 
Houston, 2030: With Proper Legwork.

Mike McKay

Text copyright © Mike McKay 2013-2014

Cover illustration copyright © Mike McKay 2014

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#  Katherine Bowen, Records Clerk, Former Mermaid.

Sorting papers in the comfy Police office surely beats sorting garbage at the sun-scorched, stinky Landfill. But on Friday afternoon even the office work can drive you absolute nuts. My cell phone just threw another digit at the screen: '4:42'. Eighteen minutes of suffering to go.

I pull yet another old incident report from the pile and read through the header. Perhaps, Deputy Tan should take some handwriting classes. This wonderful Calligraphy Club, in the Chinamerican slums! Besides the Chinese writing, they teach English letters to immigrants. Can they also teach some English letters to the natives, why not?

OK, what do we have? Another night disturbance: neighbors complained. Wild youngsters had their wild party before going to the Army, nothing special. The address, jotted in Tan's terrible shorthand, is practically unreadable. I contemplate if this report can wait till Monday. Perhaps, I can call it a day and have a little walk? A puff of Grass will be nice too. Let's play the USS Enterprise a little. Scotty, damage assessment, if you would?

Damage assessment, aye-aye! My brave starship engineer scrutinizes his control panels and flips few switches. All systems nominal, Capt'n. The left foot reported no faults today. Although, for the last two hours... Our Boredom Shields have been running at one hundred and eight percent of the recommended maximum. I must inform you they are presently red-hot. This jury-rigging won't last for long, ma'am. Shut 'em off, Scotty. The last thing I want is an explosion. Aye, Capt'n, shutting off. Thank you, Scotty. But keep 'em on stand-by. Likely, we have to repel yet another attack.

Suddenly, the Beat door opens. A Chinamerican, in his mid-twenties, totally out of breath. He puffs and coughs, holding on the door frame. Sweat is dripping from his face onto his camo T-shirt and cut-below-knee pants. His flip-flops are not on his feet but under his arm. He was running, top speed, and for considerable distance, at least a mile. No, must be one mile and a half. Most Chinamericans dwell on the south side. His 'flops have traces of white chalk. Must be Patch-5, then. Only Patch-5 has this white stuff around. And what do we have in the left hand? Ouch, there is something, which looks like... like a blood-soaked rag!

"Can I help you, sir?"

"Yeah... Yeah, officer," he replies, gasping for oxygen. Hot and sticky evening air does not help at all.

"What happened?" I don't lift my butt out of the chair. Getting out of my comfy office chair for visitors? For me, too much trouble.

"My father," he steps into the Beat office, and now I see within the blood-soaked rag – a weapon: a long quarter-inch Phillips screw driver, converted into a deadly stiletto. A gut-driver, that's what the Houston gangs call those. I suppress an urge to reach into my bag and grab the knife. For few seconds, I wish I have a gun. Being in one room with a disturbed man holding a bloodied gut-driver is not very comfortable.

"Your father..."

"My father," he recovers his breath a little and now he can talk, "My father – is dead, ma'am."

Oops! Exactly what you want on Friday evening. Now you may open those Boredom Shields, Scotty. Do the proper maintenance. We won't need this equipment for long while.

"At your residence, sir?"

"Yes. In our shack."

"Your address?"

He mumbles the address. Indeed, the south-east side, Patch-5, about one and a half mile away. I have guessed it right! My face shows no emotions (I hope), but within – I am smiling. I love to guess it right!

"What's your name, sir?"

"Chen Dong Cheng. You may call me Victor Chen. If you prefer an American name."

Sure he must be 'Victor'. I understand a word or two in Mandarin. 'Dong Cheng' is for 'Oriental Winner'. Or 'Victorious East', whichever suits you more.

"And your father's name, Mister Chen?"

"Chen Te-Sheng."

I run my finger over a cheat-sheet. As many other inexperienced Police officers, I have the radio codes list taped to the desk surface. Ah, the heck with it! The codes are irrelevant. Besides, they keep telling us to drop this traditional code talk. Even the radio comms are encrypted, and I am using a cell phone.

"GRS-Three, proceed," the phone replies. The operator's identification number simultaneously pops up at the little screen. Another oops!

"Good afternoon, Dispatch One-Niner. Bowen here, from the Beat office. I have a reported stubbing. Potential homicide."

"Oh, that's you, Katy, my dear! Got it: reported stubbing, one fatality, suspected homicide," the Dispatch operator motherly tones are almost embarrassing. I have talked to her only on the phone, have never seen her face, and don't even know her real name. I imagine Dispatch One-Niner to be an old African-American lady, your typical Granny from the old Looney Tunes, only with dark skin. Just the opposite, the granny has seen my face many times and knows that I am an Afro. Every time a Police-issued cell phone reaches Dispatch, the caller's photo automatically pops up at the operator's screen. In my case, this must be my personnel file photo, from the Navy. Perhaps, the Dispatch Granny is happy to look after her little Afro grand-niece, so cute and neat in that Navy Dress Uniform. What if she knows, I suddenly realize.

I tell the operator the names and the address, trying to be neither indifferent nor too welcoming. The right code suddenly jumps into my mind: AMA – Asian Male, Adult.

"OK, sweetie. The Chinamerican Patch-Five," the One-Niner confirms, "I will 10-5 your Station, 10-18. Do you want me to text GRS-One and GRS-Two?"

I glance at my code table. 10-5 is for 'relay to,' 10-18 is for 'urgent'.

"GRS-Two, please. Could you text Tan to ride straight to the address? I will 10-21 GRS-One myself." Ten-twenty-one-GRS-One. Police poetry. When you don't need 'em, the damn codes pop up by themselves: 10-21 is for 'phone call.' Why don't we use the normal language? Just say: 'I call Kim myself.' The comms are secure, and even if not – we are talking nothing confidential. Hey, we are in the Twenty-First damn Century, and the year is 2030, and not 1950!

"Perfect. And pass my regards to your dear husband, sweetie. Oh, he is such a nice boy! 10-3." The phone clicks off.

Sweetie! Nice boy! Four months ago, I had some hopes: apparently, the Koreans don't change surnames in marriage. But the phone operators knew of our wedding instantly. So difficult to keep your personal life away from the Dispatch! But still, do they know, or not? The standard personnel form surely has to say something about my Purple Heart...

The Chinaman has recovered his breath and returned the 'flops to his feet. Now the man looks deflated. His adrenaline rush is over.

"OK, sir. That thing in your hand?"

"I picked it from the floor. The rag too."

"All right. Just put it on that coffee table, nice and easy, and step back."

Perhaps, I should have asked him to do this before calling the Dispatch. How stupid of me. Well, anyway. He obeys sheepishly, placing the gut-driver on the glass table top. Then, he steps back, makes a move to wipe his hands with the bloodied rag, hesitates, and suddenly drops the rag onto the table as if it's a poisonous spider.

"Would you like some water?" I ask.

"Please."

"Help yourself," I point to the jug and glasses at the other desk, "this one is from a well and boiled. Safe."

The jug beak rattles against the glass. The man empties the glass with a single gulp and then pours water again.

"Excellent. Now take a seat."

"Thank you, ma'am." He seats, barely touching the chair.

"Why did you run to the Beat, anyway? You should have called 911 instead."

"We've got no phones. In our place the reception is crappy."

Understatement, I think. Since the last hurricane, in the Chinamerican Patches Four and Five the reception has been not just 'crappy', but simply non-existent.

"You could knock on any door in the China-Patch Three and ask somebody to call Police for you," while saying so, I look into my phone and touch my husband's number from the frequent calls list. Instead of the prescribed Sheriff star, the screen pops up a face of the Looney Tunes Wile E. Coyote, with three little pink hearts circling above his head. Kim is very good at hacking Police-issued phones.

"I don't know, ma'am. I just didn't think of it."

He is right. Once you start running, your hormones kick in, and you can't think clearly. Back in March, I was a bit like this myself. Now, after my Cruise, I am way more philosophical.

"Hi, Road Runner," the phone says in Kim's voice, "I am almost there. Seven minutes, max. Decided what to buy for a present?"

"The present has to wait, unfortunately. Tan is on his way to China-Patch Five. Happy bloody birthday, Deputy," I reply.

"Ouch! What happened?"

"Stubbing. Possible homicide. Mister Victor Chen is with me at the Beat."

"I'll be right there..." he sounds exceptionally worried. Well, he is always worried about his little wife. As if I can't defend myself.

Three minutes later the door rattles and my dear Deputy Kim storms in, ready to establish Order through Law and dispense Justice with Mercy []. Or without. Whichever is available today? He stops on his tracks observing the peaceful Beat settings. I am not under attack, after all.

"Wile E. Coyote, reporting on-duty, ma'am," he says, hopelessly trying to hide that he has been pedaling his bike like mad.

"OK, Mister Coyote. For starters, please collect the weapon," I reach to the lower drawer and pass my husband two evidence bags. The Chinaman makes a double-take at Kim, probably imagining some American Indian heritage. Deputy Coyote. Surely, he has expected an Amerasian surname. Although, in the Houston slums one never knows: the ethnic boundaries are shuttered, and my happy marriage is just one example.

Kim points at the coffee table: "these?"

"Yep. Please be careful: it's a bio-hazard. Besides, there is still slim hope for prints."

I don't really need to tell him that. He has been in the Police way longer than I. Kim carefully maneuvers the evidence in, and now the gut-driver and the rag are secured.

"Mister Chen, please tell us briefly what you saw," I inquire meanwhile.

"Came home as usual. Friday is a short day. My father is on the bed. Blood... And this – on the floor," he makes a weak motion towards the evidence bags in Kim's hand.

"You said: as usual. What time was it?"

"Four-fifteen, approximately. I work at the 'tronics repair. The second Friday of the month – it's my turn. To take an early off. At half past three." His phrases are short, but he speaks perfect English. If Kim pays attention, he can do the same posh British accent – the remnants of his few years in a private school.

Interesting, which particular China our Chinaman is from? By the sound of it, he is not from the Mainland, and probably not from Hong Kong. And not a Russian Chinese from Siberia either – those are typically taller and speak with strange R-s and H-es. Taiwanese roots? Right! He pronounces his surname as 'Chen'. If he was from Hong Kong, he would say 'Chan'. Although, he can be also a Malaysian or Singaporean Chinese. Well, but the Singaporeans say 'Tan' instead of 'Chan'. No, it's not true either. The Singaporeans also have 'Chen', but it's a totally different hieroglyph. Inconclusive. Well-developed cheek bones... My dear Watson, that's a stereotype. Oh, but he says he is an electronics repairman! Let see. All the nails cut short. The Singaporean Chinese often leave long nail at the pinky. The skin on both index fingers is not burnt. Uses tweezers and a board holder? This suggests a Taiwamerican or Japamerican-run repair shop. They are so professional and neat – with a fancy special tool for everything. Looking at the man's 'flops, they are old, but not beaten-up. He has no bike. Dropping one at home to run for over a mile? Hard to imagine. So his shop is not very far from his home... A Malaysian Chinese, working in a Taiwanese shop? Not improbable, but unlikely.

"Are you Taiwamerican, Mister Chen?" I suddenly ask.

Darn! I have to learn not to pop my conclusions like this.

"Yes, we came from Taiwan. But – how did you know?"

Oops! I am right again! Behind the Taiwamerican's back, my husband nods and smiles. By now, he is well-accustomed to my 'Sherlock Holmes deductions.' Sometimes later, he will surely beg me to explain him the trick. But not now. I have learned quite well not to disclose the full logic chain in front of the strangers. Nobody likes if a girl can see right through you, especially if this girl is from Police.

"Oh, it was a lucky guess, Mister Chen. Based on your accent, nothing special. One friend of mine, he has the same. And he's from Taiwan. Or – from Hong Kong? Not sure."

The man nods. Now he is sure the Police Afro girl has no idea about the Chinese. Phew!

"Should we take a written statement here or let the Station guys do it?" Kim asks.

"I think you'd better take Mister Chen to his shack and wait for the Station guys," I reply, "it's a mile and a half walk. You will be there probably at the same time as the Emergency Response."

"And you are not coming with us, Deputy?" the Taiwamerican looks at me. Do I want to go? Sure! But I firmly belong to the office-only category. What do I suppose to do? Pull out my machine gun? Dispense Lawful Order and Merciful Justice in speedy 7.62-millimeter servings?

"I am not a Deputy, Mister Chen: a mere Records Clerk, plus a Beat secretary of sorts."

"Clerk? But... Your uniform?"

"This is the Navy uniform. Second-hand, if you are wondering."

I reach with my right hand to the desk corner and push my office chair sideways. The tired chair wheels make squeaking noise on the floor tiles. The chair rolls into the narrow passage between the desks. Watch this, Mr. Taiwamerican! The man's lower jaw drops, but his eyes open three times their natural size. Excellent facelift, almost like in Japanese Manga. Sadly, the effect cannot be preserved for long, or I can make heaps of money as a plastic surgeon. With those who don't know, I achieve such effect almost every time. Since my Cruise, there is almost nothing below by buttocks, so the body ends flush with the seat surface. I smile to Mr. Chen apologetically: and you thought I didn't stand up from my chair because I am so rude?

The man manages a rubber smile and a shy nod, accepting my silent apology. He looks straight at me, surely surprised, but not disgusted. Not a bad reaction. If only everybody react like this! The majority starts mumbling stupid comments and excuses. Poor thing. So bad. Sorry, I didn't realize I was talking to a cripple. Hey, I have no legs, but I am not a cripple! And sometimes – even worse. They look through you, as if you don't exist. Frankly, I prefer if people ask right away why I have no legs. But the quiet understanding nod is also great. The United States are at war, shit happens. The girl is a legless veteran, so what? Being legless is not a piece of cake, but not the freaking end-of-life, by any means.

"Let's go, Mister Chen," Kim interrupts the silence. By the way, he is one of those few: brave enough to ask me about my missing legs right away. And after he received a direct answer, he accepted me for a whole person.

"Sure, Deputy," Mr. Chen says. Then turns to me: "Have a nice evening, ma'am."

I nod back and smile. What a stupid idea – making show of myself. 'Are you Taiwamerican, Mister Chen?', followed by my chair-riding, eye-opening demonstration. He lost his Dad! Even if he himself killed the old man, still must show some mercy.

***

I return my chair to the proper position behind the desk (the wheels complain again) and try to read through Tan's report scribble. No, today I can't concentrate any longer. Besides, the clock shows 4:59, my day is over. I'd rather slither home. The old report returns to its native pile.

I switch off the Police-issued tablet and lock it in the desk drawer. The cell phone goes into my bag. I am ready to go. Squeezing the desktop with my left hand, I lean forward and extend my right arm towards the designated landing zone. In the hospital, they called this trick 'chair to floor transfer for short above-knee amputees'. It's a controlled fall of sorts. This world is not designed for girls, who are halved to the butt and now stand only thirty-two inches tall (or rather thirty-two inches short?) But I am almost used to it. My abandoned office chair rolls to the wall, sadly squeaking with its wheels. Don't cry, buddy. I will be back on Monday. From under the desk I extract my trusty transportation kit: a pair of fingerless leather gloves, an oversized skateboard and two wooden blocks.

Next to the entrance door a cracked plastic label on the wall reads: 'SAVE THE PLANET. Switch off air-condition, lights, and computer screens before leaving.' Of course, there is nothing to switch off in the Beat office now, except for the tablet. There has been no AC and no computer screens for many years, and the only lights we have are solar-charged lanterns and emergency flashlights. But our Sergeant likes this label for some reason and does not allow us to peel it off. This time, the useless label reminds me of something I have forgotten. Leaving my bag, gloves, and wooden blocks at the door, I push the skate with bare hands. The floor in our Beat is exemplary clean. One of the things I do here besides sorting papers and calling the Dispatch once in a while. I approach the coffee table, reach into the storage compartment under it and pull out my Wonder-weapons: a spray bottle and a rag. Thirty seconds later, the glass surface is shiny. Viruses and bacteria from the bloodied gut-driver are on the way to their Microbiological Heaven. Or their Microbiological Hell, depending on the bio-hazard level. I roll to the desk and wipe the water jug. Pull a plastic sink from under the desk and wash the used glass. All shipshape. Now the Beat will survive without me through the weekend.

Outside, the steaming-hot September day slowly turns into pleasantly-warm evening. I lock the Beat door and zip the key into the bag pocket. On the way back, my hand automatically reaches inside the main compartment for my very special tobacco box. The voyage will be long. Over one-mile long (back in March I would call it 'one-mile short'). Well, after the Cruise, for one-mile long voyages I make careful preparations. First of all – load the mandatory ammo. Surface-to-air missile, code name To-Ma-Gochi. 'Ma' is for 'marijuana' and 'To' is for 'tobacco'. Wonder-blend, three-to-one. Since 2023, it's completely legal in Texas. Even the Police officers may use one occasionally, but not while on-duty and only for medicinal purposes. About me, the Police brass can't say a word: phantom pain, sir! Once in a while, my absent left foot makes me jumping on the absent right.

Besides the tobacco box, my bag holds a lighter: the military macho type, handicraft version of Zippo. The nickel-plated body has an engraving: a naughty mermaid. The creature sits not on your usual sea rocks, but on a pile of ammo boxes. As any self-respecting mermaid, she does not care for a bikini top, but has her Navy cap and holds her favorite weapon. Exactly my choice in the goddamn Venezuela: the M240D machine gun with turret mount, nine hundred and fifty Freedom-and-Democracy servings per minute. Below the ammo boxes, the ship name is stenciled: 'Piranha-122'. Our Piranha is gone. Out of seven naughty mermaids on board, only three are alive. Including this one, who lost her tail, and now has to ride home on her skate, pushing the dirt with her wooden blocks.

Talking of which... I pull the fingerless gloves over my hands.

"Hey Kate! Targeting home? Want a ride?"

A cargo tricycle stops in front of the Beat. Two young men look like our neighbors from the Koreamerican Patch-3. To my shame, I have no idea about their names. But they know mine. Well, on the West side of the GRS, many people know the Police by our first names, and in my present legless state refusing the ride is simply impolite.

"Sure. If this half-girl is not too heavy for your trike."

"Hey, you call yourself heavy? I can throw you in with two fingers!" One of the boys replies, readily getting off the cargo platform.

"Don't help, bro. I'll manage."

They surely don't teach this in the military hospitals: 'skateboard to cargo tricycle transfer for short above-knee amputees'. Slide from the skate to concrete. Throw the skate, the blocks and the bag to the cargo platform. Right hand on the platform railings, left hand on the front wheel. Sharp push with both arms. A little flip in the air. Bang! And I am inside! Not too bad: have not caught much dirt and even my To-Ma-Gochi is intact. Well, the dirt – the boys have plenty. On the platform, there are bent bicycle wheels, rusty frames, sprockets, chains and other such stuff. Returning from the Landfill, what else.

"Nice jump," the second man says, pushing the pedals.

"Experience, bro. You must see how I deal with toilet seats. Are you coming from the 'Fill?" I throw my magic tobacco box to the first man. We all know the Slum Rule: if you share the ride, you must share the smoke.

"Sure thing." The trike's top speed is around three miles per hour. On the concrete path, I can go way faster. But, why complain? Besides, the concrete will be over at some point, and pushing the skate on dirt is not too easy.

"Good catch today?" I puff my 'medicinal' cigarette.

"Excellent. A freshly discovered bike grave! Nice parts, all pre-Meltdown. Those frames – see? Japanese steel! They are the best."

The cell phone from my bag interrupts our relaxing mood with the Police call tone. As always: as soon as you settle with a lazy chat and a smoke, you get an urgent call! The phone screen shows the standard Sheriff's star icon and the caller ID: 'GRS-2'.

I press the green button. "Hey Tan."

"Kate? What's the freaking address, again?"

"What address?"

"The stubbing. I got an SMS from the Dispatch. Came to the address – there is nothing!"

"What do you mean: nothing?"

"Nothing means: nothing. Well, almost nothing. Several tiny spots on the floor, like dried blood, that's all."

"But... The body?" I extinguish the half-finished cigarette.

"The body! There is no freaking body! Whatsoever."

"Wait a sec, Tan. Did you read the SMS right?"

"Just repeat me the goddamn address."

I repeat the address.

"Positive. I was at the right place."

"And what place are you now?"

"In the Chinamerican-Three. I did a little loop, just to be sure. Then, got on my bike and went to give you a call. In the Patch-Five the phones don't work, as you may know."

Oops! I have screwed up again. I imagine how the Homicide guys arrive to the address, just to have a good laughter. Kate Bowen! That legless Beat girl! Dead-bored with her papers, right? Well, here is free entertainment for you: call the real policemen to catch a ghost!

"Are you one hundred percent sure?" I ask. As if Tan suddenly laughs and says: oh, here it is! The body is behind the cupboard, I just didn't see it.

"One hundred and ten. Unless it's a wrong address."

"What do I do? Call the Dispatch and cancel the Homicide Emergency Response?"

"Too bloody late, partner. They are on the way, for sure."

"OK, fine. Sorry I wasted your birthday. Will try Kim now." I disconnect the call and turn to the trike driver, "Can you stop here, bro? It looks like I don't need a ride anymore."

"Problems?" The first man throws me the tobacco box. At least, he has managed to roll himself a smoke.

"'Problems' is a bloody understatement. That's what I call the perfect Friday the thirteenth. Fire in the hole?" I click my macho lighter. "Thanks for the ride, boys."

The men leave me at the road and depart on their trike. I dial Kim's phone. 'You have dialed the Harris County Police number. Currently the phone is switched off or in the area with service temporary unavailable. For transfer to an operator, press one or hold the line. To leave a message, press two.' Surely, Kim and Chen are already at the place in which the cell phone coverage is 'temporary unavailable'. In our Houston slums, 'temporary' often means that nobody cares to fix it for months.

What if there has been no stubbing? An elaborate prank? But what for? Why would one pull a prank on the local Police? The Taiwamerican looked genuine enough: out of breath, scared, upset, shaken. Then, his adrenaline rush was over, and he looked deflated. To act like this, you got to be a movie star with few personal Oscars on the shelf. Well, we have no more Hollywood and no more Oscar, only the old movies from twenty-something years ago plus few remaining TV soap operas. But what about the gut-driver and the bloodied rag? By the way, what did they use in the real movies if they wanted to show blood? Tan insists it's pig blood, but I think it must be some food dye.

What do I do? Call the Dispatch and ask for the Operator One-Niner? I imagine how the Looney Tunes Granny, only with dark skin, says: 'No worries, sweetie. Everyone can have a little mistake, dear. I will make you a good excuse – right away.' Then, she will disconnect my call, chuckle, and create some plausible coded diversion for the Station. Her little Afro grand-niece has screwed up and needs some help!

No, I will not ask to cancel. I must believe my eyes and my head. The gut-driver is real. The blood is real. The shaking hands are real. And if the old man is still alive, and somehow managed to get away or call for help, – hey, he still has his quarter-inch hole! If the quarter-inch hole is not an emergency, what is the emergency? Of course, for a stubbing without a dead body – the Homicide Unit is excessive. The standing orders are to call a case investigator from the Station. The investigating officer can ride a bike. Horses are not cars. Horses cannot go to every stupid little case. People can, but horses – cannot. I try to call Kim once more. 'You have dialed the Harris County Police number. Currently the phone...'

But really. Why do I panic? So, I overreacted. The Homicide Unit had to harness a horse. Let's call it a practice run. The horse cart instead of the emergency response truck is a recent brilliant idea of our Station Chief. Diesel fuel is too expensive, he says. No more cars, except for some real emergency. As the result, the Station now has two nice horses, a source of endless jokes and horse shit. Unfortunately, very few Police officers know how to harness these fine animals to carts. Even if you served in the Mounted Police, they don't teach officers much about carts and wagons. OK, gentlemen, so shut up and practice. Myself, I can withstand a joke or two. My personal space engineer Scotty will jury-rig some Stale Joke Deflector or Who Gives a Damn Blaster.

They can't kick me out of the Police. I am not a Deputy, just a Records Clerk. My position is a low pay, low responsibility plug-that-hole-role. The Garret Road Slum vast area and dense population require at least three deputies, but the budget can only support two and a half officer's salaries. I came handy, so the Personnel conjured this: a half-time records clerk position for a Navy veteran girl, halved by the war. The fact that I am not a whole girl, but just a half, can be conveniently established by direct observation. Or you can check me with a measuring tape, if you prefer not to trust your eyes. The half-time multiplied by the half-person multiplied by the girl-factor equates less than one-fifth of the full deputy's salary. Think all the delightful budget savings!

Well, I am not necessary a black sheep (despite my skin color, no offense). At the Personnel, I was told: 'This position is perfectly suitable for a disabled vet. You will do fine, no problems.' No problems, aye-aye! All my life I have been doing exactly this: trying to do fine and have no problems under the most adverse circumstances. In my twenty-one years of age, I have achieved something many people can't do in a lifetime.

When I was ten, I decided to read all the books in our school library. They had quite a few – one hundred and forty-nine different titles. Half of the books were total crap, but I was lucky to discover the Sherlock Holmes stories – still my favorite after eleven years. Believe it or not, I read all the books! The library lady nearly went bananas. In Detroit, the ten-year-olds didn't read books.

No, I wasn't a wonder-child. In the high school, my marks were all solid 'C'. But strictly – no 'D'! I struggled with my Math. I hated English Literature. Romeo and Juliet were OK, but for Prince Hamlet – this sadistic Shakespeare deserved a slow death through torture; what a shame they let him die on his own. The English teacher finally gave me my 'C' for 'non-standard approach to classics'. I cheated my way around the History teacher. She had problems with her mental math and miscalculated the number of my test attempts. But, I have to repeat this proudly: I graduated from the high school! I was the only Afro at the grad ceremony, along with fifty (mostly white) boys. In Michigan, few Afro girls even bother to start the high school nowadays, and even white girls can be counted by fingers of one hand. And, you may call me a shameless liar, but it's true: through the entire school, I managed not to get pregnant (as all the other girls in my class did one-by-one, before leaving the school for good) and not to become a drug junkie (as my older brother did, with all the logical outcomes).

After the school, I firmly decided not to die of starvation along with many thousands of losers in Mitch. Instead of complaining at charity soup kitchens, I volunteered to the Navy – and served in a war zone for over two years! With my beloved machine gun, I killed many enemies of our Freedom-and-Democracy. I have no idea how many, but many – for sure. If you are on a river monitor and dispense nine hundred and fifty Freedom-and-Democracy servings every minute, it's difficult to count all the recipients. Well, the recipients got a bit mad at me. One direct hit by a laser-guided missile, my left leg went into the river together with the sinking Piranha, and I was sent to my free Cruise. On a floating hospital! One day later, my remaining leg became a fish food too, and two weeks later the upper part of me found itself nicely planted in warm asphalt of the welcoming Galveston harbor. I have no hard feelings about the Latino enemies of our Freedom-and-Democracy. War is just business, nothing personal.

And I have two decorations: the Purple Heart from Venezuela and the Lifesaving Award for the hurricane five months ago. Yes, I can do something better than pulling a trigger. I saved lives, goddammit! Although, the hurricane hit everybody, so we had to do something anyway. Kim and Tan did way more than me, and rightfully got themselves Medals of Valor. OK, I admit, two years and three months out of the five-year volunteer contract plus the Purple Heart for being halved don't count for much. Any clown can get herself shot in the aft and lose both legs. But my Lifesaving Award is one hundred percent honest achievement. Nothing in common with my History 'C'.

I dial Kim again. 'You have dialed the Harris County Police number...' Wile E. Coyote smiles from the screen, the little pink hearts rotate above his head. And what did you expect, Road Runner? By the way, why this stupid Road Runner left such a wonderful cargo trike? You could do perfectly well with your panic while some unnamed fellow from the Koreamerican-3 was puffing on pedals. And now – you must finish the ride on your own! I pull the gloves and throw my body on the skate, ready for my little Tour de France. Back during my middle school years, they kept showing this on TV. Presidential program Bicycle-2020: every American must get a bike. Bike propaganda, my ass! Before the Meltdown, there were idiots who raced bicycles over mountains, while other idiots paid good money to watch the racing idiots. And even the bikes were impractical, totally idiotic: with thin tires and no cargo platforms. It was like a TV soap opera, only about riding bikes. Unbelievable.

The good news, I am pretty close to home: one hundred yards on concrete, then four hundred – on the dirt road. If only concrete, even two miles on skate is no big deal. Unfortunately, nobody builds any new concrete roads now, and even fixing the old ones is not on a priority list. No probs, our tailless mermaid will have very strong arms.

***

Twenty minutes later, the tailless mermaid, in the yellow jersey of the Tour de France, well ahead of the peloton, blasts though the last stretch of the dirt road and passes the finish line in the Koreamerican Patch-1. The spectators yell and applaud. And I am not even out of breath. Getting better at this stupid sport, I guess.

In our Garret Road Slum, there are no streets, only 'Roads' and 'Patches'. A 'Patch' initially meant 'a plot of land', but over years the meaning shifted. Now it's more like 'village' or 'compound', although our 'Patch' is not your typical city block. Explaining how the Amerasian Patch works to the hardened individualist Yankees from the North is not an easy task, but I will try anyway.

So, the Patch. If you squint real hard, you may imagine yourself in the middle of the Fifteenth Century Asian village. Endless vegetable beds are all over the place. Two girls push a water-lifting wheel. Farmers in conical hats return from the rice field. And all the rest is as expected: rickety huts on stilts, a tiny Buddhist shrine amongst these huts, chickens and pigs digging through the dirt, barefoot kids playing at the village common grounds. Got the picture? Now just unsquint a little, and you discover yourself in the XXI Century Asian village, with all the advancements: all the above, but the roofs are made of rusted metal, complete with TV antennas and solar panels. Bicycles are everywhere. Not those Tour de France contraptions on ridiculously thin tires, but our real work bikes with strong frames – you can happily load five hundred pounds, or even more, as much as you can push.

And if you are tired of squinting, the XXI Century Asian village turns into the standard XXI Century Houston slum. One wall still bears faded sign of the IHOP restaurant chain, plastic film glitters in the window frames, tarpaulins and old tires are used in shack construction instead of palm leaves and bamboo poles. Dressed in T-shirts and shorts instead of exotic sarongs, two girls at the water-lifting wheel have stereo earbuds and step over the wooden planks clearly following some pop-music beat. The village kids at the common grounds are not playing some antiquated Asian game. It's modern and sophisticated weekly match of softball, as they proudly define it, 'with fast serve and full rules'. The boy at the home base has whacked the ball with high-tech aluminum bat. By the way, the yells and applause for the imaginary Tour de France leader are real – from one of the softball teams. After the mighty strike, the fifth-grader has passed the second base and now is flying towards the third, stomping dusty ground with his bare feet. Sometimes I wish I can play softball too.

"Home run!" the umpire declares. The boy makes a little winning dance. The opposing team exhales a defeat sound and throws the ball to the pitcher.

"Anyoung haseyo, Auntie Kate!" a skinny teenage girl delivers first a traditional Korean bow and then a traditional American smile, waving her home-made catching glove. A little break in the game: the kids smile, nod, and wave to me. So cute.

"Are you from the Beat, Auntie Kate?" the umpire-cum-scorekeeper inquires. Fourteen-year old, he is probably the oldest here and naturally in-charge of the entire show. "Do you need something from the market? We can send a runner. Right away."

We are not relatives. The Slum Rules are such that every woman of about my age is called 'auntie' by all the kids in the Patch, and I must call them 'nephews' and 'nieces'. If I was two or three years younger, they would call me 'big sister.' And I must call 'auntie' every woman who is eight or ten years older than me.

I smile to the kids and wave my gloved hand. "Anyoung! Thanks, I am OK."

I have always marveled how polite the Amerasian kids are in here. To be honest, when I first came to Houston I had strong preconceptions about Asian slums. But I quickly learned to appreciate this lifestyle and the Slum Rules too. It's easy to get used to good things. A city block in my native Michigan differs from the Amerasian 'Patches' in Houston slums not only by the absence of proper streets, the water-lifting wheel and the Buddhist shrine. In Detroit, an adult approaching a teenagers' game causes nothing but a wild-animal stare. And the wild stare is the best possible outcome. Let say, if it was me on my skate, the conversation might go along very different path. Oh, who do we have here? A freaking legless vet! Hey, cripple, can we borrow your skate? We will return it. Maybe. And show us inside your bag. And inside your pockets. Or you prefer a knife? Of course, I would never give them my skate. Want to see inside my bag? And what do we have in here? Click! Surprise! I have a nice blade of my own. Come close, shit. I see you don't need no balls no more... So the things might turn rather bloody – on both sides. The kids in Detroit never play softball. Knife throwing (for distance and accuracy) and setting abandoned buildings on fire (for extra warmth and awesomeness) are two least violent street sports up-North.

Leaving the softball players behind, I push my skate along the dirt path. The paths in our Patch-1 are wide, almost like roads. This place was built immediately after the Meltdown, and many believed the crisis was temporary. The gas would become cheap again, and the cars would return. After fourteen years, the gasoline did not get any cheaper, so the rusted frames of partially disassembled cars became storage shacks or chicken pens.

O-ops! And who is that old lady, cunningly waiting under the communal kitchen shed? Naturally, this is my mother-in-law. Captain has the bridge! First Officer, punch the General Quarters, if you would! All to the battle stations. Comms, signal to the Space Fleet: detected by the opposing force at the traverse of Kitchen, engaging the opponent. Scotty, are you done with your Shield repairs? Get lasers and space torpedoes hot! For our USS Enterprise – surrender is not an option.

Don't get me wrong. I am not at war with my mother-in-law. But she is a walking ultimatum, with energy of a Category-5 hurricane and decisiveness of an attack submarine commanding officer. She hates me because I am not ethnic Korean. She loves me because our hut looks Korean, and because I keep it meticulously clean, exactly as a proper Korean wife is supposed to do. She pities me for my missing legs. She admires me for my medals and my job in Police. She complains I never ask her to help. She praises me for not complaining and doing everything myself. All at the same time, and with Category-5 hurricane intensity. Most importantly, she makes sure my husband and I consume enough calories and right amount of protein every day.

"Anyoung haseyo, Ma," I say approaching the kitchen shed. Being spotted, I very well can take the initiative. Does she know we have no water at home?

"You're early. I thought, you three are dining out tonight. Tan's birthday?" a single range-setting shell is fired. The super-dreadnaught gracefully turns for a broadside, whilst at her battle bridge her Senior Gunnery Officer is calculating if we have eaten dinner.

"The plan didn't work out, Ma. Tan and Kim were called to a crime scene."

"Far?"

"In the Chinamerican Patches. I am afraid it will take a long while."

"I decided to leave some food for you two, just in-case." From the kitchen top, she lifts two glass containers with something appetizing. Ka-boom! A mighty broadside salvo from all main caliber guns, and right on-target! Of course, 'just in case' is nothing but thin excuse. She leaves us food every day, independent from our plans for the evening. OK, today I don't mind. I fail to be the perfect Korean wife in one aspect: I am not much of a cook, and if it comes to cooking Korean, I am practically hopeless.

"Oh, thanks, Ma," I diligently make a surprised face, as if I believe in her 'just in case' statement. "Tonight it will come very handy. I'll take it."

"I'll carry it for you."

"No, Mom. I can take it myself. I am on wheels!" No way I let her carry the things for me, especially in front of the whole Patch. But more important, she should not see our empty water jerrycan!

"On wheels!" The in-law says grumpily, but passes me the containers, "do you need rice too?"

"Thanks, Ma. Rice – I'll manage."

"Manage! Do you have water at home?" Lucky us, she did not look into our jerrycan today.

"Yesterday, we had it half-full," I give a half-honest answer. Helm, full portside! Scotty, be so kind, set the radar counter-measures!

"How are your legs today?" Great. The second salvo from the in-law dreadnaught comes short of target! My cruiser lacks the gun caliber, but she has advantage of maneuver and speed.

"Today – not too bad. No pain." Scotty, now both engines – full speed ahead! Breaking the contact. Aye-aye, Capt'n, full ahead.

"Did you smoke?"

"Once." Really – twice, but my in-law thinks that one To-Ma-Gochi a day is a medicine, while two or three is an acute drug addiction.

"I hope the pain goes away."

"Right."

She always asks this. A typical pre-Meltdown generation, she still doesn't believe there are conditions, which cannot be cured in a couple of weeks with some wonder-drug. As far as I was told, fighting with phantom pain is pointless. But instead of a fight, you can make a peace accord: manage your condition with regular meditation and an occasional puff of Marijuana. So far, I am doing it quite well.

"If you need something, don't go yourself. Send the neighbor kids or ask them to call me, OK?"

"Sure, Ma." Holding the food containers with one hand, I push the skate with the other, targeting to our little shack.

Very well, Scotty. We made through it with minimum damage, no sweat. Yes, Capt'n: minimum damage. And having the 'just-in-case' package is not too bad. May I remind you, ma'am, that we've got only rice, Kimchi and soy sauce at home? You're an unbelievable pessimist, Scotty. We also have half-a-jar of jam and even acorn coffee! Not to forget our main weapon: brownies in the top-secret hold. Attention all hands! Captain's orders! Changing to bikini top and shorts! Jerrycan on stand-by! Navigator, set course for the water well, if you would! And be so nice to avoid the enemy radars this time.

The standing plan is for Kim to fetch water on his bike tonight, but this is unlikely to happen. No probs, the Tour de France leader will pump her upper body a bit more. The only issue, I must avoid detection. The last thing I want is the fifty-five-year old lady wrestling the empty jerrycan from her daughter-in-law. She did it on few occasions, to my total embarrassment. The idea that your mother-in-law has to fetch water for you somehow does not fit well with my self-esteem. Especially considering that she wakes up at four in the morning and walks no less than ten miles every day, in any weather, and with two baskets on her shoulder-pole. She runs her own fast-food business: XV Century style. In the morning, she prepares the meals and delivers them by lunch-time to the Landfill workers. After lunch, she walks to the market to buy supplies for the next day, and so on. Naturally, for the water run I can ask any of my so-called 'nephews' and 'nieces'. But I will need more water tomorrow: scrubbing the shack floor, shipshape. OK, tomorrow I will whistle from the porch and abuse my executive auntie's powers. Today, the polite 'nephews' and 'nieces' may play their oh-so-important softball match...

***

Kim arrives home at something past eight. He bangs his bike against the pole and curses the cable lock in the darkness. The investigation hasn't gone too well, I conclude. So I must make my husband talk, or he will be upset all night long.

"The Homicide Unit gave you shit for the unnecessary call, did they?" I ask, crawling to the porch.

"Something along these lines," he sits at the stairs tread kicking off his sandals. "Anything to eat? I am bloody hungry."

"Kimchi and rice soup. With kimchi on the side. Fried kimchi rice with kimchi salad. Steam rice..."

"Stop being silly."

"OK, just joking. Your Mom will not allow us to die of starvation. We have vegetable curry, pickled daikon and even a quarter of fried chicken. Kimchi and steam rice, naturally. Coffee and brownie with jam to polish off."

"Sounds good. Have you eaten?"

"Waited for you, Mister Coyote. Water?"

I open the jerrycan and pour water on his hands. Kim washes his neck and face. With his hair spiking in all directions, now he positively resembles Wile E. Coyote from the cartoon.

"Do you want to know who is in-charge of this investigation?" he asks. Great. We are talking.

"Who?"

"His Highness Deputy Investigator Woxman!"

"That buffoon? You are not joking?" Admittedly, Woxman is not exactly a buffoon. Two months ago he topped the written test, and by wide margin. Kim came the second. That's why Woxman is a Deputy Investigator now, and my husband is still just a Deputy. Although, Deputy Investigator Woxman is nothing more than a pompous jerk. He is an investigator as much as I am – a Korean cook.

"If I was joking, I wouldn't be pissed off," Kim reaches for the chopsticks.

"Take it easy. The Homicide Unit had to come for nothing, so bloody what? Woxman must be thankful. He was delivered to the place by a horse, in full comfort, like a damn VIP. If not for the reported homicide, he would sweat all the way on his bike, correct?"

"What: correct?"

"The old Taiwanese man is alive, right? A stubbing is a serious violence, but no fatality. So we must call an investigator from the Station. Our Standard Operational Procedure, remember?"

"It's much worse than that."

"Much worse? You are saying the old man is dead? Well, what are they freaking unhappy about? If somebody dies from a gut-driver – it's hardly a death of a natural cause. The Coroner is not required; must call the Homicide Unit, period. I did everything right!"

"Much worse than that, partner!"

"OK, tell me."

"Aha! Our Sherlock-Holmes-on-wheels can't guess!"

"First, your Sherlock-Holmes-on-wheels can't do magic. To make a guess, I need information. Second, I believe the case is very darn simple. Victor Chen thinks his father is dead, but the old man is just knocked down. While Victor runs to the Beat, the old man comes to senses and goes to find a doctor. After that, we have a bunch of possibilities: he dies before reaching the medic, he reaches the medic, but dies anyway, or he is OK. Don't ask me what is more probable: it depends on the position and depth of the wound and other such medical stuff. But I can't see any other possibility."

"Much worse! Admit, Holmes, you are totally stumped."

"OK, I am stumped. But not totally, only from below. Stop teasing me."

"Victor Chen insists there has been no dead body whatsoever. More or less – a hallucination."

"What?" Good I am stumped from below, or I would break the roof of our shack with my head. "What do you mean: hallucination? What about the freaking gut-driver? What about the freaking rag? With all the freaking blood on it?"

"Keep munching, Road Runner. If you talk too much, I will eat all the daikon myself. The freaking gut-driver and the bloody rag – that's all the evidence we have."

"What about the blood drops Tan noted on the floor? Also, – a hallucination?"

"Yep, ma'am. There were no drops."

"About Victor Chen – he could be on drugs. But about Tan, so far, I presumed he's not using any."

"In our Beat, only one person is on drugs. No finger-pointing."

"Now you stop being silly. The Grass isn't 'drugs'. It's a medicine. And I have a good reason."

"OK, I am not silly. Of course, I am no expert, like some records clerks... No finger-pointing... But I am sure your To-Ma-Gochi can't create this type of hallucinations. To see a dead body, somebody must use some very serious stuff: synthetic drugs or magic mushrooms. If our client was using something like this just before coming to the Beat, we would see at least some symptoms. Besides, I am not aware of any magic mushrooms that can make the imaginary gut-driver real."

"Your reference to the mushrooms gives me an idea."

"Let me guess. Sherlock Holmes needs his pipe."

"Yes, but a bit later. After we start on our coffee and brownies. Do you mind if I finish the curry? Your Mom is so good at cooking, I'm jealous. Meanwhile, dear Watson, tell me all from the beginning, with no omissions."

"OK, Holmes. We arrived to China-Patch Five at 17:28. I checked the time on my phone, for the records. Opened the shack door, looked inside. Naturally, I didn't allow Victor to come in. In the shack, everything was in relative order, nothing unusual. No dead body either. Suddenly, Victor Chen said: 'Sorry. It's my mistake.' Exactly these words."

"OK. Next?"

"I said: 'But you came yourself to report that your father is dead, is that right?' And he said: 'No. My father is not dead. My mistake. Sorry.' At this point, the Homicide Unit arrived. Four of them: Woxman, 'Python' Tom from the CSI lab, and two brand-new trainees. Those two, I didn't see before. So Woxman said: 'Very well, gents. Where is our patient?' He was playing this super-duper-expert type, very important man. For that I said: 'Our patient suddenly felt better, professor. He got up and walked away. Didn't bother to wait for your consultation.' I just couldn't hold it!"

"Nice!"

"Nice, but I'd better keep my mouth shut. Python, with his natural nerdy sense of humor, but limited social awareness, started laughing like mad. His Royal Highness Woxman, with no sense of humor whatsoever, went bananas. He was showing off in front of the bloody trainees, of course. Bang! And the circus started: Woxman shouts, the trainees in panic! He sends them to check the rest of the Patch-Five and look for possible witnesses. Then he jumps on Victor Chen: 'Where is the freaking body?' Chen repeats like a freaking robot: 'My father is not dead. My mistake. Sorry.' Woxman jumps on me: 'Deputy Kim, have you taken a written statement at the Beat? No? Damn! Why not?' Circus! I have no other word for it."

"It was my advice to skip the statement and go straight to Chen's place. I screwed up."

"No, you didn't. Who would know the body was going to disappear? To make the things even worse, Tan arrived to the scene. He went to call you, right?"

"Yeah."

"Woxman jumped on Tan: 'Deputy Tan, why did you leave the crime scene unguarded?' So Tan said: 'Do you watch detective movies, sir? Once in a while, on TV? At the crime scenes, you know, there should be so-called traces of those crimes, right? Let say, a couple of dead bodies lying around, or a bag full of money, or, perhaps, a nuclear bomb with big red numbers rolling on display, something along these lines. If I saw a nuke, I would guard it! For all the remaining seconds, sir! But in this case, there was absolutely nothing. I made a little loop, asked some kids, if they saw anything out of the ordinary – still nothing. So I decided the Dispatch sent me an incorrect address. Went to double-check it, that's all.'"

"Guarding the nuke! For all the remaining seconds, sir! You, boys, have a conspiracy against Woxman, do you? But technically Tan is completely right. If you are directed to the crime scene, but there is no crime, the first thing you assume is an error in the text message."

"He's technically right, but it's still against the standard procedures. When they wrote those manuals, nobody thought that half of the area would have no cell phone coverage."

"OK. What happened next?"

"Next, the trainees came back. Nothing. Woxman said: 'Must be a mistake, then. Nothing to investigate, let's go back to the Station.' But Tom meanwhile opened the evidence bag and sprayed the corner of the rag with Luminol. He pulled his jacket over his head and lit his magic flashlight. So he said: 'Not so fast, Deputy Woxman. The blood seems to be real.' Then Tan recalled some little blood spots at the floor. Tom pulled on his coverall and went into the shack. Came back and said: 'No visible blood, but Luminol shows some traces.' He believed there was blood, but somebody wiped it clean."

"Very interesting," I pour myself coffee and start rolling my To-Ma-Gochi. Who cares what my in-law thinks about three a day.

"Well, Python did the proper search. He is a good reptile, cold-blooded, not like Woxman. But he got out of the shack totally disappointed. Besides the wiped traces of blood on the floor, he said, – nothing certain. A lot of fingerprints, of course, but looks like all of them belong to the owners. He will double-check in his lab, along with the gut-driver and the rag. Do I get some coffee too?"

I pick blackened coffee pot, "Don't forget the brownie. What did Woxman decide at the end?"

"Woxman scratched his head and said: 'Fine. Lock the shack, Mister Victor Chen goes with us to the Station, tomorrow we will look for the body.'"

"I obviously have to ask this. Mister Chen Te-Sheng himself. The old man. Is he a real person, or a hallucination?"

"Real. The neighbors confirmed. And they saw him today at around lunch-time."

"Have you called all the hospitals and private doctors within a reasonable radius?"

"Not yet. In Patch-Five cell phones don't work. But Tom is doing it tonight from home. Although, he hinted me it's no use."

"Why?"

"If Victor Chen insisted that there was a dead body, it would be something like your original version. The old man was not really dead, came to his senses and went to see a medic. But now Victor Chen says there is no dead body. At all. As if he is sure nobody could go to any doctor."

"Apart from Victor and Te-Sheng, nobody else lives in the shack, right?"

"Right, as usual. How did you guess?"

"Did you see how many buttons Victor Chen had on his shorts?"

"What a wonderful sexual perversion – counting buttons on strangers' shorts! Have you indulged in this for long?"

"Not on purpose. It happens more or less by itself. About the buttons, Watson, he had exactly two. Out of three intended. One button is missing. The two remaining are attached by different threads: one is black, and the other one is white. There is also a patch, attached by a black thread. And if you recall the shorts, they are made from the desert camo trousers. The needlework is clearly man-like, but it wasn't done in the Army. How do I know the last thing?"

"In the Army, your sergeant will kick your ass for any white and black threads on a desert camo. Besides, as far as I know, in the war zone they even don't issue soldiers the white thread, unless you are deployed somewhere in Arctic and potentially have something white to fix. This is called logistics rationalization."

"You are getting familiar with my method, my dear Watson! Judging by his age, Victor Chen got these pants from the Army. But even if he bought them at a flea market, it doesn't matter. It's important the pants are quite old: about five or six years since their Army days. Buttons fall off, one after another, and Victor re-attached 'em as needed, and with whatever thread was at hand. This suggests there is no woman in the family: mother, wife, sister, niece – all excluded. And when you say 'in relative order' about the things in the shack, plus the massive amount of owners' fingerprints, everything becomes even more likely. Of course, I can be wrong. For instance, three men live in the shack, not two, or Victor Chen is a widower and lives with a three-year old daughter. I simply used the most probable version."

"You're never wrong, Holmes. But you'd better deduce what happened to Mister Chen Te-Sheng. Is your pipe telling you anything at all?"

He is completely wrong about my pipe. The cigarette does help your thinking. I can share a know-how with you. If you blow the Grass smoke into the mug, the coffee doesn't taste like roasted acorns.

"The Chens. How long did they live here? What do the neighbors say about them?" I ask.

"They are not totally new to the area: have been living in the Patch-Five for just under two years. But the neighbors don't say anything specific. The Chens were extremely quiet and kept for themselves."

"What did Chen-senior do for living?"

"He spent most of his time tending to his vegetable beds. Once in a while, he helped Victor fixing computers and other electronics."

"That's what I needed! If you said Chen Te-Sheng was making synthetic drugs right in his shack, that would be a different story. But now I don't believe in the hallucination. For a working version, we may assume the entire deal was just a stupid joke of Victor Chen. The gut-driver is real, but covered in pig's blood, as in some old Hollywood movies."

"Yeah! Listen more to our Tan. Who is he: a former cinematographer? In the action movies they used only tomato sauce!"

"To hell with the movies. I'm about the missing body. There is no motive, whatsoever! Victor Chen is long past the age to make such pranks, especially with the Police. You're about the same age with Victor Chen. Would you go and show the Police a gut-driver with some tomato sauce? Or even with the pig blood?"

"I don't use magic mushrooms, as you may know."

"Version number two. Victor's father had somehow disappeared, so Victor wants to present this disappearance as a murder. Next, he prepares a gut-driver, finds pig's blood, and plays the rest."

"Much better, Holmes. Suppose Victor Chen wants us to find his missing father. To make the search a top-priority, he presents it to the Police as a possible murder case."

"The game is not worth the candle. If we fail to find the old man, or if we find him dead, Victor is in on suspicion of murder. If we find the old man alive, Victor is still in – for making a prank with the Police. The tomato sauce will not do. And the pig's blood will not work. Besides the Luminol, there are lab methods. The CSIs can tell the pig's blood, no problems."

"What if it was a human blood?"

"The rag was covered with it. Would you punch a person to drain so much blood for a stupid prank? Besides, if Victor Chen wanted to portray a nonexistent murder, why would he wipe the blood drops from the floor? By the way, this automatically suggests an accomplice. Tan saw the blood spots, and later they were wiped clean, while Victor was with you at all time. He was at your sight at all time, right?"

"Right. I can account for every second."

"No, Watson. Version number two doesn't work. If Victor Chen wanted to find his runaway father, he would simply come to the Beat and declare a missing person. We're not in Los Angeles, thanks God! Texas Police works fine. We diligently search for the registered missing persons, and often find them. No pig's blood needed."

"As always, you're right, Holmes. More versions? What is your pipe telling you?"

"My pipe is telling me the version number three. If we discard the silly prank and the deliberate deception, it looks like someone is indeed punctured with a quarter-inch screwdriver, right?"

"So?"

"Suppose we sit here, at home, at four PM. Nice weather. Sunny. The kids are just back from the school. The women are cooking dinner. And even some men started arriving home from work. Imagined?"

"Easily. Although I don't remember when we're back from the Beat at four o'clock."

"OK. So I, for no reason at all, get a gut-driver, and make you a quarter-inch hole."

"You're a dangerous woman!"

"You have not seen me in rage. Next, we have three options. The first option. You're still alive. Covered in blood, you bail out of our shack and..."

"And stumble upon some neighbor's kids. 'What's wrong with you, Uncle Kim?'"

"Exactly! So, the first option doesn't work for us. Discard. Option two. I stab you to death real quiet, no one heard anything. I pop up from our shack with the dead body. Next?"

"What 'next'?"

"Well, if it's me, specifically: a legless girl on a skateboard, I have no chance at all. So don't you worry: I will not kill you at home. I will come up with something more exciting."

"No doubt you will. Just smoke a couple of your favorite To-Ma-Gochi."

"Besides the jokes. Let say, it's not me, but two strong men, and each with two legs. OK, these two men grab your body, leave our shack, and..."

"The same Patch kids! 'Uncles, who are you? And what's wrong with our Uncle Kim?'"

"Spot-on, Watson! Or if they know one of the persons with the body, the kids run through the Patch and yell: 'Uncle Kim's dead! Auntie Kate stubbed Uncle Kim!' Do you think I can get very far on my skate? And even the strong men with healthy legs will not be able to get away with the body. They may drop the body and flee, but we will have two hundred witnesses."

"Yeah. And four hundred very different descriptions..."

"To hell with it if they're all different! In our case, nobody had seen anything at all! And nobody dropped the dead Mister Chen at the Patch. Hence, our second option is also a total dud. More coffee?"

"The coffee's cold. By the way, where did you get these yummy brownies?"

"Light the Primus, sybarite. Mister Coyote doesn't like cold coffee! We waste all my salary on kerosene, you know? And about the cookies, I am not telling you. Your Mom will be jealous... OK, just kidding. But I must swear you to an absolute secrecy. It's a dark secret."

"OK, I swear. Policeman to policeman."

"Accepted, partner. So if instead of racing on your bike, somebody rides sensibly, on a skateboard, with two nice wooden blocks, once upon the time... OK, OK, I will make the epic saga short! Just in front of our Beat, yesterday I stumbled upon a one-legged vet with a vendor cart. He bakes these wonderful brownies and sells them hot. For me he even gives a special discount, because I have one leg less... than him! If you behave, I'll buy more of these brownies, promise. By the way, two options of our version-three are gone. Do you see the third?"

"I don't."

"And if you look a bit more?"

"I still don't see it. By the way, presently I'm looking at the Primus, so our coffee doesn't spill."

"OK, listen in. Don't turn, watch the Primus. The third option is: instead of dragging your dead body out, our two men place it inside some large container. But this container must be of a decent size, such as a wardrobe or a chest."

"Can they dismember the corpse?"

"Doesn't work for us. There will be not just few drops of blood as Tan said, but all the floor covered."

"I agree. Hey, I like the wardrobe idea! But in our slums... Not very often people move furniture."

"Today in the China-Five, did anybody move?"

"As I understand it, no. Although, we must double-check. The trainees probably missed it altogether."

"Woxman's a buffoon. Why did he send the trainees to talk to the neighbors? Wait, there is a fourth option."

"What is it?"

"I've slipped some drug in your coffee. Those magic mushrooms. While you're off, I punch a hole, drain enough blood on the rag, then stitch and bandage your wound. You wake up, but still under influence. I make a hypnotic suggestion that the screwdriver hole is such a wonderful thing to have. You're under hypnosis..."

"Bullshit. Option five. You dial a flying saucer on your mobile phone and your alien friends drag my body out through the fifth dimension."

"Yeah, total garbage. Most importantly, if I arrange the cover-up with the little green men, I don't need to run to the Police. The fourth option is also eliminated. The conclusion, Watson. My pipe didn't help much. We have no working versions, except maybe those movers with a wardrobe."

"The conclusion, Holmes, coffee has boiled. Let's finish it and go to bed. I have to get up at four tomorrow morning."

"I thought Tan is on-duty tomorrow. Or did you give him a day-off? For his screwed-up birthday?"

"Tan's birthday is still screwed-up. He will be on-duty at the Beat. And I have to go and search for the missing body. Woxman wants me to assemble two hundred volunteers by seven-thirty. We must perform some massive area search, he said."

"Your Woxman is positively a buffoon. How do you collect two hundred people on Saturday morning and with no prior notice?"

"He's not my Woxman. He's Woxman for life. Mister Deputy Investigator knows how to spell 'impossible'. But its meaning he hasn't grasped yet."

"Hey, can you take me tomorrow? As a volunteer?"

"No way."

"Why not?"

"Firstly, there will be Woxman. I don't want you two to meet. He is already unhappy about you, because you've called the Dispatch, and so he has ended up with this case in his capable hands. Secondly, if I bring a skate-bound legless vet and try to pass her as a volunteer, I will get a demerit."

"A demerit – you're getting it anyhow. Where are you going to find two hundred people?"

"I will manage. If there is no choice, I will gather some teenagers. It's Saturday, so they're not at school. Let say, from ten-year-old and up. The instructions say nothing about using the kids, so it must be legal."

"And you have ten-year-old girls running around and looking for the dead body?"

"Well, I admit the ten-year-old girls don't fit quite well in the picture. But the ten-year-old are still more useful than legless."

"You're a low-extremity racist! This is profound discrimination! On the basis of legless."

"No discrimination, whatsoever. You're a child of concrete jungles. And as such you constantly forget that here in Houston we have a well-developed agriculture. The search will be commenced at the fields, including all the irrigation ditches and the rice paddies. No way your skate can work in such places – physically. Do you want to crawl on your hands, neck-deep in mud? By the way, it's the perfect time to tell you one thing every slum policeman must know. The! Dark! Secret! Of! Houston! Naturally, I have to swear you to an absolute secrecy."

"The Dark Secret of Houston? Wonderful. OK, I swear. As Road Runner to Wile E. Coyote."

"Accepted, Runner. Listen in. The farmers in Houston have a conspiracy."

"A conspiracy?"

"Yes. They developed a secret weapon, all-mighty concoction, which will eventually consume the city... with all the suburbs... turning us all... into agricultural zombies. They call it 'organic fertilizer'... But really it's... shit! Mostly – human shit. Tons and tons of shit. Are you scared?"

"OK, I'm scared and I surrender. You're not a racist, despite your profound low extremities. I let our well-developed all-agricultural kids deal with the 'organic fertilizer'. Wandering barefoot in shit is not my dream job."

Kim shifts the dirty dishes to the side and spreads his futon on the floor, "Let's catch some sleep, Runner. And don't even dream about being agricultural tomorrow..."

#  Kim Den Gir, Deputy, Harris County Sheriff's Office.

Tan and I meet at the agreed spot on the highway. My partner is going on-duty, so he has arrived properly dressed and with the full gear: his baton, his gun and everything else. In striking contrast, my attire consists of a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and from the Police uniform I have only a cap. On my neck I put a plastic water-tight box with my badge, the cell phone, and some money. The back pockets of my shorts hide the rest of my law-enforcing equipment: brass knuckles in the right and handcuffs in the left.

I've selected the shorts for one reason. Collecting two hundred adult volunteers on Saturday morning is not just difficult, but totally impossible. All more-or-less fit adults in the Asian slums have something slightly more important to do than helping the Police to look for a missing person. For example, trying to earn enough to feed the family in the evening! Fortunately for us, on Saturday the kids are not at school, so I hope to enlist the local children. Now imagine you wake up at six AM. At the door, there is a policeman in full uniform, with a baton and a gun, who asks if your kids can volunteer. Naturally, your son will be more than interested to check my Glock-17 and the rest of my equipment. But you, being a responsible parent, will immediately find some urgent chore for your kids. Guns? Batons? Handcuffs? Chasing criminals? Better be safe than sorry. To make the recruitment successful, the local deputy must come without any visible weapons, and wearing shorts instead of the uniform. Nothing out of the ordinary, simple and boring search through the fields. If it's so safe, why don't we help our Police?

For few seconds I ponder how to assign our single Walkie-Talkie. It would be logical to have it with Woxman and me at the China-Five. Without the cell phone coverage, having a radio is very convenient. On the other hand, Tan may be called to some emergency, in one of those 'temporary unavailable' GRS areas, and he may need the radio way more than us. If there is no obvious reason to do one way or another, the officer must follow the Standard Operational Procedures. Some brass (no finger-pointing) even believes that the officers must follow the Procedures always. Mrs. Reason must shut up, she has no rank in the Police Force. I sigh and surrender our old Motorola to my partner. Simultaneously, Tan receives my strict instructions not to be our radio operator. If somebody calls Woxman – don't even think jumping on your bike to play a delivery boy. Call a pedicab to the Beat and send with a message. Woxman can find fifty bucks for the pedicab driver, no sweat. After my fully-instructed and fully-equipped partner departs to the Beat, I ride towards the Chinamerican Patches.

At the Patch-Five everyone already knows about the ongoing Police investigation. The Emergency Response cart with a real running horse is impossible to hide, especially from the curious Chinamerican kids. Besides, Woxman's trainees have marked their presence by asking their stupid questions, and Python Tom, in his blue scene coverall and with his aluminum CSI box looks just like an astronaut from Sci-Fi comics. Fortunately enough, yesterday I've got a brief second to whisper some proper instructions to the trainees' ears.

"If a single soul in the Patch learns about the blood and the gut-driver," I've told them, "I am not going to investigate who can't hold his mouth shut. I shall rip the balls from two very specific, known to all of us, trainees. Deputy Investigator Woxman, with all his might, will not be able to help these poor bastards, understood?"

As far as I can tell by asking few indirect questions this morning, two specific trainees have kept their mouths shut, no problems. The Patch population believes Mr. Victor Chen has reported his father missing. To cover the trail completely, I've shared with some key local gossip-makers ("only for you ma'am, I know I can trust you such a secret") that Victor Chen and Deputy Investigator Woxman have spent the night checking all the medical facilities this side of Sheldon Reservoir. Obviously, the people don't need to know Victor Chen has spent the night in the Station slammer, as the primary suspect in a murder case.

I've managed neither two nor even one hundred volunteers, but my morning recruiting session results turn out above the initial pessimistic expectations: five adults and sixty-seven teenagers, of which fifty-five are boys. Exactly at half-past seven, I line up my barefoot search party in front of His Excellency Deputy Investigator Woxman, may he fry himself in Hell for eternity.

"Deputy Kim, why you are not wearing your uniform today?" Deputy Investigator raises his eyebrows, "And why, for God sake, you have no shoes?" Well, he may not understand the practical psychology, and surely he has no idea how to collect volunteers in the slum, but why does he start the day with a confrontation?

"We will be searching in such places, sir. A bit on the dirty side, you know. Personally I prefer to save my uniform for some better occasion. As for you, I strongly recommend to leave your boots at the Patch and roll up your pants. On the rice paddies, the boots are not very practical. You end up falling in the mud."

Woxman ignores my proposal. I don't insist. If somebody has no common sense, even the best advices are useless. "And if I remember correctly, yesterday I've asked for two hundred volunteers, but you only have fifty. At that – only kids, goddammit."

"Quite a bit more than fifty, sir. Seventy-two all together, including five adults. All we can do at such a short notice. Naturally, if you want, you and I can do another loop through the Patch. If you convince five more people to join our search party, I shall give you... let say, one hundred bucks. But hence we don't want our bet to be one-sided, let's also do this: if we can't add five more volunteers, you've got to give me one hundred, deal?"

"OK, Deputy, let's not waste time on stupid bets. Seventy-two volunteers are probably enough." He is well aware that there is no way he can summon five more volunteers, and he doesn't want to lose one hundred. "Where do you want to start the search?"

Oh, finally! The first reasonable sentence through the entire morning. After all, Woxman is not a total dummy. Just one more guy with near-zero experience but overinflated self-esteem. Honestly, I have been expecting the worst: he would start giving orders himself, alienate the locals, and screw up the search.

"I suggest we start with that thicket in the West."

"Why not from the vegetable beds?"

"If you have only few hours, no way you can hide a body in there. There are some exceptions, but on average the Chinese here wake up before sunrise and treat each little cabbage as the first child in the family. Those obsessed veggie owners will positively see the beds being tampered with. It would be as obvious as dumping the corpse at the Patch common grounds."

"Good logic, sir. Well, let's proceed with the thicket."

OK, and proceed we will. First thing first, the volunteers' briefing. Ladies and gentlemen! Our good neighbor, Mister Chen Te-Sheng, fifty-four years of age, has been reported missing. I trust everybody here knows him quite well. Mister Chen left home yesterday, presumably after four PM. Very likely, he had a medical emergency of some sort, for example, – a heart attack. We must find Mister Chen! Now listen carefully. If someone finds a body: do not touch anything, repeat: no touching! Step back and report the find immediately. If someone finds anything unusual: a garment, or a bag, or something like this, do not touch it. Step back and report! Is that clear? Step back and report – immediately!

Now – special instructions! For the boys. Do not chase small animals! Do not look for birds' nests! And for God sake, leave snakes alone. The snakes don't attack you unless you step on them, right? Is everything clear? Questions?

What if we find the old man alive? Easy. If he is conscious, bow politely and say hello! Ask if he needs any help. If he is unconscious, do CPR! No, wait! You don't know much about CPR. Who knows? You, sir? From the Army? Excellent! Boys and girls! Uncle Nathan will be our dedicated paramedic. Call Uncle Nathan for the CPR, OK? More questions?

Can you bang from my gun? Do you see I have my sidearm with me today, young man? No, no, you cannot bang from the sidearm of Mister Deputy Investigator. Why? Because for each bang he has to write a report, that's why! I also have to write such reports. One bang, two hours of paperwork. Absolutely no fun, believe me. Well, if any of you finds Mister Chen, I will trust this good scout to disassemble and clean my Glock-17, agreed? Yes, I will allow this hero to touch my handcuffs too! What? Of course, my handcuffs are real! We don't have no toys in Police! OK, boys, the other questions you will ask at some later date. Line up for the starting point! Chop-chop!

Twenty minutes later, the line is combing the undergrowth. Woxman and I walk behind, enjoying the cheerful shouts of our young volunteers and providing overall command and quality control. I carefully push tall grass with my bare feet. Fourteen years after the Meltdown, all the metal and plastic garbage has been collected, but in the thicket like this one may still encounter a broken bottle. Woxman stomps the grass with his Army boots. Admittedly, for the forest the boots are quite useful. Perhaps, I have been a bit overconfident leaving my tire sandals at home.

"I admit, the boys are better suited for this type of work," the Deputy Investigator says. "The adults don't give a damn about the dead body. Instead of searching, they would be thinking their veggies, or the next trip to the 'Fill, or their shops, or whatever else they have here."

"I believe we have a pretty good cut," I nod, "Enough adults to keep the boys under control, and enough kids to keep the search enthusiastic. In about an hour, we will be done with the thicket, and can start on the main thing – the ditches."

"Ditches?"

"The irrigation ditches. The most probable place. To be frank with you, if I had to get rid of the dead body, I would do exactly this: stick it in a ditch."

"Ah! So why did we start in the thicket?"

Another child of concrete jungles! But of course: he is from the Western slums, on the other side of the 'Fill. They have no agriculture in there, just recycling workshops.

"We started in the thicket, sir, because at eight in the morning only bona fide masochists can clean the ditches. We must wait for the sun to rise a bit higher."

He should try it himself once – just for his education: stand waist-deep in cold water and shovel heavy silt. Through our school years, my little brother and I had plenty of such experience. We had to clean ditches and carry water for two or three hours every day after school, on Saturdays – all day long, and even a half-day on Sunday. Admittedly, before my eleventh birthday, I also was a child of concrete jungles, one hundred percent. A refined city dweller: from the upper middle class neighborhood, attending a posh British private school. A straight-A student, nicely packed in navy-blue jacket, shiny black shoes and with Eton straw hat!

But then came the Meltdown. My father was shot dead by robbers. My mother had no choice but to grab my brother and me and run away from snow to the South. And here in Houston, the posh private school boys had to acquire some very different skills, shiny shoes off, head-first in the mud. In fact, on a hot summer day, the ditch-cleaning and water-fetching are not unpleasant at all. At least in comparison with all the other slum kids' chores. Weeding veggie beds is easy but damn boring. But what really sucks is cow-dunging. You don't know what the cow-dunging is? Collecting and drying the cow dung – for fuel!

"I've got to ask you, sir," I begin extracting information from the Deputy Investigator, "Are we positive the dead body really exists?"

"The CSIs checked the blood from the screwdriver. It's human, A-plus type. If there is human blood, there must be a dead body."

"And did they check the son's blood? I mean: Victor Chen's?"

"He's zero-plus."

"This means... They're not father and son, are they?"

"This means absolutely nothing. Python said: it depends on what blood type Victor's Mom had. He started mumbling something about genetics and probabilities, I didn't understand much."

"Still, it's possible to determine the father. By the DNA test, right?"

"Yeah! As if our Major is going to sign for a DNA kit! His favorite song: the budget is tight. Well, if we find the body he may allow the DNA check... On the second thought, if we find the body today there will be no DNA. We will use the face recognition software and the fingerprints. The fingerprints are cheap."

"What did Victor Chen say?"

"Nothing, goddammit! He decided to use the Fifth Amendment," Woxman spits in front of his shiny Army boots.

"Did he ask for an attorney?"

"He wisely refused. Said: for a real lawyer I have no money, but I am ready to give a little to your free shit attorney, so he stays out of this business. As far as possible. To be honest, I would say the same. The free pettifoggers are no damn good."

"So... There may be no dead body at all?"

"Shit if I know. What about the blood? Human blood? Tom phoned through the private practices and hospitals. Nobody came in with a screwdriver hole. As the matter of fact, nobody of the Chen's age came in with any knife hole or bullet hole yesterday."

"Too bad."

"Freaking bad." He spits again. "If we don't find the body, we will have a dead case."

"And if we find?"

"Also no good. A dead case too. The gut-driver has no fingerprints."

"But Chen himself brought the gut-driver to the Beat!"

"So what? As I said yesterday. If only you and Kate took a written statement! But without it..."

"Kate can state under oath what Victor Chen told her at the Beat."

"It will not work, Deputy. Shove up your ass the statements of your legless cripple."

Our Deputy Investigator is strange. As soon as you believe you can talk to him in civilized manner, he says something offensive or stupid.

"Hey-yo! Who do ya call a legless cripple? Wanna bloodied nose?"

"Oh, I am so sorry, Deputy," Woxman backs up.

For a second or two I ponder if I should give him the bloodied nose irrespective of his apologies. About my ass – I'd swallow it with no second thought: we're not at the White House diplomatic reception, and I am not the Ambassador General of the Politically Correct Republic. But why, for God sake, he's called my wife a cripple? Well, Kate has no legs, so what? The United States are at war with half of the world, so in every third family we have a disabled vet. And talking about my Kate, she is not that disabled. With her skateboard, on a paved road, she can go faster than most people with two good legs. Fetching six gallons of water – on her skate, believe it or not. And all the rest: cleaning, dish-washing, cooking... Well, scratch the last one – the cooking is not her strong point. But her missing culinary skills have nothing to do with her missing legs. Besides, she is a fellow Police officer, Woxman should have some professional respect.

The last hurricane and the floods – Tan, Kate and I built an improvised raft, and went around the Slum, saving kids! Kate got herself the Lifesaving Award instead of the Medal of Valor, but only because she was very new to the Police, the second-week trainee, so what? Compare to our hero Deputy Woxman, who rescued printers and computers at the Station! And with all the above, my Kate has much better brains than our brand-new Deputy Investigator Woxman! Woxman is a damn cripple himself: no gray matter in the head.

"I can't say how sorry I am, sir," Woxman mumbles after an uneasy pause. "I do apologize for my words. It's so stupid of me to call Kate... legless."

"For the 'legless' you don't need to apologize. Kate doesn't mind. How else do you call a person with no legs? But never ever call her a cripple, OK? Just to be sure, could you be so kind to avoid any disability-related definitions in the future? Your apology is accepted." My temper cools down. We can get by without giving this idiot a bloodied nose.

"I will avoid. No more disability-related definitions. To be honest, I was a bit upset you two didn't take the written statement. Unfortunately, Missis Kate Bowen, with all due respect, could not be the prosecution witness. She could state in the court that Victor Chen appeared at such and such time in your Beat office with this particular bloodied rag and this particular gut-driver in his hand. And whatever Chen was saying to her at the time, any half-competent defense attorney would smash to smithereens."

"But Victor Chen told me the same thing, on the way to his house."

"The same problem. He told you, he didn't write it down. You know what is going to happen? At the trial, Chen will demand a Mandarin-to-English interpreter. And through the interpreter he will tell the Jury: the Police officers at the Beat – misunderstood me. Due to my poor English! Then the defense will call you and Kate. Do you speak Mandarin, Deputy Kim? Are you fluent in Mandarin, Missis Bowen? End of the story."

"And what if Victor Chen did not kill his father? What if it was someone else?"

"Who cares? It's a dead case, anyhow."

Naturally, who cares? Sending an innocent man to the gallows is no big deal. Woxman only cares about his first independent case. He must show results! There must be a court conviction, whoever the poor bastard is.

So bad there is no cell phone coverage. Would be real nice to call someone and ask for advice. At the Station they do have some experienced officers: the FBI Special Agent, the Chief Medical Examiner, our sergeants. Even Python Tom will do. Both Woxman and I have zero experience in the murder cases. It's not like through my five years with the Police I haven't seen any murders, but beat deputies are not to investigate any serious crimes. Our specialty is armed robberies (strictly with no casualties), theft, con artists, domestic violence, unlicensed prostitution and drunk misdemeanor. And in the murder cases, our role is reduced to mere helpers: to guard the crime scene, to interview the neighbors, to search for the body – as we do today... Woxman, with his six years of night shifts at the Station, has even less experience than Tan and I. Presumably, they assigned him to this case because the case looked like a no-brainer. Two Chinamen had a family fight. The son stabbed his Dad with a screwdriver and ran to the Police with a confession. But the case turned out way more complicated...

***

The lunch time is approaching, so our search party slowly returns to the Patch. We have done everything imaginable, thoroughly combing the grounds within one and a half mile radius. The boys look much disappointed: none of them will be cleaning my Glock tonight. The body has not been found. As the matter of fact, nothing of importance has been found, despite we have checked every ditch and every rice paddy, and even poked a pole into the communal latrines. As a by-product of the search exercise, the boys caught two coypu rats and killed one snake. Two families in the Patch-5 will have 'rabbit' for dinner tonight, and someone lucky will get an oriental delicacy plus a great snake-skin belt in the bargain.

Woxman stumbles along the dirt path totally deflated. More than anything he resembles now a skinny kitten, which has miscalculated a jump and ended up in a ditch. Well, our Deputy Investigator ended up in the irrigation ditch for real. One Chinaman shouted: I have it! Looks like a body! Woxman even didn't bother to take his boots off. The slippery mud worked exactly as I predicted in the morning, and the brave policeman plopped into the murky water. Naturally, there was no dead body. Woxman's trophy was a rotten snag. For the rest of our search, he kept telling me that it was a crafty trick, just to see how this poor gullible Station deputy was going to struggle in the ditch. If it was set by one of the boys, I could believe it. But the snag was discovered by an adult. Why would a serious man trick a policeman, half of his age? Volunteer's imagination ran wild, no other explanation required.

Besides the jokes, if you come to check the ditches and rice paddies, why do you wear pants and boots? My grossly reduced uniform, for example, is way more practical. The shorts have dried up in minutes, not a bit worse than in the morning. With my Police baseball cap on, and with my badge clearly visible in the water-tight box, I look like some real Police officer, and not like some... poor lost kitten. I've learned a thing or two during my barefoot childhood, unlike some Station buffoons, no finger-pointing intended.

"Do we have a plan, Deputy Investigator?" I ask. I know Woxman has no further plan whatsoever, but it's nice to be polite.

"I propose we go to the Station, what else? Try Victor Chen again. Maybe, he decides to give a statement, after all."

"Riding bikes in this heat? I have a better idea. What if I talk to the locals and borrow you some suitable rag? We can wash your pants and hang them to dry. I suppose you boots also need some cleaning and drying, are they not? And while the things are getting dry, we can inspect the crime scene once again."

"Great idea, Deputy Kim," naturally, he doesn't want to waltz into the Station looking like some poor kitten.

Have you seen the Highlander Scots' outfit? Our Deputy Investigator now resembles one of those fine human specimens. Above the waistline – the Police uniform jacket and the Police cap. In the middle – a belt with his gun, baton, handcuffs and all. And below – watch this! A kilt! Well, not exactly a kilt, just some old oilcloth, but with the real tartan pattern. The attire is completed with hairy bare legs. The Highlanders have no use for socks and shoes! The only thing: the Highlanders have no use for underpants either, but Woxman has refused to remove his underwear. So much for all my efforts, we've failed to produce a proper McWoxman.

The cross-dressing complete, Deputy Investigator gets out of the shack, and all the Patch kids burst out laughing. The adults smile too. Even а legless beggar at the corner tries to laugh, but only manages a hoarse cough. Terrible sight: a man in a wheelchair, his hands and face all wrapped in soiled bandages, eyes covered with cracked sunglasses. Behind the chair, there is a girl, about eight, barefoot, dirty rags instead of clothes. The poor bastard's daughter, or some other relative? As I pass by, I pull a couple of dollars out of my box and drop into the beggar's tin. The Slum Rules are for everybody. The girl mumbles: "Thank you, sir". Freaking wars! What do the US want in all these endless mexicos, ukraines, and saudi arabias?

We proceed to the Mr. Chen's shack, ducking under the police tape. The key clicks in the lock, the rusty hinges try to voice objection. The stagnant midday air inside smells of dust and mice. No blood smell whatsoever. But, I am not a bloodhound.

'McWoxman' stops on his tracks, obviously puzzled. He observes the room from the doorway and finally whispers: "Shit. It looks different."

"Different?"

"Yes! The books. All the books were on the shelves. Only one was on the table. That one, see? With the green super. I remember it."

I stick my head into the room. It's seven by nine feet, pretty spacey for our Slum. Two stools, one bed, one table. Besides the green book, on the table: two dirty plates, one pair of chopsticks, and a tea-pot. Exactly as I remember it yesterday. But all the other books are now scattered all over the room.

"It must be Python Tom," I say. Strange. I am no expert in the CSI magic, but as far as I know, the CSIs just don't throw things like this. Even if it's a full-blown search warrant, and not just a crime scene check. I have executed few search warrants, not as an investigator, but in my usual local cop capacity: standing at the door and intimidating the civilians through my mirror sunglasses. No way our Python creates such a mess! I've seen how he goes through each piece at the scene: make a photo, pick up, look, put back, adjust to the exact position. And so on. Professional work, like a human robot.

"No!" Woxman replies, "I was with Tom when he locked the goddamn door... Everything was on the shelves! Why now the books are on the floor? I don't get it," he carefully steps inside, scrutinizing the mess.

"Interesting. Why do they need so many books?" I pick one from the floor. It's a heavy volume entitled Alloy Crystal Structures and Mechanical Properties. The paper is expensive, dense, white, clearly pre-Meltdown. The year on the front page confirms it: '2005'. Formulas, graphs, and lots of black and white photos, something like distant planet landscapes from Sci-Fi movies. This is way above my level, although I am a high-school grad, and with respectable marks.

"Bloody Chinese! Let's put everything back on the shelves, or the brass will rip our sore asses."

"No, sir, we shouldn't. They may rip our asses, but I don't want to ruin the investigation. We have almost no evidence, remember? To me, it looks like someone has been to the shack after you and Python – to make a search of his own. And this someone may leave us some fingerprints, right? We ought to lock the door and give our CSIs a friendly call." And why, for God sake, I picked the damn Alloy book? Admittedly, I am as much an investigator as... Woxman!

"Yes, you are right," Woxman agrees. He is clearly not too happy with the developments. We have more and more questions, but still no answers.

"Change for vets? Change for vets?" A high-pitched voice comes in. The same girl with her bandaged beggar father, she parked the wheelchair right under the police tape.

"Hey, you!" Woxman turns to the open door. "You two have no business in here. Bugger off!"

"The Deputy Investigator is right, young lady," I try to soften the rude response, "Don't you see the police tape? Your Daddy should do 'Change for Vets' at some other place."

But her Daddy does not want to leave. "Kha-kha-ah" he says and lifts the begging tin with his bandaged hands. The vet knows his rights.

"Everybody must give once a day. It's the First Rule!" The girl says.

"OK, fine," I reach for my water-tight box.

"Not you, sir! Twice a day – no such Rule! Him!" the girl sticks her dirty finger towards the Deputy Investigator.

"Sorry, I have no small money," Woxman blushes, "the smallest I have is five bucks."

What a Scrooge! Is he going to ask the beggar to give three dollars of change?

"Kha-kha-ah!" The legless wheezes and raises his tin a notch higher.

With a sigh, Woxman pulls out a bundle of wet crumpled bills. The generous five-dollar donation leaves the safety of the bundle's rubber band for the cruel world of the begging tin.

"Happy now? Get lost!"

"Kha-kha! Kha-ha-ah!" the vet says. He either says thanks or sends Woxman to some distant country never visited by the Ambassadors of the Politically Correct Republic.

"Thank you so big, Uncle Cop!" The girl flashes a foxy smile, backing the wheelchair away from the police tape. Despite the layer of grime on her face, she is cute. Have I seen her recently? Perhaps, but for sure not with this beggar vet. Can't remember...

***

Once again, I am going to be home after seven. My poor little wife has to cope with all the chores. I am riding my bike in twilight and recollect the day events.

Woxman stood guard at the shack while I went down to Patch-3 to phone Python about the scattered books. Tom was astonished and decided to come at once. About one hour later we met the sweating CSI at the scene. Naturally, this time he couldn't use the horse and had to push pedals all the way from the Station.

Tom glanced into the hut and whistled. "I tell you that much, gents. Someone was looking for something here. Real hard."

"I also thought so," I said, "Can you establish what were they looking for?"

"God knows. Offhand, it must be something small and flat. Something that can be hidden in a book: between the pages or in the spine. Although... It could be pretty much anything you can imagine. Maybe they were just looking for a specific book. Did you touch anything in here?"

"I did," I admitted, "That book on the floor, about alloys. I was holding it."

Python gave me a ravenous look. He is going to squash me to death and eat me in one piece, as per the pythons' habit, I thought.

"And that do they do with all these books?" Woxman asked, "To be honest, I don't even understand the titles."

"About the titles, you are not alone," Tom said, "I don't understand them too. Not my specialty."

"Are they about Physics?" I suggested the first thing that came to my mind.

"Not quite," Tom said, "They look to me like Engineering and Material Science, but very advanced."

"Very advanced – are you judging by the titles?"

"Not only. These books cover a diverse range of knowledge. For example, at home I keep a little library on criminalistics, programming, and lab procedures. But I only have two dozen titles. Of these, only three or four books I use frequently. And with all this, I call myself an expert. But here! At least two hundred volumes, and it looks like all were used a lot. Someone needed all kinds of material properties: specific resistivity, ion polarization, density, compressive strength, you name it. Must be very advanced stuff, what else?"

"Victor Chen works in electronics repairs," Woxman pointed.

"Not this type of books," Tom said. "From the stuff the 'tronics guys use – there are only two. See, here: the Microcontrollers Bonanza. Also, I've seen another one somewhere, like a thick catalog, Semiconductor Devices and Integrated Circuits. For an electronics man, this is hardly enough. If Victor has more books about electronics, he surely keeps them at his shop. The rest of the books is some kind of super-technologies."

"Who in our Slum would need such super-technologies?" I asked.

"Who in the whole United States would need such super-technologies today?" Tom smiled.

"Maybe – the Pentagon?" Woxman asked.

"The Pentagon? I guess," Tom said.

"What shall we do now?" I asked.

"Good question," Python scratched his head, "I will change into my coverall and spend few hours talking to my fingerprint kit and my flashlight. I don't see the alternatives. And you gents, it would be very nice if you carefully went around the shack and check every square foot one more time. The probability is thin, but you may stumble on something... unusual. Any more suggestions?"

No suggestions followed. We kept searching until the sunset, nearly nose to the ground, like those bloodhounds. I wouldn't mind working some more, but only Tom had a flashlight.

Woxman kept complaining and grew angry by the minute: for his bad luck, for such a puzzling case, for the absence of clues, for his pants being shit-dirtied once again ("Why did you put them on, man, what was wrong with your kilt?" Tom teased him). The Deputy Investigator cursed our Amerasian Slums. As if his own obamaville at the west outskirts of the stinky Landfill, leached to the roofs with by-products of garbage recycling, was a bloody palace!

***

Tired and hungry, I arrive home. Kate sits in front of our tiny hut, stirring something in the pot. I feel intrigued and scared: today it's not her usual Primus, but the rare-occasion coal briquettes. It will be either a major culinary break-through, or a miserable culinary failure.

"Hi, Runner, what's for dinner?" I ask.

"A rabbit stew! With bok choy and potatoes! History in the making! Even Ma approved."

"Rabbit? Wow! I can't wait for such a luxury."

"I can't wait too. From down here, it smells so nice. Wash your hands. If you're not ready in three minutes, I'll gulp it all myself."

I follow the advice, and exactly three minutes later we dine.

"How was your search today?" Kate asks wielding her serving spoon.

"No good. Found nothing," I mumble through a mouthful of hot stew. The major culinary break-through it is: my wife has surpassed all expectations. Although, I suspect my Mom has something to do with this.

"Can I guess?"

"OK, guess!"

She raises the serving spoon. "OK. My magic spoon is telling me... Telling me... One. This morning, Woxman fell into a ditch. Down to his waist. The local population found it exceptionally funny. Two. Somebody came to Chen's shack in the night to look for something. All the books were on the floor. Three. You decided to call Python. Because Woxman had no pants, Wile E. Coyote had to ride to the China-Three to make a call. Did I get it right?"

I quietly choke on the rabbit. Almost to death.

"Ouch! Sorry. Want me to whack you on the back?" Kate says overseeing my recovery.

"But... But how did you know?" I finally regain my breath.

"Wrong. You must say: but how did you know, Holmes?"

"Fine! But how did you know, Holmes?"

"Dear Watson, I wrote a monograph on the development of telepathic abilities by eating rabbit stew with bok choy and potatoes..."

"Stop being silly."

"You should read the monograph, Watson! The rabbit stew does not develop telepathic abilities whatsoever. The best result is obtained by substituting the rabbit with a river rat."

I choke on the 'rabbit' once again. Kate promptly saves me from a terrible death by delivering the promised whack to my back. For a girl of her size, she has a formidable whack. The continuous practice with skateboard works that way.

"OK, I will not torture you any longer. Today I went to the China-Five myself. Spied for half a day and bought this rabbit."

"No offense. Is it a rabbit? Or a coypu?"

"How do you call it? Co-oypu-u? Texans are funny. Coypu. Must remember. Yes, dear, the stew is a river rat. You must know that our family budget can't support a rabbit-habit. But the rat is perfectly fresh – from your all-agricultural teenager volunteers. Just don't pretend you haven't eaten rats before."

"No, Runner, nothing wrong with rat-meat. When we moved here, rats were on the menu at least once a week. And not even the river rats. The gray city rats too. But I must admit, your stew tastes nothing like a coypu. My compliments to the chef."

"Your Mom is a chef. I am not even a sou-chef. A mere scullion."

"Put me more of your rabbit, scullion... But wait... How come we didn't see you in the China Patch?"

"Kha-kha-ah... Twice a day – no such Rule!"

"What did you say? Oh, shit! That beggar! Wait, wait. The guy wasn't like you. He had knees!"

"Our two Korean pillows fulfilled the role. Two below-knee stumps – two pillows."

"And where did you get the wheelchair?"

"Went to the local market and asked the military vets to help the Police. Being without legs myself, I didn't even need to do much convincing. In ten minutes the fellow vets provided everything: the uniform, the medals, the sun-glasses. Easy..."

"And the girl who pushed the wheelchair?"

"You didn't recognize her? Good I convinced the little beauty to dress in rags and smear herself with ash."

"So who is she?"

"Our neighbor. From the Korean-Two. Remember, how I pulled her on our raft? During the hurricane? She kept asking me where her Teddy Bear was."

"Oh! Right. I even thought: why did she look so familiar?"

"You have natural observation skills, Watson."

"OK, stop being silly again. Better tell me why you needed all this masquerade. For sure, you unearthed something Python, Woxman, and I didn't even look at."

"Let's do it this way. First, I am going to ask you two or three questions, and then I will tell you my theory."

"It's a deal, partner."

"Are we finishing the rabbit stew?"

"Is this your first question?"

"No, this is my proposal."

I pass Kate my plate.

"OK, my first question. In your search team, you had four adults, is that right?"

"No. I had five. One man left a little earlier, you probably had not seen him."

"Can you describe these five adults, briefly?"

"You know, the people in the China-Five, I don't know them that well. OK, listen in. Mister Duong-senior. He is the elected Patch Representative, so must help the Police. About sixty-five, but very active little man."

"Little man?"

"Yeah, he's a shorty. I'm not tall, but he's only to about my shoulder. With thin gray beard like Comrade Ho Chi Minh."

"I didn't see the man. Was he the one who ran way?"

"He didn't run away. As a Patch Rep, he had a good excuse. A land dispute: someone wanted to re-measure the rice paddies."

"OK. Comrade Ho Chi Minh we can skip for now. Next?"

"Mister Duong-junior, the Rep's son. About forty years old. Tall and bony."

"In a straw rain-hat? With little mustache?"

"That's him. The next is Missis Lim, a widow. About thirty or thirty-five, a veggie lady. But the main calling in her life – is to spy on her neighbors. If there is a good gossip to deliver, who cares about the veggies! She would not miss the search for the missing neighbor, not in her life."

"I've seen her too. She does look like a scandalous person. The others?"

"The last two, I don't know them at all. A young man by the western name of Na-Na-Nathan, he didn't tell me his Chinese name, and I didn't ask."

"Na-Na-Nathan?"

"Yeah. The guy is shell-shocked, just from the Army. He was in Romania. In Ploiesti, some freaking Ukrainians hit his platoon with Russian 122 mil Grad. So the guy was sent home to recover. I decided to assign the vet to an easy duty, but he was doing fine. Ran no worse than the boys."

"Some people say shell-shocked is for life. Personally, I'd rather lose my legs. Who was the last person in your search team?"

"Mister Lee. Fifty-five years old, approximately. Solidly built, medium height, gray hair. His shack is next to the Chen's, right across the path."

"Excellent description. I withdraw my statement about your observation skills. About this Mister Lee, can you tell me some more? Did you come to his shack in the morning?"

"No. Lee came to me. Said: I just learned my neighbor gone missing, Deputy. Would you mind if I help with the search? Strange question: if I mind! Woxman was pissing steam I hadn't got two hundred volunteers."

"Do you know what this Mister Lee is doing for living?"

"I believe he is a scrap-catcher. Goes to the 'Fill, buys good finds from the scavengers. Repairs and sells."

"Does he live alone?"

"I have no idea."

"After lunch, when you and Woxman went to the Chen's... The shack on the other side of the path was locked."

"Well, maybe Lee went to see his suppliers at the 'Fill. That's what many scrap-catchers do in the afternoon."

"OK. The second question. That Mister Lee of yours. By any chance, does he have a Chinese Calligraphy hobby?"

"How the hell would I know?"

"Never mind. I have enough information already. Do you like the stew?"

"Why do you even ask? This stew is a pinnacle of your cooking career. My Mom must be jealous. Get ready for more 'just-in-case' food containers. They will come with double intensity."

"Ouch! Now I'm in panic! A Category-10 hurricane our little shack will not hold for sure. I must give up cooking."

"Give up? Hey! You have just started!"

"Just kidding. Coffee?"

"You promised to enlighten me why you went through the China Patches on the wheelchair."

"Let's sit at the porch. Holmes has to smoke his pipe. How about you, doctor Watson? Brave enough to share a To-Ma-Gochi?"

"Doctor Watson will be smoking his tobacco," I say, reaching for my box. "Stop teasing me. I know you come up with some cool idea."

But Kate never misses an opportunity to tease me few minutes more. Without saying a word, she gets her bag, crawls through the door, ledges herself comfortably on the second tread of the stair, using the third tread as an arm-rest. Now she slowly, thoughtfully rolls her cigarette. Not until her famous Gunner Mermaid lighter clicks closed she starts talking.

"My dear Watson! Yesterday, we completely ignored the testimony of two key witnesses in our case." The puff of sweet-smelling smoke dissipates in the cool evening air.

"Who exactly?" I sit at the lower tread and start rolling a cigarette of my own.

"You and Tan, of course."

"What do you mean: ignored? Tan said there were specks of dried blood at the floor. Python checked the floor with his Luminol. He was confident somebody wiped the blood, right? You concluded Victor Chen had an accomplice. Right conclusion. Tan saw the blood, and later the blood was gone."

"That's it! The blood was gone. But instead of the blood – something else suddenly appeared in the shack."

"What?"

"Look carefully," Kate reaches her bag and draws the cell phone, "This morning, I called Tom and convinced him to send me his first photo of the room. The view from the front door."

"It's against the procedures. Tom is not supposed to send the scene photos left and right."

"Ah! Procedures! Python follows those procedures only if he is dead-bored tracing the bootlegged gasoline. Or if he has a whole chicken inside and feels sleepy, as any self-respecting reptile. But if he is hungry and aggressive, he doesn't give shit about procedures. Cold-blooded reptilian indifference to the Police brass, instructions, and data security, all together! Remember the Sheldon Butcher case?"

"Rumors were he hacked his way into some Pentagon database."

"An epic win! In comparison to the freaking Pentagon, the breach this time is not a big deal. I was the one who reported the incident first place, right? If I had two legs, I would be at the crime scene with everybody else and see everything with my own eyes. You'd better look at the screen."

"Well, I am looking."

"Is it any different from what you've seen yesterday?"

"No."

"And if you look closer?"

"Do you take me for an idiot? Besides, there were another one and a half police officers at the scene. I am assuming each trainee for twenty-five percent of a whole policeman. Then, the room was checked by Tom. He is a top-notch professional."

"No offense, Mister Coyote. I just want to make my point very clear. Let me continue."

"I'm listening."

"I called Tan at the Beat and forwarded him the same photo."

"Oh! I completely forgot about our birthday boy. How did he do today?"

"He was fine. Completed a high-profile case of his own. A sow theft at the Vietnamerican Patch."

"A theft of what?"

"Take it easy. The case is closed. No theft, just a fugitive. After some tough negotiations, the swine decided to return into captivity. Never mind. So I asked Tan the same question: is the photo any different from what you've seen yesterday?"

"And he?"

"He said the same as you: no."

"It's hardly surprising."

"So I asked: what about the blood at the floor?"

"Who can see these on a telephone screen?"

"Yeah, he said the same. But I insisted we looked closer."

"Well?"

"So he looked some more and said: Kate, you know, on the photo, I see that Chinese scroll. Like a Chinese Calligraphy thing: a proverb, a Confucius saying, or something. I am not sure, but I think when I came to the shack, there was no scroll."

"Wait, pass me the phone," I look at the screen once again, "This scroll you are talking about. When Victor and I came to the shack, the scroll was just like on the photo. But today – I don't remember I've seen that thing on the wall!"

"One hundred percent sure the calligraphy has not been on the wall. I haven't endured Woxman's generous five-bucks donation for nothing! Now, try to remember carefully, dear, it's very important. From the wheelchair I can't see the whole room, right? On the floor, on the bed, on the shelves... Perhaps, this scroll is still lying somewhere in the shack?"

"Now I remember clearly. The Chinese scroll was not in the shack today. Sure! The room is not that large. But how did you know there must be this scroll first place?"

"Please play by the rules. You must say: but how did you know, Holmes?"

"Oh, stop it! Just explain."

"And here comes my second witness. The second witness! You, my dear Watson!"

"I?"

"You and Victor. You run to the Patch-Five in great hurry. All the way, Victor's sure his father is stubbed to death. You open the door, and: bang! Victor suddenly changes his mind. As if there are fire letters hanging in the air. Victor Chen! Keep your mouth shut! Now, presumably somebody wants to write these fire letters in such way that his Mandarin-literate addressee understands them for sure, but a Korean police officer has no clue. What language should this person use? Arabic? English? Korean?"

"There is a leap of faith, Holmes. You automatically presume the policeman can't read Mandarin. We have plenty of Chinamericans in the Police Force."

"One. The fact you and Tan are both Koreamerican – is common knowledge in the GRS. On the West side, everybody even knows the Beat clerk is not an Amerasian. Yesterday, two 'Fill scavengers called me by name and offered me a ride. Two. The Chinese wisdom, especially if written in Chinese characters, allows for free translation. No need to write: keep your mouth shut! For a smart addressee, you could write something far less obvious."

"I'm sure you have already translated the scroll. Did you use the Internet?"

"Much simpler! If your cell phone doesn't have Chinese installed, how to enter the Chinese characters? And even if you get yourself a Chinese keyboard, I am not that proficient... To make the story short, at the market I found two Chinese dudes and asked them to translate the scroll for me. The first said: 'Careless words bite like poisonous snakes'."

"And the second?"

"The second translation wasn't as poetic. 'Wrong words get relatives killed.' But instead of 'killed' there could be also 'destroyed' or 'poisoned'. Mandarin is not like Korean or Japanese. In Korean, you have a fifty-fifty mix of phonetic symbols and abstract sino-characters, so the specific meaning is usually more straight-forward."

"Hey, look who is teaching me Korean! But your version is very nice. Let me summarize. After Tan leaves to call you from China-Three, someone hangs this scroll. At the same time, he or she wipes the blood from the floor. I've paid no attention to the scroll. After all, the Chinese hieroglyphs are too different from Korean. But Victor Chen reads the scroll, understands it correctly, and demands himself the Fifth Amendment."

"Right! By the way, did he ask for the Fifth?"

"Woxman told me so. Victor even refused the free attorney."

"Perfect. It all fits in with my deduction. The person who hung the scroll. He or she is either an ethnic Chinese or knows Mandarin as a second-native language. He must be an enthusiast of Chinese Calligraphy, because he decided to use the Chinese proverb as a method of clandestine communication, very clever indeed. He is presumably from the GRS, because he knows the local policemen are not very strong in Mandarin. Finally, he is well-acquainted with Victor Chen."

"How is the last one?"

"If you are not sure whether your recipient can not only read, but also correctly understand the Chinese proverb, why take the risk and hang the scroll? And most importantly, this person must live somewhere in the vicinity, very close indeed."

"To have time to run home and write the scroll?"

"Even if he wasn't trained in calligraphic writing himself, he could have the scroll with the fitting proverb in his home collection. And if he had to write it from scratch, he also must run home. We are not in ancient China, and the calligraphers don't wander the streets with ink and brushes. Even more to it. Our calligrapher must have the key for the Chen's shack. So, our man is an immediate neighbor, a relative, or a very close friend. Who else would you trust the key from your house?"

"Do you think this man came at night and searched for something hidden in the books?"

"He scattered the books, but he didn't search."

"Why?"

"He just wanted his scroll back. He knew that one police officer was at the scene before the scroll was placed at the wall. If you just take one thing, it will be obvious. So, he must make a big mess. Breaking stools and crashing plates were not an option – the neighbors could hear. So he scattered the books."

"But why did he want his scroll back? If not for our Sherlock-on-skate, Tan would not remember a thing!"

"I don't know why he wanted the scroll. I have no telepathic abilities, despite I'm so full with... What's the name again? Coypu? Most likely, our calligrapher is afraid somebody may see the scroll later. Let say, someone from the Calligraphy Club. Imagine some old Chinese man comes to you and says: do you know, Deputy? That scroll in Chen's shack! It looks like Mister Lee wrote it! Only him draws this hieroglyph in such graceful stroke. And so you think to yourself: should I go to the China-Five and talk to Mister Lee one more time?"

"Mister Lee? Is he just an example, or you suspect him of murder?"

"Mister Lee is not a murderer. But after my visit to the Patch-Five, and with all the info you told me this evening, I don't just suspect. I know the murderer identity and the location of the dead body."

"You – know?"

"One hundred percent. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Again, from my favorite book."

"OK, Holmes! Enlighten your dumb Watson!"

"The body is presently with Mister Lee in his shack. And by tomorrow morning it will be in the irrigation ditch."

"Explain why."

"Remember, yesterday we had three options how the perps might get rid of the body?"

"Not three. Five! The number four was about some magic mushrooms and hypnosis and the number five was about some little green men with a flying saucer."

"Stop teasing me. So today I went myself to the China-Five and realized yesterday I missed the fourth option altogether. In one of the stories, Holmes was telling Watson it's dangerous to make conclusions without knowing all the facts. A mental lock of sorts."

"And what was your mental lock?"

"I placed myself in the perp's position. What would I do with a dead body if it was in this shack. Our shack, in Korean Patch-One! But there is a huge difference. In our Patch, the paths between the shacks are wide and straight. We are an 'Obama' slum, from right after the Meltdown. Back then, they left a lot of space, for the cars. We don't use cars, but the paths are still straight, and you can see everything, end-to-end. But the China-Five was started just three or four years ago, and they knew the cars would not be back. Their paths are narrow and all curved. In some places, even a wheelchair can barely pass."

"I see what you are saying. So the fourth option is to carry the body to the near-by shack, right?"

"Absolutely. In the Patch like ours that would be totally impossible during the day time, but in the new slums, if you act quickly, chances the others see you are rather small. Two men can do it easy enough."

"Why: two men?"

"Mister Lee and Mister Chen. Two men. Of course, I may be wrong. Having three men is also possible. But less likely."

"So, after all, Victor Chen killed his father?"

"But no! Did I say: Victor Chen killed? Listen... On the second thought, wait! First, make more coffee and bring the brownies. And promise me to wash the pot. I've cooked you rabbit, remember?"

"It's a shameless blackmail! If you continue this way, we must report you to the Police," I obey and start our Primus.

"Are you washing the pot, Deputy?"

"Yes, ma'am. The Deputy will be washing the pot."

"Accepted. So it was like this, my dear Watson. Mister Chen-senior comes home and finds his double."

I burst into maniacal laughter. The neighbor shack window opens and an old lady sticks her head out in obvious disapproval. The Slum Rule is to keep the things quiet, especially after dark.

"I didn't expect such a prank," I whisper to Kate while bowing an apology to the neighbor lady. "You've tricked me into the promise to wash the pot in exchange for some science fiction story. Not the type of Sci-Fi I enjoy."

"I promise, Coyote, there is no prank. Can't you listen to the end before laughing like mad?"

"OK. I am listening to your cheap prank Sci-Fi. Skeptically."

"Have you seen the titles of the Chen's books, Mister Skeptic?"

"Yes, I have. Python believes they are about some very advanced engineering. And Woxman thinks it's some kind of military technology."

"Your Woxman is not a total fool. Correct: it's some advanced military technology."

"I'm telling you once more: he is not my Woxman. Why do you think somebody would jump on developing some advanced military technology in the slums?"

"I'm not saying Chen-senior is working on military technology now. But he could work on it earlier, before the Meltdown. It was something very important. Do you know the Chinese were constantly looking for their former compatriots, the immigrants and their family members? It was the best way for extracting the military technology intelligence from the USA."

"Well. And why to have the double? Spy games?"

"Let say, you've decided to ransack the Chen's residence. The only way to do it in the night – you must kill the owners. Besides, searching in the night, with a flashlight in your teeth – you may miss something."

"So you do it in the daytime."

"Correct. But how to walk into the shack during the day time? The neighbors will see you. So your agent has to be a double of either Chen-junior or Chen-senior. The Chen-senior is more likely, the neighbors see him at the Patch during daytime. The exact copy is not required, he only needs to look like Chen from far. The main thing is the clothing, but that's easy. In the slums, nearly all the men use the second-hand Army uniforms. Having Chen's photo and several thousand dollars in your pocket, you can get all you need at the flea market, and without arousing suspicion."

"And how your double can unlock the door?"

"Are you a cop or a barber? This type of lock can be picked in seconds. Of course, you need proper tools."

"Why do you think Mister Lee can't be your spy?"

"He can't. He would have known that once a month Victor Chen returns from work earlier than usual, and his father also may return a bit early."

"OK. Your version is accepted. But I am still skeptical. Let say, Chen-senior comes home and observes Chen-two, his double, searching through the shack. What's next?"

"Chen-one was expecting an intrusion. That's why he carried the gut-driver. Bang, and Chen-two is lying on the bed with a quarter-inch hole in his chest. Chen-one rushes to his friend, Mister Lee, just across the path. Together, they watch Victor Chen comes home, glances into the shack, and runs away."

"Presumably, the son did not know his father from the double?"

"I think he didn't. Imagine you come home this evening, get your bike chained to the pole. My skate is at the door. Runner, where are you? Silence. So you open the door, and in the far corner there is a legless Afro girl of about my size, in my second-hand Navy uniform. And on the floor at the entrance – there is the bloody gut-driver. By the way, if you get killed by a gut-driver, your face will be all-warped from agony. The death from the gut-driver wound is seldom instantaneous, there is pain shock, all such stuff."

"Sounds cool... You must be writing horror stories."

"So, under such circumstance, would you think: my Kate has a double, or rather: my Kate is killed?"

"I understand your logic. What's next?"

"Chen-senior and Lee were occupied with something more urgent, and couldn't stop Victor Chen's departure. Victor grabbed the gut-driver and fled. Lee and Chen-senior realized he was running to the Police. Where else to run? So what our good neighbors would do?"

"They can also come to the Police and give a statement."

"And so they would have to explain the Chen's double? Most importantly: if someone sent one double, he may send another, or arrange something equally nasty. Hence, the only logical way out: the double's body must disappear, and Chen Te-Sheng must also disappear. If Victor Chen keeps his mouth shut, and the body is not found, no way someone can build a case."

"It's not unreasonable. Further on?"

"Elementary. Chen-senior and Lee carry the body across the path – into the Lee's shack. The distance is less than two yards. Five seconds – and they are done. Mister Lee writes the Chinese saying. Or selects the appropriate one from his collection, it doesn't matter. Although it seems to me he was writing it himself, so it took some time. He probably knows calligraphy. At this point, here comes our birthday-boy Tan, so Chen and Lee think that all is lost. However, they get lucky. There is no dead body in the shack, and Tan is confused. He jumps on the bike and rides away – to clarify the address. Lee runs to the shack to hang the scroll. Chen-senior wipes the floor. After that, we have a couple of options. Chen Te-Sheng may leave at once, or Lee hides him in his shack till the evening. And in the night, Lee quietly gets into the Chen's shack to recover the scroll. And he scatters the books, to make it look like a burglary."

"You are so cool at making versions!"

"My To-Ma-Gochi helps."

"The only way to prove everything – is to go right now and confront Mister Lee."

"Not right now."

"Why?"

"One. We must finish our coffee. Eat the brownie, I am full."

"And two?"

"Two. Lee is not home yet."

"How do you know?"

"Put yourself in his place. One tiny room, the dead body in the corner. You can't open the door and the window. How long can you sit like this?"

"You are right, as always."

"I think Lee volunteered to your search team today in order not to be at his house in the morning. What a perfect excuse! Where is our Mister Lee? He's usually at home in the morning? Here he is: on the rice paddies, helping the Police. And more to that, he has joined the search to find a good spot to dump the body tonight. Some place, which has been thoroughly looked through, so nobody will look there again."

"You are right! It was exactly Mister Lee who shouted today there was a body under water, but there was just a snag. As if Lee lured Woxman into the ditch on purpose."

"You see, everything comes together. Lee was conditioning the Deputy Investigator to have a negative reflex for the irrigation ditches. I will not be surprised if he dumps the body to that very Woxman's ditch. Do you remember the place well?"

"Sure thing, I remember. What do we do now?"

Kate looks at the phone's screen.

"We will go at half past nine. Before eleven, Lee will not dare to drag the body out. We have ninety minutes."

"I understand we don't bother to call Woxman."

"You understand right. No way I share my deductions with this greedy bastard. He didn't want to share five shitty bucks with the wounded veteran, and my version is worth way more than five bucks."

"Do you want to invite Tan instead?" As for this clown Woxman, I am not keen to see him around. Good my dear little wife didn't know why I was ready to bit shit out of Mister Deputy Investigator today.

"Na-ah. Our birthday boy should have some rest. He had a rough day... That swine – almost got him crippled. Besides, Mister Lee is not dangerous. Doctor Watson can take his gun. Will you remember to take your gun, Watson?"

"As long as I have my shorts, Holmes, I have a back pocket, and as long as I have my back pocket I have something in it."

"It was said not by Watson, but by Greg Lestrade, a Scotland Yard detective. And he had trousers, not shorts."

"Only an idiot would keep the gun in the back pocket. Personally I stick the gun under my belt and cover the grip with my T-shirt. Difficult to see, easy to pull out."

"Look who is teaching me how to hide a gun! OK, Watson, the quotation is accepted. Let's go into the house. I will give my tired deputy a refreshing massage."

"It looks like not Tan but I is the birthday boy today. First the rabbit stew, and now – the refreshing massage. Plus the working version in the bargain."

"But not for free, Mister Wile E. Coyote, not for free. After the massage, you must chase the Road Runner, do you?"

I don't know about the cartoon characters, but this particular Wile E. Coyote is ready to chase this particular Road Runner any time, no massage required. Despite my Road Runner has no legs, our chases are exhausting. The little shack will be shaking, and the neighbors – watch it with envy...

***

By one o'clock I feel like an icicle. In Houston, the summer nights can be quite chilly, and not even counting all the moisture from the irrigation ditches. But worst of all are the goddamn mosquitoes. They sleep all day, and come out at night. The next time I will follow the example of Greg Lestrade and wear my gun with my trousers.

"How long, do you reckon?" I whisper to Kate.

"God knows," She whispers back, "I am afraid I've screwed-up with my version."

We took our observation point at half past ten. My Police bike was chained in the China-Four (Kate was riding on the back, as usual). And from the Patch-Four we proceeded on-foot on the dirt paths between the endless veggie beds, fish ponds, and rice paddies. More precisely, I was on-foot. Kate was on her skate. In order not to make noise, she left her wooden blocks at home and wrapped her hands in old rags.

"What if he went through the other side?" I ask.

"I don't think he's bold enough to drag the dead body through the Patch common grounds."

"Well. Let's do this. I sneak down the path and check. What if Lee is already at home?"

"And what do you do if he's at home?"

"I'll come back and we decide what to do next."

"Sounds like a plan! Do you remember the shack?"

"I remember. After the communal latrines, there will be a storage shed. From the shed – the seventh shack on the left."

"Excellent."

It's a near-full moon, so the risk of stepping into some shit or destroying the veggie beds is null. Unfortunately, the narrow winding gap between the shacks, – something they call a footpath in these parts of the Slum – is pitch black. Good that Kate counted the shacks yesterday. I return from my scout mission almost running.

"Kate! Lee's house has a light inside. He is at home."

"This means, Watson, your Sherlock Holmes is no damn good. Let's go see Mister Lee. Get your back ready, detective."

We have done it many times. I squat down and pick the skate. Kate wraps her arm around my shoulders. Three minutes later, I offload her at the Chen's shack stair.

"Scratch the door. Just be quiet, or we wake up the whole Patch," Kate whispers into my ear.

I approach the opposite door, "Mister Lee? Open up, Police."

"It's not locked, come in," the voice from behind the door is without a hint of surprise or fear. It turns out that our prey has been expecting us. Impatient, Kate crawls across the dirt path.

A dim LED bulb barely illuminates a foot-tall tilted desk. Mister Lee sits on the tatami floor with brush in his fingers. An intricate hieroglyph is half-finished. This part our Sherlock Holmes has guessed correctly: he is an experienced calligrapher, no questions. Unfortunately, Kate's other guesses are not as good. For starters, there is no dead body in the shack.

"Welcome, Deputy Kim. Good evening, Missis Bowen," Lee smiles to us, "You come to get my confession, do you?"

"How do you know my name?" Kate asks.

"Oh, everybody knows you! You're a local star. Even at the 'Fill the scavengers ask once in a while: is it true in the GRS you have a legless Police girl on a skateboard?"

"And why do you think we come for your confession?"

"Strange question. Why would the Police knock on your door at half past one in the night?" As if nothing has happened, he finishes his hieroglyph with two precise brush strokes.

"I know you didn't kill anybody, Mister Lee," Kate says, "If you are guilty, the only thing you can be charged with – is the obstruction of justice."

"No need to make it complicated, Missis Bowen. I confess. I killed my neighbor, Mister Chen Te-Sheng. Do you want it in writing? I will sign it at once. After the sunrise, I will show you how I hid the body."

"You hid the body in the irrigation ditch. Under a snag, yesterday – at midnight," Kate pronounces suddenly.

"I suspected someone had seen it!" With a sigh, the host starts drying his brush, "Why did you need this body search comedy this morning? Admit, Deputy, our widow Lim didn't sleep once again, spying on the neighbors, did she?"

"Mister Lee, I know Chen Te-Sheng is alive," Kate says.

"I don't want to disappoint you, Missis Bowen, but you're wrong. I stabbed Chen Te-Sheng with a screw-driver and I dumped the body. Victor must be released at once. The boy doesn't know anything."

"You still don't believe me, Mister Lee?"

"Why are you frowning?"

"It's irrelevant."

"Oh, how I did not see it earlier? You have phantom pain, do you?"

"Yes, I have it sometimes. How did you guess?"

"Your left hand is in the air. As if you are touching the missing knee. Looking at your uniform, you are a recent vet. Traumatic amputations frequently result in phantom pain."

"Are you – a doctor?"

"I was. A psychiatrist. But I haven't practiced, at least in any official capacity, for years and years. In America, it's not easy to convert the psychiatrist's foreign diploma. I didn't do it before the Meltdown, and now – nobody cares. Have you discussed a pain management plan with your doctors?"

"There was a short session. Just before they dumped me in the port. I was told to meditate and smoke marijuana."

"Not a bad plan. Have your smoke immediately. And I'll make you my special tea."

Kate pulls her box and start rolling her To-Ma-Gochi, while Mister Lee pulls out a lacquer tray with a tea set and a thermos. "Stop guarding the doorway, Deputy," he turns to me. "Please kindly take a seat. You don't mind sitting on tatami, do you? I have no chairs, don't like them."

"Thank you," I leave sandals at the top of the stairs and close the door.

Soon later, we sit with cups in our hands, and the room is full with strange smell: the medicinal herb tea blend plus another medicinal herb from the Kate's smoke. Surreal. The Police came to a suspect for a roll of Grass and a cup of tea.

"Nice tea, Mister Lee," Kate closes her eyes and exhales smoke through the nose.

"Chinese medicine. I will write you a prescription. How is your pain? Better?"

"There's none. Let's talk about Mister Chen. Why do you stick your head in the noose for a murder you don't commit?"

"What makes you so sure I am innocent?"

"OK, fine. Let's have it this way. I tell the entire story as I see it, and if something is wrong – you may correct me."

"Ah! Playing Sherlock Holmes?"

I give Kate a nod. How has Lee guessed about Sherlock?

"If you wish, we can call it playing Sherlock Holmes," Kate agrees, "So the story goes like this. Yesterday, in the late afternoon, Mister Chen Te-Sheng ran into your shack. Where was he wounded, exactly?"

"In his left forearm. But the wound was superficial. As soon as I bandaged it, the blood stopped. I had to sacrifice a pillowcase."

"I thought so. The wound kept you busy. After you had bandaged the wound, you looked out of the shack, just in-time to see Victor Chen running away with the screwdriver in his hand. Chen-senior begged you to hide the dead body so to save his son from a murder charge. First you didn't agree, but then you saw the body and changed your mind. The killed was dressed exactly as Chen Te-Sheng, and was of the same build and height. From fifty yards away – a perfect double."

"Correction. Chen Te-Sheng and I have been close friends for nearly two years. I believed him unconditionally and decided to help him no matter what. But about the double you're right. When I saw how the dead man looked like, I believed my neighbor even more."

"You and Chen moved the body into this shack. You began to write a Chinese scroll to warn Victor not to talk to the Police. Then the first policeman came. Deputy Tan, on his bike. You thought: too late! But Tan looked around, found no dead body, and left. You hung the completed scroll in the Chen's shack. Why did you wash the drops of blood at the floor?"

"It was Chen's blood, but the screwdriver was covered with the blood of the other man."

"Brilliant! You even thought about the blood types!"

"You have amazing abilities, Missis Bowen. I take it back. You are not playing Sherlock Holmes. You are the Sherlock Holmes, just a different incarnation. How did you know where I hid the body?"

"Because you volunteered for the search party. To be honest, I thought the body was still in your shack, and you were looking for the place to hide the body tonight. But when I saw that the body was gone, I immediately knew you hid it yesterday. This automatically changes your motive for joining the search. You wanted to be in the group to place yourself at the right spot, above the dead body: it was in the irrigation ditch, under the snag. Next, you waited until Deputy Investigator Woxman was near-by, and screamed that the body was found. You calculated his reaction quite well. I didn't know you were a psychiatrist, but since you told me... everything matches perfectly! A psychiatrist is a psychologist too! Woxman was sinking in the mud, you were showing him the snag, and the kids were laughing. No wonder, the investigator didn't want to check the ditch a little deeper."

"Most of all I was afraid of Deputy Kim," Lee smiled, "After I saw the local deputy in shorts and barefoot, I realized the ditch was not a very good place to hide a body. Fortunately, you and Deputy Woxman had some quarrel even before we started on the ditches. I was so lucky: the deputies didn't want to break the fragile peace! Woxman did not ask Kim to double-check my ditch, and Kim was reluctant to show initiative. You got it spot-on, Missis Bowen. Just one thing I can't understand. How did you know I dumped the body exactly at midnight?"

Indeed, how did our Sherlock-Holmes-on-wheels guess about the midnight? It seems I have to do the dishes all week long.

"It was a bluff," Kate chuckles, "An unjustified spark of intuition."

"This once again convinces me I am facing the great detective," Mr. Lee made a short bow, "And because you know everything about this affair..."

"Not everything," Kate interrupts Lee, "Could you tell us what kind of super-duper nuclear-space-strategic bomb your neighbor was inventing? If he told you about it, of course."

"He told me all-right," Lee sighs, "But it wasn't a bomb."

"And what was it?" I ask.

"Does name Martin Fleischmann tell you anything at all?"

"N-no," Kate says, "Who is it?"

"And Vincenzo Rossi?"

"Also no idea," I say.

"In 1989, British chemist Martin Fleischmann discovered that by passing an electric current through a solution one can create a thermonuclear reaction. He claimed a new phenomenon: a Low-Temperature Nuclear Fusion. Or Cold Fusion, as some people preferred to call it."

"And can you really make these reactions? The Cold Fusion?" Kate asks.

"It turned out Fleischmann's design did not work. As we psychiatrists call it, Martin Fleischmann was clearly our patient, but unfortunately only in a hind-sight. Before he went after his Cold Fusion idée fixe, Fleischmann was an expert in the field of classical electrochemistry and held a professorship. A classic case of an overvalued idea disorder was superimposed on an individual with top-notch education and strong scientific authority. By that time, Fleischmann was over sixty, his health deteriorating with Parkinson's and Diabetes. The old man was so desperate to give his discovery to the humankind! He made no secrets and published it all in his scientific papers. Other labs tried to repeat the experiments, with no success."

"And the Cold Fusion idea was killed?"

"If so! Fleischmann worked on his Cold Fusion until his death in 2012. He had generous research grants. The US Navy gave money, and the Italian INFN. Fleischmann even got himself an apprentice genius: Vincenzo Rossi, an Italian engineer. Based on the Fleischmann research, Rossi made a machine called D-CAT. I believe the press release was dated 2011."

"That's why I didn't hear these names," Kate says, "In 2011, I was just one-year-old! I didn't care about the machines. Even a Barbie doll was way over my level."

"What did this machine do?" I ask.

"The machine was top secret. Rossi said it converted nickel into copper. At the same time, on one kilogram of nickel the machine could produce ten kilowatts of electricity for ten thousand hours."

"Ten kilowatts of electricity? But this is..." I see how Kate moves her lips calculating something in the head, "Shit! Your solar-charged light bulb here – about two watts. Ten kilowatts – it's five thousand such light bulbs! Each house in our Slum can have a light!"

"Ten kilowatts is not as much as you may think, dear Missis Bowen. In the modern slums we don't have enough electricity. But before the Meltdown the electricity was way more accessible. For instance, to boil a kettle, you need one and a half or two kilowatts. Do you remember electric kettles?"

"The electric kettles? Yes, I remember them quite well! I was... six years old. Or maybe seven, not sure. We still used an electric kettle. But then they cut our electricity for no-payments, and since we boiled water whatever way we could."

"But if Rossi invented this wonderful machine, why there was the Meltdown first place?" I ask.

"In 2015, Vincenzo Rossi disappeared."

"Disappeared?"

"Yeah. The rumors were he was assassinated. The oil companies didn't want people to have cheap energy."

"And Rossi's invention? The machine?" Kate asks.

"Everything disappeared. Someone stole all the papers and all the computers, smashed the laboratory instruments, and sat the place on fire."

"What a shame," I say, "If Rossi was alive, the Slum kids wouldn't collect cow dung now. But what did this Rossi have in common with our Chen Te-Sheng?"

"Pretty much everything. Twenty years ago, Chen was the Chief Scientist at Rossi's research lab."

"So you're saying someone is trying to kill Mister Chen?" I exclaim, "No, wait, that's stupid. Who would want to kill him? The oil companies are all bankrupt, and the oil is controlled by the Senate commission. Besides, Kate guessed right about the double. They didn't want to kill Chen! They're after Rossi's invention! Right?"

"Right. They are after the D-CAT."

"But of course! If somebody has such a machine..." I ruffle my hair, "Damn! Damn! With such a machine... Wow! The Meltdown will be over! Ten kilowatts! Surely, one can make more than one machine! One machine for each Patch. No, I'm talking nonsense again! No freaking Patches! We don't need slums anymore! Everybody can have a big house. And in every house there will be this energy machine..."

"In the house you can have water taps," Kate smiles, "Just open the tap – and get as much water as you want: a bucket, or a barrel. No, not barrel! You can fill a bathtub! Can you imagine, Wile E. Coyote: a bathtub full of hot water?"

"You know, Road Runner, we can quit the Police! We will buy a car! No, not just a car. We buy a camper! A Winnebago with a king-size bed! There are still some in the slums. Of course, they don't run now, but we can fix it. Put a couple of electric motors in, and make it run on electricity. We can go anyplace we want. California! We are the Navy sailors! We both have served in the Atlantic, now must look at the Pacific too."

Mr. Lee looks at us with a sad smile. He turns to his desk and picks the finished scroll. From a silk-clad box, he pulls a huge inkan []. After rubbing the surface over porcelain ink pad, he exhales and presses the stamp in the lower right corner of the scroll. The print is dark-red and sharp, like dried blood droplets.

"Done," He says, "Do you want me to translate?"

"Yes?"

"As any Chinese saying, this can have multiple English translations. I like this: 'Apparent is not always real.'"

"Which means?"

"Which means there is no secret. Rossi's machine – it's nothing more than a clever investment scheme."

"A what?" In my mind, my huge double-bed Winnebago sill whines with its powerful electric motors, rushing towards the Pacific coast.

"An investment scheme. Martin Fleischmann was our patient. Psychiatric. But Vincenzo Rossi was totally sane. More normal than yours truly, for sure. His laboratory, patents, production plant, and everything else – it was a clever way of squeezing money out of brave but uneducated investors."

"Are you absolutely certain?"

"Absolutely. I know this first-hand from my friend, Chen Te-Sheng. He told me so, and I remember it word-to-word: 'Just once, I've betrayed science for money, and I've paid with my life, many times over'."

"Betrayed science?"

"Yes. Who could blame him? It was 2008, in the midst of the Global Financial Crisis. Chen was a recent immigrant, with his Ph.D. in high-energy physics, his wife out of work, and his three-years-old son. Because of the crisis, all the research grants had been discontinued. The Universities had no interest for yet another Taiwanese physicist. Vincenzo Rossi came at the right time! All Chen had to do was to carry the power output measurements and turn a blind eye on some, let's call them, – scientific shortcuts! Chen decided to do work for Rossi, just to make some easy money and get the family through the GFC. He understood the risks, of course: the scientist's reputation is such a fragile thing. But he decided to take his chances."

"And what happened next?" Kate asks.

"Chen wanted to work for just one year, but ended up with seven full years. His salary was too good! Four times an Assistant Professor can make teaching students in a Uni. Then, towards the end of 2015, Rossi had disappeared with all the investors' funds. A very smart move: he did it just before the Meltdown, and his trail went cold rather quickly. The former Chief Scientist ended up in plain view, and the hunt for Chen had begun."

"Who was hunting? Intelligence agencies? Spooks?"

"Some intelligence agencies participated too. But how to say it... indirectly. You see, after the Meltdown, a lot of former spies went freelancing for the private companies. There were many takers: Israelis, Italians, the Mainland Chinese, Russians, British. Even our dear CIA participated, but not on behalf of the American Government, they already worked for some Middle-East money bags. Chen's laboratory technician was kidnapped in 2017. No doubt the boy was tortured, but could not tell anything useful. The technician was a diligent idiot with no IQ to speak of. Chen and Rossi hired such on purpose, so the boy knew nothing about physics or chemistry. The following year, Chen's wife died in a car crash. A very strange death, as you may imagine! In 2018, the highways were mostly empty, only the rich had money for gasoline."

"Chen could just come clear and tell everyone the machine had never worked." Kate says.

"As if he didn't try!" Lee sigh, "Nobody believed him! Well, that's not true: he managed to convince the Israelis and the Russians. But the rest just assumed Chen was hiding the real discovery – to cash it up at some later date."

"But why?"

"Remember what I told you? D-CAT is not a scientific discovery. It's not a scientific phenomenon at all. It's an investment opportunity. A money-making scheme."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you know what the shale oil is?"

"Of course," I nod, "These wells are all over Texas. People build slums at the well pads. They collect the remaining gas and use it for cooking and such."

"Do you know, back in 2010 the shale gas and shale oil were called the best investment opportunity of the XXI Century?"

"I've heard something like this. But it's garbage. Why would I pay my money to live in a gas-slum? They have rotten water and die of cancer or kidney failure. Frankly, our Slum is way better. As the matter of fact, even the Landfill obamavilles are way better."

"Huh! You are the new generation. The through-Meltdown! You are smart. But back in 2010 the USA was not as logical. An oil company would tell people: give us one thousand dollars, and we give you some paper in exchange. Five years later, you can sell this paper for two thousand dollars. No interest, no dividends, nothing. Just pure value appreciation. To make the entire enterprise running, the oil company would get twenty barrels of diesel fuel and a drilling rig, go out and drill a well. Then, they would take another eighty barrels of diesel, and many tones of water and sand – and frac! And the well would produce. From each well you would recover, on average, one hundred and fifty barrels of gas condensate, which you could convert back to one hundred barrels of diesel fuel. And you could start the process all over again. The natural gas comes as a by-product and is sold for the marginal profit."

"It's like a water-lifting wheel! You step, and step, and step, but stay in one place."

"Exactly! And as the water wheel is for lifting water, the shale oil scheme is for lifting money. Out of the investor's wallets into the oil company executive's pocket. Well, the executive spreads some of his income, to, let say, his Chief Geologist. A guy with а Ph.D., who looks very cool, nods, and tells the public how much shale oil is still around."

"So, for Rossi with his D-CAT," Kate says, "Mister Chen was such a cool-looking Ph.D.?"

"Absolutely. Martin Fleischmann was a cool-looking Ph.D. too. But as Fleischmann was getting older, Rossi wanted a replacement. By the way, Rossi is not alone. There were literally thousands of these investment schemes. Vacuum energy. Biodiesel. Ethanol. Wind turbines." He points to the dim LED bulb at his desk, "This one is the perfect example. The photovoltaic bubble."

"What's wrong with the solar panels? I know they work!"

"They do. You spend up-front, let say, one kilowatt-hour of energy, in form of coal, oil and gas, to dig the copper ore, make the silicon and so on. Finally, all this energy is spent, and you get yourself a little photovoltaic system: one solar panel, one deep-cycle battery, an LED bulb or two, and the wires. This system will last you for about twenty years. If your place is as sunny as Houston, this system will produce two kilowatt-hours of energy though its life-span."

"So I use one kilowatt-hour up-front, and the system gives me back two kilowatt-hours, but slowly?"

"Bravo, Missis Bowen! Being compared to the D-CAT, which doesn't work at all, or the shale oil, which works only marginally, the solar power system is a pretty good deal! But not good enough! Spending one kilowatt-hour of oil and gas for two kilowatt-hours of electricity only makes sense if you have a lot of oil and gas in the ground. Do you know America hardly makes the civilian-use solar panels anymore? Whatever is presently installed will die in about ten years – and there will be no replacement. The solar power will be only in the Army."

"Listen to you, in ten or twenty years we will have nothing but cow dung," I feel upset my camper trip to California has ended so quickly.

"You can burn wood and straw. The coal will be with us too, at least for some while. But, in short, yes."

"When you say it, it looks so simple!" Kate says, "How come nobody understands it?"

"For most people it's so much easier to live a dream. You two, for example. Two tough through-Meltdown kids! You have seen horrors I personally prefer not even think of," with his fingers he taps the tatami in front of Kate, indicating her missing legs. "Fifteen minutes ago, you learned about this wonderful energy-from-nothing D-CAT thingy, and you started making plans for the shiny future. In less than thirty seconds, you had our dirty slums converted into civilized suburbs, fixed the plumbing to fill your hot bath, and even built yourself an electric Winnebago."

Kate runs her fingers on the tatami mat as if touching her missing leg. Lee shakes his head, "Did I trigger the pain? Sorry. I didn't mean..."

"No, no. I am a tough girl. You can't trigger my pain, even if you whack me with a softball bat. But the Winnebago was such a nice dream."

"So you must understand. Imagine somebody not as tough and smart, who has lived in the civilized world for forty goddamn years and have dreamed of abundant energy for the last fourteen? How do you convince him the energy doesn't come out of nothing?"

"So you believe somebody is still hunting for this non-existent Rossi's secret?"

"Chen thought this time it was the Mainland Chinese. But could be the ex-CIA too. Since 2018, he and Victor were moving every year or even more often. Chen is not his original surname, by the way. He has changed it two times."

"Chen lived in the GRS for almost two years."

"Yes. He had hopes all the chasers finally gave up. But still, he had no illusions and carried his gut-driver with him at all time. It just turned out he must run again..."

Kate nods. "I think you're a tough through-Meltdown too, Mister Lee. You were willing to give your life to save Victor."

Lee smiles and bows, "Thanks. I am not a hero, not as much as you think. But the Meltdown taught me two main rules. The first is..."

"The First Rule? Like, the Slum Rules? Everybody must give once a day?"

"You can put it that way too. The proper first Meltdown rule translation is like this: if the strong care only for themselves, nobody will survive. In wider sense, we're to protect our neighbors. At all cost."

"Don't you find it's a bit excessive? Going to gallows to protect your neighbor?"

"Not to the gallows. Only to your Station slammer – for few days. Here comes the second Meltdown rule: always have a Plan-B! Chen Te-Sheng and I, we decided our Plan-B, no problems."

Kate shows her thumbs-up. "Can I guess?"

"Sure. Can't deny our Sherlock Holmes a pleasure of guessing."

"In case the Police discovers the body, you're ready give a written statement: you have killed your neighbor, Chen Te-Sheng. After Victor is released, you will stall the Police long enough, so Victor can pack up and leave. Meanwhile, Chen Te-Sheng would visit a Police Department in some other city and identify himself."

"Absolutely right. We agreed in four days he will report his wallet stolen, and show his driver license, which, by pure chance, has not been in his wallet, that's all. The incident will be recorded. Later in the court, I would just withdraw my statement. My neighbor killed a stranger. He threatened me, so I hid both the murderer and the body in my shack till the midnight. The body in the ditch is positively not Chen Te-Sheng, so my written statement is garbage anyhow. That is because I am still afraid the villain, Chen Te-Sheng, – may return."

"All they can pin on you is the obstruction of justice, and hardly even that. Undeniably, you have assisted the murderer, but you have not been a part in the premeditated murder. Or even an accessory to murder – nobody can prove the prior knowledge. Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!"

"Exactly. And hence our Sherlock Holmes got it right... Back to our business! I have two ways of writing things up. The first is my doctors' shorthand, but for the statement it will not do. The second way, as you may imagine, is perfect in every detail, but quite slow. Are you OK to wait, or prefer to write the statement for me? If you take care of my justice-obstructing statement, I can use the time and scribble for you my special tea recipe..."

***

We are returning home at half past four. Kate sits behind me, on the bike's cargo platform, holding her skate and a brand-new Chinese wisdom scroll. 'Apparent is not always real.'

The scroll contains the final piece of evidence – the one we will never use. If you crack open the lower bamboo stick of the scroll, few inches of paper within have ten fingerprints – from the body presently decomposing in thick mud at the bottom of the irrigation ditch. Mister Lee has told us so, but neither Kate nor I want to check his words. The fingerprints may or may not reveal the spy's identity. But breaking such a handsome piece of art for the useless identity check? No, not us. The spy died of his own stupidity. He believed in free energy. Better he believed in free cheese in a mousetrap.

"Are you positive Victor Chen is going to be released?" Kate asks.

"I have no doubts. Woxman has a dead case. Victor is smart and knows to keep his mouth shut. There is no dead body and no fingerprints on the gut-driver... In four days, an e-mail comes, saying that Mister Chen Te-Sheng is alive and well, but has his wallet picked, let say, in Dallas. The DA will surely decide not to play clown in front of the jury. After the mail, Victor will be out of the slammer in minutes."

"We are committing an obstruction of justice right now. It's a criminal offense, you know?"

"You are talking garbage. Nobody needs to know Lee has told us everything. If worse comes to worst, I will state under oath you had a nasty attack of your phantom pain, and we went to see a traditional Chinese doctor."

"You will be lying. Under oath."

"But you had a pain attack."

"Not a single bit."

"What? So you lied to Mister Lee?"

"I didn't. He asked if I had the pain and I told him 'Yes, sometimes.' 'Sometimes' doesn't mean 'now'."

"So you knew he was a doctor?"

"Not necessary a doctor, but positively a medicine man."

"How?"

"I buy my Wonder-blend at the Chinese medicine shop. The very moment you opened the shack door, I recognized the smell."

"Awesome! You know, Lee played the same trick on Woxman. He told him: 'I have it! Looks like a body!' The man did not lie a single word of it! He had it, and it was the body! Our Woxman was standing one foot away, looking at the rotten snag. He assumed that he knew better and didn't lean over to check it himself. The brand-new Deputy Investigator deserves his dead case."

"Forget it," Kate playfully slaps me on the back. I know it's her quarter-strength slap. "Deputy Wile E. Coyote! For us, the case is closed! By the way, are you aware we, once again, have no water in our jerrycan?"

"Believe me, I've noticed. No worries, Road Runner. At sunrise, your trusty Wile E. Coyote will be at the water well. We can survive without your dream plumbing."

"What about your dream king-size camper? You said: Winnebago? Trip to California?"

"Do not worry, Road Runner. The tough through-Meltdown Navy hands will see the Pacific Ocean. Eventually. Do you mind riding there on the back of my bike?"

###

Dear Reader! Thank you for reading my book.

Would you be so kind to leave a review at your favorite retailer site, or at least rate this story? I am very interested to know your opinion: positive, negative, or neutral, does not matter.

_Houston, 2030: With Proper Legwork_ is a story-size spin-off of my novel _Houston, 2030: The Year Zero_. If you like this book, you may want to check the novel too. Currently I am working on the second novel in the sequence: a prequel called _Houston, 2015: Miss Uncertainty_.

Back in 2009, the beta-readers of _The Year Zero_ asked me: are you sure this _Meltdown_ thingy of yours is going to happen? This year, two beta-readers asked independently: how do you know it will be called the _Meltdown_? I must admit, I have no idea how 'this thingy' is going to be called. It could be called _GFC-2_. Or _the Great Depression-2_. Or _Peak Everything_. Or ' _Holy crap! This thingy is here!'_ Further on, I have no idea if the ' _Holy crap! This thingy is here!_ ' event is going to happen exactly in 2016. In Eastern and Southern Europe, the energy crisis is presently on-going ( _The Year Zero_ has placed these events in 2014!) If we are very lucky, the collapse in the United States will be delayed till the mid-twenties. Or it may come in 2017. How about tomorrow?

I am not in the business of making prophecies, because I am not qualified. Can I predict that Ebola virus not only finds its way to Europe and America, but also learns how to defeat the WHO protective suit protocols? Hey, who cares about Ebola? I fail to foresee that our Commander-in-Chief is going to introduce those new coffee-cup military salutes! I don't believe in divination. I believe in geology and physics. You may dream all you want about fitting the present opulent lifestyle on the finite planet. The Mother-Earth knows better. It will take care of your ambitions. The Peak Oil is just a starter.

But wait! The Peak Oil is a myth! The latest _BP World Energy Report_ says... Dear reader, may I remind you that the _Enron's Year-2000 Report_ told the investors the company with twenty thousand employees, 68-year history and the annual revenue of almost $111 bln (in the full-weight year-2000 dollars) had an exceptionally bright future? And what about the respective end-of-year reports from the late _Lehman Brothers_ , _Merrill Lynch_ , _Fannie Mae_ , _Freddie Mac_ , and other such wacho-nachos and frodo-motors? And the _BP_. It's not _British Petroleum_ (no more!); it's _Beyond Petroleum_ , which is quite telling _._ These are the very same finest professionals who gave the United States its _Deepwater Horizon_ , an environmental marvel rivaled only by the beauty of Chernobyl, Bhopal, and Fukushima-Daiichi.

Perhaps, you are telling yourself the author is paranoid. Perhaps, I am. In such case, dear reader, pick a nice fantasy novel, with elves and goblins (yes, I like those too!) Your sword will be sharp and quick, your arrows will fly true and strong! And the _Meltdown_ – Oh, holy crap! – will come totally unexpected.

May the future be kind to you and to all you love.

Mike McKay, author.

2014
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Footnotes

1] "Order though Law, Justice with Mercy." The Houston Police Department motto. [[Back to text]

2] A personal stamp, used in China, Korea, and Japan instead of or together with the person's signature. [[Back to text]

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Contents

Katherine Bowen, Records Clerk, Former Mermaid.

Kim Den Gir, Deputy, Harris County Sheriff's Office.

