messy as downstairs. The next had an old lady tied to a chair. A different old lady from the one that poisoned him. Her eyes went wide and she moaned through her gag when she became aware of him. Her muffled screams grew more frantic when he smelled the familiar perfume.

A throbbing heat spread over his head. Travis stumbled forward into the room. He managed to turn, just in time to suffer another blow, this time to his forehead. He caught the woman's wrist as she swung again, making her drop the paper weight. Travis' candle holder made a satisfying clunk on her head. He grabbed her by the neck and forced her to the floor.

Wednesday

Peggy was surprised how fast she got the warrant returned to her. The recovering Judge Hand was concentrating on his work. Peggy wondered whether this attentiveness would last after the judge's embarrassment subsided.

She already tracked the phone. Its owner hadn't moved much. Peggy's map indicated that whoever had it spent most of his time in front of a Seven Eleven and in the alley next to the convenience store. Given the neighborhood and the mumbling of the cell phone bearer, Peggy expected Ted's help would be required.

As his wife Marcy was still in the building (Peggy heard her lecturing on the importance of organic vegetables), Ted was around too. She rolled out of her office without bothering to start an information claim with the phone carrier. That would take too long and last time the bill made Don scream. He almost organized a raid on one of the company's local outposts. Getting the phone and looking through its history was the best and fastest option, not to mention the possibility of lifting prints belonging to its previous owner.

She found Don at the conference room table. Photos from the bulletin board were spread before him. He heard her roll in. "What do you think?" he said, holding up one of Duncan's photos and one of the bulletin board pictures.

"Not the same," Peggy said.

"I wish Libby were here. She's the one to do this."

Peggy nodded. Don had trouble with faces. He often lamented that when he saw a movie with two blond actresses he couldn't follow along because he didn't know which was which.

"What's with the missing pet cases anyway? I know she loves animals, but it's not like we don't have enough to do here." Peggy made sure no one was within earshot. "How bad is the budget?"

"Bad."

"How bad?"

Don sighed and put the photos down. "We don't have to pay Swinton anymore. We got a $50,000 donation. Libby and I are taking a 50% pay cut. On Friday—they said in Office Space that the best time to tell employees bad news is on Friday—on Friday I'm going to announce that everyone is getting a 3% reduction in their pay. Then I'm going to hope no one crashes their car, beats or shoots someone enough to get sued..." he trailed off. "We can try to do a fundraiser or something when it gets less busy and the bodies stop piling up."

"You can't just fire a couple of morons to free up some funds?" Peggy thought of half a dozen candidates.

"Who would be left to patrol the streets?"

"Libby said you can't fire anyone, didn't she?"

"Yeah."

"Nice to know who wears the pants in the relationship." Peggy smiled.

"Libby's lazy about shaving her legs," Don replied with a shrug.

"Too much information there, Don. They won't be happy about the pay cuts."

"Can't pay them what we don't have. What have you got for me?"

Peggy told him about the cell phone records and tracking. When she got to the phone's location Don said, "we're going to need Ted for that."

Libby's father fit right in with the homeless community. With a wife like that (Peggy shuddered at the sound of Marcy's droning from down the hall) it was a wonder Ted was as functional as he was.

"Would you mind asking him?" Don was uncomfortable speaking with his in laws without Libby present. He reached into his pocket and gave her a five dollar bill.

"I'll see what I can do," Peggy rolled past Tom toward the dreadful noise.

Behind her Don asked his brother in law for help. "No you idiot, we're trying to match faces. This guy is white. This woman is black. It's not the same person."

Tom expressed his doubts. Peggy shook her head. Tom was even more hopeless than Don.

The lecture had switched topics, or Marcy was on one of her tangents. "They must be time travelers," she said, "how else would the powers that be know exactly what to do to bring about the changes that they did? Hmmm?" Half her audience, Lucus, was awkwardly trying to escape. Marcy blocked his way. The other half, Ted, snored on a stool.

Peggy decided to rescue both men. "Don needs your help in the conference room," she said to the chief deputy.

"Oh thank God," Lucus muttered. Then louder, "sorry Marcy, I have to go."

Marcy narrowed her eyes at Peggy. "Alright. Everyone just leave me. No one listen to what I have to say."

No one ever does, Peggy thought. She coasted to a stop in front of Ted. She knew the man would wake up at any moment now that his wife was quiet. Sure enough, he opened his eyes.

"Hi Peggy," he smiled.

"We need your help, Ted. Don said there's five bucks in it for you."

Ted grabbed the money. He used the wall to stand up. "If I have to drive, I'll have to borrow someone's car."

"Ran out of gas again?"

"Yeah. The tow truck driver was nice. But he accidentally dented the bumper so it's being fixed now."

"Maybe Tom can take you," Peggy rolled ahead of him into the hall, ignoring Marcy's glare. She waited as Ted wobbled out and made his way to the conference room.

"I was in the middle of something there," Marcy complained.

"Yeah, my way," Peggy muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. You can tell them your old wives' tales later."

"I'll have you know," Marcy said behind her, "the woman who told me about the time travelers was not married."

In the conference room Peggy briefed Tom and Ted about their assignment. She gave them the location and the phone's model number. Don got his jacket on to tag along, but he decided to stay in the office when Marcy announced that she was going.

"That's going to take a while," Don sighed. "If it wasn't in the artsy fartsy district I'd go myself. But those hobos see a cop and they run like the devil is after them. Ted's the best man for the job."

Peggy agreed.

"Thanks for sending Lucus over. We already have three matches. Though if you ask me, they all look the same," Don said while Lucus worked.

"Figured you could use the help," Peggy replied. "Have you had a chance to read Lucus' report?"

"I did," Don straightened up. "Something doesn't feel right about it."

Lucus raised his head. Peggy's heart skipped a beat.

Tuesday

When Lucus finished going through the file they got from the county clerk he gave it to Tom. "See what you can make of this."

"Grumpy Cat is so awesome." Tom fired off another email to Don before taking the documents.

Lucus discarded their garbage and stacked their trays on top of the trash bin. They left the pizzeria.

As he started the car Lucus received an email. He was surprised that it was from the judge. The warrant was signed. Hand's secretary indicated that it was faxed to the bank, so they didn't have to swing by the courthouse to pick it up.

"I wish the judge got something stuck up his butt more often," Lucus said.

"You're weird," Tom said. He ignored him as Lucus tried to explain. "So anyway, where are we going?"

"The bank," Lucus said. "We're going to look at Hadiger's finances. You okay reading that while we're driving?"

"I'm not a wuss like Don," Tom said.

A couple of minutes later Tom closed the folder and leaned back with his eyes shut. Lucus snorted. "Did you get nauseous?" He prepared to call his partner a wuss, and if that didn't work to tease him about Rose.

"Only in the metaphysical sense."

"The what?" Lucus hoped this wouldn't start one of Tom's fevered and one sided conversations about Reptoids.

"It was a joke, Chalmers."

"Of course. How silly of me not to laugh."

"Indeed." Tom kept his eyes closed.

"So what's going on? You going to sleep?"

Tom squinted at Lucus. "Chalmers, I'm trying to read." He returned his head to the forward position and started breathing like he just ran a marathon. Lucus decided it was better to keep his eyes on the road.

Tom stopped short at the bank's entrance. Lucus barely avoided crashing into him. "Ha ha," Tom said. "Freeman lost a bunch of money in real estate. He got screwed by the zoning committee."

"You think it made him mad?" Lucus voiced his concerns.

"I'd be mad."

"Mad enough to kill those responsible?"

"I don't kill people on purpose," Tom said.

"Okay. Good to know. But do you think Mort could've killed Douglas Hadiger?"

Tom shrugged and adjusted his hunter's cap. "He was an Army Ranger or something. But how would I know? Why don't you ask him?"

"He certainly had the means and the motive. And now that he's Medical Examiner, he can fudge all the evidence."

"Freeman got screwed," Tom said again and clapped.

As they waited for the manager to show up Lucus recalled how Don once got kicked out of the bank for trying to act out a Gilbert Gottfried joke. The offended teller was in her usual place, poking at her keyboard with the back of a pen when it wasn't in her mouth.

At last the fat, bald headed manager stumbled out from the back and directed them to a desk. "So, what can I do for you gentlemen? You're interested in opening a new account?"

"Yes," Tom said. "I am interested in your no fee checking and help with my negative balance at another banking corporation."

"N-no," Lucus stammered. "We're here to pick up some records. You received a warrant? I thought all this time you were getting them."

The manager sneered at him. He turned to Tom. "Negative balance, you say? George will be right over to help you." He motioned to a man behind them. "I'll be right back," he vanished into an office.

The other guy came over and helped Tom open an account. Lots of forms were filled out and signed before it was discovered that Tom didn't have the proper documents on hand. George left and a third man helped Tom.

Lucus almost forgot why they were there. When he reminded the third banker of his business, they sat him at another desk. As he waited, Lucus watched several idle employees talk to one another. He thought maybe he should get a second job there. No one would ever miss him when he did police work. And that blond was kind of cute.

He started when Tom tapped him. His partner looked down and nodded. Lucus nodded back. Tom made the shape of a gun with his hand, pointed at Lucus, and said, "Chalmers."

"That's my name," Lucus said.

Tom nodded.

"I can't believe they're making us wait this long."

"You want to open an account too?"

"No. I'm waiting for the records."

"What records?"

Lucus scowled. "Douglas Hadiger."

"Got them right here," Tom held up a folder Lucus assumed had his new account paperwork.

"Let me see." Lucus flipped through the pages. "When did they give this to you?"

"Like an hour ago."

"Then why the hell have I been sitting here?"

"Beats me," Tom approximated a shrug.

"I thought you were getting a new account or whatever. I kept asking for the records, and they gave it to you?"

Tom shrugged again. "That was a ruse," he whispered loudly and made the most obvious wink. People turned. "Banks treat you better when you want to sign up for stuff."

"So you were pretending about the account?"

"Yes. It's called police work."

"Then let's get the hell out of here."

"Can we stop at—"

"Yeah, I'll buy you a slice."

"Thanks, buddy."

They maneuvered around an old lady who yelled at a teller about wiring some money.

Wednesday

"Something just doesn't feel right about it," Don repeated. Peggy tried to remain calm as he scanned their faces. "I'll tell you what it is. The grammatical and spelling errors. Geez, Lucus. You're a very good cop, but come on. You're a college man. It's t-h-e-r-e when you're talking about a place. T-h-e-i-r is possessive. And what's this 'and I' business? 'The bank manager was unhelpful to Tom and I.' It should be 'Tom and me.' I know it's not your fault. This hypercorrectivism plagues TV and internet fluff pieces. I could show you one about the Grumpy Cat that's full of it."

He had a bit of Norman in him after all, Peggy thought.

"This coming from a guy who can't spell clues," Lucus said to himself but loud enough to be heard by all.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, boss."

Peggy didn't like where this was going. Libby wasn't here to calm Don down, and he was unusually cranky. The budget situation was the cause. The union rep crawling out of the woodwork and seeking an audience didn't help the Commissioner's mood. She hoped he didn't blame her for the pay cut rumor getting out, as she had kept her mouth shut.

"Aside from the issues of grammar, which I thought were minor," Peggy glanced at Lucus, "did anything else in the report strike you as odd?"

Don flipped through the pages. "No, don't think so."

Peggy took a deep breath. Lucus nodded to her. "Mortimer Freeman," she said.

"What about Mort?"

"You know the people that were ripped off by the late councilman?"

"Yeah."

"Mort was one of them. He lost nearly half a million dollars."

Don slammed the report on his desk. "You're only telling me this now?" His face turned dark red.

Peggy worried he might pass out.

"He could've killed all those people and now he's in charge of the investigation," Don shook with anger. "And you're telling me this now?"

"Would you rather we not tell you at all?" Peggy tried to appear calm.

"I can fire the both of you for this," Don's voice softened. He was thinking. "Alright. Lucus, go get that weirdo. Clive, or whatever his name is. The creepy guy that sleeps in those body things at the morgue. Tell him he's in charge of the warehouse. Bring him there, and bring Mort here."

Lucus hurried out of the room.

"This is turning into a giant cluster fuck," Don said.

"Yes, but we are getting closer to solving the latest murders. Swinton, Atkinson," Peggy tried to calm him down. "You read that part of the report, right?"

"Yeah. Travis Quinton killed Swinton's wife and Charlene. Tom found him with Swinton's girls. Can we arrest him for the murders and rapes? Yeah. Will he go to jail for them? Mort did the work! Clive typed it up, but Mort did the work!" he repeated. "These property records," he slammed his hand on top of them, "my dad will use them against the evidence of Quinton's involvement. And Quinton will say at trial that he found the girls somewhere and was going to take them to us. And the damn jury will believe him."

Ted surprised Peggy and Don by coming back much sooner than expected. He wobbled in, a white cell phone in a zipped baggy in his massive hand. Tom came after him, eating a doughnut.

"That was quick," Don said.

"Yeah," Tom replied. "My mom just had us drop her off at home. She was sleepy."

So Marcy's crazy energy did run out sometimes, Peggy thought.

"Report," Don said.

"Huh?"

"He wants you to tell him how it went, sweetheart," Peggy explained as she took the phone from Ted. She found her gloves and took the phone out of the bag.

"Oh, okay," Tom said, chewing. "We found the homeless guy where you said. He ran away from me, but my dad talked to him. That's all I know."

"Did you take precautions?" Don asked.

"Yeah."

"Neither of you touched the phone with your bare hands?"

Father and son shook their heads no.

"So how did you get the phone, Ted?" Peggy asked.

"His name is Charles. He grew up on a farm outside Rosedale. He had three brothers and sisters..." Ted began. He was always one to make a short story long.

Don sat and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Peggy half listened as she scrolled through the phone's history, writing down the numbers. She brought out her kit and dusted the phone for prints. Finally, Ted got to a somewhat relevant part.

"Charles found the phone in the rich part of town."

"Where exactly?" Don asked.

"I don't know. He now lives in the alley next to the Seven Eleven. They kicked him out from the front because they have a one homeless guy policy and Fred beat him to the door and made a deal with the owner not to hassle the customers for change too much..."

Peggy left to scan the prints into her computer and to track the one other number, besides Duey's, that she was sure Charles the homeless guy had nothing to do with. She input it into the tracking program and prepared another warrant form. It turned out that she didn't need it. GPS had the phone on the road just outside the warehouse, with no movement at all. Either it was on a corpse or had been discarded by the roadside. Neither video nor audio were available.

As she dialed Duncan, the fingerprint database told her that she had a match. Three, in fact. One was Tom's. The other Ted's. The third came with a mugshot. Charles Sanders, once arrested for lewd behavior in public. That was when Methton was a nice neighborhood called the Flower Estates.

"That explains all the penis pictures," Peggy muttered to herself. She was glad she handled the phone with gloves.

"What's that?" Duncan said into her ear.

"Oh hey, Dunk. You're still at the warehouse, right?"

"Yeah."

"What's that shouting?" Peggy asked.

"Um, Lucus just got here with Clyde. Now he's having an argument with Mort."

"Gotchya. Listen, can you do me a favor? I'm tracking a phone and it says it's on Pine, maybe a dozen feet west from the entrance of the warehouse parking. Can you do a sweep for me?"

"Sure, you got it."

"Thanks, sweetheart." Peggy hung up.

When she came back to the conference room Ted still told his story. It wasn't clear if anyone listened. Don called her over to show her which photos were matched with which missing person. Most seemed correct. They separated the dubious ones into a separate file. Peggy planned to search the records for the matched and possibly matched people. Maybe they had finger prints, dental records, or something else that would help them positively identify the bodies. She also thought about whom to farm out the burden of calling relatives to come in and claim the dead. Some of the matches were missing for over a decade. The perp had been busy for a long time. The evidence suggested that the bodies had not always been stored in the warehouse. Peggy wondered what they could find on a previous location. Perhaps there were even more there. If it was Mort, had he already covered it up?

Lucus brought Mort to the station about an hour after he left. The Medical Examiner calmed from his earlier rage. One moment he screamed about how busy he was and how outrageous and unacceptable it was to interrupt him, and the next he quieted and said, "Okay. You got me. I know what this is." He stared at Lucus through the rear view mirror with cold eyes. If that wasn't a sign of guilt, Lucus didn't know what was.

He ushered the man into the interrogation room. Lucus hadn't cuffed Mort, as at this stage he was there for questioning and not under arrest. Suspects tended to clam up when they were read their Miranda rights. Besides, it wasn't clear Mort did anything wrong. They brought him in as a precaution. On the other hand, Lucus' suspicions were heightened during the ride to the station.

So it wasn't a surprise when Mort pulled out a scalpel and put it to Lucus' throat.

"Turn around please," Mort said in a clinical voice. "Slowly. Ninety degrees to the right."

The man's breath made Lucus' skin crawl.

"Hey now, take it easy buddy." He recalled that Mort was a former Green Beret or Army Ranger or something like that. "Think about what you're doing." Lucus regretted not telling Don his suspicions earlier. Now he might die for the mistake.

The cold surgical knife pressed against his artery. Or was that on the other side? Mort definitely knew.

Lucus caught a whiff of peanut butter.

"Slowly. My you're sweating, Deputy Chalmers."

Don halted at the door. His eyes widened and he pulled his gun. Lucus gulped. His chances of being killed doubled.

"Step away from Lucus," Don commanded. The gun barrel precessed in a slow, shaky arc. Lucus swore to God that if He spared him, he would treat women with more respect. And call his mother more often. And—

"Give me a moment," Mort said behind and to his side.

"I don't want any trouble..." Lucus said.

"Shhhh. Hold still."

Lucus felt a prick. The bastard cut his throat!

He wanted to move. To get away, to fight him off. But his body refused to move.

"There," Mort said and stepped away.

Lucus swiveled and drew his gun. The coroner paid him no attention. He had something small between his fingers, holding it up to the light. The scalpel disappeared.

"Get your hands up," Don bellowed. He crept to Lucus' side.

"While I appreciate what you're trying to do," Mort leaned against the table, "I really do have to get back to work."

"Sit down," Don said.

Lucus felt his neck, then checked his hand for blood. Not a drop. He was lucky.

"I said sit down."

"Fine," Mort sighed. "They used to do this to me every year in the SF. Let's get this over with. But truly, I do appreciate it. I just think my time..." He slumped into a chair.

"What's that in your hand?"

"I believe it is a deer tick. We'll have to test it, though I believe we are far enough away from Lyme and Plum Island that Lucus is in no danger."

"Put it down. Slowly. Good. Where's the knife?"

"My scalpel? In my coat pocket. Why?"

"Take it out and put it on the table."

"Now really—"

"Do it!"

Mort complied.

"Any more sharp objects on your person?"

"No."

"You okay, Lucus?"

"Yeah."

"Cuff him to the table and check his pockets."

"Now really, gentlemen. I must insist—"

"Shut up." Lucus holstered his gun and did as Don said. Mort was clean.

They sat across from him. Mort smiled.

"Normally I'd slide you a bunch of photos. But in this case you and your staff were involved in taking them. So instead I'm going to ask you why you did it."

"Did what?"

"All those bodies. Those people. Why did you kill them?"

Mort chuckled. "Oh my. This is elaborate. Should I play along? You're not going to post this on YouTube are you?"

"You had the means and the motive. It raised my suspicions, certainly. But I didn't think—I hoped it was just a coincidence and you'd explain it away. Partly because I liked you. Partly because you're the first competent ME we've had since I've been on the job. And then there's the headache of you fudging the evidence by investigating your own crime. I wanted to believe it wasn't you. I really did. But the way you've been acting, with that nonchalance and calling it 'play,' my doubts have evaporated."

Lucus nodded in agreement.

Mort's face changed. "Wait. You guys aren't serious, are you?"

"Damn straight we are."

Mort closed his eyes. He opened them slowly. "And I thought you remembered my birthday and this was an elaborate prelude to a surprise party." He sighed. "How could you think I killed those people? Do I seem like the type? And anyway, some of them have been there for years. They've been dead since before I ever got to town. I never even heard of the place until I answered your Craigslist ad, Don."

"Oh really?" Don slid the property records to Mort.

"What am I looking at here?"

"Property transaction records. You see your name there? You see the dates? BS that you never heard of this town before you saw my ad. You were here the whole time, weren't you?"

Mort swallowed hard. "This doesn't make any sense. Must be someone with the same name. Or a forgery. Did you look at the actual deeds?"

Don glanced at Lucus.

"Well, no," Lucus stammered. "We weren't really looking into Mort, you know?"

"Be that as it may," Don said, "your name is here. Says you lost half a million dollars."

Mort scoffed. "I never had that much money to begin with."

"That's the motive to kill Councilman Hadiger. By your own admission, the same poison was used to kill Swinton. From our investigation, we know that Charlene Atkinson, who killed Swinton, spent a lot of time at the warehouse working for someone. That someone has to be you."

"That makes no sense. If I did it, why would I tell you about the poison?"

"To throw us off. To ask precisely that question."

"Oh, come on. Go check the deeds. Until then I'm exercising my right to remain silent." Mort tried to fold his hands. The cuffs didn't let him. He sighed. "I just hope Clyde doesn't mess anything up," he muttered. "Mrs. Klump did not teach him well."

As the County Clerk's office was closed for the day, Don had Mort moved to a cell. "Get on it first thing tomorrow morning," he instructed Lucus.

Lucus nodded, scolding himself for not having done so earlier. He wanted to blame Tom, but it wasn't the big doof's fault.

"In the meantime, I want to know where all of Hadiger's money went. And make sure someone's at the warehouse to supervise Clive's work. I don't mean the uniforms we got over there. I mean someone who knows what they're doing."

"Peggy has Duncan over there," Lucus said. "About Hadiger's money—he was gambling online."

"How do you know"

"All the withdrawals are by companies that have 'online' and 'casino' in their names."

"Alright," Don had stopped listening. His serious expression became a smile. Libby carried a white box, which she set down on the conference room table.

After kissing Don hello and waving to Lucus she said, "I heard Mort was here."

"Yeah, he's here," Don became morose again.

"Good," Libby said. "I baked him a cake. Chocolate peanut butter with banana cream."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because it's his birthday, cranky pants. Look at the drawing I made." She lifted the lid.

It said, "Hapy birthday Mort!!!" in squiggly orange letters. Lucus couldn't tell what the drawing was.

"You missed a P," he said.

"Oh klumpers. You're right. Do you think he'll notice?"

Don sighed. "But why did you make him a cake?"

"Because I was baking the whole day and remembered it was Mort's birthday," Libby said.

"I thought you were looking for missing pets," Don murmured.

Lucus moved away from the couple, still listening but not wanting a part in what might become a spat (or a "spiffy," as Libby called it).

"I decided to do a bake sale instead."

"Who's going to buy your cakes?"

"Cookies, silly. And don't worry. I already sold them."

"To whom?"

"A bunch of peoples." Libby tapped her lip. "My mom. My uncle. Me. I know I'm not supposed to eat sugar, but I couldn't help it. Okay?"

"And how much did you make?" Don's voice grew deeper, quieter, and yet somehow louder.

"One hundred bucks," Libby said. "Aren't you proud of me?"

"And how much did you spend on the ingredients?"

"I don't know. Maybe one fifty, two hundred. What? Why are you looking at me like that? I thought you'd be proud of me."

Monday

Travis' phone rang.

"Hold on a sec," he placed his cell on the counter. He wrapped the old woman in another round of tape to the chair. This one wasn't escaping from him. He didn't do as pretty a job with her as she did to that other woman (who continued moaning in her gag), but he thought it sufficient. He slapped her face lightly to make sure she was still alive. The way he figured it, that first woman tied to the chair was the real Mrs. Marlow. And he and Chester had come upon a robbery of Chester's house. This other woman, in her pleas for mercy revealed that she was a social worker, recently fired and helping her former clients out of property they didn't need.

Travis grabbed the phone. "Alright. Talk to me."

"Never put me on hold again," a woman screamed into his ear.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, mother?"

"I have a job for you."

"And what makes you think I'll do anything for you after our last conversation?"

"If you want to ever be in my good graces you'll do what I tell you when I tell you."

"Will you give me some money?" Travis had taken back what the fake Mrs. Marlow stole from him plus a little extra, but he'd need a lot more to leave town.

"Yes. Now listen." She instructed him on how to alter records at the County Clerk's office.

"Why can't you send your man to do it?"

Ingrid's phone creaked with her tightening grip. "I don't know where he is. If I had someone else to do it, I wouldn't call you."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Stop being smart and listen. There's a senile old clerk that runs the records office. Getting in should be no problem. If anyone asks you, just tell him you're his nurse or something."

"Like his social worker?"

"That'll do," Ingrid said. "The clerk's name is Chester Marlow. Hold on so I can give you his address."

"No need for that."

"Don't show off about how you can look it up. Just let me give it to you so you don't look like an idiot calling me back to ask later."

"I'm already there, mom."

"What? You are? How?"

"Long story. So what is it you want me to change?"

"Grab a pen and write these addresses down."

Travis copied several addresses on Mrs. Marlow's stationery.

"Now this is very important. Change the names of the grantors to Mortimer Freeman. Grantors, okay? Not grantees. Sooner or later a cop is going to come in asking for all of the transactions Douglas Hadiger was involved in. Probably the crippled black or that handsome lad with the retard, or maybe Don Mettler himself. I'm starting to regret making him the commissioner."

"You reap what you sow. You had a good thing going with Wally and the drug import. How'd you blow that again mommy dearest?"

"Shut up, boy. You'd still be in prison if that weren't for me. Now, if you do this thing right, the cop will look over all the files and conclude that Mortimer Freeman had something to do with our precious bodies at the warehouse. Give us some breathing room, see what we can do about that trail of bodies you left."

"I'll get on it. Wire me some money." Travis said.

Wednesday

"How'd you get a signal from it even though it's broken like that?" Don asked about the phone Duncan recovered near the warehouse.

"Most people don't know this. Many phones have a second, hidden battery. It powers the mic and also allows us to track it," Peggy explained. "So even when the main battery is removed, we can still do a roving tap on the device." She had the broken cell phone connected to her laptop. Peggy hoped that the phone's internal memory wasn't damaged.

"Alex Jones has been saying this for years," Tom made a clapping motion. "The year of Alex Jones," he whispered.

Peggy was excited too. She lifted a good set of prints off of the phone. They matched a set found at the warehouse. Their owner was still unknown.

"Could it be Mort's phone?" Don asked. "I mean, he's been around the warehouse all this time. He could've been using it there and then dumped it."

"His prints aren't on it. Mort's in the system."

"Of course he is," Don scratched his chin. "So we'd know if there's any accidental contamination of the evidence, like with Tom and Ted," he squinted at Tom, who gave him a thumbs up. Ted snored in the corner.

"Actually, he was in the system before. Was arrested for..." she blanked on the name of the perversion.

Don nodded. "Oh yeah. Some kind of philia. Something to do with peanut butter and corpses. He listed it on his resume, under interests. Maybe he's always been honest with us."

"Having doubts about his guilt now that his fingerprints haven't been found?"

"I wouldn't say that. He could've used gloves. The fingerprints could've come from the clerk in the store or whoever made the damn thing in China or wherever."

"I like Mort," Libby countered her husband. "And, um, um, what was I going to say? Um. The prints on the phone were also found in the warehouse. So it couldn't be whoever made or sold it. They must belong to someone involved with the bodies."

Peggy smiled. "She's got you there."

"Yeah, well..." Don grumbled.

Just as Peggy was about to give up and start filling out a warrant form to get the phone's records from the phone company, a dialog box appeared on her screen. "Here we go, people," she said. The phone's recent calls popped up when she pressed OK. There were just two numbers. One she recognized as the phone Ted recovered.

Peggy copied and pasted the second into her tracking program. She hit enter and waited for the map to load. A dot appeared and the map centered on it. "We got him, whoever it is."

"Tom, Lucus, follow us. Libby you're with me," Don rose and slid on his jacket. "Keep us updated over the radio."

"You got it," Peggy said. "Be careful. They're probably armed."

The phone was in a dark place, probably a pocket. Muffled dins of cutlery came from the speakers.

"I hope it's not a pizza place or something," Don moved out of the conference room.

"No. It's a private house. Definitely a cell phone. Could be the guy that called Duey."

Don stopped and Libby crashed into him. "But that was the phone Ted got, no?"

"Doesn't mean the guy didn't have more than one burner phone."

Don nodded and headed out. Peggy again urged caution.

"Got my vest on," Lucus winked.

When everyone left, Peggy found that the address was registered to one Meg Marlow. That name rang a bell, but she couldn't remember where saw it.

Duey McCaliker searched for Travis since he captured the Ice Queen's man at the bus station. He got to the trailer after the cops did. By that time Travis was gone.

Duey drove around aimlessly since then, between visits to his new trailer where he kept the prisoner.

The police radio crackled with promising information. "327 Maple Drive, right?" Don bellowed.

"Yes," said a woman. "House is registered to Meg Marlow. Seems familiar, but I don't know why."

"Tom says that's Chester's wife," a new male voice said.

"What's the criminal doing there?" Don said. "Any possibility it could be Travis Quinton?"

"Possibly," said the woman.

Duey started the van and burned out of his parking spot. That wasn't very far away. He'd get there before the cops if he gunned it.

He was in luck. Don announced that they were stuck in traffic. "What is this crap? Tom, no, Lucus, go out there and direct the cars. How much did they spend on these solar powered traffic lights? And they're cutting our budget?"

Duey cut around the corner, nearly colliding with an SUV. It honked at him as he blasted past it. He screeched to a stop near the house.

Duey jumped out and checked his gun. Bullet in the chamber, safety off. He paused at the front door. Knocking would be stupid. He crept around the side, peering through the windows.

He found them in the kitchen. Two old people and Travis. Eating. Travis put his spoon down and cocked his head. Duey took aim. Travis looked directly at him and pulled his own gun.

Duey ducked and waited for the shot. When it didn't come, he peeked over the window sill. Travis was gone.

He scrambled to the front, just in time to see a car speed away. Duey sprinted to the van. Inside, the woman's voice said, "he's on the move. Just turned off Maple onto Vine."

"Roger," Don said. "We got out of the jam. Lucus, leave them. Go ahead and get to the Marlow house. Hopefully there's no dead bodies. But if there are, call Mor—err, Cliff."

"You got it," the radio burped.

"Turned from Vine to Willow, heading southeast," the woman said.

Duey was on it. Maybe he should've been a cop. Probably less trouble than working for the Ice Queen. If only he didn't borrow from that witch, whoever she was. He'd probably still have his Charlene. Rage pumped through his veins and he slammed the gas. As soon as he was done with Travis, he'd beat the Ice Queen's whereabouts out of her man Wallace.

The car in front of his made many turns. Travis killed his lights. Only the occasional break light revealed him. Had it not been for the woman on the radio updating Quinton's position, he'd have lost Duey long ago. Duey grinned, wondering if Travis was freaking out about how Duey managed to stay on his tail.

Three red dots flickered in the darkness ahead and disappeared. "He's stopped," the woman announced. Duey let go of the gas and coasted, scanning from left to right. His high beams caught the back of the sedan.

Duey got out with his gun drawn, holding it gangsta style. He approached slowly, the gravel beneath his feet almost as loud in his ears as his heart.

The car was empty. The front airbags were deployed. Something rustled in the foliage. Duey fired in that direction.

He thought he heard a howl. More rustling. Duey quickened his pace. Sirens. Duey wiped spiderwebs and other forest crud from his face, plunging into the thicket.

It was too dark. He should've taken a flashlight from the van. Duey stopped and thought about going back. Something grabbed his ankle, dragging him down. He backed away. His butt scraped along the tree roots and dead leaves. Flashing red and white lights illuminated the figure in front of him every half second. It closed upon him. Duey fired. The figure fell on top of him.

Duey was nose to nose with Travis. His mind went blank. All he wanted to say to the man escaped him. As voices from the road said, "this way," Duey whimpered and crawled out from beneath his enemy. He fled from the voices and lights, too shocked to revel in his victory.

"We need an ambulance here," Don said into his radio. He shone his light after the fleeing man and then turned it back on the injured one. "That him? Travis Quinton?"

"Yep," Libby said. "He's hurt real bad."

"Don't touch him. Who knows what diseases he has," Don lightly slapped her hands away. He looked at the man's face. "Who's the Ice Queen?" he demanded. "Help is on the way, but you have to tell us."

Travis murmured something. Blood streamed down the side of his mouth.

"What?" Don leaned in closer.

"My mom," Travis gurgled and died.

"What did he say?" His wife's eyes were wide.

"Nothing," he replied.

"I thought he said something."

"He called for his mom." Don pressed a button on his radio. "Cancel that ambulance. Get someone over here to pick up a body. Peggy, we'll need Duncan. The terrain isn't good for your chair. No need to bring a van, we found the one that was missing."

"Will do," Peggy said.

"Suspect Travis Quinton was shot by an unknown person. Didn't identify the shooter," he said into his radio.

Don saw Libby wave her hand like a handkerchief. She was crying. Rolling his eyes and shaking his head, he pulled her toward him. Her soft cheek pressed against his collar bone.

"So sad," she said quietly.

"He was a scumbag," Don consoled her.

"Doesn't make it not sad. So sad. So sad..."

"A rapist, a murderer, and God knows what else."

Libby pressed her wet cheek against Don until backup arrived.

"Right this way, Ms. Quinton," Don held the swinging morgue door open for her. She had come to identify her son's body.

An Asian looking guy lifted the covering to reveal her Travis' face.

"Yeah, that's him."

"Once again, my condolences for your loss," Don said.

She shrugged it off like it was no matter, though inside she was broken. "We weren't on good terms anyway. How did you find him?"

"We tracked his phone."

Ingrid closed her eyes for a moment. Her stupid boy. He didn't want to change phones. "How did you know his number?"

"We found it as part of our investigation of the warehouse."

Was it the phone Ingrid dumped there? Hadn't she broken it? Did she use it to call Travis?

"He fell in with the wrong crowd," the husky cop began.

Ingrid saved him the trouble. "I understand why you had to shoot him."

"It wasn't us, ma'am. He was shot and killed by an unseen assailant. We have reason to believe it was Duey McCaliker. We'll find him, rest assured. He's already beaten one murder rap and escaped from prison. But we'll put him back behind bars." The cop scratched his head uncomfortably. "On account of your estrangement, I thought maybe it would comfort you to know that Travis called out for you before he passed," Don said behind her as she headed for the door.

She stopped. "What did he say, exactly?"

"'My mom,' I believe. I asked him a question and he just called out for you."

"What was the question," Ingrid asked.

"Oh, I'm not sure that matters."

"Please tell me, Commissioner."

"Well, like I said, Travis fell in with the wrong crowd. We believe he was part of a gang headed by someone called the Ice Queen. I asked him who the Ice Queen was. Your son, instead of answering the question, said 'my mom.'"

Adrenaline flashed through Ingrid's body. "I see. Thank you, detective." She left the cold room. As the door swung behind her the cop began, "if there's anything I can do..." but she ignored him.

He knew too much, even if he didn't know it yet. He, or someone he conversed with, would figure it out eventually. It was time to change tacks. Ingrid would use Don to force his wife to destroy the evidence. Then Ingrid would dispose of the both of them.

Two men waited by her car in the dark parking lot. "I'm driving myself home," she told them. "When the fat cop comes out, I want you to take him. Get rid of his phone, radio, weapons. Get rid of his car. Bring him to the hills and wait there for further instructions. Don't hurt him too much. That's my department."

"Yes, miss," one of them said.

Ingrid drove a ways off, so she could watch the abduction from a safe distance. As her goons waited by the sides of the front door, one of them disabled the security cameras.

Don came out a few minutes later. One of her guys tried to clock him in the head from behind. At that very moment the cop bent down to adjust his shoe laces. The goon missed and the cop noticed him. With a speed belied by his full figure, the cop rolled away and scrambled for the door. The goons gave chase, grabbing him at the entrance. One of them stumbled back from Don's hit. The cop turned around and shot that man. From the way he hopped around, Ingrid judged it a superficial leg wound.

Her other goon missed a punch and almost got shot too. Don changed his mind about which way to go. Ingrid gritted her teeth and held her head as she watched the cop make for his car. He shot behind him, shattering the glass doors. He managed to start his car. A goon held on to the door. The car dragged him across the parking lot.

Ingrid buckled her seat belt and made a one eighty back into the lot. Her engine roared as her car gained speed. She slammed into the police cruiser's side. Glass shattered and metal crunched. Her airbag cushioned the impact.

One of her goons hopped up to them as she got out. "Take his gun and phone. Put the cop in my trunk," she told him. Her other goon lay dead on the other side.

Once Don was inside the trunk, Ingrid instructed Barry (she thought) to dump the other goon's body along with the cop car. He complained about his leg.

So hard to find good help, Ingrid thought. What happened to America?

"You'll be fine as long as you do what I say." After a couple of tries her damaged car coughed to life. It rumbled out of the parking lot, squeaking with every turn.
Episode Seven

"Follow the Scent"

Not knowing what else to do, Libby dialed 911. Dispatch answered on the sixth ring. "Police emergency," Jackie said with a yawn.

"My husband didn't come home last night and I'm worried," Libby said.

"You sure he's not with another woman or lying drunk somewheres in the gutter?"

Libby narrowed her eyes. "He better not be." No, Don wouldn't do that. "I'm really worried. He didn't call or anything. Can you track his cell phone please?"

"Miss, we don't do that."

"Yes you do."

Jackie snorted. "So you're one of those. Hold on, let me see if Tom's on duty yet." Some papers shuffled in the background. "Okay, I'm transferring you over to an officer. He's into conspiracies too."

The phone beeped in Libby's ear.

"Yellow," Tom said.

"My husband's missing," Libby told him. "Help."

"Libby, buddy, is that you?"

"Yeah. Hi bro. You left the house early today."

"I tried to hit the gym." Libby heard him clap on his gut. "I got as far as the deli, where I got a burrito. It was delicious."

Libby was too worried for talk about food. "Don didn't come home last night."

"I was wondering why he didn't reply to my emails."

"He's not at the station?"

"Haven't seen him." Tom swallowed and burped.

"What should we do?"

"I don't know, dude," Tom chewed on something else, probably one of those old cupcakes in the small fridge by Don's desk. Libby hoped Tom didn't find her ice cream stash. "If Don's missing, that means you're in charge. Maybe the dogs can find him. That's what they do, right?"

"That's a great idea," Libby exclaimed. She had wanted to name the two dogs Hunter and Drew, for her favorite kids when she was a summer camp counselor. Now she reconsidered. As Don would've wanted, "I'm gonna name the doggies after the greatest composers who ever lived."

"Freddie Mercury and Cindy Lauper?" Tom asked.

"No, silly. Wolfgang and Ludvig."

"Never heard of them," Tom burped.

After she hung up, Libby searched for something of Don's that would bear his scent. Just as he had file piles at the station, Don kept several hills of clothes at home. He had a "system" here too, and she was not allowed to tidy up without incurring his crankiness. She forgot which was the clean pile and which was slated for the laundry. But one particular garment called out to her. Clumped together sweatpants and t-shirt, in its own pile behind the door. On one of Libby's many attempts to get them to exercise she actually got Don to jog with her. She smiled at the memory: Don complaining about the exercise, then running behind her and pinching her butt as they struggled up a gentle incline. He was against washing his exercise clothes because "they'll just get sweaty again, so it's a waste of effort."

Libby got the shirt and pants off the floor and called the older dog. "Here Ludvig. Here boy." The pit bull waddled over, a goofy grin on his face. She petted and kissed his forehead. "We're gonna find Don. We're gonna find your daddy."

She positioned the clothes next to Ludvig's nose. Although he didn't have any beagle blood like his son, Libby thought the dog would get a good whiff and find the trail. Instead, the pit bull whimpered and ran away. He bound down the stairs. Libby heard him skid on the first floor landing.

"What's the matter with him?" Libby wondered and blinked. She sniffed at the clothes. "Oh my God," she gagged. With burning eyes she dropped the exercise outfit into the hamper.

Lucus went to the County Clerk's as soon as he left his house in the morning. The records clerk greeted him as if for the first time, the previous night's interview forgotten. Lucus and Tom had found Chester and his wife at dinner. Tom accepted Mrs. Marlow's invitation to the table. As they ate (it was only polite that Lucus also join them) weird thumping noises came from upstairs.

Mrs. Marlow said it was just the wind, but Lucus decided to check anyway. Perhaps Travis Quinton or whoever they'd been tracking had an accomplice. He drew his gun and crept up the stairs. The thumping came from behind a closed door. It was locked.

Lucus kicked it in and found a bound and gagged woman. She stared at him and tried to hop away with her chair. All she managed, however, was to fall backward. He removed her gag. "Who did this to you?"

"Duey McCaliker," she said through chapped lips.

Back downstairs, Lucus asked Mrs. Marlow why she hadn't told him about the imprisoned woman. "Duey told us not to. Such a nice young man. Best case worker we've had in some time. This one," she pointed at the other woman, now untied and rubbing her wrists, "was stealing from us. She had me tied to a chair. Serves her right for having the same done to her."

The other woman hobbled out the door. Lucus gave chase. Corn on the cob eating Tom stayed behind, "to protect the Marlows." It was easy enough to catch the thief and put her in the squad car, as that's where she ran.

Chester smiled from behind the counter at Lucus.

"I'm looking for copies of certain deeds," Lucus said and showed the man a list. His wife would be in the station later that day to make a formal statement against the intruder in her home, Candice Witmore.

Chester continued smiling, but made no move to retrieve anything. With Tom not there to stop him, Lucus entered the records room. It took him a while to understand how everything was organized. Eventually he located the properties in question and examined copies of the deeds.

Mort's name wasn't on any of them. Lucus flushed as he wrote down the new names. They kept the poor bastard in a jail cell overnight. Don wouldn't be happy either, since it was Lucus' work that cast suspicion on the ME. He should've known better, or found it at least somewhat suspicious that someone was back here "helping" Chester.

"Does the property clerk have an assistant, usually?" he asked the receptionist at the front door.

"No," she shook her head.

"Happen to know who that guy was with him yesterday?"

"Duey something," she said.

"Thanks," Lucus headed for the exit. He paused at the door. He pulled out his cell phone and found the Travis Quinton mugshot Don sent everyone through an APB. "Was this the man?" Lucus returned to the counter.

The woman examined Travis' photo. "Might be him," she said.

Lucus thanked her.

He thought about it as he drove to the station. The phone they were tracking was almost certainly Quinton's. It was found on his body, after all. That meant he was in the Marlow house. Both Mrs. Marlow and Candice Witmore referred to someone in that house as Duey McCaliker. The most likely explanation was that Travis told these people he was Duey. He also told the receptionist at the County Clerk's.

It was Travis that handed Chester the forged property transaction records. He must have been the one to forge them, printing them out in the records room. The man they'd been hunting was not ten feet away from them and they missed him.

Lucus hit the steering wheel. How could they be so stupid?

So, what? Travis was living with the Marlows? Then Duey found him somehow and chased him into the woods, where he shot him?

Lucus pulled over to write all this down.

How did Duey know where Travis was? He had the ME van. Did that have a radio?

Lucus put the car back in gear and on the road. A minute later he pulled over again.

Why did Travis alter the property records to implicate Mort? He scrolled through his contacts for Clyde's number. It went straight to voicemail. Lucus tried calling Duncan.

"Hey bro."

"Hey Dunk, you at the warehouse?"

"No man. Just finishing up here in the woods where that guy Quinton died."

"Who's at the warehouse?"

"Um," Duncan sounded like a kid the teacher caught sleeping. "A couple of uniforms. That guy who always complains about everything."

"Kurt?"

"Yeah, I think so. Also I think the fat guy too. The one with the girlish face."

"Hanson?"

"I don't know."

Oh please tell me Cinthia is there. "How about a woman?"

"No man, no chicks."

"Well, thanks."

"No prob—"

Lucus ended the call and dialed Kurt.

"Hello," a groggy voice said after the fifth ring.

"Kurt, it's Lucus. You at the warehouse?"

"Hell no, man. They're not paying me overtime or at all for that shit man. I went home at six on the dot. My shift ended and I bounced, man. I did stop by the station though. Jackie said there was cake."

Lucus hung up. He dialed Hanson. No answer. He dialed Cinthia.

"Hey Lucus, you better get down to the station."

"Why, what's going on?"

"Chaos I guess is the best word for it. Don's not here. Libby's not here. People are dancing on the tables. Someone found an old boombox."

Lucus heard the music and something breaking in the background. "I want you to release Mort," he told her. "Tell him to meet me at the warehouse."

"Got it."

"You know where Peggy is?"

"Yeah, she's in her office yelling at the phone company to hurry up with handing over some records."

"Okay." Better not bother Peggy then. "So release Mort, then try to get some order in there."

"Yes sir."

Lucus called Don. Straight to voicemail. He called Libby.

"Hey Lucus. Is Don with you?"

"No. Where are you?"

"I'm at home. I'm trying to get Ludvig to come out from under Tom's bed. But the silly guy got spooked."

"Ludvig? Never mind. Listen, there's a problem at the station. They're having a party or something. Mort's not involved in the Hadiger properties—"

"I knew it."

"So I instructed Cinthia to let him go. There might be a problem at the warehouse. I can't reach Clyde or anyone who's supposed to be there. I'm heading there now."

"What should I do?" Libby asked.

"You're in charge."

"Right. Well, um, um, um, thanks Lucus. I'll think of something."

Lucus made a u-turn and sped toward the warehouse.

Libby's phone rang after she finished with Lucus. It was a number she never saw before, certainly not one of her contacts. She let it go to voicemail. Ludvig still cowered under the bed. He was such a big dog. Libby wondered how he'd gotten under there. She left food and water for him and went in search of Wolfgang.

She grabbed the sleepy puppy, kissed him between the eyes, and put him in her bag. Then she was off to work. Her phone, having been called by the strange number a couple of more times, vibrated to let her know there was a message. It occurred to her then that Peggy might be able to track Don's phone. Libby stepped on the gas.

The station was as Lucus described. Cinthia screamed at her older colleagues, but to no avail. Tom waved at Libby from behind a couple of dancers, then resumed playing with his phone.

"May I have your attention please," Libby squeaked.

Kurt turned to her for a second, opened a fresh beer, then ignored her. The others paid her no attention at all. Libby sighed and went to Peggy's office.

The forensics expert slammed her phone on the desk. "Those rotten bastards. 'Three to five business days,' they said. And they're going to charge us for it. Where's Don? Last time he threatened them with a r—what's wrong, sweetheart?"

Libby realized she was crying. She reached into her bag for a bottle of water. Drinking usually stopped the tears until she could go to somewhere private. Instead of the bottle she felt something warm and fuzzy. Then something wet. The puppy licked her hand.

"What's the matter, Libby dear?"

"I don't know where Don is. He didn't come home last night."

"You came here so you could track him?"

Libby nodded, drying her wet cheeks with her sleeve. In her head she heard Don's voice scolding her for touching her face with a dirty hand. The tears welled up in her eyes again.

"Have a seat, honey. Let's see if we can find Don." Peggy typed something into her laptop. "Have you tried calling him?"

"Uh huh."

"No answer, huh?"

"It didn't even ring," Libby said.

"Maybe he's following a lead and his battery died. Have you tried the radio?"

"Nopers."

Peggy's radio hissed as she turned up the gain. "Don? You there? Don?" She typed into her computer again. "Hmm. There's no signal. I'm going to have to call the phone company again, to request the phone's previous locations. Don't worry. I'm sure he'll turn up safe and sound."

Libertad nodded. She hoped Peggy was right.

"In the meantime, maybe you should conduct an investigation."

That was a great idea. Libby thanked her and left.

Cinthia waited in the hall. "So what now, boss?"

"We're going to find Don."

"What about everyone in the conference room? It's like they're chickens running around without a head."

Oh the poor chickens.

No. That was just an expression. Libby refused to be saddened by it. The anger that had been building reached just under her throat. "I'll take care of it," she murmured.

In the conference room she said, "excuse me."

No one even glanced her way.

The rage grew past her throat and into her head. She drew her gun and fired several shots into the boombox. All the officers froze. The only sound besides the ringing in her ears came from Arthur's sweeping.

"Don't you have work to do?" Libby glared at them.

"We're waiting for our morning briefing," someone said.

"New rule. When there isn't a morning briefing, you go to your assigned posts. You go on your patrols. You respond to emergency calls. Got it?"

Some of them nodded. Tom rubbed his hands together excitedly. Kurt rolled his eyes and opened another beer. "You don't get to give us orders."

"When Don's not here I'm in charge. I'm the Assistant Commissioner."

"Yeah, whatever." He rolled his eyes again.

"You're fired!"

Kurt took a step back and paled.

"You heard me. Get your stuff and get out of here. Your last paycheck, not that you deserve it, will be mailed to you. Never come back," her vocal chords strained. "Now the rest of you, get to work."

"Yes ma'am," cops shuffled out of the room.

"Can we..." Kurt began.

"Out!" Libby pointed at the door.

He scuffed out with his head down.

"What do you want me to do," Tom rubbed his hands together as if lathering them with soap.

"Sit here for now."

"You got it, dude," Tom pulled up a chair.

Libby sat down for a second to catch her breath. Realizing the gun was still in her hand, she holstered it. The puppy looked up at her with wide eyes. Libby scratched under his muzzle. "Sometimes you have to yell at people or else they don't listen."

She exhaled and stood. "Cinthia, you're with me."

"Oh son of a," Lucus reeled from the smell. He lifted his undershirt over his nose. Water pooled under his boots. His flashlight beam shimmered off into the darkness.

"Hello? Anyone here?"

Only dripping answered Lucus. He splashed toward the interior, sweeping his flashlight from side to side. In one corner, before the space opened to where the corpses were discovered, he found a body in a police uniform. His heart skipped a beat. The bloat looked like Hanson.

Someone killed Hanson and cut the power. Lucus was about to call Don when he realized his boss was missing.

That whole thing with Mort was a distraction for someone to destroy the evidence. It made sense now. Lucus reached Hanson, slumped over in a chair. As he shone the light at his face the man started.

"Whoa. What's going on? Don't hurt me," Hanson raised his arms.

"It's me, Lucus." He shone his light elsewhere, relieved that Hanson was alive. "What the hell happened here?"

"I don't know. I was just resting my eyes, and the next thing I know you're shining a light in my face."

"We're going to retrace Don's steps?" Cinthia asked from the passenger seat.

"Yep," Libby replied. "After we found Travis and all that, Don and Clyde went to the morgue so that Mrs. Quinton could identify her son. So sad," Libby fought back tears. "So that's where we'll start."

Arthur beat them to the Medical Examiner's office. As they pulled into the empty lot he was busy mopping it. The janitor skittered every way Libby pointed the car, forcing her to stop.

Her uncle stopped too. She moved. So did he.

"For the love of God, Arthur, get out of my way."

The janitor muttered to himself and moved his bucket.

"What happened here?" Libby noted all the broken glass and metal shards.

Cinthia drew her attention to the shot up door. "Should I call Peggy?"

"Definitely. Make sure Arthur doesn't touch anything. I'm going in."

Libby went through the broken door with her gun drawn. Nothing seemed amiss inside, but one could never be too careful. She arrived at the morgue without incident, wondering where all of Mort's workers were. The double doors were unlocked. Libby forgot which unit Clyde slept in, so she banged on all of them.

There was a thud, and then an "ow!" One of the fridges opened and Clyde slid out, rubbing his head. "What's going on?"

"That's what I was gonna ask you."

"What do you mean?"

"Weren't you supposed to be at the warehouse?"

"Uh yeah," Clyde said, "but Duncan brought over a body. I left two uniforms guarding the warehouse. So I kind of fell asleep here last night."

"You didn't hear anything unusual?"

He made a face. "Nope. Don't hear much in there," he pointed. "Which is why I like it so much."

"Was Don here last night?"

"Yeah. He brought over this old woman to identify the body."

"Then what happened?"

"Uh, nothing. The lady left, then Don asked some stuff about Mort. Then he left." Clyde shrugged. "Why, what's going on?"

"Don is missing," Libby's voice quivered. "And it looks like there was something not good happening outside."

"Oh." Clyde offered her some kombucha.

"Thanks."

"I'm fiddling with your recipe."

"Yeah, this is more tart. I like it."

"Thanks."

"Where is everyone? Usually there's the guys that drive the vans and help you guys," Libby said.

"They come mid afternoons, most times, unless there's something for them to do," Clyde shrugged.

Libby asked him around what time Don and Ingrid left, wrote it down, and left. When she got to the entrance Cinthia was pushing against Arthur, trying to prevent him from contaminating the crime scene.

"Arthur, please stop that. You're destroying evidence."

"I'm only trying to be helpful," her uncle replied as Peggy's van pulled into the lot.

Don awoke with the worst headache ever. The rest of his body felt no better, except for his butt, which had fallen asleep. He couldn't move his arms or legs.

Don was hazy on what happened. The last thing he remembered was running away from two big men. He thought he shot one of them. Judging from the restraints around his wrists, tying him to a metal chair, it wasn't enough.

He surveyed the room. Mounted on the wooden wall next to a very familiar and torn painting of a man and a dog was a deer head. Its huge antlers clipped the ceiling. The mustiness of the air along with other assorted hunting trophies told him he was in a cabin.

"Hello?" he said through dry lips. Not a good situation, but whoever had him wanted him alive. "I kinda have to go to the bathroom. Hello?"

"Still no word from Don?" Peggy asked over her lift's mechanical whine.

"No," Libby sucked on her bottom lip.

Peggy rolled onto the concrete. "Did you check your voicemails? Sometimes your phone doesn't have a signal and whoever's calling you can't get through."

Libby checked her phone. "I do have a voicemail!"

She held it to her ear. Instead of Don she heard a computer. Like a robot from one of those old sci-fi shows it said, "Li. Bee. I have D-on. Do. As. I. Say. And. He. Will. Not. Be. Harmed. Dee-stroy the. Ev. Edens. Cut. The. Pow her. In. Ware. House. Or. Your. D-on. Is. De-ad."

"What's the matter, child?" Peggy frowned.

Libby sniffled while trying to figure out which button to push to replay the message. "He's been captured by a robot. I hate Ray Kurzweil. He's evil!"

Peggy gently took the phone out of her hands and replayed the message on speaker. "Sweetheart, it's not a robot that has him. It's someone using an old text to speech program."

"That's what I meant," Libby got a hold of herself. "Inside is the last place anyone saw Don. He came here to meet Mrs. Quinton to identify her son's body." Tears threatened again.

Peggy had Libertad redial the kidnapper. The line was dead.

"Arthur!" Peggy barked. "Get away from that. That's evidence. Cinthia, can you lock him in the car?"

"I've been trying," said Cinthia. But Arthur was too persistent.

Libby helped draw her uncle away from the broken glass. "Look, Arthur. All that mess that needs cleaning over there."

"I'll get to it later," the janitor said. "This other area," he gestured behind him, "is of vital importance."

"Don't worry, you'll get to it," Cinthia said on his other side.

Arthur jumped. "Oh my, you startled me. I didn't see you there."

Libby made a mental note to push up the date she and her mom would take Arthur to a neurologist. They had planned it for December, but it might have to be sooner. "Just send him to a home already," she heard Don's voice in her head and smiled. The tears threatened to come back.

"Clyde confirmed that Don was here and left?" Peggy asked once Arthur was secured in the backseat of Libby's squad car.

"Yeah. Mrs. Quinton left first, he said. I'm gonna go ask her if she saw anything later."

"Good thinking." Peggy gazed at the doors. "So we know Don was abducted, and whoever has him is responsible for the warehouse. They also knew enough to find him here last night. Maybe he was followed. Maybe they have a police scanner."

She squinted at something. "Did Arthur move anything over there?"

"No," Cinthia said.

"Okay." Peggy took out a camera. "Cinthia, be a dear and take a few photos of those shell casings over there." She pointed in the direction she rolled. "Looks like the glass on the entrance was broken by shots fired from here. The way they're spaced, Don was moving. Either toward the building or away from it. Here, take these number cards."

"How do you know it was Don?"

"You know how he instructed everyone to start marking their bullets with a permanent marker after that last shootout you guys had? He wanted for us to be able to easily distinguish between which bullets were ours and which the bad guys'. I know for a fact he marked his in blue.

"Libby, where does he usually park when he comes here? Over there?"

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

"I figure he was going towards his car, or away from it. Where else would one go? And he parked there because it's the closest non-handicapped parking spot to the entrance."

"Yeah, he's a stickler for the silliest rules," Libby smiled.

"Since Clyde saw him inside, Don was most likely shooting while running toward his car." Peggy handed Libby a vial. "Take a sample of that, dear. That's blood."

"They shot him?"

"Judging from the trail, I'd say he shot his attacker." She rolled toward the door. "Somewhere around here. Don exits the building, gets jumped, runs to his car. Firing backwards. Breaks the windows. Hits his attacker. Gets to his car."

She rolled back to Don's parking spot. "He drove away fast," Peggy noted the rubber embedded into the cement. "Made a turn for the exit."

Libby took notes and followed behind Peggy. They came upon a shoe.

"Not Don's?"

"Noppers. Don has small feet."

"When Cinthia's done taking pictures of it, we'll bag it."

"I was gonna say that," Libby smiled for a second, then remembered her husband was missing.

"So what's it doing here? Might be it has nothing to do with Don. On the other hand, if it does..."

Libby put her index finger to her lips. The gears turned in her head. "Maybe someone held on to the car and his shoe fell off?"

"Definitely a possibility," Peggy said. A couple of dozen feet later she gasped.

"What? What is it?"

"Look at those tire tracks and the broken glass."

"They're per-per-per," Libby searched for the word, "perpendictutar."

"Perpendicular. Yes. Another car crashed into Don's from that direction. By the looks of it a blue car. I'd say one of those newer luxury models with an automatic braking system, unless the driver changed his mind and tried to stop at the last second. And you were right about someone hanging on. Look here. The force of the impact threw him off. I know a helmet-less head on the pavement when I see one." The gray concrete had a dark, roundish spot.

"Take a sample," Peggy gave her another vial. Peggy wrote on a baggy with a permanent marker. "So I know where the sample came from," she explained when Libby was about to ask.

"What are those other spots around there?"

"You'll take samples of those too. Not in the same vial."

"Sorry."

"That's okay, dear." Peggy gave her little cards with letters and numbers to place next to the dark spots. "Make sure the letters on the baggies match the samples. Understand?"

"Yeah."

"Those smaller splotches look like they're from the guy that got shot. We'll know for certain when I get them to the lab. But my preliminary opinion is that there were at least two guys. One who got shot, and another that hit his head. Looks like the guy who got shot dragged him away, in this direction."

When Cinthia finished with the pictures, they followed the path of the car that hit Don's. Libby saw the burnt rubber before her colleagues.

"That's where he was."

"Watching?" Cinthia asked.

Peggy nodded. "Looks that way, doesn't it? They're here to kidnap Don. He resists, almost gets away. Whoever's sitting here sees they're in trouble and ram's Don's car."

"Is Don okay?"

"No evidence to suggest he isn't. Give me the number that called you. I'll do a trace when I get back to the station."

Libby showed Peggy her phone. "I'm gonna go visit Ingrid Quinton. Maybe she saw something. Maybe she saw the blue car."

"Good thinking. You mind if I keep Cinthia here until Duncan arrives?"

Libby looked to Cinthia, who shrugged.

"Sure. I'll see you guys later."

"Okay, sweetheart. The kidnapper will probably call you again. Let me know if it's a different number."

"Okay," Libby trotted to her car.

Lucus waited outside the warehouse for Mort. Heat rushed to his face when the cruiser turned into the parking lot. Lucus returned the driver's wave as the car departed. He forced himself to look into Mort's eyes.

"Mort, listen—"

"Oh come here, you," Mort squeezed him.

Lucus' feet dangled in the air.

"Wow. You're a lot stronger than you look," he said when his boots were firmly on the ground and his breath returned to him.

"I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Best birthday ever. Stupendous prank. Having Kurt eat cake in front of me. That was a nice touch. Most of it, I say was Don's idea. But that last detail," Mort shook a finger at him, "I say that was you. Brilliant. I admit, you really had me there. Especially with the property records. That was gold. For a second even I thought I did something illegal." His smile revealed large teeth and gums.

Lucus didn't expect that. "So you're not mad?"

"Mad? Why would I be mad? You went through all that trouble to do something special for me. And this morning, when you let me out, there was a party. I mean, how awesome is that? You've certainly raised the bar. I'll have to up my game for your birthday."

"Um. No. That's totally not necessary. And um, you don't even know when..."

"May 25th? You're in for something special. I promise."

"I um, um—"

"So what's going on here? What did I miss?"

Whew. Back to business. "Power's out. The bodies have defrosted. Everything's melted. I suspect sabotage, but haven't been able to find any lines cut."

"I see," Mort furrowed his brow.

"I also don't get how the bodies and all the ice melted so fast. Hanson said they were fine last night. It's got to be sabotage. They got you away from here and then..."

"You mustn't blame your gesture for something going wrong here. If anyone is at fault it's me for being born on that particular date, Lucus. It's not sabotage necessarily the way you think. There was an interesting chemical. Haven't isolated it. But it could be it accelerates decay when it's above a certain temperature. I had just found it when I was called away. If it does accelerate decay, that narrows things down. Where's Don? What does he think?"

Lucus followed the coroner inside, past a sleeping Hanson. "Don's not taking calls. Libby's looking for him right now." Lucus lifted his shirt over his nose again.

Mort inhaled deeply. "Definitely some sort of chemical. What you're smelling isn't rot. It's an organic compound, though."

"Is it safe?"

Mort shrugged. "Probably. I don't know. If anything, we'll find out when we're old and get cancer or something. And by that time, you'll probably get cancer anyway. Toxic, our modern environment."

Lucus caught a smirk, but that was probably his imagination. Nevertheless, if Mort sought to comfort him, he didn't succeed. "You messing with me?"

"No. Why would I ever do that?"

"Never mind," Lucus said, but Mort was already lost in his work.

Ingrid Quinton answered the door herself. Her eyes looked puffy, no doubt from crying and lack of sleep. Who could blame her?

Libby drank from a seltzer bottle to fight back tears. Sparkles always helped her.

"Are you okay?" she said by way of greeting.

"I've been better," Mrs. Quinton fingered her neck brace. "This, um..."

"My neck gets stiff sometimes too," Libby said. The poor woman. Her body was falling apart because of stress. Libby knew exactly how she felt.

"Come in, please."

"Oh, I won't be long. I don't want to bother you. It's just that...um, my Don, my husband is missing."

"I see."

"And you were one of the last people to see him, at um the Medical Coroner's office." Libby cast her eyes down at her feet.

"When I left he was still there, talking to that Asian fellow."

That fit Clyde's story. Libby said, "Did you see anything strange when you left?"

"No. I don't think so."

"Was there anyone in the parking lot. A blue car?"

Mrs. Quinton's eyes widened at that. "No. There was just my car (it's currently in the shop) and a squad car. What's this about a blue car?"

"My husband was attacked last night in the parking lot. Someone kidnapped him."

"Your black pieced it together?"

"My?"

"Oh, what's her name. Margaret something."

Libby furrowed her brow. "I don't know anyone like that. But anyway, Peggy figured out that there was a blue car. You haven't seen it?"

"Like I said, no other car there but the cop's. Your husband's."

"Oh well. Thanks for your time." Libby turned to leave.

"Does this have anything to do with that warehouse you're investigating? I heard something about that." Mrs. Quinton said.

"Um, maybe. I don't know." That reminded Libby of the call she received from Lucus while she was on the road. "The evidence there got all ruined," Libby refrained from stomping her feet. It wasn't a good day. She knew carrying a coffin on top of the car would be bad luck. She should've listened to her mother and never let Don exhume that body.

"Ruined, you say?"

"Yeah."

"That was quick."

"Huh?"

"Nothing, never mind. Good luck finding your husband. I'm sure he'll turn up." Mrs. Quinton locked the door as Libby walked away.

What a good woman, she thought. Lost her son and still concerned for others. The way she smiled after Libby told her about the evidence—she wanted Libby to know everything would be okay. What a kind, compassionate woman. Libby called Don to tell him all about it. When he didn't pick up she remembered that he was missing.

"Norpe, carn't find no problem here," said the electrician. "No wires been cut. Northing." He tied his long gray hair back in a ponytail.

"Well thanks anyway, Mr. Powell," Lucus said. He scratched his head. "Then what the hell happened? How'd they cut the power without actually cutting anything?"

"Nar this ain't narn orf my business, but you pay your bill?" The man studied his face. "Yer, that probably it." He nearly hit Lucus' shiny shoes with tobacco juice. "Miss Quinton mighrt herlp you out. She runs a refrigeration bursness." Powell looked for a card in his pockets but failed to find it.

"Thanks," Lucus waved when the pickup truck rattled away. "And thanks for wearing pants." It was time to visit the power company.

"Hello?" Don said again.

The house was empty. He pulled at his restraints and only got pain for his trouble. He didn't want to wet his pants, but that possibility looked increasingly likely.

Don tried to distract himself. They wanted him alive. So they'd come eventually to feed him and so on. A door creaked somewhere.

The copper heard him come in. Duey knew because the man stopped struggling against his restraints. He carried the man's lunch, and his own, in a paper bag. He reached into his pocket and donned his brass knuckles.

Maybe he wouldn't need them. Keeping the food just out of reach might be much more effective.

The cop would no doubt ask for the bathroom. When Duey untied him, the man might try to escape. Ergo the brass knuckles. The important thing was not to kill him. Duey needed information. Shame he didn't have any handcuffs. Might as well let the man piss himself.

He eyed Duey warily, scowling. Sweat glistened on his bald head. The stubble on his cheeks was going to be a beard soon. The man sighed in an exasperated way, like he had no patience for him. As if to say, "how could I be caught by him?" Duey wanted to punch him just for that look, but he restrained himself. For now.

Duey sat down across from him. He took out a veggie burger, bought from the diner that should have been his. Damn cops. Duey hated cops. He hated this man.

"You must be hungry. If you want one, I'll need some information."

The man snorted and rolled his eyes. Duey bolted up to hit him. His burger fell open on the floor. He got mustard on his pants. The man chuckled and shook his head, shame in his eyes. Shame that made Duey blush.

"Well that one's for you." He sat back down and took out the other burger. Duey ate self consciously as the man watched. It was hard not to feel that this bound man was the interrogator.

No, Duey had the power here. He was in charge. He brought the guy here.

Duey grunted and ate with renewed gusto. He remembered the man's face when he cornered him at the bus station. He was in charge. Damn right.

When he finished chewing he said, "you're going to tell me who the Ice Queen is, or you don't get to eat."

The man shrugged as best as he could under the circumstances.

"Why are you protecting her, you dumb cop? What has she ever done for you?"

The man rolled his eyes. "I'm not a cop."

"Anymore. You were the commissioner, man."

The man sighed and looked away. "Do you know what loyalty is?"

"Yeah. What do you think I'm doing here?"

The man scoffed. "You killed your brother, no?"

"That was different. That was survival. This is personal."

The cop closed his eyes in disgust.

Libby drove past the pastry shop and a couple of pizzerias without feeling the urge to stop. Only Don was on her mind. A resident had called in what looked like an abandoned cruiser at Miller's Pond, so she was going to investigate.

Her phone rang. A new, weird number. This time she answered it. "Hello?"

It was the computer voice again. "We. Have. You or. Hus-band. You. Made. Good. On. The. Ware. House. He. Will. Liev yet."

Libby didn't understand that, but she had practiced for this call. "Let me talk to him. Let me talk to Don to know that he's okay."

There was a clink and a woman's voice cursing. The sound became muffled as whoever called her handled the phone. Libby heard what sounded like typing. "Not. Yet," the computer voice said. "First. You. Dee-stroy. The. Re-cords on Dough Glass. Had. Igor."

Libby squeaked over it. "No. I have to talk to my Don to see if he's alright. He has low blood sugars, so you have to feed him. And he has a meat intolerance. Give him whole grains. No gluten. Brown rice is good. Or quinoa."

She waited through the long pause, wondering if perhaps the robot would say some nonsense about arsenic in brown rice. There were lots of little noises. Libby imagined a cafe.

An oncoming truck's horn reminded her that she was still driving. Libby swerved out of the way and pulled to the overgrown shoulder.

There were lots of muffled voices. Again she imagined a cafe. After a few clinks the computer voice came back. "You. Will. Be. Contacted. A-gen." The line went dead.

Libby's knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel. She reached for her phone, which was mounted to the dashboard.

Libby texted Peggy the number and then called the forensics expert. "Hi Peggy. It's me, Libby. I got called again. I just texted you the number."

"Already on it dear. Looks like that phone went dead. Must be using one of those that don't have an extra battery."

"Aww man."

"I did manage to get the last location."

"You're a genius!"

"Corner of Woodrose and Main. The internet cafe, I'm almost positive."

"I'm five minutes away from there. Thanks Peggy." Libertad screeched out from the shoulder and sped back to Main Street. She narrowly avoided several head on collisions, a couple of old people crossing the street, and two racoons rummaging in the garbage. They were so cute.

She slammed on the brakes at the intersection.

Libby took a sip of her sparkles to wet her tongue. It had been sticking out to aid her concentration during the high speed journey. She tried to get out of the car but couldn't. Unbuckling her seat belt did the trick. She burst into the cafe, not sure what she looked for.

Libby scanned the room. A couple of nerds looked up from their game. One stared while elbowing his friend. The round man at the counter sized her up warily. He seemed nervous enough to know something. She waddled over to him in what she hoped was a very confident and assertive manner. Her leg started to hurt for some reason, however, so she probably didn't look as cool as she hoped. Still, she had a gun. And she was in charge of the entire police force.

Keep him off balance. "You're not using Kali Linux here are you?" She narrowed her eyes as best as she could. Too much, she couldn't see. Libby tried the opposite approach, mimicking her brother's psycho look.

The man took a step back. "Kali....?"

Libby looked askance at him. "No Wireshark or Subterfuge? Metasploit?" Don had made her watch a whole thing about hacking last week.

"I um. I just, um..." The man watched someone move.

Libby turned to follow his gaze. A husky woman squeezed toward the door, trying not to look her way. It was her. Libby knew it. "Hold it right there! Police!"

The woman flew out the door. Libby followed.

As she ran she wondered whether parts of her body jiggled as much as the woman's. She'd have to ask Don. He was always honest about such things. One time, when they were first starting to date, he told her she smelled like puke. It was after she drank apple juice. If Don were there right now she'd hit him.

"Focus," she told herself.

The woman turned into an alley. Libby pumped her short legs as best as she could. The taller woman outdistanced her. Libby had to stop to catch her breath. She described the suspect into her radio, "big woman with hair fleeing Woodrose and Main."

She panted back to her car. The suspect wouldn't have gotten far. Libby thought the woman was as tired as she was. And with no one following her, she'd slow to a walk. Sure enough, Libby found her two blocks over. The woman ran again after spotting the cruiser.

"That's more like it," Libby said. She drove without the gas pedal behind the suspect until the woman collapsed. Libby handcuffed her and asked politely for her to get up and into the car.

"I ain't do nothin'" the woman said as they drove to the station.

"You made me chase you when all I wanted to do was ask a couple of questions. Now there's procedures I have to go through," Libby said what she imagined Don would say.

"I ain't do nothing."

Libby thought she recognized the voice from the cursing. She radioed to have Tom help her when she arrived at the station.

As the woman glared at the wall in the interrogation room, Peggy examined her phone. "She called you both times," Peggy said. "Must have switched SIM cards."

"Yeah, she had a bunch in her pockets."

"She say whom she works for?"

"Noppers."

"Well, there's only one other number this phone has dialed."

Ingrid checked the incoming number on her burner phone. She scoffed. No matter, she was going to call that piece of flesh anyway, having just contacted Barry or Larry or whatever his name was up at the cabin. She was going to figure out how to put Don through to Libby without taking the woman up there—although that would be a good place to get rid of her. Her jowls tensed as she thought.

She hit the answer button. "What do you want now you idiot?" Instead of the foul mouthed woman Ingrid heard Libby's childlike voice.

"Hello? Who is this?"

Ingrid had to think quickly, but her old brain protested. Her first impulse was to hang up, remove the battery, and smash the phone. But she held on to it, tight, and pressed it against her ear. "I, er, um, Joe's Pizza," she said.

"Joe's Pizza? Where's that?"

In the background someone shouted, "you're ordering pizza? Can I have some?"

"Hold on, I'm trying to find out," Libby said, her voice growing distant as her mouth moved away from the receiver.

"I want mushrooms and peppers. No onions, though. I hate onions."

"Tom," Libby whined. "I'm trying to talk on the phone. And onions rule," she squeaked. "Sorry about that," she said into Ingrid's ear. "I think my brother's hungry. What was I gonna say? Um. Did this fat lady call you before?"

"I don't know, ma'am. As this is a pizza restaurant, I imagine lots of fat people call all the time."

"Oh, alright then," Libby sounded disappointed. "Then I guess I'd like to place an order? Where are you located anyway? I don't think I heard of you?"

"Er, um. Just past Main toward Thompson."

"I never heard of Thompson."

"Well, um, it's here though."

"Okay. Tom," she said away from her receiver, "what was it you wanted again?"

"Eggplant parm."

"I thought you wanted a pizza?"

"That too. Mushrooms and peppers."

"Okay," Libby said back into the phone as more voices sounded in the background. "We'll have two eggplant parms, a large pie with mushrooms and peppers, hold the onions, two plain pies, and two slices with caramelized onions. And can we get a large soda with that?"

"Uh. Okay. Uh. Thanks for your order. Bye." Ingrid hung up, her heart pounding almost as hard as after a kill. She was about to dispose of the phone when Libby called again. "Hello? John's Pizza."

"I thought it was Joe's Pizza."

"Yeah, that's what I said."

"How come your voice sounds so familiar?"

"I don't know. People tell me that all the time."

"Oh. Okay. What was I gonna say? Um, um, um. You never asked for my address."

"You're at the police station, right?"

"How did you know?"

"Caller ID."

"Oh, okay. How long will it be?"

"Twenty minutes."

"Okay. Thank you."

"Take care," Ingrid ended the call.

So they had the woman she paid to call Libby. Not that much of a problem. Ingrid had used Larry to hire her. If anything, the cops would be looking for him. And he was already at the cabin. Another of her employees was on his way there now to keep him company and defrost the meat.

So, the cops had the messages the woman was supposed to tell Libby. Ingrid used gloves to pull them out of the printer. No finger prints, no handwriting analysis. Had she forgotten anything? Libertad Klump-Mettler was the intended recipient of the messages anyway. The woman knew nothing.

What to do with the phone? Ingrid was glad she wasn't at home. "Stop here," she told her driver. She scribbled Libby's order on a tissue. She handed it to him with a couple of twenties. "Order these for the police station, then throw out the tissue."

"Listen, lady. That's not part of my job description," he leaned his arm on the headrest as he turned to her.

"You'll do what I say, or I'll call your manager." With Wallace missing (or was he hiding from her because of the botched hit on Duey McCaliker?), James dead and the other one up at the cabin, Ingrid was short staffed. At least in terms of communicating with her employees. Wallace did all of that. It kept her insulated. Safe. But at a time like this it proved a disadvantage instead of a benefit. And so she was reduced to being driven around by this imbecile.

"I don't really have a manager," the man said.

"What kind of a car service company is this?"

"Uh, not really a real one. You see—"

"But I dialed the number on the ad in the paper."

"Oh yeah. I kinda intercepted that transmission with equipment I have from my old job and sort of swooped in and got to you first. You know, just cruising the rich side of town. I know you people don't drive yourselves."

What was this man yammering on about? "You just 'swooped'?"

"Yeah. You know? I got fired today. I had a sort of an 'epinathy,' I think it's called. I said to myself, 'Kurt, just because they don't appreciate you don't mean others won't. Now get your act together and go earn some money. So I took the lights and stuff and dumped them in Miller's Pond, got a fresh coat of paint, fixed the—"

"Spare me your life story. Go in there and order the pizza. I'll give you an extra twenty when you come back."

"Now you're talking," her driver got out.

Ingrid shook her head. The help these days. She tossed the battery out the window and then the phone after it. She wrinkled her nose. If this Kurt was going to be in the driving business he'd best refurbish the interior. At present it looked rather like a cop car.

A masked man limped into Don's room. Good, he thought. They were taking precautions so there was a chance they'd let him go.

"I have to go to the bathroom."

"No can do," the man sneered. "Gotta wait for help to arrive. Don't want you escaping."

"Arrive where? Where am I?

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"Do you know who I am?"

"You're the guy who shot me in the foot."

"I thought we had met before...So why am I here?"

"Beats me." He leaned to examine Don's restraints. Satisfied, he straightened up and limped out. "He's alright, yeah," he said, probably into a phone. "Wants to go to the bathroom...Yeah, that's what I said...One hour?...Got it." A television popped on in the adjacent room and the man plopped down into what sounded like a leather seat.

Don continued working at his leg restraints. It started as an attempt to regain circulation in his feet. Although he did not succeed in that regard, Don thought he made progress in loosening the rope. He could afford to be more noisy when he thought he was alone, but the television gave him some cover.

"Let's regroup, see what we have so far. Everything we've investigated is connected. You know how on cop shows they have like a board with pictures of people and arrows and stuff? I'm starting to think something like that might be helpful," Libby said.

"All of the boards have your mom's recipes," Peggy noted.

"Hmm. You're right. What if we use this wall here?" Libby pointed to the one bare wall.

"Isn't that your mom's take on that painting that was missing a while ago? A Portrait of Modern Life?"

"Oh. I totally forgot about that." Libby tapped a finger on her lips while looking at the homemade plaque Marcy had placed on the wall, along with a sign that said "Dear brothers in arms, keep at least three feet away from the artwork." What would her Don do? "How about the floor then?"

"That can work," Peggy sighed. "We don't even need a marker or anything. Just something to cut through the dirt and grime will do." She answered her ringing phone. "Thanks Dunk." Putting her phone away she said, "Duncan's found the top rack of a police cruiser by Miller's Pond. He says it's fresh."

Tears threatened to come pouring out of Libby's eyes. She grabbed a new seltzer bottle, spilling an eighth of its contents by opening it too quickly.

"We'll find him, dear. He's alright."

Libby nodded, not yet ready to speak. She took another long swig.

After barricading a section of the room with caution tape they worked on their diagrams. Cinthia stood on the perimeter, keeping Arthur at bay.

They took a break when the pizza man came.

"I thought you said it was John's Pizza," Tom ate his eggplant parm in two bites.

"Yeah."

"This reminds me a lot of Mama Gia's."

"Me too," Libby chewed. "Do you think they stole her recipes?"

Tom shrugged. "Which one is cheaper?"

"They didn't charge anything. The guy said we paid already."

"Then let's order from this one before they go out of business. Free pizza is extra good."

Everyone agreed with Tom.

About an hour later, Libby stood upright and massaged her back. She examined their diagram, with its photos, notes, and red yarn connecting them.

"Travis worked for the Ice Queen," Libby said. "He was somehow involved in what went on at the warehouse. But it couldn't have been him because he was in jail when a couple of the victims went missing. Charlene worked there, according to Duey. Travis killed Charlene. Duey killed Travis as revenge."

She felt something in her gut, and it wasn't hunger or gas. "I think Duey has something to do with Don's disappearance." Don's voice in her head yelled about not jumping to illogical conclusions. But he wasn't there to do it for real, so she went with her gut.

"I know what Don would say," Peggy mimicked his chin stroking. "But I think you should follow this hunch. In any case, we ought to be looking for McCaliker. He escaped from prison, stole one of our vans, and likely killed a suspect."

"Then I'll find him," Libby said.

"How do you propose to do that? The trail on Duey McCaliker is a bit cold."

"I have an idea," Libby touched the warm fuzz in her bag. The puppy lapped at her fingers. "Ludvig has an awesome nose. He can track Duey, I know it."

"Ludvig?"

"My new, older doggy."

"It's a bloodhound?"

"No. But I know he can do it. He's very sensitive." She recalled what happened earlier that morning. "He needs a walk anyway. You coming Cinthia?"

"Yes, sir." Cinthia got Tom to replace her on guard duty.

"Better take a picture of the chart," Libby warned.

"Already on it," Peggy said, reaching behind her chair for a camera.

When Lucus returned from the electric company's office he wished Tom would've been with him. The doof had a talent for dealing with mindless bureaucrats. Still, he had accomplished his task. He confirmed that no one sabotaged the evidence. The power company couldn't do a direct debit because McCaliker's company bank account had insufficient funds. So they terminated service.

"Oh, you're back," Mort said when he saw him. "Ingenious. Simply ingenious. You cut the power and everything decays."

With a tissue over his nose Lucus looked where Mort pointed and wished he hadn't.

"No distinguishing characteristics. Even the teeth are rotting. In a few more hours they'll just be a pile of goo. Hydrochloric acid on steroids. That's a metaphor—although there is a steroid-like property at work here."

"You know what it is?"

"I do actually. One of my professors in grad school worked on it. Never would have guessed otherwise and by the time we could do proper tests it would be too late. But like I said, I had a hunch and tested for dimethylricyclo..."

Lucus could not follow along with even half of it.

"And it's confirmed. That's the chemical they used here to get rid of the evidence. We're just lucky they didn't have the opportunity to cut the power before we discovered this place."

Lucus took a sheet of paper from him with the name. "Do you know who makes this stuff?"

"Yeah. I almost went to work there before being re-seduced by the medical profession. Field medicine is my first love. My professor left to start a company, which is why I didn't finished my PhD in organic chemistry and have an MD instead. Anyway, the company's called Charon Laboratories and it's just a few miles away on County Road 3."

"What are they doing here in the middle of nowhere?"

"Lack of environmental regulations and an abundance of tax credits. Why do you think no one can swim in Wallow's Creek anymore?"

"It's that weird looking building with all the lights at night?"

The Medical Examiner nodded.

"Thanks, Mort. You mind informing Libby and Peggy?"

"Working on the report now."

Lucus called Tom on the way to the station. "Wait for me in the parking lot. I'll pick you up in a few minutes."

"I can't," said Tom. "I'm watching something on the floor."

"Huh?"

"I'm watching papers and things on the floor. Libby told me to."

Lucus looked askance at the empty passenger seat, as he was wont to do when Tom said something weird next to him.

"That doesn't sound very important," Lucus said. Maybe Tom was being annoying and Libby gave him a fake job to keep him busy. "Where is Libby anyway?"

"She went to find evidence."

"Okay...get out into the parking lot. I'm two minutes away."

"But I have to watch the stuff on the floor."

"So get someone to cover for you."

"Hold on."

Lucus listened to muffled talking.

"Okay. I'll be right out. My uncle will do it for me. I had to give him a dollar."

"I'll buy you a pizza or something."

"Thanks, but I'm full. We had a pizza party. Libby left you some in the fridge but she said that the bigger one is for Don."

"Don turned up?"

"I don't think so."

Lucus picked up his partner a few minutes later and they were on their way to Charon Labs. They got to the cylindrical building not long after. Lucus looked it up and down. "Maybe we should have stopped for a warrant first."

Tom shrugged and followed him to the front door, his head bent over his phone.

"Sending Don more stuff?"

"Gawker is really busy today."

An alert security guard greeted them in the lobby. "Welcome to Charon Laboratories," he said the last word like a British guy. "How may I help you?"

In case the uniform wasn't enough, Lucus displayed his badge. "We're investigating a crime and were wondering if we could take a look at your records."

"Right this way," the guard surprised Lucus.

He handed them over to a smartly dressed woman with black rimmed glasses and tied back blond hair. Her stilettos' clicking on the marble floor led them to the elevator. Lucus spent the trip staring at her butt and imagining the things he'd do to it if she let him.

"This way, gentlemen," the woman said with a knowing smile. She ushered them into a spacious waiting room and disappeared. It looked expensive but not gaudy.

"So, are you ready for your date?" Lucus savored the lingering perfume.

Tom ignored him.

Lucus sighed. "Are you going trick or treating this year?"

"No," Tom didn't look up from his phone.

"How come?"

"It's stupid."

"What changed between this year and last? You had that batman costume you wear every time."

"Kurt made fun of me. He said I looked stupid and gay."

"So your hairy gut sticks out from underneath the top."

"Hairy? You should see Don's back," Tom replied.

"I did not need to know that."

The busty woman reappeared. "This way please. Dr. Gottlieb will see you now. Sorry for the wait." Lucus followed her butt into an even bigger office with the same soothing browns and golds of the waiting room.

"Hello I am Hans. Sales manager for local region. Please, have a seat. How may I help you fine gentlemen?" said a suited man from behind a giant desk.

Lucus told him why they were there. The old man turned to his computer while saying to himself, "local customers."

He took his glasses off and turned back to them. "Ah, yes. I remember now. Always the same man. Duey McCaliker purchasing for a facility on Pine."

"Can you describe him?"

"Older man. With a hard face, but the kind that would not stand out in a crowd. Large nose. Potato shaped head. Bald."

"That's not Duey," Tom said, still engaged with his phone.

"He did not look like a Duey," Hans agreed.

The description formed an image in Lucus' head that he didn't want to believe. "Tall or short, this man?"

"More short than tall. In fact, he is due in a couple of weeks."

"I don't think he'll be coming back."

"Shame. A good customer. But we will manage."

"So this man, did you recognize him? I mean, do you know his real name?"

"No. I am not from here. The commute is an hour for me, I am not at liberty to say why. Perhaps in many years."

"Tom, can you find a picture of the former police commissioner?"

Tom did as he was asked. He gave his phone to Lucus, a photo of Wallace Williams on the screen.

Lucus handed it to Hans. "Was this the man?"

Hans put his glasses on, took them off, put them on again. "Yes, I believe so," he returned the phone.

"I'm surprised, sir, at how cooperative you've been. Thank you."

"Upstairs called before your arrival. Dr. Charon instructed me to cooperate fully."

Thank you Mort.

They were escorted to the lobby by the woman. She placed a card in Lucus' hand, and left with a smile. Lucus watched her go. "Anika Meuller, Customer Support Representative." Her personal number, written exquisitely in pen on the back, was framed with hearts.

"What's that?"

"I believe she gave me her number," Lucus sniffed the card. Once they were outside he said, "this is big. Huge." He called Libby and left a message.

"What now?" Tom asked.

"We get a warrant and go visit our old boss."

"Can we stop for pizza first?"

"You were just full."

Tom clapped on his gut. "The tummy wants what it wants. I ran a lot the other day so it's all good."

Given a chance to procrastinate, Lucus agreed. He hoped Williams was long gone by now as he did not relish meeting his former boss.

As they ate, Lucus recalled the scandal that brought down Commissioner Williams and the former Mayor. Intrepid reporter Finnemore Dunn discovered that drug runners used the town as a storage depot with Williams' knowledge and consent. After a series of denials, Williams resigned. He claimed he didn't know what really happened, as he merely turned a blind eye to certain activities. He acted, he said, on the Mayor's direct orders.

The Mayor was so ashamed of his actions that he killed himself by holding his head down in a sink full of water. Suicide by drowning, Marcy Klump had determined.

With the leadership of Councilwoman Quinton, the Town Council moved to ensure such an abuse of power never happened again. A new law made the office of Police Commissioner a public one. The Mayor's office was no longer in charge. Instead, the Council maintained oversight by controlling the police budget. Then a special election was called. Although he didn't run and no one, to Lucus' knowledge, heard of him, unemployed and over educated Donald Mettler-Klump won the majority of the vote. His caterer wife Libertad Klump-Mettler was in the same vote made the Deputy Commissioner.

About a year later the Town Council wrapped up its investigation and, over Ingrid Quinton's strong objections, fired Marcy Klump for incompetence (she had proclaimed an official's spouse dead by suicide, preventing him from collecting on a life insurance policy). As a compromise and in respect for the retiring Councilwoman's wishes, they made the Medical Examiner's Office subordinate to the police force. That didn't make much sense to Lucus, but then again most things politicians did made no sense.

In many ways Williams was more competent than Don. But Don didn't have that hard look and manner about him that made people nervous. Nor did people worry that Don would shoot them (on purpose, anyway) if they got in his way.

Williams disappeared from the spotlight. For a time Lucus had thought the man moved away. Then he forgot all about him. Now he dreaded going to see his old boss, who appeared to be involved in a perhaps bigger crime.

Libby leashed Wolfgang to his dad so that the puppy would have a walk. She enjoyed the crisp forest air while waiting for the dogs to catch Duey's scent. "I think they have it," she said.

They followed the dogs along a winding, slightly downhill path. The dogs stopped frequently to do their business and to wait for Libby and her partner to catch up.

It turned out that Cinthia was also a big fan of Japanese animation and manga, so they discussed Full Metal Alchemist and Attack on Titan, which was supposed to be made into an anime.

"Really? They're making it into an anime? I have to tell my brother," Libby liked Cinthia instantly. She took out her phone. No service. She had forgotten to pay the bill again. Oh well. She didn't like getting calls anyway. "This is turning out to be a good hike," she wiped sweat from her upper lip.

Cinthia agreed. "Are you sure the dogs are following Duey McCaliker?"

Libby nodded. "Yes. Or whoever killed Travis. I know it's Duey. And I know that once we find Duey we'll find my Don."

"To me it looks like they're just going down the easiest path."

"My boys have very sharp noses. I know it."

They walked some more and emerged into a clearing. On the far side was a grassy embankment. Between them and it were tall stalks that Libby always found beautiful. She wondered why the dogs went around instead of through them. Don was always saying how animals were more logical than people, like knowing that the shortest distance between two points was a straight line—Libby almost plunged into a muddy marsh. Cinthia caught her.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

"So that's why my boys are going around."

"Looks like a road up there," Cinthia shielded her eyes from the sun.

"And that's a building," Libby pointed.

"If Duey was here, I bet he went that way because it had its lights on at night."

"You're a genius!" Libby smiled.

They caught up with the panting dogs and climbed the embankment. Libby sat on the metal guard rail to catch her breath. Across the road was Paul's Diner.

"You think Duey went in there?"

"Only one way to find out," Libby replied.

When she saw that there were no veggie burgers on the menu, Libby ordered fries and onion rings. Cinthia had a Coke. After they finished their snack Libby asked the man at the counter if he was there last night.

"Been here every night for the last twenty years," Paul twirled his whiskers.

"You see anyone suspicious?"

"Well, last week there were these city folk. They had fishing rods sticking out of their car window. I don't think they had a fishing license."

"I mean last night."

"Well, let's see here. No, I don't think so."

"Who left the muddy bootprints out in front?" Cinthia asked.

"Oh, I've been meaning to clean that up. Young man came in here last night, asked to use the phone."

"Can you describe him?"

"They all look the same these days. He had a neck tattoo, and those big earrings. Not the hoopy ones that women used to wear. But the ones that make the—what do you call these things?"

"Lobes?"

"Right. Lobes. They make the lobes all big. The kids these days..."

"Do you know who he called?"

"Probably the cab company, 'cause that's who picked him up. He asked for a veggie burger while he waited. I grilled him a carrot and put it between two buns. I tell you, these vegetarians. Society is going to hell."

Libby was glad she didn't ask for a veggie burger.

"Do you remember which cab company it was?"

"Vince's I think. They're the ones with the beat up old Chevys. Don't know why he didn't call that new one, I forget the name. They charge less and have those Lincoln Towncars. Yeah, the drivers ain't white, but everything else is better."

Sometimes Libby thought the whole town was racist. They used Paul's phone to call Vince's Car Service to pick them up and take them to its headquarters. Paul shook his head and muttered to himself about how no one listened to him.

After the car picked them up and they crammed into the smelly backseat, Libby asked how Cinthia knew about the mud.

"Oh, I just figured that in the dark Duey must have fallen into the marsh. You almost did and it was light out."

"Uh huh," Libby didn't want to say it was because she'd been looking at a beautiful bird instead of watching where she was going. Before Mr. Powell got control of his dog she often stepped in doodoo for that reason.

"So when I saw the mud caked on that rubber carpet thing outside the diner I put two and two together."

Libby nodded. Cinthia was so smart. When they got Don back she'd have to discuss promoting her.

After getting a warrant from Judge Hand, Lucus and Tom went to Wallace William's apartment. "Whatever you do," said Lucus, "don't call him Wally."

"Yeah, he's a crazy one," Tom looked down at his phone. "Mettler's a better boss. Half the time I'm just sending him stuff from the internet."

Lucus tried Libby again. He got hit with three loud tones. Before he moved his phone away a prerecorded voice said the customer was temporarily unavailable. "Your sister forgot to pay her phone bill again."

"Don said it happens only twelve times a year."

They reached the third floor and walked to apartment 3B, which was at the end of the dark hall.

"What a dump," Tom said. "When Wally lost his job he must've run out of money fast."

"What'd I say about Wally?"

"I don't know," Tom put his phone away.

"I said not to call him Wally."

"Oh yeah. Sorry about that."

Lucus began to think that maybe one of them should've waited outside by the fire escape in case Wallace decided to run. Then again, he was the type to look out the window. He'd know something was up if he saw Tom texting under the fire escape. They should play it like old colleagues coming to visit. Lucus regretted not buying a six pack for the illusion.

They stopped at the door. "You're breathing down my neck, man."

"Sorry about that."

Lucus was just stalling. Should he ring or knock? He went for both. No answer. He heard nothing behind the door. "Maybe he's not in?" Or Wallace saw them and already escaped.

Lucus tried kicking down the door. He got nothing but pain for his trouble. "Tom?"

"Yeah?" he'd taken his phone out again.

Lucus gestured at the door. "You mind?"

Tom jiggled the handle. "It's locked."

"No kidding."

He went back to his phone. "Ha ha, guess what Sarah Palin said?"

"Tom?"

"No. She didn't say my name."

"Break it down." He pointed at the door.

"Oh." Tom jiggled the handle again.

"Not like that."

The handle came off in Tom's hand and the door creaked into the apartment.

"Okay, I guess that works." Lucus drew his gun and stalked inside. "Wallace, this is Lucus Chalmers from the PD. We have a warrant to bring you in." Lucus hoped he didn't get shot or have a gun barrel rammed into his head from behind. No, that was just Tom breathing down his neck.

"Sorry about that."

When it became clear that no one would shoot at them Lucus half expected to find Wallace dead in his love seat or the bathtub. Both were empty.

"He's not here."

"Tom, sometimes your observational skills surprise me."

"Thank you."

It was an old man's apartment. Love seat, television, a couple of old newspapers and breadcrumbs on a small table. A dirty range with a kettle on top of it. An adjoining bedroom with a narrow bed, an old alarm clock next to a yellowed lamp and pictures of grandchildren. A bathroom with a leaky faucet—all enclosed by peeling white paint. Lucus lifted a book from the coffee table. "Get Your Life in Order Now! The Multi-pronged Approach to Success," he read the title. The author signed the title page to a GL. The Ice Queen's initials?

"What a dump," Tom said again. He took pictures. "I'm going to send these to Don so he saves for retirement."

At last, Don freed his feet. He got that terrible but not unpleasant sensation in them as blood found its way back into his toes. He grunted, but the television and even louder snoring covered him. Don bent forward onto his feet and stumbled toward the door.

It took a lot of maneuvering to push down the handle. Pulling it was harder still, but he managed. The chair's metallic legs protruding from his back clanged against the door frame as he tried to sneak past. The guard, snoring in his ski mask, stopped for a second. Don held his breath. The snoring resumed. Don tiptoed past another deer head, accidentally knocking down some kind of vase with the chair.

He winced.

The snoring continued.

Don was more successful with the front door, having learned from the last one. He rushed down the steps and toward the gravely driveway where a car stood. He stretched for the door, but no matter how he twisted and turned, he couldn't reach the handle. The swinging chair leg fractured the passenger window, however, and set the alarm off. Don rushed toward a copse of trees for cover. Good timing too, as another car pulled into the driveway.

He sat down behind some bushes. The one good thing about his predicament was that he always had a chair ready.

His legs burned in complaint. But that was nothing compared to the pain in his wrists and forearms. He had the urge to rub them, but couldn't.

"What the hell did you do that for?" bellowed one voice.

"What?" said a second over the alarm.

"You broke my fucking window." The alarm shut off with a woop-woop.

"I ain't do nothing. I just got here."

They argued some more. Don waited until they went into the house. He got up and toddled as fast as he could along the driveway.

He tripped and fell, his mouth full of dirt and fallen leaves. As he struggled to get up the voices returned.

"Where did he go? You see him? Couldn't get far, I just checked on him like five minutes ago."

"How'd he get past you? You sleeping?"

"No. He must have climbed out the window or something."

"Well we better find him quick, cause the head bitch is coming."

"She is?"

"Yeah, and it won't be my ass on the line neither. Cause that pig was gone before I got here."

Don kept as still as he could while one of them shuffled through the leaves maybe a dozen feet away. A worm crawled by his eye. He grimaced and cursed the day he was elected police commissioner. Were he a lawyer like his dad wanted, he wouldn't be in this situation.

"Over here. I think I see him."

"Where?" said the man who was almost on top of him.

"Here, dumbass."

"I'm coming. Be quiet so he doesn't know we're on to him."

The voices receded. Don managed to get up. He continued in his awkward bent manner toward the end of the driveway and the road to freedom.

"Our clients value their privacy," Vince told Libby again.

"But this is real important. Please sir? Pretty please? You don't even have to tell us where he went. You could just drive us there. That way you won't have told us any confidential information."

"I don't think so."

"Are your drivers able to follow other cabs?" Cinthia asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Like if a guy gets in a cab and I catch another one and tell the driver, follow that cab, will he do it?"

"Yeah. I don't see why not," Vince said.

"Even if it's one of your cabs that I'm trying to follow?"

Vince thought about it. "Yeah. I guess so."

Libby saw where Cinthia was going with this. "So then, can we just follow the cab that Duey took last night?"

"Hold on, let me see if I can get the driver." Vince looked through his records, licking his finger as he turned the pages. He peered over his glasses at them. "This is gonna cost you a pretty penny, ladies."

"I don't mind. Do you take credit cards?" Libby said.

"Sure do. There's a five percent convenience fee, though."

Libby sighed. "That's okay. Just follow that cab."

Vince arranged it so that they had to go back to the diner. From there they followed an empty cab. It was a tedious and roundabout way of doing things, not to mention expensive. But Libby didn't mind as much as Cinthia apparently did. It reminded Libby of her weekend trips with her parents.

The cabs dropped them off at an out of the way trailer, not far from where Tom rescued the girls from Travis. When the cars left, Libby crept to the front door. Cinthia circled around to make sure there were no other escape routes. She came back, shaking her head.

Libby pulled her gun and knocked on the screen door. "Duey McCaliker. This is the police. Come out with your hands up."

Noises came from inside. Libby worried that Duey might be trying to flush the evidence. She saw it plenty of times in movies. She tried the door. It was unlocked.

A man stood behind Duey with his hands around Duey's throat. Her surprise entrance distracted him, giving Duey the opportunity to elbow him and get out of his grip. He pushed Libby, who fell into Cinthia, and jumped out the door. As Libby got up and apologized to her partner a car out front started. Tires squealed as it accelerated away. Her dogs barked after it.

"Commissioner Williams?" Cinthia said behind Libby.

"Former Commissioner," the potato-headed, stubbly man rubbed his wrists.

"What are you doing here?" Libby was confused. "Did you know we were short staffed and decide to help us find Duey?"

"Uh. Yeah."

"How did you find him?"

The man kept silent.

Williams was a man of few words, Libby thought. She offered him a ride back to town. "They might like to see you at the station, sir," she said.

The man shrugged and agreed to the ride. Libby asked Cinthia to call Vince's Car Service.

"Call Jackson Cabs instead. They're cheaper and better," Williams gave her the number.

They rode to the station in style and silence. Libby didn't really know what to say to Mr. Williams, so she concentrated on her dogs, who panted between her and Cinthia. Williams sat in the front seat, lighting a cigar offered by the driver.

"Oh my God! Look who it is!" Peggy said when they arrived. "It's Wally! Where've you been?"

After greeting Peggy, Wallace looked at their diagram on the floor. But someone had messed it all up. Tom was nowhere to be found.

"What's this?" Wallace asked.

"We're working on a diagram of our case," Libby squeaked, and hid her eyes.

"I'm a suspect?"

"What? No." Libby examined the diagram. Two newspaper pages had gotten mixed in. One was a picture of Wallace Williams, the other a photo of Ingrid Quinton. They were connected with red yarn, with Quinton at the top of the pyramid.

"Stupid Arthur. My uncle must have messed the whole thing up," Libby hastily removed the photos and tried to rearrange the other pieces as best as she could. She gave up, remembering that Peggy took pictures.

"Oh," Wallace chuckled and grimaced.

Libby started to think that the grimace was his way of smiling. "Arthur. He's still here? You know, I tried to get rid of him for five years. It turns out he's not even a town employee."

"He's not?"

"No. That's why they can't fire him. Turns out he pays the town one hundred g's a year so he can 'clean' here."

Libby's mouth opened in shock. Arthur was rich? What the hell was he doing living with her family since she was small? He even took over her room when he moved in.

"So where's Don?" Williams asked. "I want to meet the man who's replaced me."

Libby looked down at her feet again. "He's missing. The Ice Queen has him."

"'Ice Queen'? What's that?"

"It's the criminal mastermind of the whole town."

William's expression of condescension and mild amusement did not change. He looked at his watch. "May I make a phone call?"

Although he freaked her out, Mr. Williams started to grow on Libby. The fact that he didn't carry a cell phone was a plus in her mind. When she remembered that her phone was still out of service she directed him to a landline. It was beneath a ton of Don's paperwork. They found it by following the phone cable from the wall.

"Thanks," he said in a way that suggested he wanted privacy. Libby gave him space. She wondered if Williams had anyone special in his life and whether that woman called him snugglespuss in private like she did Don. She giggled and waved to Tom across the room.

"Hey Libby buddy," he stormed past her and put his former boss in a tight bear hug.

After finding nothing incriminating at the apartment and no clue as to Wallace's whereabouts, Lucus and Tom returned to the station.

"What's all the commotion?" Lucus asked Cinthia in the lobby.

She gave him a brief account of her day with Libby.

"What? Wallace is here?"

"Yeah. Luke, I was wondering. Should we maybe have collected evidence at the trailer?"

"Yeah. Find Duncan, pick up Libby's car, and get to the trailer to see what you might find."

"Got it."

"Tom, you're with me." They walked toward the conference room, Lucus' heart racing. And there he was, their suspect, on the phone at Don's desk. "Grab him," Lucus said. He freed his gun, watching Tom brush past Libby and lift Wallace.

The room went silent.

"Tom? What are you doing? Put him down!" Libby said, her face red with embarrassment.

Tom looked from Libby to Lucus, unsure what to do.

"He's. Just. Hap-py. To. See. Me," Wallace managed.

"No," Lucus said. "Wallace Williams, you're under arrest for playing a material part in a criminal enterprise. Cuff him, Tom, and bring him to interrogation room one."

"That one's busy," someone said.

"Then bring him into two."

"What's going on?" Libby asked. "I thought Mr. Williams might help us find Don."

"I bet he could, as he probably knows where Don is. And I'd bet he had to do with his abduction," Lucus said. "I've been trying to reach you all day." He explained what he and Tom learned from the chemical company and how Mort isolated a compound that destroyed all of the evidence at the warehouse.

"Hello? I can't take it anymore. I wanna confess," said the woman in interrogation room one.

"Wh-wha," Ted stirred.

"I want to confess," the woman told him.

Ted sat up and rubbed his eyes. He wobbled out to find Libby.

Ingrid had the driver stop a short walk from the cabin.

"Right here? But there's nothing here but trees."

There were no door handles. "Let me out," she said.

"Okay. Whatever." Kurt opened the door for her.

"You should really get all that fixed. Looks like a cop car. No one wants that."

"Yeah, alright."

Ingrid handed him a couple of bills.

"No tip?" Kurt made an annoyed sound with his tongue.

"I just gave you a tip," Ingrid said. What a moron.

"Yeah, whatever." He made a u-turn, bending a few bushes as he rode over them. The car went past a bend in the road and was gone.

Ingrid shook her head. Wallace had better have a good reason for disappearing. She bent into the slight incline, estimating that she was maybe ten minutes from her cabin. She told Travis' goon to defrost some meat. He better have done it.

She drew her eyes up from time to time as she climbed, thinking that she should've let that idiot drive her a bit further. On one of these occasions she saw a man, bent over and bouncing toward her.

Ingrid did a double take. She stopped. What the hell was she looking at? The man with a chair on his back halted next to her and plopped down. The metal legs dinned.

He panted, "oh Mrs. Quinton. Thank God!"
