© 2009 G.N. Jacobs

            “If you’re going to claim illegal interview tactics, you’ll have to tell me what happened,” my attorney says. “The cops typically tape these things so they’re getting smarter in the box.”

            My hands shake rattling the handcuffs looped around a bar on the table. Pigs must think I’m going to strangle their kids. At the moment, they’re right.

            I look my lawyer over. He’s the sort Central Casting sends when the script calls for an expensive California lawyer. At six feet, one eighty five, surfer blond hair and perfect teeth, John Willis just reeks of the sort of TV lawyer who’d throw down with officemates over the corner office.

            He shows more humanity than you’d expect from a five hundred dollar an hour shyster reaching across the table to take my hand. The hand feels a tiny bit cold, but not ice cold like you see with some thyroid patients. Man, the guy smells of bronzing makeup and sunscreen.

            “You won’t believe me,” I say.

            “Mr. Vinson, even at the pay cut I’m taking through the Court’s pro bono program, I’m still making more per hour than you did on your first stickup,” John says. “When it’s the County’s money, I encourage my clients to tell me long and unbelievable stories at this stage. It put my kids through college. Such stories are also more entertaining than the usual blubbering ‘I didn’t mean to do it’ crap that I mostly get from men in your position.”

            “You don’t look old enough to have more than one kid in the ninth grade, let alone college,” I say.

            The man squeezes my hand tight. I would rather a pretty girl do this part of the scene, but beggars can’t be choosers. However, it is reassuring.

            “Thank you, Joe,” John says. “But, we live in Los Angeles, the land of on-demand plastic surgery.”

            “They threatened me with a vampire,” I hear myself saying. “Fucking pigs brought a vampire into this very room.”

            Mr. Willis raises an eyebrow like Spock and gets busy making his pen work.

            Ten hours ago, I heard the ratchet of handcuffs again as the dicks tied me down to the table. And then they got down to the questions.

            “We have you cold, Vinson,” Detective Harry Saunders said. “This is just a courtesy scratch to let you have the soapbox. The last statement of Joe Vinson before the civilized world buries him, either in the ground or a concrete cage.”

            Saunders and his partner, Detective Molly Fleming, dressed in their drabbest suits. She would look great in a bikini and a smile, but so would Sarah Palin. I fought to keep my chubby out of my pants. Little Joe only gets me out of trouble when the solution is a smile on a girl’s face.

            “You have shit,” I said. “I have an alibi.”

            Fleming raised an eyebrow at that one. I had a librarian/dominatrix fantasy and got the chubby back. It’s those glasses.

            “So you weren’t the dumb asshole who robbed the liquor store last night?” Fleming asked. “You can ask for a lawyer at any time.”

            “I didn’t rob the store,” I said. “I don’t need a lawyer.”

            Saunders touched a button on a TV remote. Two things happened, the TV lit up and played the cued up security tapes. I watched a man wearing the same clothes in which I was arrested stick a gun in an unresisting Korean mama’s face. The cops were going all out for this frame, I thought.

            The second thing: a hot slutty co-ed in her prom dress approached me. Yeah, I know the drill; she ponies up the honey pot I buy the booze for the party. She swayed silently doing a strip for the ages. My chubby became a diamond cutter.

            The girl was so hot I couldn’t believe the cops weren’t seeing the show. Hell, even the bitch Fleming would’ve liked the mystery redhead. But, they remained impassive as if sluts who could fake the virgin dance came a dime a dozen.

            Unfortunately, the guy on TV that looked a whole lot like me, but wasn’t, I promise, robbed the liquor store. The mama-san only fought back when it was clear the guy wanted more than the register. She used her broom and ate five bullets in the chest. Damn, the mama-san would’ve been fun in the sack.

            More immediately, the co-ed was down to her man-catchers: black lace, silk and a garter belt. She writhed between my legs. I started sweating. Still, nothing from the cops. Are you even human? I asked myself.

            “It wasn’t me,” I said my voice cracking. “The guy on your tube is wearing a mask. It isn’t me.”

            Saunders nodded sagely. His eyes seemed a gunmetal gray, a shade you almost never see on people outside of stories. Fleming had the same eyes behind her glasses. I wish I’d had Lex Luthor’s brain; I would’ve made something of it sooner.

            The redhead proved quite limber. I was chained to the table and somehow she’d crawled under and around all kinds of legs, table, chairs and human, to wind up between my legs opening up my County issue fly and…

            She blew a warm jet of air onto me. I shivered. Then to keep the tease going she pulled away and lithely slithered around behind me hugging me like a small child hugs a teddy bear. In a normal universe, Saunders would drop his pants and help me show the redhead who’s Boss: one at each end. Then we would do Fleming, too.

            Shit! Did the man have his libido removed when he joined the cops? I thought.

            The girl got me just to the point of…and did a cartwheel off the table and continued dancing in the corner. Saunders offered me the third cup of coffee sitting before him. I’d seen enough TV to know not to take coffee in the box.

            “Joe, you need the coffee,” Saunders said amiably. “We already have your DNA profile from when you spit on your arresting officer’s badge. Officer James Reed wanted us to express his displeasure. Watch out for that rookie, IAD sure does.”

            I laughed. “So some snotnosed cop named after Adam-12 is gonna pay some Mexican to shank me in the shower at County? Shit! I bet his training partner, Pete Malloy, would really frown on that.”

            Saunders smiled slightly and pushed a report across the table. I read the header upside down. The oinkers were going to pin a gunshot residue test on me.

            “My parole officer says I can borrow a shoulder weapon for purposes of hunting in rural areas,” I said. “I have a cousin with a cabin up in Frazier Park and we bagged four or five rabbits.”

            The cops didn’t believe me. Saunders opened the report to a page with highlighted text.

            “Joe, our lab rat will testify that the gun powder found on your hands is commonly used in handguns,” Saunders explained. “Shotgun powder is coarser.”

            “Yeah, Saunders, but ‘commonly’ is not the same as ‘only found in,’” I said smirking. “My lawyer would eat that shit up!”

            “Are you asking for a lawyer, Joe?” Fleming asked.

            “No, because you pinched the wrong ex-con,” I said.

            I drank my coffee. Those cops did already have my profile; I did spit on the piglet. I needed to chill out and think. The coffee had an aftertaste; the pigs needed coffee lessons.

            Meanwhile, the coppertop stayed in the corner just long enough to turn her back, strip down and pour chocolate on her nubile body. Saunders and Fleming still didn’t care that she was in the room. I could smell the fudge as the bitch strutted her stuff. And not even a nostril flare from the cops.

            “I could go for chocolate,” I said.

            With that the redhead disappeared. Was she even there? Had she been real?

            Fleming pulled my cell phone out of an evidence bag. “So we should see pictures of your cousin and you holding a brace of rabbits?”

            Sure enough, Fleming thumbed through the picture files on the phone. I hated the commentary.

            “Oh, this is a nice one of your mom. She was very worried about you when you spoke.”

            I grunted.

            “And do you really want to be taking nudie pix of Consuela, girlfriend number one?”

            I imagined Fleming as a prisoner in one of those bad movies about female work farms that are really whorehouses. I’d just gotten to the part where I, the burly guard, break her in roughly.

            “And this one is Angie, girlfriend number two. You know, both girls are in the same pose. If you keep lying to us, we might just tell Consuela and Angie about each other.”

            “Click the next picture,” I said.

            Fleming complied. Her raised eyebrows were priceless. She showed Saunders the photo. He showed more life and appreciation of sex than during any of the redhead’s antics.

            “So they know about each other,” Fleming continued.

            She finished with my pictures. Not a single one showed rabbits or anything about my cousin’s cabin.

            “I deleted the pictures because they came out fuzzy,” I said.

            Fleming pushed another report across the table. This header read CALLING HISTORY. These pigs were crossing Ts and dotting Is, I’ll give ‘em that.

            “We might believe that if our techs didn’t discover two things about your phone,” Saunders said. “You haven’t deleted anything for six weeks and there are no calls to or from numbers associated with Frazier Park or any of the freeway stops on the way. And none of your calls to numbers here in the city were routed through remote cell towers.”

            “That’s three things, Detective,” I said.

            “Yes, so it is,” Saunders said. “It also puts your cousin, a fine upstanding law student, in jeopardy if you prevail on him to back your alibi.”

            “It’s my story and I’m sticking to it,” I said bravely.

            Fleming smiled and pushed away from the table. “You mentioned something about chocolate. I’ll get some when I get more coffee.”

            At the mention of chocolate, the girl returned to the corner. Fleming left the room. I drank the last of my coffee.

            The redhead bent in ways I’d only seen ballerinas do. How did that girl come by such flexibility and still have such a nice full rack? She made high kicks that Jackie Chan would kill for.

            She washed the chocolate off her body and shrugged into another set of man-catchers: pink ones. She was the only girl who could make getting dressed part of the show. And she twirled under the rain probably from a garden hose that made rainbows in the strange light in which she danced.

            She strutted chest forward in the spray towards me. Someone kept splattering more chocolate on her trying to keep up with the spray. The redhead swayed her hips daring me to break my cuffs and climb over the table. Fleming returned with coffee and a Hershey bar.

            The sow walked on a path that avoided the redhead so I didn’t get to see if the girl was real. I had a brief double-team fantasy as both women walked towards me. The coffee had the same aftertaste as before. Realizing these cops could be trying to use me to fill a quota for Guantanamo or something, I mentally ran through the tricks I’d learned to stay sober and alert.

            My vision hadn’t blurred. I could still count in both directions. Yet, this girl did a catwalk strut in pink undies while enjoying alternating sprays of water and chocolate. The cops acted like she wasn’t there, just another day ruining a suspect’s day in the box.

            The red slut went in for slowly touching herself. I looked down and my fly was still open from before. You’d think Lady Pig would’ve said something; the only chicks that don’t react to joints like mine are lesbians. She was a block of ice, but I was sure she wasn’t a lesbian.

            Saunders smirked a bit as he pushed a photograph across the table. Someone had planted a .38 in my trunk and the cops had dutifully bagged and tagged it.

            “When we picked you up you had this gun in your trunk, a parole violation,” Saunders said. “Our lab hasn’t finished the prints or the ballistics, but they were able to tell us it had been fired five times. Sarah Tae-Park, a mother of four, was shot five times with a .38.”

            “I have enemies left over from my last trip to the can,” I said. “One of them wore the same clothes I did, drilled the mama-san and planted the piece on me.”

            “Who?” Fleming asked. “You’ve got nothing to lose. If we fit you to this evidence, you bounce onto a needle. You…”

            “The killer,” I corrected.

            “…didn’t fight with Ms. Tae-Park over the money, the only avenue of understanding your jury would give you,” Fleming continued. “So, if you give us somebody who fits the evidence better, the prosecutor can get that guy to take this bounce. Of course, if you did do it, saying so now also avoids the needle.”

            “Ramon Ortega,” I said trying to act scared of the guy. “We tangled over a meth deal and his wife on the inside.”

            “Caroline Ortega?” Saunders asked. “You tried to make her girlfriend number three, that’s your story to explain this?”

            “Yeah, and I’d have a nudie shot on my phone, but I was inside,” I said.

            The redhead kicked up her heels doing a can-can. It doesn’t work as well without the big floppy skirts you see at the Moulin Rouge. Fleming adjusted her glasses and opened an interdepartmental narcotics file.

            “Caroline Ortega,” Fleming read. “Twenty five, five-six, one twenty five, blonde, Caucasian, blue eyes, cherry birthmark on right buttock. Subject is married to and an unindicted coconspirator of Ramon Ortega. Her presumed MO is to make contact during sexual encounters, which she then reports back to her husband on visiting day. It is believed that the Ortegas have a non-standard marital relationship and…”

            Fleming closed the file. The redhead stepped closer replacing the water spray with more chocolate and whipped cream.

            “We called County and you tumbled Ortega’s wife on a conjugal where she lied and signed up as your girl,” Saunders said. “We don’t believe he was pissed at you over it. The man pimps her out, because her dirty talk gets him off.”

            “However, Narcotics, the FBI and the DEA all want the name of the insider at County, who enables Ortega to pimp out his wife to sell drugs,” Fleming offered. “Did you get tested recently?”

            “Do you know something I don’t?” I asked.

            “Not on that score,” Fleming replied. “She’s just a high-risk person.”

            “OK, so Caroline likes it anyway she can get it,” I said. “But, Ray also thinks I screwed his sister as well as the meth deal.”

            “His sister is a nurse in Washington, D.C. and repudiated Ortega some time ago,” Saunders said.

            Damn! The pigs were really doing their homework, I thought. Meanwhile, the young redhead crawled under the table again to do her thing. Little Joe liked the show. I used my elbow to see if she was real. It sure felt like a gentle nudge to the ribs and chocolate and whipped cream rubbed off on me. Still, nothing from the cops.

            The slut danced, blew on, air kissed and touched me. I couldn’t take anymore.

            “You know, this is the best interrogation ever,” I said. “You know, I like the stripper, but isn’t she a little young?”

            With that she was gone, along with the chocolate mess.

            “What stripper?” Saunders asked. “Sex as an interview aid is both illegal and counterproductive.”

            “If you’re seeing things, we can always shift this into a 5150 hearing,” Fleming suggested. “You’ll need a lawyer for that.”

            OK, the pigs thought I was nuts. “Nah, I was just having you on, imagining a seventeen-year-old redhead to make the time go by as you ask your stupid questions.”

            The girl came back. My heart raced. She touched her fingers to her lips swearing me to secrecy. She put her arms around me and someone somewhere turned on a hose. I got wet too as she nuzzled my ear. I smelled her perfume: jasmine, oranges and hydrangeas. She licked me and the cops still didn’t react.

            “Hi, I’m Amy,” the girl whispered. “We’ll play when you’re done. Save me.”

            She broke me sexually. I blew my wad on the spot. That hadn’t happen just by thinking about it since middle school. But, that didn’t mean I was going to tell the cops about anything about a crime I didn’t commit.

            Something strange happened. Fleming reacted as if coming on the floor disgusted her. I also thought I saw a contact lens shift slightly, if true she had blue eyes. Then it was gone.

            An officer knocked and the redhead disappeared. The piglet I had spit on, Reed, his nameplate said, entered with a file.

            “Ballistics and fingerprints, Sirs,” Reed said.

            Saunders signed for the report and read it. Reed left and the girl came back as if nothing had happened. I liked her hugging me like that.

            “The gun we found in your car killed Ms. Tae-Park,” Saunders reported. “We found a fingerprint on the unfired cartridge that matches both your AFIS file and the additional prints we took processing you in. You loaded the gun.”

            “I watch TV; prints can be planted,” I countered. “Tape and glue could do it. Ramon could do it.”

            Saunders plopped a revolver, a handful of shells, a tube of superglue and tape on the table. I wanted to kill his ass for smirking that way. Such pleasures would have to wait. At least, the cuffs came off temporarily.

            “The gun can’t fire; the lab plugged the chambers and pulled the primers,” Saunders said. “Show us how it’s done, Big Man. By the way, you also left prints on the gun and we want to see if you can duplicate the placement that we found doing this.”

            He gave me a clean slate wiping his prints from the props. He let me go to work. Fleming pulled out a stopwatch.

            I hated tests in school and this was no different. Of course, back then I never had an innocent looking slut breathing in my ear as a distraction. She dripped wet with a thin half chocolate half-water solution. Why is it that chicks only get cuddly when you’re trying to do something else?

            “You can do it, Joe,” Amy said. “I believe in you. Save me from these pigs.”

            So I spent two hours transferring my fingerprints from the table to the gun and bullets. I didn’t get the angle right, which must have been the cops’ point.

            “Wrong!” Fleming hissed. “The prints on your gun were angled like so.”

            Fleming would show the picture to demonstrate.

            “Do it again,” Saunders ordered.

            “Don’t listen to him, baby,” Amy said hanging on my neck. “You’ll get it.”

            The time pressure made my hands sweat. Bullets clattered to the table.

            “Wrong!”

            “Do it again.”

            “Wrong!”

            “Do it again.”

            “Can I stop now?” I asked my voice pitching up to a whine.

            “You always could,” Fleming said putting away her stopwatch. “Are you any closer to admitting you need a lawyer?”

            Saunders couldn’t contain that smirk. I played a losing hand; this frame could fit. He put the props away and sent for Officer Reed. Amy disappeared while Reed removed the props.

            “So, Joe, how good is Ramon with his hands? Do you think a jury will buy him as a skilled evidence planter?” Saunders asked. “Don’t you know the way to frame somebody is to take a gun the frame victim has already touched and wear latex gloves and pray that the motion of the shots don’t smudge the prints? Do you agree that this at the very least brings us back to the original parole violation? It’s things like this that make us want you to have a lawyer; it’ll make your disposition more legal.”

            “You’re not worried my shyster will blow up your case?” I asked.

            “So far, your case is all science,” Saunders answered. “It’s harder to break good science than an eyewitness. You need a lawyer to tell you to plead out and beg.”

            “No sale, pig!” I hissed.

            “That’s telling him, Joe,” Amy said. “He’s just a pig and they’re all holding me prisoner. I want you to save me.”

            Amy was still wet, but all traces of the chocolate sundae had been replaced with water. Her hair had the fresh smell of a recent washing. She’d thrown a T-shirt over her panties and the shirt had also gotten wet. Her hands reached for…Ah!

            I thought I saw a slight shift in Saunders’ contact lens, if true he had brown eyes. His throat gulped and then he was a rock again. I blew my wad a second time.

            Amy nuzzled me seeming to like resting her head on my neck. Her warmth and smell invited me to be her man if only I could stay strong and rescue her. I’m coming baby, I thought. Hold on.

            “Let’s recap, you have no alibi without taking your cousin down with you. You fired a gun and handled the murder weapon,” Fleming said.

            “So? I still say you’re fabricating evidence,” I accused.

            I had another double team fantasy with Amy and Fleming. Amy could see it in my face and pinched me. Jealous chicks are so easy.

            “Hey! Stop that!”

            “Again with the slutty underage redhead?” Fleming asked. “Delusions are the first sign of 5150, we really should stop and get you a lawyer to guide you through the hearing.”

            “No, I’m not 5150 and I don’t need a lawyer, because I didn’t kill the mama-san,” I insisted. “And why do you want me to have a lawyer so bad? You taking kickbacks?”

            “If we were we wouldn’t tell you,” Saunders said. “But, there is a number scratched in under your chair. Ask and I lend my cell phone.”

            “No sale, pig!” I growled.

            “We don’t like being called pigs,” Saunders said with more menace than I’d given him credit.

            Amy shifted to sit straddling my lap. She wanted me and I wanted her back. Water flowed over her shoulders keeping the shirt wet. She moaned and whimpered holding her hair up.

            “I’m hungry,” Amy whispered. “Save me and we could have lunch.”

            She stepped off a moment. I needed coffee as the next best thing to whiskey. The aftertaste remained. Amy returned to my lap with her lunch in her hand. It wiggled. And then she showed off her fangs, real life vampire fangs.

            “Holy shit! Get away from me, you bloodsucking freak!” I shouted throwing Amy to the floor.

            “My, my, the mystery girl is now a vampire,” Fleming teased. “How soon the romance fades.”

            “Yeah, we didn’t know there was a lawyer in the room,” Saunders echoed.

            I breathed easy now that Amy had landed on her cash register. She’d never been here. She wasn’t real. She disappeared. Fleming stepped around and snapped me back into the cuffs.

            “Joe, do you believe us now, when we say you’ve gone totally 5150?” Fleming asked. “We could play along with the chocolate sundae – wet T-shirt deal because that could just be your imagination getting you through what will likely be your last police interview in your life. But, now that your dream girl is a vampire, you have to let us stop this and start the commitment process.”

            “Hey, wait a second,” I said. “How did you know Amy did chocolate and wet T-shirts?”

            “Because, almost every woman will do chocolate, wet T-shirts and even kinkier for the right partner at least once in her life,” Fleming answered. “And just because I really like mind fucking you imagine me doing that switching between men and women and you’ll never get to play.”

            “Thus it’s a safe guess that guys fantasize about such things,” Saunders chimed in. “Even if my partner gave up too much information.”

            It was reasonable, but this whole thing was beyond weird. Amy returned to my lap not a bruise on her. She still had her lunch in hand, a gerbil about the size of a cat. She bit down blooding running everywhere mixing with the water flowing over her that highlighted her perfect globes.

            Damn! I was hooked and I knew it. I wanted, but I also wanted to put a stake through her heart. I liked to think of myself as not that evil for all my faults.

            She wriggled and bounced in my lap. Despite myself, I imagined Fleming joining us. Amy slapped me for that.

            “The pig bitch is one of many holding me prisoner,” Amy moaned. “We hate her. I need human food.”

            Amy flipped wet copper hair of her eyes and went slow with the lap dance. Her teeth came out and she fell toward my neck. She bit…and for a moment my mind tricked me into believing she was feeding. But, then even though I could taste, smell, see, feel and hear her, there was nothing. Whatever else went on, she wasn’t in the room.

            Shit! Maybe I really had gone 5150, I thought. More clues came in the form of a headache that increased with each swig of coffee. The pigs had spiked the Java, so I’d believe anything I saw.

            Amy kneeled down and…in the room or not, it was the best ever. She looked up at me, a lost little girl willing to attach herself to anyone halfway nice for comfort and security.

            “I’m real, but if you’re going to save me you’ll have to be the man that shot a Korean woman over two hundred dollars,” Amy pleaded when she came up for air. “I want you, but I need a killer.”

            “I’m not a killer,” I said.

            “So you’ve said,” Saunders said. “Our evidence says otherwise. We’re just waiting for the DNA tests and fingerprints from the scene and then you’re flushed.”

            On cue Officer Reed knocked. The piglet entered with the reports. I was cooked; the pigs were going all out on this frame.

            Saunders took the report and shook his head. Fleming took the report and shook her head. Amy gave me all her loving despite not being in the room and probably not real.

            “Joe, you knew this would turn out this way,” Amy said. “You shot the woman for two hundred dollars and because she wouldn’t do you. That’s the man I need.”

            “I’m sorry, Joe,” Saunders said sighing. “But, here’s the rundown of the remaining evidence. You left prints in the liquor store. DNA tags in the oil match both your CODIS file and the control sample. You touched the counter during the robbery. We also found high-velocity gunshot induced blood spatter on your clothes that matched the victim. As we said earlier, confess and live.”

            Fleming pulled out her cell phone. “I’ll call that lawyer for you.”

            Amy slapped me. The cops didn’t react, no surprise. She wore nothing but a wedding veil. She carried a baby that in my screwed up perspective could have been real or it might have been a rubber doll.

            “I want you, Joe,” Amy said. “We’re perfect, a two-bit thug and a vampire. This could be our baby, but only if you’re honest about what you did. I have a plan.”

            Amy bit the baby/doll’s neck. Blood dribbled down between her tits. I broke and tried to curl up in the corner. The handcuffs stopped me.

            “GET ME OUTTA HERE!” I shouted. “Of course, I killed the bitch! It’s not as if I could hide the fact!”

            Amy kneeled down and touched me gently. “I love you, Joe. You’re still screwed. They’ll still kill you, but I have a plan, if you act now.”

            “I love you, Amy, but I can’t turn,” I said.

            “Yes, you can,” Amy said fondling herself. “You shoot people who don’t give you what you want. You turned along time ago. You’ll die if you don’t lift up your hands now. I boom-boom long time. I know you want that.”

            “Yes,” I said crying and dropping my head to the table.

            “And that’s the story,” I say.

            John Willis gives me a cold look appraising me carefully. He squints and cameras that I didn’t even know were in the room break.

            “Now that we’re alone,” John says. “Amy is real. I feel her in the next interview room. If it matters she’s loved every man put into this box. Right now that’s you.”

            “Who are you?” I ask.

            “Amy’s friend, which means I your friend,” John says. “The cops presented both a mountain of evidence and used her to make you break. You copped to a horrible murder, so you don’t have any other friends anywhere. I can help you carry out her plan.”

            “Why?”

            “Because she doesn’t belong with them,” John says. “And you’re a cute couple.”

            I’d already decided to turn if she were real; I really am a scumbag. What’s the difference? I nod my agreement.

            John opens up his wrist. I drink. The things I thought I got before; but didn’t because telepathy and telekinesis from the next room don’t count, I get now. I die. I come back with power.

            “This is the closest we’ve ever come to our sister,” John says. “Be happy together.”

            But, being happy isn’t the point of the exercise. The cops must’ve guessed this would happen. The one-way mirror shatters three times.

            Wooden crossbow bolts streak through the glass. John is weak from letting me feed. Two bolts pin his shoulders to the wall. The third nicks his heart just good enough to be lethal.

            Fleming, Saunders, and three SWAT team snipers enter with crossbows. Someone hits a microphone in another interview room, Amy cries. She appears to me in her full wedding dress.

            “I’m sorry,” Amy says. “I want this to work, but you waited too long.”

            Saunders shoots me through the shoulder pinning me to the wall. Fleming shoots the other shoulder. God the pain! I scream.

            “The Feds handling Amy claim she’s been real good for collecting vampire scalps,” Saunders says. “But, I think they should put her down and find new bait, the little minx has been offering herself to everyone put into the box. Eventually, it’s going to pay off with the right subject.”

            “Maybe, but the Feds won’t do that,” Fleming says. “They don’t give up assets easily. The cute one said something about packing up and setting up in Miami.”

            Saunders reaches back and a SWAT pig gives him a steel pig-sticker about as long as my arm. John struggles back to consciousness. Swoosh! Saunders takes John’s head off just as he mouths the words Fuck the Cops! The body flashes to ash just like in the movies.

            “Why me?” I ask.

            “You’re a killer so dumb not even F. Lee Bailey could get off,” Saunders says. “To you dying on a gurney or here and now are almost the same.”

            “I was hoping for a decade or two of mandatory appeals,” I say.

            “Life sucks then you die,” Saunders says. “Any last words?”

            “Fuck the cops, pig!” I hiss spitting in his eye.

            “Well said,” Saunders says.

            Then he swings the sword.

© 2008 G.N. Jacobs

            Klingons, Cardassians, Jedi Knights, Sith Lords and even a few Transformers waited expectantly behind the yellow tape. David Kinsella smiled grimly over the body that had been stabbed multiple times. His partner, Emily Reardon, gently put an ungloved hand on his shoulder.

            Tom Kragenberry had clearly attended his last science fiction convention. He lay splayed out across the remains of a Transformers promotional display impaled with a letter opener through the heart. David recognized the weapon as a scaled down Klingon D’Tagh. So far, Emily had been the only one allowed to meet his inner Sci-Fi geek and he didn’t feel like explaining to the assembled officers how he’d acquired his suddenly useful knowledge.

            David and Emily wore calf-length overcoats, despite the heat of high summer in Los Angeles. They had been on their way to this very convention when the call came in. It may be cool to arrive at an off-duty recreational event dressed as Starfleet officers from the original series, but LAPD detectives just can’t work a homicide that way. So far, no one noticed their boots.

            David enjoyed his partner’s light touch for a moment and wanted to apologize to her. He’d bent considerable effort towards initiating her into one of his great enthusiasms as a way of helping her after their recent experience with a cannibalistic murderess. Emily had shivered and started awake every night. He felt blessed to be able to hold her as she slept, but he’d hit on the idea of dressing up for the Con as a way to get her outside of her own pain.

            Her resistance had been great until she’d gotten hold of the pattern for the Little Red Star Trek Dress. As the best-dressed officer in the whole department, Emily had taken to making her own clothes as both a sanity check and budget saver. She’d thrown herself into the costume with a will and then put even more time into her hair trying to mimic those impossible structures made of hairspray and bobbie pins that the Yeoman always wore to the dangerous planet.

            In the car, David had given her thigh a squeeze as she pulled the pins out. She seemed just on the verge of crying. He guessed that Emily was planning some Captain and Yeoman sex games for later. Truth be told, he liked Emily’s long crimson hair just the way it was without the beehive. And then they were all business as they entered the Convention Center.

            “So Dave, you’re the expert here, who killed our boy?” Emily asked in a half-whisper. “Transformers? Darth Vader? Hewy, Dewey and Louie?”

            “Em, on the last one, if you mean the three robots from Silent Running you’re truly the Queen of Outer Space,” David said softly. “If you mean the Disney Ducks be gone Witch.”

            Emily snapped on her gloves in her deliberately sexy manner and smiled invitingly. So far they hadn’t explored any latex kinks beyond the standard protection, a discussion for another time.

            “I’m already your Space Queen, Dave,” Emily said. “But, getting back to business, does this scene tell you anything?’

            “Are you asking if a man found dead among a scattering of Transformers toys, but killed with a Klingon-style letter opener is an indication of any deeper meaning among the Initiated?” David asked cheerfully.

            “Well, yes.”

            “In the absence of the video from the Convention Center staff, I’d have to go with the usual at this stage of these things. Motive unknown. Weapon of opportunity,” David said.

            “That’s so boring, Dave,” Emily teased. “I was hoping to hear that Star Trek hates Transformers, or Star Wars or whomever. It might be fun to watch a geek rumble.”

            “No, it’s only a small few that will throw down over the proper artist for the Silver Surfer,” David explained. “Most of us like all the other franchises, though if you’re looking for some complicated Rube Goldberg conspiracy the chat rooms will invent it within two days.”

             Emily nodded and went back to work. David waved a young rookie over from the edge of the scene. “Officer Jensen, is there a consensus from the canvass?”

            The rookie, practically still a boy, stood front and center with his notes. “So far it seems like Darth Maul is our doer, though Darth Sidious got about ten percent of the votes from the witnesses. I think those people were keying on the dark robes.”

            “Did the witnesses mention Darth Maul by name?”

            “Yes, Sir.”

            “Well they would know.”

            “Yes, Sir.”

            “Did you expand the questions beyond the obvious?”

            “Yes, Sir. We have a male between five-ten and six-one with the lean look of a Bowflex owner, but not the obscenely ripped physique of a steroid junkie. He was right-handed. The witnesses keyed on the guy’s viciousness. At least three witnesses mentioned that he wore a plastic sheet over his costume. We have nothing more because the red and black makeup appears to be all the disguise you need at one of these things.”

            “Jensen, you’re in your first week and you’re doing better than I expect from young snots in their first week, but please drop the Sir shit,” David suggested. “You should only say that when the brass is yelling at you.”

            “Yes, Sir,” Jensen said with the knowing smile of a man pulling off a good joke. “Now, I’ve watched enough CSI to know that plastic sheeting over the costume says our asshole doesn’t want to get blood on his Sith duds. He’s still here hoping to walk out cool as a cucumber. I’ll go organize the bodies to secure the dumpsters for SID and then amuse myself hassling all the Darth Mauls I can find.”

            “Why Jensen, you make it sound personal,” David teased.

            “It’s a long story from a poker game a couple Halloweens ago,” Jensen said confidentially. “The shithead that stiffed me for three bills went as Darth Maul.”

            David smiled appreciating the young man’s initiative and decided to tease him further. “Jensen, you’ve pulled three shifts and you’re already talking like a foul-mouthed cop, what would your mom say?”

            “Mom happens to be Captain Jensen from Bunco, she lost that battle a long time ago. Now, Detective Kinsella, I have Sith Lords to hassle.”

            “Before you go point out your best witness,” David requested.

            “That would be the smooth-headed Klingon over my left shoulder,” Jensen said. “The girl, Boss. The guy with her had his back turned and can only testify to the panic afterwards. The girl bumped into our guy and she’s being very good about waiting to have her costume confiscated as evidence. She’ll look good in a bikini, Sir.”

            Jensen left to go about his duties. Emily supervised the evidence team from SID, but still had the situational awareness to see the girl Klingon stick out some leg as she held an icepack to her left temple. She frowned. David shrugged and went to work.

            “Do me a favor and speak in English, young lady,” David said. “My Klingon is limited to K’Plagh.”

            “I stand ready to do my duty for the Empire and my family honor,” Mary Watkins said. “When I’m not in drag, so to speak, humans call me Mary Watkins.”

            David gave her bloodstained tunic and baldric a once over. He wondered how intentional her efforts were to claim a bloodline with Commander Koloth and mentally smacked his own head for the stupid question. Most fans are so detail oriented that the answer had to be yes. Unfortunately, the scrutiny was slightly misinterpreted by Mary who warmed up her body language and smiled. Officer Jensen was right; she would look good in a bikini.

            “I appreciate your patience, Mary, in that we haven’t freed up the CSI to get the samples we need from your costume,” David said. “The officer that interviewed you told me that nine out of ten people here saw Darth Maul, while the rest saw Darth Sidious. You bumped into the man as he fled the scene, I figure your impressions will be best.”

            “It was definitely Darth Maul, Detective, the P’Tahk scum,” Mary said punctuating her statement with spitting noises. “His face makeup was red and black.”

            “Did you see his eyes?”

            “No, his head was turned away from me and then he elbowed me in the head.”

            “Any impressions about his nose or his cheek line? Did you see any scars that showed under the makeup?”

            At the mention of scars, Mary couldn’t resist touching the ugly purple scar that ran along David’s chin and neck. It made him ruggedly handsome and gave him a more dangerous look.

            “I like scars myself, Detective,” Mary said suggestively.

            “Please stop, Ms. Watkins,” David said forcefully. “Once upon a time I was the last drone caught between two queen bees and though it took some time to close the deal, I started seeing the winner. I really don’t want to start that up again. And your escort here might be annoyed.”

            “He’s my cousin and I do my best to act Klingon, I think I could handle her,” Mary said more bravely than she felt. “But, you’re right, it isn’t a good day to tempt fate. I don’t remember anything about his nose or scars.”

            “How good was the costume?”

            “The makeup was perfect down to the horns attached to his forehead.”

            David scribbled FAN WITH OCD in his notebook. The interview continued until the Convention Center security staff, actually an off-duty LAPD officer from the 4-12 watch, appeared with a portable DVD player and showed the security footage. Tom Kragenberry was seen chatting up Mary Watkins near the Transformers display when Darth Maul appeared with the letter opener and stabbed the most popular Star Trek writer since Gene Roddenberry died.

            David turned back to ask Mary more questions, but a female CSI had already set up a portable hospital screen and had gotten the Klingon girl stripped out of her costume. He put his attention back on the video. Darth Maul bumped and elbowed Mary to the ground, while the panic that sets in when crowds witness crimes swept Mary’s cousin away from her. Darth Maul calmly stripped off the plastic sheet that covered his costume and melted into the crowd.

            Dr. Carlo Valens also had similar costume issues as he approached Tom Kragenberry’s body. Separately from David and Emily, he’d dressed up for the con. Going as Doctor McCoy is either a good idea or professional suicide depending on whether someone gets stabbed on the sales floor.

            He’d found a coverall in the back of his coroner’s van and went to work. He braved the heat and trusted that no one would recognize the back velour neckline of the baby blue doctor’s tunic that showed through the open collar. The gloves snapped on, but he would regret his first words.

            “He’s dead, Dave,” Carlo said.

            The assembled onlookers politely chattered at the tall, reedy medical examiner that spoke like Vincent Price. A few motioned with their hands baiting Carlo to finish the sequence.

            “I know Carlo,” David whispered. “You do have an audience, so choose your next words carefully.”

            Carlo caught David’s wicked smile that practically dared him to play along. “I’m a pathologist not some damned cellar-dwelling freak!”

            Carlo almost bowed to the crowd that stowed their camera phones as he looked up, but such frivolity at a scene was a firing offence. He set about his examination of the body, a routine deal where time and method of death were as well known as the victim’s identity. Still, he poked the liver and rifled the pockets anyway.

            “Well, Dave he wasn’t robbed,” Carlo said producing a flush wallet, watch and keys to a Porsche. “This is an easy one from my point of view. I’ll bag him and get him on my table to see if there aren’t any surprises.”

            Carlo authorized one of the uniformed officers to help lift the body onto the gurney. He noticed David and Emily’s overcoats and guessed at the costumes underneath. Carlo’s eyes widened. His friends merely nodded.

            “We’ve been friends how long, Dave, five years?” Carlo asked. “And the subject of being fans never came up?’

            David shrugged.

            “We’ll have to compare collectibles,” Carlo said as he wheeled the body out.

            Emily supervised the evidence team but mostly kept her eyes on the crowd. There were too many Darth Mauls out and about in this vast crowd. Officer Jensen did yeoman labor just getting the first twenty into a line waiting for their field interview. The young rookie disappeared again looking for more.

            “Gentlemen, we are hassling you because the killer wore your costume,” Emily said waving her badge. “You will be questioned, fingerprinted, give a DNA sample and give me your contact information. You may refuse but I will arrest you, put your miserable lives under the microscope and still get what I need. Oh, yeah pretend you’re on a jury, no talking in line!”

            Surprisingly, the last command stuck, either because of the legs sticking out below the hem of her coat or these guys had seen the kung fu mayhem she’d dished out recently on TV. Out of twenty Darth Mauls fifteen were eliminated for being too short, too fat or too female, but professionalism required that she go through the motions.

            “Where were you when Mr. Kragenberry was stabbed?’

            “Who saw you in the Babylon 5 panel audience?”

            “Do you know of a good motive for Mr. Kragenberry’s murder?”

            Such was the standard progression of questions. Most of the Darth Mauls could verify their whereabouts, whether in a panel discussion or on a part of the cavernous sales floor nowhere near the stabbing. David and the security staff checked the video nodding whenever a truthful statement was made.

            Officer Jensen walked with security officers and other cops relentlessly searching for Darth Mauls. He entered a men’s room at the opposite end of the Convention Center from the killing. Even supercops need to use the facilities.

            Back at the scene, they had a stroke of luck. The twentieth Sith Lord started bouncing nervously on his heels. Emily sized him up as fitting the general physical profile of the killer. I love it when they do the heavy lifting for me, she thought.

            “Sir, could you please step front and center?’ Emily asked with all the sugar she had in her voice.

            And the man ran through the crowd. Emily took off running, as did David. Most of the crowd parted like the Red Sea, except for those unfortunates who had made a cumbersome costume. Darth Maul threw an Elf Princess into a table that offered comic books and ducked a left hook thrown by Batman.

            Of course, the real problem was the midget, sorry, little person, who’d made a cardboard R2D2 shell. Darth Maul hurdled the droid but David went down as R2 moved to escape. In a classic daisy chain of disaster, David’s hand tripped up Emily and that was all she wrote for any sense of professional dignity. Their overcoats flopped open.

            The crowd was impressed as the camera phones came out again. They linked arms and made a circle around Darth Maul. A few got down on their knees before the cops dressed like Kirk and Yeoman. The members of the circle sang a classic Star Trek fight tune: Da-da da da da-da!

            Darth Maul threw the real reason he ran into the crowd, a white baggie. David caught up to him with a two-footed flying kick followed by a two-handed right cross. Darth Maul ducked and kicked David in the ribs. Then Emily got her turn.

            Officer Jensen enjoyed the time at the urinal, until he saw a plastic sheet and black robe lying on the tile floor in one of the toilet stalls. He zipped up and drew his weapon to investigate. He used the muzzle to gently open the door.

            Emily threw down glad that the Little Red Star Trek Dress came with built-in panties that covered up all the good parts. She did well, but saw in Darth Maul’s eyes that she was dealing with a man on serious drugs. Eyeballs bounced like basketballs handled by Curly Neal in the suspect’s sockets.

            Darth Maul used the minor distraction to backhand Emily to the floor. David recovered and got back into it channeling his inner Kirk using the two-handed punch to finish the fight.

            “I have…” SMACK! “had…” SMACK! “just about…” SMACK! “enough…” SMACK! “of you!”

            Meanwhile, Officer Jensen went toe-to-toe with the real killer, now wearing an ugly tracksuit and blotches of makeup remover. The man reached for Jensen’s gun twisting with all his might. BANG! Jensen pulled the trigger. The killer formerly known as Darth Maul slumped to his knees and banged his forehead on the nearest sink.

            David and Emily stood at attention before Sergeant Althea Walker, their fuming supervisor. The YouTube video on the screen said it all CAPTAIN KIRK SOLVES CRIME.

            “Jesus Christ! You’ve embarrassed the LAPD!” Althea shouted through perfect coffee toned lips. “I should suspend you!”

            “You won’t because we told you when we got the call that we were off-duty and UC dressed,” David said reasonably. “You wanted us to get there quickly and so…”

            Althea softened. “Yes, you’re absolutely right. I just don’t like having my two favorite detectives becoming the two most downloaded people on the Internet who still have their clothes on. File your reports before you leave.”

            David and Emily sat at their desks, which had been plastered with toy phasers, Star Trek action figures and a bottle of blood wine, really just a repackaged merlot. David reached for the queen bee encased in polycarbonate that was his good luck totem and began typing into the computer.

 2008 G.N. Jacobs

            “Now I’m sure that the universe hates us,” Detective Emily Reardon said, her face turning green. “I could’ve gone a million years and not seen this.”

            She lost her lunch, giving enough warning with lurches and false starts that Detective David Kinsella, her partner in all senses of the word, could provide an unused evidence bag in time. The bag may have been about protecting the crime scene inside the yellow tape, but holding her long copper hair out of the way was a kindness that went above and beyond. Emily resolved to be even more trampy in the sack, if that was possible.

            Emily wiped her mouth and changed into an avenging fury. “Let’s go meet our suspects,” she said.

            “Suspect, Em,” David corrected gently. “The unis have the guy. Caught running from the scene.”

            “Suspects, Dave,” Emily said. “I have a feeling.”

            The feeling panned out into an interview with the wife and her lawyer. Emily sat in the bare concrete room experiencing déja vu, just eight weeks before another celebrity wife had entered this place and dared Emily and David to fit the pieces together. This spouse appeared more stupid than the first.

            “Mrs. Ryder, you’re here because you killed your husband,” Emily declared. “Now tell us why.”

            “I didn’t kill my husband,” Melishta Ryder said, turning on the waterworks. “You have the man that butchered my Henry. If he’s telling you that I put him up to it, he’s lying through the teeth.”

            “Your hatchet man is still sedated at the hospital,” Emily said coldly. “Apparently, the drug cocktail he took to get in a state where this murder becomes possible will take several more days to flush from his body.”

            “Then you have nothing, Detectives,” Melishta said. “May I leave?”

            The woman smiled at David. Even with the scar on his face, women liked him. The funny thing, usually he played along, but today he was a mask of stone. Emily wondered how close he’d come to puking himself.

            “No, Mrs. Ryder, you stay,” David said. “Your status is detained for questioning. You should have volunteered six hours ago.”

            The suspect blew a stray brunette hair out of her eye and settled in for a long afternoon. Emily watched the woman’s Eurasian features and hated her even beyond suspicion of murder. They were the girls that competed to be captain of the cheerleading squad and sabotaged the other’s prom dress with pepper spray. David had seen most of Emily’s bad moods, even the snow jobs, and this rage took the cake.

            “I think you must have found the life insurance policy,” Melishta said. “Now, I’ll admit that a million dollars plus Henry’s estate is a motive for some other wife to kill her husband. Not me. And I think that mythical wife wouldn’t stand for witnessing what happened.”

Emily watched apparently genuine disgust cross the woman’s face followed by more tears. Exotic Melishta from some Indian city where Henry Ryder had once boxed did have a point, the method of death had been spectacularly over the top for the usual insurance killing. But, the woman was wrong somehow.

 “You might not have intended all of the results,” Emily said. “But, you benefit from them and I’m trying to figure out if your involvement at the scene was unintended or if you’re really sick.”

“You’re reaching, Detective,” Melishta’s attorney said, finally earning his retainer. “Mel will show up in court and cry. You’ll need direct evidence to get past that.”

“The weasel is right,” David said. “Show and Tell, Em.”

Emily slid some phone and Internet records across the table. She smiled as if she just smashed the woman’s face into the mud.

Henry Ryder stood in his kitchen that he never entered, except for late night snacks, and grooved on the decor picked by his wife. He loved Mel and Annie more than anything in the world, which is why at thirty it was time to stop fighting. He would even put up with the lights and silly apron.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why a former heavyweight champion would do this,” Henry said smiling to show off teeth still miraculously whole. “I love cooking…well, at least grilling and my people…say hello, my people.”

The camera turned to show Annie who at three was the spitting image of her mother.

“Hello, my people,” Annie said into the camera with perfect Gracie Allen timing.

Melishta merely waved. Henry felt sure that his wife was pregnant again. Life was good.

“My people turned me on to this handy kitchen gadget,” Henry continued. “So here it is, the Henry Ryder Grill.”

Emily watched as Melishta perused her phone records. The highlighted numbers made the point for Emily.

“For someone soooo in love with her husband, this is a lot of phone time with the killer,” Emily said. “I’m hoping your lies are entertaining. I need a laugh.”

Even the lawyer raised his eyebrows at this revelation. The gesture reminded David of Spock. It was a pity that Trek fans sometimes found themselves in opposition.

“John is the son of a woman that used to live in the village where I was born,” Melishta replied. “Phone calls between old friends should be expected.”

“Sounds reasonable,” David said. “But, did you give him any encouragement along the lines of ‘my husband doesn’t understand me?’”

“How could you even think that?” Melishta protested. “No. Our conversations were completely proper.”

“We’ll ask John Ramupushti when he wakes up,” Emily said.

Henry Ryder demonstrated the unique clamshell design of ‘his’ grill. The tilt and the grooves in the surface channeled the fat away from the chicken being cooked. He wasn’t going to mention on camera that fat in moderate amounts was now considered healthy, the country’s obsession with fat would continue long enough to replace his boxing income.

For her part, Melishta kept her eyes on Joanne, the makeup assistant that lingered too long in Henry’s presence. Her husband had kissed Joanne when he thought no one was looking. Today’s longing looks and glances confirmed his lies.

Melishta had a text message cued up on the cell phone in her coat pocket. She hit send. DO IT ENGLAND the message read.

Joanne Feldspar genuinely cried as she contemplated Henry’s murder. She’d been lucky enough to be out back on a smoking break when it happened. She was glad not to be among the other witnesses that drank the Kool Aid that day.

“I’m not talking about that,” the director had said.

“I want a lawyer,” said the videographer.

“I saw nothing,” the electrician insisted.

But, Joanne’s distance from directly witnessing the crime allowed her to speak freely. She’d reacted to the smell and sight of Henry Ryder splayed out over the maroon granite countertop and ran out to puke.

“If it hadn’t gone down this weird, I’d point you at Mrs. Ryder,” Joanne said confidentially. “We…”

“I know what comes next, Joanne, but you still have to say it aloud for it to be evidence,” Emily said.

“We were intimate,” Joanne said. “It was just the once. Henry apologized for making a mistake and wanted to go back to his wife. We may have been observed.”

“I see and what about this lets you off the hook?” Emily asked.

Joanne emphatically pointed at Henry’s body now covered by a sheet. “I couldn’t do that, not to him. If he’d been more of a dick and strung me along longer, I might do that to her.”

The smell wafted over. There was a burnt bacon and barbecue sauce tang to it. Emily shook her head at seeing the Post-Traumatic Stress in everyone’s eyes.

Meanwhile, David supervised the outside team. The CSIs performed their magic. He was continually impressed by the pride in their work taken by the officers from SID.

Eyes gleamed with every cigarette pulled from the bushes along the suspect’s line of retreat. Most would turn out to irrelevant litter.

Have a neighbor die horribly, get free litter removal, David thought. It does say Protect and Serve on the cars.

Four uniformed officers marched John Ramupushti back down the street. The suspect wore a bulletproof vest, a necessity due to the neighbors gathering across the street.

Henry Ryder lived in Bel Aire and well-off people didn’t typically go in for lynchings and regulator committees. But, Brentwood had almost done the same for O.J. Simpson; eventually there would be a first time.

David saw that the kids in the crowd, especially the teenagers, were more likely to react badly. The parents merely watched with the Stoicism handed down from the painting American Gothic. David prayed that Henry was just a good neighbor and pal to the local kids; this wasn’t a good day to discover any special rooms.

A ten-year-old let his hand hover too close to a brick left over from a recent remodeling project. The mother involved saw and made the boy leave the brick where he found it. David wasn’t sure what the motivation was, because the woman pulled out sanitary wipes to clean her boy’s hands. She also glared at the suspect with absolute hatred.

David saw the suspect’s eyes and waved for an officer’s attention.

“Officer, your guy is 5150,” David whispered. “Get him to a hospital.”

The officer nodded. Ramupushti foxed everyone by deciding to have a wave of unprocessed narcotics hit his bloodstream. The man, who looked like a cross between Viking and an Indian from Bangalore, hit pavement hard. He shook and convulsed as if the coke bugs were old friends.

To their credit, the officers provided first aid. The ambulance came. David shrugged and went about supervising evidence collection.

The lab cleared Henry of all suspicion in half an hour. There hadn’t been anything to find. David entered the kitchen with a cell phone growing out his ear.

“Yeah sure, Al, thanks for finding the warm body to cover the hospital,” David said. “She’s wearing the saffron sash and the tan suit. See you.”

“What was that about?” Emily asked. “Al copying my clothes?”

“Maybe, but the suspect popped his last cap and went blotto,” David explained. “Al found a reservist for the sit in the waiting room.”

“Yeah, we have so many witnesses none of whom are talking,” Emily said. “Can’t blame them. We have a lot to do here.”

Emily pushed a statement across the table. Melishta didn’t bat an eyelid seeing the typed cover: STATEMENT OF WITNESS FELDSPAR. The lawyer saw and nearly spoke to his client about not letting the prop rattle her, but Melishta already behaved accordingly. She was cool as ice.

“Melishta, this lady told us about a fling with your husband,” David said. “It’s our experience that most insurance killings need more than the fantasies of all that money for motive.”

“An affair might do it,” Emily said finishing the thought.

“Just because my husband tumbled someone else doesn’t mean I arranged for this to happen,” Melishta said. “It was horrible.”

“If you read Greek tragedy, people are capable of anything,” David said. “So the unique state in which we found your husband could be your smokescreen for the jury. I couldn’t do that, it’s out of character for a woman merely angry over a mistress.”

The lawyer facetiously started taking notes on a yellow pad. “Keep it up, guys, you’re giving me good stuff.”

It took hours with a hypnotist to break the wall in all ten witnesses. Some memories don’t want to see the light of day. The next line of defense was to say that it happened to the person standing next to them, but not me.

Emily took a moment to evaluate her opponent. So far Melishta was right, nothing presented proved murder. Emily had saved the suspect’s text records for last. Except for one message, nothing incriminated the wife.

Dr. Carlo Valens walked through the yellow tape with his kit. He looked like a TV medical examiner, because he acted as his own Coroner’s Investigator. He did both because he needed the extra money for his student loans.

He touched the body’s neck with gloved fingers and gave Henry Ryder a visual once over. Out came the digital recorder.

“August 3rd, decedent Henry Ryder, found face down on his kitchen counter,” Carlo dictated. “Witness statements indicate death by gunshot at 12:35pm confirmed by visual observation and…”

Carlo pulled out the liver probe and used it.

“…liver temperature,” Carlo continued. “We are four hours into rigor and decomp. I’ve noticed some post-mortem carving over the left pectoral and right quad. There is a smell of burnt flesh and barbecue sauce in the air. Oh well, this one will play great on the front page.”

The witnesses that made it past the horror of which they had taken part all told the same story within the expected range of variance. Some crazy asshole burst in with a gun and then…Even with hypnosis most clammed up after and then. The rest of the witnesses cried and wailed and were promptly referred for psychological observation.

“Let’s change gears, Mrs. Ryder, can you tell us what happened after your husband was shot?” David asked stepping on the toes of the elephant in the room.

“He died and John ran out the back,” Melishta said.

“Are you sure?” David asked. “We almost pulled a warrant for your plumbing, but we waited too long.”

“John spared me, because of the friendship between our mothers,” Melishta said agitated. “You would need to check someone else’s plumbing.”

Emily smelled the suspect’s first big lie not attributable to witnessing to an act long thought relegated to the distant past. The plumbing warrant, a bluff to get a reaction, would’ve scored huge if served before flushing the toilet, which Emily already knew. But, the complex micro-expressions in Melishta’s face gave away depths of motive previously not examined. And then it was gone.

Melishta had enjoyed dinner with John Ramupushti. She was still crying over catching Henry with Joanne, so it was good to see old friends. There had once even been some talk that Melishta and John would be matched together, but the suspicion of his blonde American mother had nixed that.

“I should be enough for him,” Melishta said dabbing her eyes. “I’m sure he’s sorry, but…”

John reached over and touched her hand. “If you want we both still have certain rituals ahead of us…”

“I couldn’t do that,” Melishta said mostly for the benefit of the waiter approaching with the soup. “I love my husband.”

“Just checking,” John said. “I’m considering coming out honestly for Shiva. It’s a hard thing that rite of passage.”

“I just needed a friend to listen,” Melishta said. “Nothing further needs to happen. Besides Annie and Number Two need their father.”

“I forgot to congratulate you,” John said. “Have you come up with names?”

“Henry or Christine, but it’s too early to tell,” Melishta said beaming.

John smiled as he got up for the bathroom. “Please excuse me.”

She dropped two tablets into John’s wine once his back was turned. No one saw, she’d been practicing this magic trick for days now.

Carlo Valens finished up with the body snapping his gloves off into the waste bin in one fluid motion. Some deaths are exactly what they appear to be. Henry Ryder was shot through the head and nothing else contributed. The carving was sick, but he wondered about the production of Medea that graced the stage at the Mark Taper Theater downtown.

Let the TV talking heads debate that impact, Carlo thought. I don’t think the people involved like Greek Tragedy.

He exited the examination room with the bullet in an evidence bag. The nine-millimeter was intact enough that a first grader could make a match. He smiled at Emily whose tough exterior had been worn thin by the day’s events.

“Well, Em,” Carlo said accentuating his natural tendency to sound like Vincent Price. “I heard what happened to you. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“Why bother, Carl, when six unis and two lab rats saw?” Emily asked. “No one will bust me on this. I know where their bodies are buried.”

“Well, from my end Henry Ryder’s death was exactly what it looked like,” Carlo said. “I hope you can fit someone else for this. I feel a diabolical plan, here.”

Henry Ryder kept smiling and tasting the barbecue sauce that he smeared on the ribs he cooked with the grill. In addition to his getting money for naming the grill the Henry Ryder Grill he was evaluating barbecue sauces so he could honestly endorse the good one – for a shit load of money, of course. He smiled at his wife and daughter in between takes. Joanne came into his eye line.

Damn that had been stupid, Henry had thought. At least, Joanne’s body language had said the same things. There would be no drawn out mess that would take lawyers and/or thugs to cause a good outcome. But, Melishta saw and recorded all.

“As you can see, isn’t this the most fly thing you’ve ever seen?” Henry asked. “Look how the grooves channel the fat away from the meat. I just love ribs so I’m using the grill with sauce. Of course, it’s a lot of clean up but that’s the point of ribs.”

John Ramupushti had continued flopping in his hospital bed as David and Emily finally made it to the hospital. The reservist stood up from the three month old magazines in the waiting room and greeted them. A shake of the head said that the suspect hadn’t said anything. A doctor appeared with a file.

“Hello, Detectives,” Dr. Francine Watkins said. “Your suspect is very bad off. We’ve been poking him with sedatives every time a wave hits. It’s a lot of everything: uppers like Ice and Coke, various fun zone substances that all give slightly different trips, but are all good for a screaming riot. We’re chelating him with water to speed this up, but it will be a while. No statements other than Arrrrrrgh!”

Emily thought the last bit was funny and laughed. “I love it, even the doctor’s do stand up!”

“Well, it is Los Angeles, Detective,” Dr. Watkins said. “We have to keep our end up.

David had come away from the hospital shaking his head. “There is something more to this. More than the estate, the insurance policy or even the brief affair.”

Emily sat behind him on the couch. Her blouse peeled down around her waist. She busied herself giving her man a rubdown that basically violated LAPD policy. For once, they were doing the date at David’s apartment, because her place was being fumigated for termites.

She looked around at the Dead Grandma hand me down décor and sighed. Her man had many sterling qualities. Interior design wasn’t one of them. She wished for the day when it would be time to be honest.

“We don’t need motive if we can prove she did it with good evidence,” Emily said kissing his shoulder.

“Something is bugging me,” David said. “We saw what we saw. We’re waiting for John Ramupushti to either die or wake up and tell us why and if his school sweetheart put him up to it. And something is still bugging me.”

“Bug me first, Dave,” Emily demanded. “Then worry about the case.”

But, David wasn’t in the right frame of mind for sex. He got up and put on his shirt. Emily sighed blowing a lock of copper hair from her cheek. A moment later, she was all business having long ago agreed to love the man weird impulses included. She pulled on her blouse.

David got out their notebook computers and set them up. “We need to do some research.”

“OK,” Emily said listlessly like a teen saying whatever.

David saw the pout in her eyes and two competing needs found middle ground. He smiled wickedly.

“Let’s play Strip Internet Surfing,” David said. “Whoever finds interesting things about the case first gets to demand the loser take off an article of clothing.”

And so they sat at David’s dining room table and banged away at the keyboards.

“Oh, I just thought of something,” Emily said. “Let’s check out the village that Melishta and John lived in as children. Oh here it is on her Myspace page. Veladnor, India, near Bangalore. Off with the pants, Love.”

David took off his pants and got back to work. “Where have I heard that name before?”

He clicked on the History Channel website. “Holy Shit! I win! Strip down, you hot mama!”

“Hey no fair, Love!” Emily protested. “The point of this game is to tease each other into the stratosphere and have great sex.”

David simply turned his computer around. Emily read the data.

“Veladnor, India, once a known hotbed for Kali worship and the Thugee activity it spawned is…” Emily recited. “Thugees? There is nothing here that relates to our case. The Thugs strangled travelers and looted their caravans until Sir Somebody or Other shot, jailed and hung most of them, the one benefit of British Colonial rule.”

“Read paragraph five, Em, and start stripping down,” David said.

“However, Veladnor is also thought to be the home of a variant strain of Thugism characterized by a very rare rite of passage ritual for both men and women where victims were carved…,” Emily continued. “…and ritually…Holy Shit! That’s what happened to poor Henry Ryder. Melishta used her anger over the affair as a switch that makes today possible. Oh there’s more…pregnant adherents believed…oh, sick!”

David smiled. Emily admitted she was beaten and sat in his lap. She whistled a bump and grind saxophone tune and gave him a lap dance.

Emily watched Melishta’s body language. The woman favored her belly as if she was completely content with the life growing in her belly. How do you explain what you did to the unborn child? Emily mentally asked the Universe. But, they had the witch and the dance was over.

“Mel, Mel, Mel,” Emily teased. “Your lawyer knows that we have your ass cold even though we haven’t showed all our cards yet. Now we show.”

Emily slid the text message records across. DO IT ENGLAND was highlighted in red. The lawyer looked at it.

“So it’s a Hamlet reference,” the lawyer said twirling his fingers. “I’m sure Mel has some old ticket stubs lying around. It doesn’t prove anything.”

John Ramupushti and Melishta Ryder were seen the way all lovers are seen by people who are thought invisible, in this case a hotel bellman and two housekeepers. After it was all done, the housekeepers took stock of the suite and gossiped in Spanish about how they would like to have un hombre muy romantico in their lives. Emily didn’t tell them that she spoke Spanish like an Argentinean and let them prattle on about Emily’s relationship with David. They approved.

“I agree,” Emily whispered in Spanish breaking her Dumb Gringa act.

The housekeepers giggled and switched back to English.

“Yes, Miss, the woman and the man in your pictures were here, together,” the first housekeeper reported. “I know because I clean up the room. It stink like the time Jack Nicholson came with the two Laker girls.”

“Any chance any of the evidence survived?” David asked.

“No, Señor, it has been several days,” the housekeeper said. “We toss the items and spray air freshener.”

“But without rehashing details you’ve already told us what you tossed suggests a sexual encounter?” Emily asked.

The housekeepers nodded. The bellman waited his turn and told of hearing the usual noises and of delivering two plates of food to the door. He also heard noises that weren’t to be expected from an affair.

“Yo, Five-0, it’s like this,” the bellman said. “The man and the woman did the nasty for a while and then stopped to pray or somethin’ and then went back to doing the nasty.”

“Is it normal for bellmen to listen at the door so intently?’ David asked.

“Yo, sure it is, I’m on the evening hop so I can go to school, I can’t watch TV on the clock,” the bellman said. “I gots to get my entertainment somehow.”

“Are you sure that you heard praying or something?” Emily asked. “You are aware that some people from India treat sex as a form of worship and they could have been doing some foreplay?”

“No Miss Five-0, if I knew that sort of thing I wouldn’t need to go to school, now would I?”

“How did you know they were praying or something similar?’ David asked.

“Well, they said Om a lot,” the bellman answered. “And I heard them say things like ‘Kali protect us.’”

“How did the man seem when it was time to zip up and go home?” David asked.

“Man, that poor dude had it good and bad,” the bellman said. “He had that yahoo look that all you white boys get when you score with the ladies, but he also looked messed up like my cousin DeShawn when he popped too many shrooms and tequila in TJ.”

The lawyer went sheet white as the hotel employees’ statements went across the table. He reminded himself to work on his poker face or he would kill his next client in the needle chamber. Melishta saved herself by only reacting slightly to the shock.

“So Henry slept with a woman and I had  revenge sex,” Melishta said. “It’s still a long jump to murder.”

John Ramupushti swayed on his bed as he got up the next morning. He’d finally had the sex he’d always dreamed about and he felt cold. He was going to change sides and renounce Kali for real. He had just enough empathy for other people to see that the thoughts floating around his head were wrong.

Most Thug rituals had been modified to replace animals with the former human victims used before the Nineteenth Century. It was no longer necessary to strangle hapless travelers and  live off their swag. Too many Thugs had been shot or hung. Even in Veladnor, the rituals had changed from needing a human to using a cow, an equally shocking act under mainstream Hinduism.

Yet still, he heard Melishta’s soothing voice from last night invoking all the old words. She’d phrased the act intended in terms of the magic where the power of the deceased was absorbed into those that lived. He heard her chant through the trip he’d been on.

He got up and packed his bags, he had friends in Boston who would put him up until he got his software company off the ground. Unfortunately, the some of the drugs had been given with time-release caps. One opened when he was halfway through putting his underwear into his suitcase. And that was all she wrote.

David and Emily took  a long shot and bearded some of the many known drug dealers with a penchant for psychedelics in their wares. Ten dealers into a list of thousands they got lucky.

“Don’t know the man,” the dealer said. “But the woman came to me needing a special mix of every different kind of screamer I sell. Shit! I didn’t know until now how some of these things played in the same sandbox. I is tellin’ you this ‘cause I don’ want to bounce on the needle.”

When this statement crossed the table, the lawyer kept his cool and Melishta almost gave the game away. Within seconds her increased breathing and pulse were under control. Ten seconds later, it was all over.

John Ramupushti waited a moment watching the commercial shoot through the kitchen window. A brief moment of clarity made him wonder how he got to this point. But, then a time-release tab when off and that was all she wrote.

The plants and window swirled and a small part of him wondered if this sort of thing were what Timothy Leary saw. He heard Melishta’s voice saying I love you and do it for me, my love. He cocked the slide on his pistol and stepped to the back door.

Henry Ryder and the whole production crew turned at the sound of the glass shattering out of the upper panes of the door to the yard. John’s Glock quieted all resistance, except from Henry.

“Hey you! Get out of my kitchen!” Henry demanded.

BANG! A promising career as a shameless product pitchman died with Henry on his kitchen floor. No one recorded his last thoughts that the cleaning lady needed to be fired for these dirty floors.

John almost came back to himself but another tab popped. Eyes glazing over he contemplated the smoking business end of the pistol. Melishta’s voice came back to him in his head even though she stood just feet away playing up the shocked spouse. Two of the PAs bugged out through the dining room.

A knife beckoned in the awful silence that followed Henry hitting the floor. John picked up the knife and waved to the cameraman.

“Get this on camera,” John ordered.

The flesh carved softly under the sharp kitchen knife. John whistled as inspiration hit. The captives’ stomachs turned as the smell hit them. He chose the barbecue sauce that worked best and…

“This is good, do you want some?” John asked offering his tasty bounty to the room.

Heads shook No as most throats were too dry to say anything.

“I think you really should try it,” John insisted with the muzzle to make his point.

And so the crew lined up for barbecue with faces better suited to children eating spinach for the first time. John had the evil brainwave of digging into the fridge for potato salad and carrots. Everybody ate and tried not to enjoy the taste despite the fact that John had chosen the absolutely perfect sauce.

Melishta broke in the interview room at the ten-hour mark even though her lawyer had tried to end the discussion. When she did she told the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

“Of course, I did it,” Melishta said.

The lawyer slapped his head providing Emily with the proof that even lawyers can be funny, providing years of party conversation material.

“I was so angry with Henry over that hussy that I couldn’t see straight,” Melishta said in a matter of fact tone. “I didn’t know John would go as far as he did.”

“You’re lying,” Emily said using her frightening even tone that David hoped her children would never hear. “We looked up the ritualistic past from your village in India.”

“OK, I knew John would barbecue my husband, but that’s what Kali demands…”

At the end of the statement with all the gory details, Emily contemplated a vegetarian lifestyle. She also had question that had uncharacteristically showed on her face during an interview.

“How will you explain to your unborn child that you killed and ate your husband?” Emily asked.

 “Oh, I won’t have to, because everything that is good about Henry will be absorbed into both Annie and Number Two,” Melishta said slipping into dreamland like Gloria Swanson. “My girls will be strong because of this day…”

At dinner, David persisted in having ribs while Emily had a salad with absolutely no meat from any animal. She felt a little hungry without the protein, but still she had to make her point.

“How can you eat meat after what that bitch said in the interview room?” Emily asked.

“I once teased a college buddy who became a family practice doctor about the gynecological rotations ruining sex with his wife,” David said cryptically. “The answer was ‘oh no, it’s a completely different mindset, when you see your wife’s it’s always good.”

“You’re losing me,” Emily said.

“I can compartmentalize this fantastic pork rib plate from seeing, smelling and listening to one sick case of barbecue gone bad,” David said. “But, I certainly won’t buy a Henry Ryder Grill after this. That would be too much.”

Emily thought about it and her stomach rumbled. “Can I steal some of your ribs?”

David smiled and silently pushed the plate across the table.

© 2008 G.N. Jacobs

            David Kinsella and Emily Reardon arrived at the scene demonstrating one of the wrinkles to getting laid at work. On the clock, David had to restrain his natural impulse to open doors for Emily. The only one who noticed was their supervisor Sergeant Althea Walker so no harm no foul.

            Althea cut an impressive figure with a Creole look that was a little bit of everything. She’d considered moving David to another shift of LAPD Homicide to make herself available to him, but that was three years ago. Now, David and Emily’s close rate had spoiled her, so she became complicit in their cover up.

            A patrol officer checked their badges and lifted the yellow tape. Althea took a regretful look and David as he strode up the driveway. At six-two, one ninety and built like a swimmer or a cyclist, David Kinsella turned heads. Even the scar that graced his throat and chin helped this process, making him look mysterious.

            Althea nodded her respects to Emily, a glorious redhead given to making her own clothes to save money. Althea let the relationship go, also because Emily was so dreadfully perfect for David and they were happy. Today, Emily had masterfully touched up her charcoal skirt suit with orange fabric practically stolen from an African tribal dance. She was good at being a fashion plate.

            David and Emily gloved up as they walked, so they greeted their Sergeant with air shakes.

            “So, Al, why did you call the Commander and have us skip to the top of the catch pile today?” David asked.

            “Because your streak continues, Dave,” Althea explained. “It’s a TV job and you’ve closed four and a half like it.”

            David and Emily rolled their eyes. They took a moment to enjoy the view of the Vincent Thomas Bridge that connected San Pedro with Long Beach. Off in the distance, a container ship sailed under the bridge and blew its horn.

            “Al, all we see is a modest middle class home with a nice lawn,” Emily said. “How is it a TV job?”

            Althea led them into the house to the body. Someone had emptied the house all they way down to the baseboards. They had beaten the crap out of the drywall at the usual places for the wall safe. The thieves had found the safe over the mantelpiece and used crowbars to get it out of the wall.

            Below this, a body lay in the fireplace with the head on the log rack. David and Emily automatically took note of the victim: male, Caucasian, medium everything, brown hair and blue eyes. The man had been shot in the back of the head.

            “I know this guy,” David said at last. “Jimmy Taulus, I spent three years in Burglary trying to fit him for B and E or Possession of Swag, but all we ever had on him was the say so of snitches. Maybe seven years ago he just dropped off our radar. I got friendly with his family and until now I took it as an article of faith that he’d gone straight. His family won’t like hearing about his relapse.”

            “It may not be a relapse, Dave,” Althea said. “One of the uniforms recognized him too. He’s the co-host of Tube Thieves, a show where two reformed thieves break into houses with permission and give security tips.”

            David and Emily shared a shrug that surprised Althea. They had developed the TV-watching date into high art, because they would be seen almost everywhere by the army of cops that moonlighted as security guards. Finding a show that neither had seen was unusual.

            “Well, basics first,” David said. “Canvass the neighbors and deal with the family. I get the family…”

            “We have roughly similar seniority, Dave,” Emily said sweetly. “How do you figure on sticking me with the canvass?”

            “I have the address memorized, Em,” David explained.

            “Ask a silly question, have fun,” Emily said.

            David took out his digital camera and photographed Jimmy’s face. He left with the car.

            Jane Taulus recognized David immediately as he walked up the brick-paved path to her door. She watered the roses and smiled through the rainbow the hose made.

            “Hey, Detective Dave!” Jane called. “Last I heard Jimmy is still on the straight and narrow. I hope this is a social call.”

            The grim look on his face finally registered with her. She dropped her hose and threw her gardening gloves at him.

            “No! No! I made him do the show so he could stay straight but use his skills,” Jane said almost a shriek. “He has…hasn’t gone back, I swear!”

            “It gets worse, Jane,” David said gently. “I’m not in Burglary anymore. I’ve moved to Homicide.”

            David raised his camera and lit up the LCD screen. Jane wobbled at the knees and wailed worthy of a great actor playing Othello. David held her as she cried and led her to the house. He turned off the hose before entering.

            Emily felt surprise that the whole street hadn’t been cleaned out. The houses emptied out at 8am what with school and work. She found one witness, a tow-headed eight-year-old living across the street.

            She saw the misery on the boy’s face as he answered the door. Charlie Watts wore a bathrobe over astronaut pajamas and held a teddy bear that wore cool shades. He had been well brought up, as witnessed by turning his head to cough, an ugly phlegm hack.

            “Please show me your badge,” Charlie wheezed. “Mommy and Daddy said not to answer the door, but Mr. Bear said we had to. My name is Charlie.”

            Emily let the boy touch her badge and regretted it the first time he sneezed on it. Charlie motioned for Emily to sit on the couch and disappeared into the kitchen for Windex and towels. He returned and tried to clean the badge.

            “Did you see what happened, young man?” Emily asked. “I’m Emily.”

            “Six bad men drove up in a truck and stoled the whole house,” Charlie said wiping his nose on his sleeve. “The Petersens won’t like that their house got stoled. They took my friend Matt to school.”

            Emily took off her wristwatch and handed it to Charlie. He promptly sneezed on the watch. He looked so cute even with bloodshot eyes.

            “Sorry Emily,” Charlie said. “Mommy will bust me.”

            “Not if I tell her you’re a good boy doing his best,” Emily said conspiratorially. “Can you point out on my watch the times when things happened?”

            Charlie nodded and pointed out 8am. “The Petersens’ left with Matt. Mr. Petersen has the bestest car on the street.”

            He then pointed out 9am. “The man that Matt said was only playing a bad man on TV came. He went around to the backyard.”

            “And when did the real bad men come, Charlie?” Emily asked.

            Charlie sneezed and hacked onto both the watch and the badge. He looked ready to cry at his lack of headway. Emily became firmer.

            “Charlie, don’t worry about it,” Emily said. “You should see what gets on shields when we deal with bad people. When did the truck come?”

            Charlie pointed out 9:30am.

            “Very good. Can you tell me about the truck?”

            “It was red and had Popeye the Sailor on it.”

            “Are you sure of the six men?”

            Charlie counted on his fingers and nodded. Emily took the opportunity to retrieve and finish cleaning her badge. The watch…

            “Did you see any faces?” Emily asked. “White? Black? Brown?”

            Charlie shook his head and shrugged. He waggled Mr. Bear.

            “Did Mr. Bear see the men?”

            Charlie looked at the bear and shook his head. He sneezed on the bear. Emily shook her head; Mr. Bear was owed combat pay.

            “Now Charlie, the bad men and the TV man were in the house at the same time. What happened next?”

            “Bang! Bang!” Charlie said making a gun finger.

            “Show me on the watch when this happened.”

            Charlie pointed out 9:35 am.

            “Were you watching a clock to get these times so exact?” Emily asked.

            Charlie nodded and pointed up at a now dormant cuckoo clock. A sneeze welled up only to tease him several times. Finally, he sneezed on the bear again. Mr. Bear really earned his combat pay with that noisy one.

            “Charlie, you had said your friend Matt had told you that the first man was from TV. When did this happen?”

            “Last night before dinner, Emily,” Charlie said. “The TV men came in their small truck and knocked on the door. Matt bragged on the phone that he was going to be on TV.”

            “Did you call the police when the TV man came this morning?”

            “No, I called Matt at school to bust on him that I saw the TV man,” Charlie gloated. “He’s not very sneaky.”

            “Did you call the police when the bad men came?”

            Charlie nodded. “Did I do good?”

            “Yes, Charlie.”

            “Have you called your mommy at work?”

            Outside, the sound of a Volvo screeching to a halt answered the question. A car door slammed and the house door opened.

            “Charlie! Charlie! I got home as soon as I could!” Helen Watts called.

            There was an awkward moment while Helen appraised the strange woman in her living room. Emily produced her badge and defused things. Charlie ran to Mommy who wrapped him up in a big hug. A sneeze presented and the boy tried to fight, but no one wins against the sneeze. He did try to use Mr. Bear like a Secret Service Agent on protective detail, but Mom also deserved combat pay.

            “Mrs. Watts, I’m Detective Emily Reardon LAPD,” Emily said. “When you’re cleaned up, I would like to ask you general questions about the Petersens and the neighborhood.”

            “I’m not sure I like you doing your interview before I could get home, Detective,” Helen said.

            “I appreciate that, Ma’am,” Emily said. “But, getting a statement fresh is important. If it helps your boy asked to see my badge before letting me in. And we would have separated you at the station for his statement, so it worked out the same.”

            Helen shrugged and held her boy tight. “Can you tell me what happened? Charlie only said the Petersens were robbed and that shots were fired. They’re good people. I could trust Janice with Charlie if I died. I hope they’re all right.”

            “As best as I can figure, the Petersens are all safe either at work or school,” Emily said. “But, a man from a TV show about burglary was killed by a gang of professional thieves and left in the fireplace.”

            Helen sat on the couch with Charlie. After a moment, she broke out laughing. Emily appraised her witness quizzically.

            “Don’t you get the irony, Detective?” Helen asked. “A reformed thief breaks into a house as a security demonstration at the same time real thieves rob the same house? Except for the guy dying, it’s a priceless story.”

            Despite herself, Emily laughed too.

            “Mrs. Watts, I will need your statement, just in case this crime proves more complicated than it appears,” Emily suggested.

            “We both know that crime is only complicated on TV. Ask your questions.”

            Jane Taulus had cried out within two minutes and was ready to answer questions. She brought out coffee and the photo albums.

            “I’m sorry about a lot of things, Dave,” Jane said. “My brother makes the second guy I did dirty without meaning to. I shouldn’t have fixed you up with Caroline and now that I’m single I should’ve kept you myself. Might have saved you that scar.”

            “How would you have reacted to Emily, my partner?” David asked.

            “She’s the one that beat up those serial killers?” Jane asked. “Are you sleeping with her? Now, I mean, not a year ago when Caroline accused and slashed you.”

            “You haven’t answered my question,” David reminded her.

            “You’re dodging mine too,” Jane said. “I asked it that way, because you’re too decent to cheat. Something Caroline was too crazy to understand. I would’ve had your partner over for dinner to evaluate the threat and behaved as stylishly as possible.”

            “But, Emily would still be a threat,” David said. “And that’s why I’m glad we kept it to just friends.”

            “But you’re sleeping with your partner,” Jane guessed.

            “Yes. Does that matter to you?”

            “From your recent TV exposure, I can see she is so damned perfect for you that I’m happy,” Jane said. “I’ll call the Us that never happened a beautiful fantasy and remain happy for you.”

            “Thank you. I’m sorry about Jimmy,” David said. “What can you tell me about him that’s more recent than when he dropped off the burglary radar?”

            “We never really talked about him,” Jane said. “That’s odd.”

            “I may have become a friend visiting so much, but I was still a cop,” David said. “You didn’t want to bring him up because I might screw up his rehabilitation with harassment. I didn’t want to bring him up partly because of the thing we never actually had. It was easy leaving him as the elephant in the room.”

            “There’s more to it than that, Dave.”

            “Well, when our snitches stopped mentioning his criminal exploits that meant he was either dead, in jail under another name, or had some spiritual breakthrough and retired,” David admitted. “Jimmy was thus completely useless to an ambitious burglary cop like me.”

            “You’re still fibbing, Dave,” Jane said. “You’re not the type to just drop something as dear to you as busting my brother. You kept loose tabs on him.”

            “I did sneak a few peeks at your pictures,” David admitted more grudgingly. “I stopped when I saw his graduation photo from Duke.”

            “At least, you’re honest about it,” Jane said.

            David shrugged.

            “He didn’t rob whatever house you found him in,” Jane insisted. “He reformed and didn’t have to go to prison to do it.”

            “I know, Jane,” David said. “While I was inching along in traffic, my partner found a witness that said Jimmy was doing a show and that a gang of pros killed him when they found him inside. This happened early this morning in San Pedro.”

            “At least, I can trust that he was a good man who never lied to me,” Jane said fighting more tears. “Will you catch them?”

            “Probably,” David said. “But, even Emily and I have a few permanently open cases.”

            Jane broke out laughing. “Did you say that Tube Thieves and real thugs robbed the same house at the same time?”

            “Yes.”

            “Jesus! What a story! If I weren’t crying over Jimmy that would be the funniest death I’ve ever heard,” Jane said. “How do I help you?”

            “Can you tell me with whom Jimmy did the show? I never got around to watching it myself.”

            “That’s odd. Jimmy sent you an email six months ago,” Jane said. “He wanted to brag to the officer chasing him.”

            “I’m sorry. There are many reasons, including my error that explain why I didn’t see it.”

            Jane got up and walked to the TV. She came back with the Tube Thieves Season One DVD set.

            “This will answer those kind of questions, Dave.”

            David looked at the two faces on the box. Jimmy Taulus and another man clowned around with sacks of swag. David recognized Jimmy’s partner.

            “Oh wow! Jimmy partnered up with Craig Westman to simulate house burglaries!” David exclaimed. “Talk about opposites.”

            “I just know Craig as a sweet, funny man who is much reformed from his past,” Jane insisted. “The one thing I trust is that he has…had Jimmy’s back.”

            “Yeah, that’s the guy I know,” David said. “He fixates on things or people and is less squeamish about hurting people than Jimmy was. He would try outlandish plots straight out of Wiley Coyote and pull them off because of persistence six out of ten times.”

            “And the other four times?” Jane asked.

            “That would be why the States of California, Virginia and Maine were able to make cases and jointly pool their sentences into one jolt of eight years,” David said. “I hadn’t heard he’d gotten out.”

            “He is reformed, Dave,” Jane repeated. “I’ve taken him to his P.O. myself.”

            David smiled. “I didn’t say I didn’t believe you. He passed whatever background check the show’s producers threw at him. From the undercurrent in your voice, you like him the way we almost liked each other. I’m pretty sure he’s not using the show as cover or backsliding in any other way. What I am saying is that someone killed Jimmy, a good friend, blood brother and all around meal ticket out of the revolving prison door. Assuming that there isn’t some complicated TV plot with zingers just before the commercial breaks, Craig will see key pieces of his new straight life crumble around him. He will get even!”

            Jane instinctively knew this about Craig, but the bald-faced truth shocked her. She covered her mouth with her hand.

            “I’m happy for you, Jane,” David said. “I want to keep him out of stir for your sake. Give me his phone number.”

            Jane took a long moment deciding and then wrote down the number. David grabbed it and stood up with a smile.

            “That’s the first time in my life that I’ve felt like a snitch,” Jane said.

            “It’s the first time you’ve had a boyfriend about to smash your domestic bliss,” David said. “Most of our snitches are concerned girlfriends. I’ll find him and finish this interview with him.”

            “Dave, keep him safe.”

            “I will.”

            Craig Westman walked into the pawnshop with a hidden camera in his sunglass frames. The bell jingled and three video cameras silently panned towards him. He expected this, he’d burned these bridges long ago.

            “Ah Craig, you have such big brass ones,” Anatoly Grishkin said extending his arms for a fake hug. “You left on such bad terms…”

            “I fitted your brother to a twenty-year stretch at Folsom and shaved five years off the combo jolt I served in Virginia,” Craig said refusing the hug.

            “The Virginia authorities did well to sequester you from us,” Anatoly said. “But, there should have been others that hate fucking rats as we do.”

            Craig pulled a DVD from his jacket pocket. “There were, Anatoly, but they all saw this.”

            Anatoly took the disk.

            “Go ahead play it,” Craig said, fire rising in his eyes. “I didn’t snitch to anything on this, just his property crimes. He won’t have to register when he gets out. I did Dmitry a favor.”

            Anatoly played the video, saw enough and shut the screen off. “We will rescind the order against you. What do you want?”

            Craig passed a note across. “This is an itemized list from a house taken this morning in San Pedro.”

            Anatoly rubbed his fingers together. “Money buys many things.”

            “I don’t need the swag. It’s insured. I need to meet the crew.”

            “That I cannot do,” Anatoly said. “I have seen your show on the Discovery Channel, you speak so eloquently about giving up crime. You are practically a police officer now.”

            Craig dropped a thousand dollars on the counter between a plastic hula dancer and a vodka bottle. Anatoly’s face brightened. Craig’s cell phone rang.

            “Hello,” Craig answered.

            “Hey Craig, it’s David Kinsella,” David said.

            “Fuck you, Pig!” Craig said. “You didn’t answer Jimmy’s email when we started the show. I don’t need you now!”

            Craig made the mistake of turning his head away from the money. Anatoly pocketed the bills.

            “Yeah, I apologize…” David said.

            Craig hung up and turned back to the money, now gone. He sized up Anatoly’s smile as the beginning of the What Money, Sir con game. Craig grabbed the man’s mostly red aloha shirt by the lapels.

            “Don’t pull that shit on me!” Craig demanded. “Give me the crew or give me the money!”

            “What money, Craig?”

            Craig threw a hard elbow at Anatoly’s forehead. The Russian reached for the pistol out of sight below the counter. Craig’s phone rang again.

            “What now?” Craig demanded of his phone.

            “Perhaps, I misstated the urgency of my request for a chat,” David suggested. “Please look over your shoulder out to the street.”

            Craig looked out past the jewelry cases and the musical instruments that convention seemed to place in the front window of every pawnshop to see David standing in the street. He closed his phone and entered waving his gun and badge.

            “Detective, arrest this man!” Anatoly demanded. “He threatened me.”

            “Yeah sure, Mr. Grishkin, but first you’ll give him back the money you stole,” David said amiably. “Or the videotape will land on a news desk. Can’t have Channel 5 poking around while you’re burnishing the image with a charity drive, can we?”

            “You’re bluffing, Kinsella,” Anatoly said. “There is no tape.”

            David reached in and took Craig’s sunglasses from the crook of his shirt. David showed the frame to the Russian.

            “Give the man his money back, right now, or prepare for a visit, in order, from the SWAT Team, Canine Officer Barbarossa and Detective Joey Patrone,” David said.

            The threat worked. Anatoly’s eyes widened as he handed over the money. It wasn’t the SWAT Team that caused this reaction.

            “Now, Mr. Westman, you are distraught over the death of Jimmy Taulus and you’re sorry to have bothered the nice fence,” David suggested.

            “I’m sorry.”

            “My God!” Anatoly blurted. “Those barbarians killed Jimmy! He was a real mensch. Apology accepted.”

            David led Craig to the street. A patrol car rolled up and dropped off Emily. She smiled and thanked the officers.

            “We’ve got to stop meeting like this, Em,” David teased. “People will talk.”

            “They already do that, Dave,” Emily said. “Who’s this?”

            “Craig Westman, reformed thief, this is Emily Reardon, fashion plate,” David said. “It’s been five hours since the call, how is your end coming?”

            “The lab wrapped up two hours ago,” Emily reported. “Some partials, epithelial cells and the second bullet fired into the ceiling were recovered. I only found the one eyewitness that confirms two break-ins occurred. So I randomly made myself busy with known fences and got zippo.”

            “How is Charlie Watts?” Craig asked. “On the show, I’m the setup man so I deal with the people. I like that kid, more than Matt Petersen.”

            “Charlie is cute, utterly sweet and sick as a dog,” Emily said. “Both his bear and mom deserve combat pay for every sneeze. I want to take him home with me.”

            Craig smiled and guessed the undercurrent between David and Emily. If Craig hadn’t been dancing with Jane, he’d have moved on Emily himself.

            “So what did you do with your day?” Emily asked.

            “Made the notification and tracked down Craig, here,” David said. “Who, I might add was just about to talk to his staff about today’s video footage and offer any and all assistance to our ongoing police investigation.”

            “Up yours, cop!” Craig said vehemently. “We needed you to spike the ratings for our pilot. You didn’t even email. You get nothing now!”

            Emily saved the moment with her absolutely frightening Bad Cop. “Sir, as a newly honest person, the first rule is to cooperate with the police, as I’m sure your parole officer will tell you when we call him.”

            Craig made his call and then got into the back of David’s detective wagon. David gave Emily the keys and sat in back with Craig.

            “You’re sleeping with that?” Craig whispered. “You’re a brave man, even if you are a shithead.”

            Craig sat sullenly as the cops watched the raw footage twice, forcing him to watch Jimmy fight with the bad guys before getting killed. He hated police stations in the best of times. Now he wanted to get after Jimmy’s killers and he hated delays.

            “How many times do we need to see the footage?” Craig asked. “They’re wearing masks and they getting away as we speak.”

            Emily ignored him and hit restart on the player. David waited by his notebook computer. The movie went back to the beginning.

            “Hi, I’m Craig Westman,” Craig heard himself say again. “I’m with Tube Thieves, a reality show about home security…”

            Craig watched himself smile and gain entry with his camera crew. Some people would do anything to be on TV, even allow idiots to crap on the floor. Perhaps, he would pitch a show where he walked a dog into the living room to take a dump. He chuckled at the image.

            “Detectives, you threatened Grishkin with a SWAT Team, a dog and some Italian dick. What was that about?” Craig asked.

            “Welcome back to the living,” Emily cooed. “Canine Officer Barbarossa is a good old Rottweiler that alternately bites and gives his bowels and bladder free vent. There is talk of putting the poor dear down. Oh, I hope not.”

            “You cops are sick,” Craig said warming up to them. “And the Italian cop?”

            “We don’t discuss him in mixed company,” David said deadpan.

            Craig smiled despite himself. On screen, he placed the hidden cameras in the Petersen house. Mr. Petersen signed the insurance agreement with Tube Thieves. Craig went outside to the truck and talked with the blindfolded Jimmy Taulus. The light faded towards sunset.

            “Why is Jimmy blindfolded?” Emily asked.

            “I don’t want to give him more than a few seconds recon of the house, especially when it’s a deal like this where we sign up at dinner time so we can go the next morning,” Craig explained. “It makes the deal slightly more uncertain.”

            “Slightly is right, Craig,” David said putting his two cents in. “Jimmy was like water, he always got in.”

            The crew got B-roll footage of Matt Petersen crossing the street to Charlie Watt’s house with hot soup. Helen Watts graciously accepted the soup. Charlie appeared at the door with his bear and a wan smile. He sneezed into the bear, another bit of combat pay.

            “This is all so touching,” Craig said sarcastically. “I want a boy like that with Jane, are you happy now?”

            Emily suddenly pointed at a tree near the image’s vanishing point. “Stop and blow that up!”

            David did as ordered. Soon a bald man who was either Caucasian or a light-skinned Hispanic grew large on screen. Even in the low light, his face and prison tattoos were clearly visible. David paused on the face and entered the details into the computer. He read Craig’s face, the man was recognized.

            “Do you want to tell us his name, Craig?” David asked.

            “I want to know what you did to him to piss him off,” Emily said.

            “I don’t understand,” Craig said.

            “Yes, you do,” David challenged. “You’re an ex-thief, almost as good as Jimmy. You know that a neighborhood of nice houses, but not a single full-time live-in Mexican housekeeper or nanny is the mother lode. Now tell us, professional to professional, why the real thieves with the moving van don’t blitz the whole ripe juicy street.”

            “If this man has it out for the show and me, I can deal,” Craig said bravely.

            “At least, you admit you have a problem,” Emily said. “That’s the first step.”

            Craig rolled his eyes. David made a big show of having small difficulties with the database.

            “How do you intend to deal, two slugs to the head?” David probed. “I would take that as a personal affront.”

            “Why? Juan Diaz is a punk who kills straights for fun!” Craig blurted before he could stop himself.

            David entered the information and made the match, though he hadn’t needed it.

            “Craig, you have to realize that we’re pros in the interview room,” Emily said. “We’ll get everything we need.”

            “To answer your question, Juan Diaz, whom I recognized when you did, is easily missed by all except his Mama,” David said. “The affront would be you going inside forever when you have a lot going for you.”

            “Like what, Kinsella, the show?” Craig asked on the verge of tears. “Don’t you get it? There is no show without Jimmy!”

            “Not true, Craig, the show is the show,” David reasoned. “On camera talent is replaceable. I even filled in for James Tarleton on Money Cab, myself.”

            Craig waved his arms about as if he were the Hulk turning green. Emily tapped an intercom button. She also turned off the video.

            “JIMMY IS NOT DISPOSABLE!” Craig shouted. “YOU’RE FUCKING HEARTLESS PIGS!”

            Jane Taulus entered the interview room, but Craig’s rage dump was in full swing. He took a chair to the mirror. Jane touched his shoulder and hugged him. They both cried.

            “I misspoke. Jimmy, the human being, is irreplaceable,” David said. “Of the three thieves to beat me, I liked Jimmy best. But, speaking as someone with a small amount of experience with TV production, your executive producer will shut the show down for the memorial and recast within two weeks.”

            “So that’s life on the small screen.”

            “Your EP will recast you as well if you don’t give him what he wants,” David said. “You need the show to convince your parole officer that you are a productive citizen.”

            “But…”

            “Listen to Dave,” Jane said.

            “Jane is the other reason I’m taking this personally,” David said. “If you make her visit you behind glass, I will kill your stupid ass and then kick the shit out of you in Hell for at least ten thousand years.”

            Jane sat in Craig’s lap and kissed him. His face softened.

            “OK, we do it your way,” Craig agreed. “What do you need?”

            “The names of the other five burglars if you know them,” Emily said. “And their personal beef with you. We’ll think up anything else as we go along.”

            “Bob Costigan, Enrique Ramos, Bradley White, DeShawn Lawrence and Tomás Reyes,” Craig said. “I recognized their tats and voices as I rumbled with them. Juan Diaz cracked my head with the pistol and that was all she wrote.”

            Craig showed off the lump hidden by his hair at the base of his skull.

            “How did you remain so conspicuously alive?” Emily asked.

            “Our cameraman brought a Taser gun to the party,” Craig answered.

            “And their beef with you?” David asked.

            “Juan Diaz hates me because of the show,” Craig said. “Three months ago, on our last swing through Los Angeles, we picked out this juicy split-level. Everyone on the street just had to Keep up with the Joneses so they got similar security upgrades. It turned the whole street into a hard target just days before Diaz and his crew were set to go in on a truck blitz. I still have his hate mail. The others, I think, want to be big men inside and screwing a TV show into the ground could do that for them.”

            David entered the results into the database for warrant requests and the dispatch computer.

            “Now we need to get you ahead of the curve with your EP so you can keep your job,” David said.

            “How do you propose to do that?”

            “I have some ideas,” David said. “I’ll help and show up on camera.”

            “Why?”

            “I owe Jimmy for the email.”

            “Don’t you need permission to appear on TV?”

            David and Emily giggled.

            “What’s so funny?”

            “We’re the LAPD, we’ve been greasing the wheels for TV for five decades,” Emily said. “Permission for this will be easy.”

            The SWAT Team rolled up silently on a classic shotgun bungalow. The light faded into the warm oranges of dusk. The house was light pink with brick red roof tiles, a real slice of southern California.

            The breach team duck-walked to the door behind a shield and breaching shotgun. They waited while the leader counted down from three.

            Juan Diaz and his whole crew made it easy, drinking beer and playing Halo 3 on the Playstation. They lolled about the room, burping, farting and recreating cool moments from the game.

            “Hey Boss!” Enrique Ramos called over the noise of his digital mayhem. “We done good! We took that TV show down! We showed the rats that you never go straight!”

            Enrique demonstrated his completely incorrect sideways shooting style.

            “Pop! Pop! It was so sick and off the hook man!”

            The SWAT Team blew the hinges and lock off the door. Juan Diaz reached for a pistol. The flash-bang bounced off the hardwood floor. BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

            David and Emily sat at their desks looking over the evidence seized in the raid. Actually they worked from photos, because the shooting team needed the stuff until they could clear or discipline the SWAT officer that had shot all six suspects. The pictures showed six bodies with guns in their hands and bullets punching out through paper-thin drywall, so clearance would likely be a formality.

            Night had fallen outside and they were going to stay until the first draft of the report was done. David kept reaching for the photocopies of phone records routinely collected by police. Something bothered him. 

            “Dave, our end of this is done,” Emily said. “Craig’s insight paid off. We found a couple pieces of Ms. Petersen’s jewelry they were going to keep for their girlfriends. We found the cash the fence paid. We found the murder weapon. We, the collective might of the LAPD, have accomplished these feats in the near record time of twelve hours from when Charlie Watts called 9-1-1.”

            “And your point is?”

            “We take the rest of the night off doing unspeakable things to each other as we watch some representative episodes of Tube Thieves so we can be ready for our noon call time,” Emily suggested. “It’s not like our report is going to sway the shooting board, we walked up afterwards.”

            “There is something off, Em,” David said. “How did Juan Diaz know where to find the production truck so he could be captured on that video frame? Does the show post anything more specific than ‘in August we will prowl Los Angeles, San Diego and Orange Counties looking for good episodes’ on the website?”

            “Of course not, Dave,” Emily said. “That would be…a liability nightmare. Your friend Jane might sue. You’re thinking inside man.”

            “Forget the lawsuit,” David suggested. “How will Craig Westman react to a rat under his nose?”

            Emily saw the logic and reached for some papers to help. “We keep forgetting this is the Flat Earth era of Google, Infospace and You Tube. If he suspects he’ll be at his computer cross-referencing the same data plus the show’s internal documents.”

            “Internal documents,” David mused. “That’s it! Give me the call sheet.”

            Emily handed over the call sheet from the production company. A phone number appeared on both the cell phone records of Juan Diaz and the call sheet. David stood up and grabbed his off the rack wool coat.

            David drove Code Two enjoying how the traffic moved aside. He still had flashbacks to the road rage from a few weeks ago sublimated for an investigation and good TV. Driving at Codes Two and Three helped him a lot.

            They rolled to a stop in a nice neighborhood somewhere in the Mid-Wilshire area. The house was a Tudor Revival with a large oak tree in the front yard. Nothing seemed wrong with the house when David set the parking brake. A couple embraced in the front room as they watched TV.

            “Sounds like us, but which one is the rat?” Emily asked. “The man is the executive producer and his wife is the part-time production accountant. Juan Diaz called the home number…sorry, that answers my question.”

            “Let’s go knock on the door,” David said.

            They got out and walked across the street. The doorbell chimed Ode to Joy, a tune that was about to change in light of the serious family dysfunction David and Emily were going to hand out.

            “Detective Reardon! I hadn’t expected another round of questions so early,” Bob Sandoval said. “And you brought the partner, sounds serious.”

            “May we come in?” Emily asked.

            “We have nothing to hide,” Bob said. “Coffee, or something?”

            “No sir, we’re at our daily caffeine limit,” David said amiably.

            They entered the living room. Emily had fixated her Bad Cop Stare upon Miriam Sandoval. The blonde with a few extra open buttons on her blouse withered under the glare.

            “We’re here to ask Mrs. Sandoval some questions,” Emily said pointedly.

            The woman broke within seconds turning towards the kitchen and back door. “I didn’t know that Juan was going to kill Jimmy!”

            David stepped forward and took Miriam’s arm. Bob Sandoval’s jaw dropped to the floor. The poor man was already mentally composing his divorce petition.

            “That was easy,” Emily said. “We do need to know why. Sex or money?”

            Miriam recovered a little and shook her arm free from David’s grasp. “I’m not telling you!”

            Miriam turned back to the kitchen only to find herself looking down the muzzle of Craig Westman’s very large pistol. Both the finger on the trigger and the woman’s face were sheet white.

            “I think, Miriam, I need to hear your answer too,” Craig said.

            “Craig, give me the gun,” David said. “You’re just not the guy that does this anyone.”

            David stepped forward slipping into hostage negotiator mode.

            “Don’t you get it? She helped killed Jimmy,” Craig said fighting tears. “I went along with your plan for Juan because I didn’t much care if I shot him or the state jabbed him with a needle. But, she was one of us.”

            “You have to protect me!” Miriam wailed.

            “Not at the risk of my life, Mrs. Sandoval,” David said. “Because I hope Dante was right and there is a special place in Hell for traitors and turncoats.”

            “So let me take her out,” Craig said. “She’ll cry and plead her way out of paying the full ticket and cost the state a bundle.”

            “Craig, you’ve beaten a few of your victims up when you had to, but you’ve never gone out of your way to hurt someone,” David said. “The people we care about die. We cry. We put them in the ground and we keep living. That’s what straights and newly reformed crooks do. Anyway you look at it, this isn’t you.”

            Craig wavered a brief moment. “But…”

            “But nothing, Craig,” David said. “You’ll still feel like shit after you do this and I can make sure that Jane visits if you put the gun down.”

            Craig listened to the better angels of his nature and handed over the weapon. David broke out two pairs of cuffs. First he hooked up Miriam Sandoval. Craig took the second set and cuffed himself.

            “Uh, Detectives, it sounds like you intend to fit Craig with some time for breaking and entering and illegal weapon possession,” Bob Sandoval said clearing his throat. “As far as I am concerned if Miriam answers the question, then Craig was never here.”

            “Do you know what you’re saying, Sir?” Emily asked.

            “Look, I’m a TV producer and with my marriage going BLAM my work is all I have until I can work on the next ex-Mrs. Sandoval,” Bob explained. “I’m not going to rat-fuck my only surviving star over a simple case of highly theatrical grief.”

            David thought about it a moment. “But, that runs counter to policy.”

            “I’m sure one of the many officials that William Randolph Hearst is alleged to have reached out for in the infamous William Ince cover-up said the same thing,” Bob said. “I don’t nearly have that kind of juice. I just want a favor so the show can go on.”

            “Oh Hell, just let the man go!” Miriam blurted.

            “You surprise me, Mrs. Sandoval,” Emily said. “He almost aired you out.”

            “I’m a Hollywood Wife, we keep secrets,” Miriam said. “Craig wasn’t here.”

            David unlocked Craig’s handcuffs. He rubbed his wrists.

            “So why did you rat us out to Juan Diaz?” Craig asked.

            “It was both sex and money,” Miriam said. “I got in deep gambling again…”

            “That’s worth a divorce right there,” Bob said. “You promised.”

            “And I met Juan at Gambling Anonymous as I tried to figure out how to get out from under and…” Miriam said genuine tears rolling down her cheeks. “Things got so exciting.”

            Emily wasn’t buying everything about this performance. “But, you had to know how much Juan hated Jimmy and that there was a small but significant chance that Jimmy would take a bullet. What was your problem with Jimmy?”

            “He rejected me,” Miriam said.

            David nodded and led her out. Emily read the Miranda Warning.

            This is how the Jimmy Taulus Memorial Episode played out on TV. Craig and David stood in a two-shot in front of the Petersen house wearing black armbands on their suits. Craig also had a piece of cloth pinned to his label, an ancient Jewish grief ritual.

            “Ladies and Gentlemen, this episode exists so we can say goodbye to Jimmy Taulus, who died because this show was pissing off the real burglars among us,” Craig said. “We will show you footage that depicts his final moments alive, of course we will stop at the current limits of decency, but this is where we tell you to put the kids to bed.”

            The camera closed in on David.

            “With me today is LAPD Detective David Reardon,” Craig continued. “What is you connection to Jimmy and this show?”

“Well Craig, I used to be the burglary detective that chased Jimmy the way Sherlock Holmes chased Professor Moriarty, an experience that left me frustrated and angry. I also led the homicide team that closed his murder investigation with a spectacular SWAT team action.”

“I know about burglary from the point of view of the crook,” Craig said. “How does the police department investigate the crime?”

“Pretty much the same way we investigate murders: roll up to the scene, hide the donuts, collect physical evidence and talk to everyone who might know something,” David said.

“Nothing else?” Craig asked.

“Well, we do get tips because burglars have girlfriends who over time stop putting up with the outlaw life,” David said. “But mostly, we get most of our busts because we have decades worth of files at our fingertips. We know nauseating details about all of those arrested and convicted. We cross-reference everything, so if we have a burglary M.O. that matches a guy we know to be still inside, we check the guy’s cellmates, friends, enemies and grown family members. Most of this work is done at a computer or the telephone, which may explain how so many detectives get fat.”

This banality continued for a while. Then they showed the footage from the break in. Craig visibly shook to see Jimmy in a Mexican Standoff against Juan Diaz near the fireplace. Jimmy fought for his life but still…BANG…BANG…ate a bullet to the head though this part was blacked out for decency. Juan Diaz and crew ripped out everything taking even the hidden cameras.

The producers showed news footage of the SWAT raid using the lead up to the first commercial break to segue to Jimmy’s history. Then the producers had dug up some of the snitches that had routinely named Jimmy as the thief that had robbed the house. This segment played like an episode of Biography.

At the third break, Craig wiped tears from his face and turned to David. “Now we get to do the fun part, the reality show where we find Jimmy’s replacement.”

“Yes, this will be fun,” David said rubbing his hand with glee.

The picture cut to an undisclosed interior location where a fabulous golden cup was placed on a pedestal and key alarms were activated around it.

“We have arranged for ten real thieves with good reputations in the underworld to steal this cup,” David said. “I had Craig float it around that he was ready to backslide back into his life of crime. He said he needed his new partner to steal this cup, while he was stealing the companion piece from the LACMA museum, a golden ladle from Fredrick the Great of Bavaria’s private collection. This is reality TV at its most raw, the contestants either show skill and grace under pressure or go to jail.”

Ten separate TV screens merged into one multiple-view of the thieves. They broke in through doors, entered with delivery trucks or even just conned inattentive doorkeepers. The thieves all showed early promise. Craig kept up a running commentary on the various skills of the potential replacements.

At Craig’s signal, David and Emily popped out of the shadows to make the arrest. The first contestant had tripped a silent alarm. The second ripped his glove and left a fingerprint. And so it went.

“Freeze Police!” David and Emily said in unison like the movie cops they hated.

The fifth arrestee tried to fight, but Emily solved that problem. Kick. Punch. Hard Elbow. She pulled out all the stops and put the man to the ground bleeding. Ratings spiked into the stratosphere with that one. People liked watching her beat people up.

Finally, someone made it to the golden cup and lifted it off the pedestal without setting off the electric eyes. The house lights came on. David and Emily sauntered out from behind some boxes twirling their handcuffs on their fingers. Emily grabbed the thief from behind and ripped off the mask revealing…

Gina Torres, a brunette with an almost innocent look about her, shook fiercely as Emily kicked the feet apart and went through the pat down ritual.

“Gina Torres, you’re under arrest for breaking and entering,” Emily said. “However, if you’ll look into the camera with the red light on you may realize that you may have some wiggle room.”

“I’m not rolling on anyone,” Gina said.

 Craig appeared out of the darkness with a microphone. “Gina, you’ve either just won an all-expenses paid trip to Chico Women’s institute or you’ve been offered a job as my co-host on Tube Thieves, please take a moment to decide which.”

“You’re a prick, Craig Westman,” Gina said. “But, I’ll take the deal, if I can get it in writing.”

Craig scolded his new partner with a finger. “Now, now we can’t have any of that, prick is one of the words you can’t say on TV.”

“Sue me,” Gina said. “Now when does the job start?”

And so all was right in TV land, until the next commercial break.  

© 2009 G.N. Jacobs

            Greg Teller felt at home the minute he shook Manny Richards’ hand. The gruff man with the handlebar mustache proved to be nearly identical to his screen image and surprisingly warm off camera. The hazel eyes behind the wire-frame glasses showed a little bloodshot, but Greg had been told the reason why.

            John Forman, the personality Greg would replace, had gotten bad news from the doctor. Depending on his treatment, John would need time away from the Legend Testers show either to heal or to put his affairs in order before going off to die somewhere fun. Greg vacillated between the opportunity of a lifetime and sorrow that it would always appear he’d knifed John to get the job.

            Greg used the long uncomfortable silence caused by that very elephant in the room to study Manny’s office. He sat in the only uncluttered part of a rabbit warren of past triumphs and abject failures. That Greg could name the episode in which each had occurred said much about his inner geek, though his similar ability with Star Trek said more.

            The centerpiece of the desk was of course the head belonging to Chip 1.0. Greg got silent permission from Manny to pick the plastic head up and look at it more closely. Once upon a time, Chip 1.0 had been a fully functioning crash test dummy. Now, only the head remained, a battered, maimed and mangled head.

            “Alas, poor Yorick…” Greg murmured to himself.

            This broke the ice and Manny’s warmth returned. “You know, Chip 1.0’s head serves to tell me a lot about the people who sit there. Half do Hamlet, which tells me you’re more than an engineer. The other half does C-3PO, which tells me other things.”

            “May I ask what John did?” Greg asked. “If that isn’t an impertinent question.”

            “He did both,” Manny said. “He did a Robin Williams style channel surfing bit where he switched back and forth between the two. He was special, but you already guessed that.”

            “And how does a product safety engineer with limited experience in special effects get invited to be Sidekick 2.0?” Greg asked.

            “Your experience is not that limited,” Manny said. “I kept hearing about this dirt farmer technician from San Diego who never got paid more than $200 for making film students look good on a budget.”

            “I used fake names to avoid having that blowback onto my straight gig,” Greg said.

            “A couple of the guys you helped made the leap from backyard movies to the Show here in Los Angeles,” Manny said. “They talked about you when asked. The other reason is that you are the single most prolific poster on our boards. And I saw your Halloween costume.”

            Greg nodded and patted Chip 1.0 on the forehead.

            “Since you are the outsider,” Manny continued. “The audience might see you as less of the conniving backstabber who stomped all over the great John Forman. If I reached out for someone from Skywalker Ranch or another large house, we could lose viewers. So I went for the fanboy. And eight years in, we may have to do product testing as a sideline to fill air.”

            “Neither your viewers nor your research staff have failed you in coming up with ideas for shows,” Greg said.

            “Call it paranoia,” Manny said. “I’ve seen your freelance test videos. You’ve got the most perfect deadpan, I’ve ever seen. It’s worth dipping our toes in this new direction every couple of episodes. But, however we go you start Monday at the old Naval Yard.”

            Manny extended his hand. Greg shook it. Manny led them out to the shop floor. The walked past utility closets, tool closets and supply closets that lined the long hallway. The sounds of power tools and welders filled the air.

            Greg was distracted by the funny anecdote Manny told about an outtake from the first episode where they blew up a trombone. He didn’t see…

            Muhahahahahahaha! The rest of the team pulled the string on the closet door. The door opened. Chip 3.0 popped out made up as a zombie, a very realistic zombie. Greg didn’t like to admit it, but he jumped out of his shoes. Manny jumped even higher, because even though he’d been through this before the team was very good at timing these things.

            Henry Choi, Heather Tryon and Ian Crane appeared with at least two cameras. Greg put on a smile and…grabbed Chip 3.0 under the armpits. He ran up and down the hall making booga-booga noises chasing the second team. Of course, Greg spent a little more time chasing Heather being an almost supermodel quality blonde.

            Manny smiled at the antics, but worried a little bit that Henry seemed a little jealous.

            Later, that night Chip 3.0 lay flat on a table almost like Frankenstein’s Creature waiting for the spark of life. Dim yellow light filtered in through the skylights from sodium streetlights. The converted loft was littered from the detritus of one hell of a birthday party that had moved into another room.

            Somehow, it just seemed wrong that Chip had been left among the discarded hats, Dixie cups and one pair of panties placed on his head. Someone would hit the roof in the morning if this crap didn’t get cleaned up. The music and laughter filtering in from the office gave the still air in the main shop room an ominous feeling like a cartoon stalker that stepped when you stepped and always stayed behind the target when he or she turned around.

            A soft muted glow appeared in the air over Chip 3.0 and appeared to hover as if listening to the party. A tendril of light extended and stroked Chip 3.0’s head that showed about a third of the damage to Chip 1.0. The tendril used the lightest touch as if a mother were taking care of a sick child.

            The glowing light enveloped Chip 3.0 changing from the soft white incandescence of a light bulb to the harsher greenish white of a fluorescent tube. Chip 3.0’s table shook with the regular vibrations of power tools. The glow finished with the crash test dummy at about the same time that a woman moaned her orgasm from a closet between the shop floor and the office.

            Monday proved yet another nice sunny day of which Los Angeles is blessed with so many. The whole team converged on a crane set up at the water’s edge at the now defunct Los Angeles Naval Yard. Today, the point was to redo a segment on whether it’s a good idea to drop a heavy object ahead of you if you’re falling a long distance into water.

            Heather’s second team had been needed for additional crowd control as remote shoots in the city had picked up a following. She hid the hickeys under her scarf while Henry covered up the lipstick marks with his shirt collar. Yet, a strange discontent washed over Heather like a brisk shore break.

            She kept sneaking looks at Greg. The new guy was tall and handsome with dark hair and piercing grey eyes and once he’d figured out the score between Henry and her, he’d been nothing but proper. She liked smart guys and Henry fit that bill to a T, as he’d come from a similar engineering background as Greg. Why did it seem that Greg was a trade up, when last night had been so wonderful?

            Greg and Henry paired up to heft Chip 3.0 to the crane. Henry seemed much better around Greg now that his body language said he was out of the Heather game until things changed. Greg shifted his grip on Chip 3.0’s armpits and smiled at Henry who had the feet. Ian brought up the current female crash test dummy, Chipette 2.0, just in case someone had the same wicked politically incorrect idea that had kept him awake long after the party.

            Three of the four cameras stayed on Manny as he explained for the home viewers what the stunt was intended to do. The fourth camera plastered itself onto Heather as it always did, as pretty blondes who could sculpt, do makeup and handle a hammer were novelties anywhere in the world. Right now, the camera operator got great footage of Heather biting her knuckle and looking pensive for no particular reason.

            “So today’s operation is that we will drop Chip 3.0 from the crane into the water from a height calculated by both Greg and Henry to be fifty-percent lethal,” Manny said into the camera. “We are answering a question from the chat room if dropping an object ahead of you will break the surface tension of the water and lessen the impact. We will drop a sledgehammer and see what happens.”

            Ian walked behind Manny carrying Chipette 2.0 in a Fireman’s Carry. Manny cued off the camera operator and turned around. His handlebars flapped in disgust.

            “Hey, Ian, why do we need Chipette?” Manny asked. “I want to save money on G-shock stickers this month. Our regular supplier is running low and we need all the stickers we can use for the cement truck explosion in two weeks.”

            “Oh, hey boss,” Ian said with his trademark dopey smile. “I’m not going to put stickers on Chipette. If you want to brave the firestorm, I was thinking we might drop Chipette 2.0 into the drink first and test to see if when two people fall together if the man helps his case by pushing the wife ahead of him. Or if the ladies at home might object, we could have the wife push the husband.”

            Manny laughed and patted Ian on the back. “You’re sick, Ian, but it will do two things: test the theory with a weight heavier than the hammer and probably debunk all those bad jokes where the man pushes the wife.”

            Meanwhile, Greg and Henry placed Chip 3.0 in a seated position and started plastering the slightly pink dummy with G-shock stickers with 50 G and 100 G ratings that measure acceleration forces. The 50 G sticker measures a bone breaking while 100 G would kill almost anywhere on the body.

            Chip 3.0 liked the sun now that he’d just become aware of the concept. But, it didn’t make sense that the people around him would cover him up with stickers. Somehow, he hated the feel of the adhesives on his body. He wanted to think about flesh, but the word didn’t apply.

            He turned his head even though his body didn’t seem to have the muscles to explain how this was possible. He saw Chipette 2.0 and saw her perhaps the way Adam had looked at Eve right after eating the apple. He didn’t understand why her handler strapped her into a harness that seemed like it might hurt.

            Greg was distracted from the hustle and bustle of the shoot that he never saw Chip 3.0 turn his head towards Chipette 2.0. Greg merely thought that a pin in the neck was loose allowing the head to flop free. A quick turn of the pin and everything was good to go.

            Greg and Henry strapped Chip 3.0 and Chipette 2.0 together in the parachute harness. And they made the signal for the crew to haul away.

            Chip 3.0 didn’t like that the being handling him had cinched his neck tight, making it harder to keep that vision of loveliness, Chipette 2.0, in view. But, the beings made up for it by strapping them together into a modified tandem parachute harness. Proving that some things are universal, Chip 3.0 took the same spiritual pleasure that a human man might take from such close quarters.

            Unfortunately, Chip 3.0 was too new at awareness to understand why he felt nothing from Chipette 2.0. Weren’t all like him aware? No matter, he’d hold her until she came to it on her own.

            He didn’t react well to the increasing altitude as the beings hauled him up on the ropes. Newton’s inverse square law of gravity is something that trained minds perceive, but, as a certain whale and potted plant discovered, gravity has an impact that even the very young can grasp. Fall down and go BOOM!

            Chip 3.0 would’ve sweat if he had glands. He would scream if he had vocal chords. He would run if he had muscles and tendons in his feet. Actually, he did have those and he moved his feet only he was already off the ground.

            Again no one thought anything of Chip 3.0’s flailing legs, it was just windy enough to sell that fiction to the unwary. Greg tied off the rope with a double half hitch and went for a cup of coffee.

            Meanwhile, Manny kept up his running commentary for the cameras. “What we’re doing is dropping Chipette 2.0 into the drink ahead of Chip 3.0. We want to see if non-cooperative behavior helps in the case of a long fall.”

            Manny then grabbed Greg who’d just put cream into his coffee. The spill was a classic for the highlight show.

            “Greg, we haven’t done any math for this new wrinkle,” Manny said. “Do you have any predictions?”

            Greg made a show of grabbing the producer’s clipboard and doing equations in pencil. He finished and showed the results to the camera. He wrote CHIP DIES in large block letters.

            “Chip 3.0 dies, Boss,” Greg said flatly. “He dies in all variations of this experiment.”

            Manny signaled and the team let go.

            Chip 3.0 didn’t like having his fears confirmed. At least, he had Chipette 2.0 as company on this free fall. But, then a secondary release on the harness gave way and Chipette 2.0 fell out of his embrace. He was angry and…

            SPLASH!

            Chip 3.0 marveled that he’d survived though he hurt. He was hoisted up again and…

            SPLASH!

            The Legend Testers team dunked Chip 3.0 a total of four times during the day. They had all the footage they needed for the segment. In no circumstance did dropping an object ahead of you on the long fall into water help the accelerations on the body. Chip 3.0 would’ve died or been maimed had he been human every time. Manny grumped for a little bit, because the extra variations of the test had used up slightly more G-shock stickers than budgeted.

            But, it would be a great segment. Greg and Henry fished Chip 3.0 out of the drink for the last time and packed him into the truck.

            “Better you than me,” Henry said patting Chip 3.0’s head.

            It would have taken a psychic to feel the rage in the truck, but no one seems to have psychics when they need them.

            The team gathered back at the shop for the post-mortem. Coffee had been passed out and they laughed. They all enjoyed making Chip 3.0 be the fall guy.

            Chip 3.0 forced himself to stand up from his table. He moved with the tentative steps of a toddler learning to walk, but soon got the hang of it. He paused at the door to the conference room and eavesdropped.

            Ian patted Chip 1.0’s head. “Yeah, I like my job, but I wish we hadn’t broken Chip 1.0 so badly. Somehow, it always seemed more fun with him.”

            Chip 3.0 ducked his head out of the doorway just in time to prevent Greg from seeing him. The humans wrapped up discussion of the current episode and put on Chip 1.0’s Greatest Hits, a compilation of all the explosive mayhem his predecessor had gone through. Chip 3.0 couldn’t contain his anger nearly pounding on the doorframe. He resolved to watch these beings to see if there were weaknesses.

            Heather held her hand close enough to Henry’s to give away their secret to the very observant, but her eyes kept trying to make contact with Greg. This Chip 3.0 saw and inspiration flashed. But, before acting on his idea it was time to check on Chipette 2.0.

            He walked back to her storage box with a halting step common to an unsure lover. No one had bothered to lock the box and so Chip 3.0 snuggled in with Chipette 2.0 and it felt good. Well, almost good because Chipette 2.0 still didn’t feel anything back. He would rest awhile.

            Greg’s first warning was the slashed tires on his car. The whole team commiserated with him over the expensive tires for his metallic blue Corvette. It seemed a violation so personal. Manny simply dumped the problem onto the show’s insurance carrier.

            “Man, that sucks,” Henry said.

            Greg nodded and took the gesture for what it was, a peace offering. The girl might come between them, but not if Greg had anything to say about it.

            Chip 3.0 watched from a window and fumed that the cast didn’t react badly to slashed tires. So, he haltingly hauled his plastic legs over to the nearest computer. The keys didn’t fit his fingers, but if he had a mouth he’d have set his jaw ready for all comers. His soul, such as it was, smiled inside to see the results.

            “What the frak is this?” Henry shouted when he turned on the computer.

            Seeing naked security camera stills of Heather and Greg sent to his email account from a fan that’d found them on the web didn’t make for a good breakfast. He spat up his Cheerios onto his kitchen table and then spun up into hyperventilation. The brown paper bag that calms down such frighteningly short breaths took a long time to work.

            “That whore!” Henry spat.

            Ian saw the same photo and spat up his eggs and bacon. He immediately put the food into the fridge and dug into his leftover birthday cake. He was out the door as quickly as forgetting his keys the first time around would allow.

            He drove aggressively just south of the speed limit. “Oh Shit! This is bad. This is bad.”

            Henry caught up with Heather just as she was leaving for work. She wore her favorite T-shirt that she always sculpted in because it couldn’t get any more messed up. She’d even added a little raspberry Poptart to the shirt and seemed very happy.

            Henry screeched his car to the curb in front of her shotgun bungalow. Mornings weren’t good for Heather until after a cup of coffee so she misinterpreted Henry rushing up her walk as an invitation to a hug. He slapped her.

            “Tell me the truth!” Henry choked. “You like him! Be with him!”

            Ian missed his chance to be the hero, because he thought Henry would go after Greg. Ian ran into Greg coming back home from a fishing trip laden with trout, which guaranteed that he wasn’t in the city during the time when the photo was posted to the Internet or probably when it was taken.

            For Greg’s part, seeing Ian spike his subcompact onto the curb in a hurry didn’t help his morning. His fishing hat with his gaudiest lures went right and the trout string went left. Greg went with the fish.

            “Greg! Greg! Something horrible will happen!” Ian exclaimed. “Somebody posted a very realistic photo of you and Heather on the web! Henry’s gonna go nuts!”

            “The photo is a fake, especially if there’s a time stamp on it that says anytime in the last four days,” Greg said calmly. “Because as you can see, a four day break in the production schedule means I get medieval on the trout population. I’ll come with you as soon as I put the fish in the fridge.”

            Greg disappeared into his house and came out a few minutes later. Ian backed his car off the curb and hopped on his feet, nervous as Hell. Greg waved him over to his Corvette in the driveway.

            “I’ll drive,” Greg said. “There are three possibilities other than sulking in a bar with a lot of screwdrivers. He comes after me. He goes after Heather. He does something stupid to himself. Which is it?”

            “I thought he’d come after you,” Ian said. “But, that leaves…Oh Hell!”

            And so Greg and Ian strapped in. Greg kicked the engine over and left a trail of rubber in the driveway.

            They found Henry at the shop sitting in a chair tapping a baseball bat in his hands. Heather lay on Chip 3.0’s table crying. Greg and Ian rushed in thankful that the camera crew hadn’t come in yet or someone would get fired.

            “What do you think happened, Hank?” Greg asked.

            Henry silently handed over a printout of the photo. Greg raised his eyebrows at the artful use of shadows and composition that showed a naked Heather bouncing on a man’s stomach. The man’s face sure looked like Greg’s.

            “The photo is a fake,” Greg said flatly. “There are a lot of complicated things that would likely prove that, but here are my pictures.”

            Greg produced his digital camera and showed off his weekend above the Angeles Crest Highway bringing back a whole lot of fish. Since the time stamps were more or less the same, a wan smile returned to Henry’s face. It also helped that one of the pictures showed a brunette friend with benefits holding the fish string in front of her forest cabin. Body language couldn’t lie.

            “But, I saw her flirting with you,” Henry said. “It made this seem real.”

            “Yes, and that’s something you’ll talk out with her when you give me the bat,” Greg said. “I also want you to apologize to her and mean it. And then I want to ask you if this is the kind of boyfriend you see yourself as?”

            Henry gave over the bat and walked over meekly to Heather. She sat up and hugged him.

            “You’re a moron, Hank,” Heather said. “This is your one second chance.”

            Henry nodded his agreement. Heather snatched the photo from Henry’s hand. Her eyes went wide as she felt sure she recognized the building blocks of the picture. In the background, Chip 3.0 ducked his head out of the doorframe.

            Heather walked dumbly to the computer in the corner. “I can’t believe this. I know where this came from.”

            She called up her personal file on the computer and tapped in an encryption key. Sure enough, the video that would earn a firing party if found on the corporate computer of any other company in the world appeared on screen. Heather held the photo up to the screen for comparison.

            “Look, I was just editing this here on this Mac, because my drive crashed at home,” Heather explained covering up her embarrassment very well. “As you can see this video shows me in a similar position, but notice the shadows on me and the position of my teddy bear on the bed. Whoever made the picture took the still from this video on this computer.”

            The guys heard Heather but didn’t really listen immediately. The excellent porn on screen that showed her cavorting quite noisily with Henry entranced them. His mouth dropped farthest of all, because apparently he hadn’t been told that a camera was operating. They played Pirate and Tortuga Wench judging from the bad accents and costumes littering the floor.

            “Why tape this?’ Henry asked stunned.

            “Motivation for later, it was supposed to be private.”

            “Why edit a home sex tape at all?” Ian asked.

            “It may be private, but who wants to watch boring porn,” Heather said. “This is the good parts edition with all of Hank’s whining unnecessarily about his performance edited out.”

            “Did you have to bring that up?” Henry asked.

            Heather copped a pose much like Betty Boop or Barbara Stanwick at her sexiest. “If I have to put up with this getting out, then you’re taking the hit with me. Grow a pair, relax and die happy, with me.”

            “I HAVE TWO THINGS TO SAY!” Manny bellowed from the doorway. “WHO PUT THAT FILTH ON MY COMPUTER? AND WHO LEFT CHIP 3.0 OUT?”

            Heather stood front and center and raised her hand admitting to the porn, but like everyone else she shrugged when the questioning turned to Chip 3.0 not being put away properly. Manny got a good look at the pornography and smiled slightly despite himself.

            “It’s a little worse than that, Boss,” Greg said. “A still from the video was doctored to look like I’d done the deed and there was some blowback.”

            Heather immediately reached for her cell phone. “This is the rock and hard place for me here. In order to convince my fans that I didn’t shag Greg, I’m going to have to put this video out like Paris Hilton did.”

            “No way!” Henry growled.

            “I’ll cut you in for half.”

            “Deal!”

            “I’m going to be sick,” Manny said.

            “Uh, people, worry about that later,” Greg suggested. “I’m guessing that Heather had the video only on this computer, which means one of us on the show doctored and released the photo.”

            Manny rubbed his head in his hands making his mustache wiggle. “We’ll deal with that headache later. Greg and Ian, put Chip 3.0 away.”

            Greg and Ian walked into the next room to find the crash test dummy lying in a heap near the doorway with his head stuck in a replica of the Ark of the Covenant from an earlier show. They lifted the dummy and took him over to the closet where dummies were stored when not waiting to use him in a show.

            They opened the door and hung Chip 3.0 on a hook next to Chipette 2.0. They left.

            Chip 3.0 took Chipette 2.0’s proximity as a sign that the universe was giving aid and comfort. He wrapped his carbon fiber arms around her waist. He took her silence to be consent. He had much to consider.

            That night, Chip 3.0 paced in the moonlight from a full moon over the spires of Downtown Los Angeles. He waved his arms agitated that the humans were kissing and making up after each of his little plots. He had his back turned when another soft glow appeared at the door of the dummy closet and reached out for Chipette 2.0.

            The only thing Chip 3.0 knew was the soft touch of Chipette 2.0 on his shoulder leading him back to the closet. He resisted gently until she made the American Sign Language signs for It Can Wait Until Tomorrow. Chip 3.0 read correctly that Chipette 2.0 was behind him all the way.

            John Forman woke up from a nightmare. He screamed and pushed the Nurse Call Button.            The cute nurse that had wanted his autograph the first day here in the hospital entered.

            “Mr. Forman, that makes six nights in a row,” the nurse said. “Previously, studies showed that chemo is no more likely to cause nightmares than hot salsa too late at night.”

            “I don’t know about that, Jane,” John said. “I can’t remember the dreams when I wake up. Can you stay with me a while?”

            Jane instinctively reached for the top button of her nurse’s uniform with teddy bears printed on it. It was a pity that most nurses chose something more practical than the white dress these days. She winked.

            “There are two kinds of stay a little while, John,” Jane said. “For you, I’ll do both.”

            A cameraman found Chip 3.0 out of his box while on a bathroom break. Manny gave another round of red-faced mustache flopping trying to figure who was the moron that couldn’t clean up after themselves. A good man at heart, he was forced to accept the shrugs pleading ignorance.

            A day later, Chip 3.0 appeared in a heap near the steam powered Chicken Cannon famously used in three episodes to shoot stuff for ratings. Greg took some initiative and put Chip 3.0 away before Manny could see. However, Greg didn’t check the gun.

            The second team tested a myth that involved blowing up butane lighters in toaster ovens. Heather, Ian and Henry watched at the window of the special blast box the show had acquired for safety. A suit from the network walked in front of the muzzle…

            Meanwhile, the lunch caterer, who’d been retained only because the suits were coming, walked into the room. The executive stopped when the caterer called out.

            “I just want you to know that I’m missing about ten full setups of silverware and a couple broken plates,” the caterer said.

            “I’ll have the crew look for them between camera shots,” the executive said. “I understand about loss prevention…”

            Greg reentered the room to see a tableau of everybody important lined up within a 30-degree arc of the muzzle of the gun. It was only now that he saw the steam gauge redlining. He had heard the bit about the missing silverware and…

            “GET DOWN!” Greg shouted.

            Heather, Ian and Henry and at least one of the cameramen covering them ducked to the concrete floor. The camera operator with the slow motion camera whirled to see what went on and knelt down. The suit mostly froze his pale blue tie flapping up when he actually started to move. The caterer jumped back to land on his ass.

            WHOOSH! The gun fired.

            The guy with the slow motion camera caught the silverware and a larger projectile flying out towards him. The other operator covered up his head. Henry jumped on Heather and covered her up. Ian dove for the cover of a nearby suit of plate mail that John Forman had once worn during a test of an obscure jousting technique.

            The slow motion camera got the knives, forks and spoons spreading out like a shotgun. A fork clipped the executive’s leg halfway through his delayed fall. A spoon and steak knife buzzed the caterer’s nose. The regular camera still aimed at the blast box’s wall caught the silverware embedding into the reinforced steel followed by the large main projectile: one of the hams intended for lunch. The last insult was the toaster oven blowing up on cue with no camera coverage.

            In the dummy closet, Chip 3.0 would’ve smiled if he had a mouth. But, for some reason Chipette 2.0 chose an unusually shrewish attitude what with the crossed arms and toe tapping. Chip 3.0 decided not to fight and hung his head until the wife relented and gave him a hug.

            Chipette 2.0 sneaked a peek out of the closet and fixated on Greg, as he briefly stood still stunned by the ultimate workplace accident. She understood something in the man’s body language the made her feel threatened. She pointed him out to Chip 3.0 who shook his hands trying to tell her he wanted somebody else as a target. These two crash test dummies stood their ground and turned away from each other in the closet.

            Greg walked out into the parking lot looking over his shoulder as he went. Something had gone wrong with his dream job within two weeks. Someone on the inside really hated the show.

            The video could only have been cut on the computer at the office. His tires were slashed in this parking lot. Someone had loaded the Chicken Gun in the shop when the steam chamber was supposed to be in another room to prevent just this sort of accident.

            At least, the perp didn’t feel like slashing the tires this time. Greg needed to talk to someone about this weird chain of events. There was only one person not directly involved who could listen. Greg could feel the eyes watching him, an unbearable heat at the back of his neck.

            He turned the key to the Corvette and – EH-EH-EH! – the starter wheezed for a long moment. On the second try the monster engine caught and purred like the well cared for kitten it was. Greg pulled out into traffic not noticing the movement in the front seat of one of the many cars the show had for vehicle myths.

            Chipette 2.0 sat up in the driver’s seat only to have Chip 3.0 appear from the trash dumpster. He pulled his wife out of the car and produced a handheld TV. The episode Chip’s Greatest Hits aired. Chip 3.0 tried to point out that John Forman had been the real problem, while the wife argued that Greg was more dangerous because he started to suspect.

            Chipette 2.0 solved the dispute by signing maybe we can get both at once. I heard the new one say he needed to go to the hospital. Chip 3.0 pointed forcefully at the car, but Chipette 2.0 signed that she had a great idea and disappeared back into the shop. She came back with Chip 1.0’s head. They hugged and drove off after Greg.

            Somewhere on the Santa Monica Freeway, Greg felt the fear and suspicion crawling up his spine again. That nondescript Ford three cars back seemed awfully familiar. Greg exited the freeway to see if the car followed him.

            Sure enough, the Ford stayed in his mirror all the way up Fairfax to Olympic. He tried everything he thought he’d learned from reading spy novels about shaking a road tail: stale yellow lights, random turns and at least one super burrito tossed into the windshield.

            All he saw of the occupants were the hats. The male at the wheel wore a gray fedora. The female riding shotgun wore a Dodgers baseball cap. At least, he seemed to lose the pair at a stale light near Overland.

            Greg patted John’s leg as he lay in the hospital bed. John had gone in for some serious chemotherapy and white cell boosters. He looked quite well for someone diagnosed with the big C with only the tiniest bit of ashen skin.

            “How are you feeling, John?” Greg asked.

            “I haven’t deteriorated past hope, but the chemo hurts,” John said. “But, you’re not here to comfort your predecessor as he fights the fight of his life.”

            “Someone on the show has gone nuts,” Greg said his darting eyes conveying enough fear for three men. “Someone…”

            “I’ve heard, Manny tells me everything,” John said. “It isn’t someone on the show, despite appearances. They are all good people.”

            “But…”

            “But, the evidence is so overwhelming,” John said. “I see more than what Manny tells me. When you can answer how an inside job can’t possibly be an inside job because the usual suspects have ironclad alibis and the physical evidence backs them up, you’ll have all the answers.”

            “You talk like a psychic,” Greg said.

            “I’m just having these dreams,” John said.

            “Do you want to talk about them?”

            “No.”

            “Any suggestions?”

            “Work in the forensics into the show,” John said. “You know, the difference between TV and real forensics. The reason the murder solve rate hovers around half is because samples are usually crap should make for a good show. Your killer will show.”

            Jane breathed rhythmically in the crook of John’s arm. He’d just been given the news that his initial treatments were over. She’d said something about a bistro in Paris before passing out.

            Chip 3.0 and Chipette 2.0 entered the room silently. Chipette 2.0 picked up John’s cell phone from the night table next to the bed and tapped out a text message. Meanwhile, Chip 3.0 produced Chip 1.0’s head and he concentrated. If asked later, Chip 3.0 would express surprise that the head could levitate at his command.

            He nodded to the wife. Chipette 2.0 grabbed a pillow and covered Jane’s face. Chip 3.0 slapped his enemy awake.

            John screamed to see the rubbery head a trick of lighting making it seem like it laughed with glee. The scream and the shortness of breath snapped Jane into combat mode. She threw every punch and hard elbow taught by her mother, but the floating leering rubber head zapped her comfort zone as well.

            John recovered and tried to fight, but chemo kills the fight in most people. Chip 3.0 danced with his tormentor for a while until the man used up all his energy. The crash test dummy finished things by looping the IV drip tube around John’s neck.

            Greg showed up just in time to see the two crash test dummies dogpile Jane to finish off the witness. He missed the floating head because Chip 3.0 had broken his concentration and thus found it easier to act. Chipette 2.0 took a traction handle across the eyebrows popping her head right off.

            Jane wriggled out from under the pile gasping for breath and ran for the door. Chip 3.0 squared off with Greg picking up John’s IV stand and standing at the ready position for a fight. Greg tapped the handle in his palm.

            “Look, you invited me to the fight, Chip,” Greg said. “Let’s get it on!”

            Chip 3.0 waggled his fingers like a Kung Fu master daring an opponent to attack. Greg forced himself to breathe easy until…Chipette 2.0 stood up and put her head back on.