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Post by mlm828 on May 25, 2007 15:28:30 GMT -5
Personally, I think the introduction of the character "Howie" is quite appropriate, considering that it's Memorial Day weekend here in the U.S. Those who are killed in battle are not the only ones who have sacrificed for their country.
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Post by Katryna on May 25, 2007 15:32:06 GMT -5
I kind of liked the mannequin story-line and I would love to see how it would have turned out. (Maybe someone will write that story sometime...hint, hint  ) But I'm not sure I would have been able to contribute to it. On the other hand, I was already stumped with the smell, had no idea of what could have caused it, so maybe I just don't have the imagination needed for fanfic writing  Take care and keep smiling - Chris  I also feel that my imagination is not up to writing fanfic, though I am enjoying reading this. My only comment about the issue of the mannequins is this (If I even deserve an opinion since I am not participating!): I think in this type of a round robin venture, it's fun to try to leave a challenge for the next person. That said, I don't think it should be an unreasonable one. For instance, in the ABC game (which I do participate in) when I post a line, I try to make sure that the last word in my entry is fairly easy to rhyme with. |
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Post by Deleted on May 25, 2007 15:41:31 GMT -5
Personally, I think the introduction of the character "Howie" is quite appropriate, considering that it's Memorial Day weekend here in the U.S. Those who are killed in battle are not the only ones who have sacrificed for their country. Hear, hear! |
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Post by maggiethecat on May 25, 2007 18:30:46 GMT -5
The moment Detective Jim Dunbar entered the squad room that morning he knew something was not right. The room was icy, as though the heating system had suddenly gone on strike during the night, and there was an odd smell in the air. Beside him Hank whined softly, his ears laid back.
“Hello?” Jim called out. “Karen? Boss?”
Silence. A door banged somewhere in the distance.
Suddenly, the air was split by a shrill scream.
Quickly, Jim’s hand went to his hip; then, of course, he remembered his gun was at home in the nightstand. “Shit,” he muttered. “What now?”
A moment later Karen entered the squad room complaining, "I took a shower and suddenly there was no hot water!"
"What's that smell?" Jim asked.
"Why do you think I was showering here, as if I didn't already shower at home today?" Karen groaned. "And now I'm freezing my butt off from the icy shower and apparently there is no heating in here either."
Jim tried to hide a smile but failed miserably and started laughing, while Karen groaned and moaned about showers and dumpsters and being jinxed.
Then Marty arrived. "Is Sonny here? I smell dumpster. Dunbar, you really need to get a better class of--" Marty broke off, mid-sentence, stifled a snort, then said appreciatively, "Karen? You're . . . "
"Don't you even think about finishing that sentence!" Karen snarled.
"Ooo! Feisty!" said Marty.
Jim felt something nudge his arm. He had a sneaking suspicion that it might have been an elbow. Marty's elbow. Then Marty whispered, loud enough to make sure Karen could hear, "She's wearing a towel."
Behind his dark glasses, Jim's eyebrows crawled northwards. "A towel?"
"Uh, huh. Looks like a refugee from a Miami beach holiday. It's got a picture of a palm tree and a beach umbrella. Must've been some vacation, huh, Dunbar?"
"Zip it," Karen snapped as she headed back to the shower room to get dressed.
As he listened to Karen's footsteps disappearing down the hall, Jim noticed Hank getting restive. He could feel it through the harness. "What's the matter, boy?" he asked. Hank whined again in response.
"It's gotta be that smell," Marty said. "It's getting worse. What is it?"
"I have no idea," Jim replied, shaking his head. "Where d'you think it's coming from?"
"I dunno. Let's check it out."
Jim had Hank follow Marty as the other detective made his way toward the locker room. The smell became worse, if that were possible. He was just thankful that the heat was off because he was finding that it was taking almost all of his self-control not to gag. Even worse, he had smelled something like this before. He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the sweetly rancid odor as he searched his brain for the memory. Hank whined, straining at the harness.
"What's the matter, Dunbar? Dog afraid I'm gonna find his secret stash of Milkbones?" Marty said and laughed.
Jim shook his head. "No, Marty, I think he's reacting to that dandruff shampoo of yours,"Jim said, mirroring Marty's sarcasm.
Marty stopped short, causing Jim to almost crash into him. "What the?"
“What?” Jim nudged him. “Marty!”
Marty opened his mouth but no words emerged, just a random bunch of syllables.
“It's a man." Karen said and looked at the dirty man huddled in the corner. "A street guy,” she said, dropping her voice.
Marty stepped forward with his handkerchief over his nose. “What you doing here?”
“I found this.” The man held out a bundle toward the three detectives.
The tension rose several hundred notches. “Okay, pal, you just stay where you are, just stay where you are.”
Jim nudged Karen.
“He’s got a grenade," she said. "And a . . . a hand.”
"Whoa!" exclaimed Marty. "I've got a date with a really hot blond that I met a week ago, and I want to live long enough to enjoy it."
"Mister, please, gently put the grenade down," Jim quietly and calmly commanded.
"We either need to run like hell, or somebody needs to inspect it," Karen whispered, as if that would make a difference.
"Okay," Marty responded. "Rock, paper, scissors."
"Mornin', Howie," Lieutenant Fisk said as he strode down the hall toward the homeless man. "What you got there?"
Mutely, the man held out the hand.
"Russo, go get an evidence bag-- what are you staring at?" Fisk laughed and said,"The grenade? Hell, Howie's been carrying that thing around since Vietnam. Haven't you, Howie. None of you Sherlocks notice it's all rusty?"
"I did," Jim said, straightfaced.
Fisk stifled a snort and rapped out, "Bag this, someone. And let's get Howie into Interrogation One, bring him a cup of coffee, and find out where this came from."
After Marty escorted Howie into interview room one, Jim turned to Fisk and asked, “What’s the story with this Howie, boss?”
“Howie? Oh, he’s been around for as long as anyone can remember. The story I heard, he volunteered for ’Nam when he was nineteen, and he was never the same after he came back. Post-traumatic stress, you know?”
Jim nodded. Yeah, Fisk thought, Jim would know about post-traumatic stress. He continued, “People tried to get him some help, but he always ends up back on the streets. Still, I never heard of him being violent.”
“You don’t think-– ?”
"No way," Fisk said crisply. "Howard Carstairs wouldn't hurt the proverbial fly."
Jim entered the interrogation room, confidently striding to the side of the table opposite Howie. "Detectives Dunbar and Bettancourt," he said, gesturing to Karen at his heels. The smell he'd identified earlier was stronger in here, encapsulated and concentrated, the smell of habitually unwashed human overlaid by the rank aroma of fear.
Howie gazed at Jim over his coffee. "You're that guy, right?"
"That's me," Jim answered. "Boss tells me you served in the Nam. Where were you stationed?"
"Khe Sahn."
"Jesus," Jim breathed. "So tell me . . .
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Post by Duchess of Lashes on May 25, 2007 18:56:39 GMT -5
No inspiration for me yet, but I must say that now this story is gaining some steam! I seem to like where it's going...even though I have absolutely no idea where that might be! To all who are participating, keep it coming! It's really quite enjoyable.
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Post by Dreamfire on May 25, 2007 19:20:31 GMT -5
The moment Detective Jim Dunbar entered the squad room that morning he knew something was not right. The room was icy, as though the heating system had suddenly gone on strike during the night, and there was an odd smell in the air. Beside him Hank whined softly, his ears laid back.
“Hello?” Jim called out. “Karen? Boss?”
Silence. A door banged somewhere in the distance.
Suddenly, the air was split by a shrill scream.
Quickly, Jim’s hand went to his hip; then, of course, he remembered his gun was at home in the nightstand. “Shit,” he muttered. “What now?”
A moment later Karen entered the squad room complaining, "I took a shower and suddenly there was no hot water!"
"What's that smell?" Jim asked.
"Why do you think I was showering here, as if I didn't already shower at home today?" Karen groaned. "And now I'm freezing my butt off from the icy shower and apparently there is no heating in here either."
Jim tried to hide a smile but failed miserably and started laughing, while Karen groaned and moaned about showers and dumpsters and being jinxed.
Then Marty arrived. "Is Sonny here? I smell dumpster. Dunbar, you really need to get a better class of--" Marty broke off, mid-sentence, stifled a snort, then said appreciatively, "Karen? You're . . . "
"Don't you even think about finishing that sentence!" Karen snarled.
"Ooo! Feisty!" said Marty.
Jim felt something nudge his arm. He had a sneaking suspicion that it might have been an elbow. Marty's elbow. Then Marty whispered, loud enough to make sure Karen could hear, "She's wearing a towel."
Behind his dark glasses, Jim's eyebrows crawled northwards. "A towel?"
"Uh, huh. Looks like a refugee from a Miami beach holiday. It's got a picture of a palm tree and a beach umbrella. Must've been some vacation, huh, Dunbar?"
"Zip it," Karen snapped as she headed back to the shower room to get dressed.
As he listened to Karen's footsteps disappearing down the hall, Jim noticed Hank getting restive. He could feel it through the harness. "What's the matter, boy?" he asked. Hank whined again in response.
"It's gotta be that smell," Marty said. "It's getting worse. What is it?"
"I have no idea," Jim replied, shaking his head. "Where d'you think it's coming from?"
"I dunno. Let's check it out."
Jim had Hank follow Marty as the other detective made his way toward the locker room. The smell became worse, if that were possible. He was just thankful that the heat was off because he was finding that it was taking almost all of his self-control not to gag. Even worse, he had smelled something like this before. He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the sweetly rancid odor as he searched his brain for the memory. Hank whined, straining at the harness.
"What's the matter, Dunbar? Dog afraid I'm gonna find his secret stash of Milkbones?" Marty said and laughed.
Jim shook his head. "No, Marty, I think he's reacting to that dandruff shampoo of yours,"Jim said, mirroring Marty's sarcasm.
Marty stopped short, causing Jim to almost crash into him. "What the?"
“What?” Jim nudged him. “Marty!”
Marty opened his mouth but no words emerged, just a random bunch of syllables.
“It's a man." Karen said and looked at the dirty man huddled in the corner. "A street guy,” she said, dropping her voice.
Marty stepped forward with his handkerchief over his nose. “What you doing here?”
“I found this.” The man held out a bundle toward the three detectives.
The tension rose several hundred notches. “Okay, pal, you just stay where you are, just stay where you are.”
Jim nudged Karen.
“He’s got a grenade," she said. "And a . . . a hand.”
"Whoa!" exclaimed Marty. "I've got a date with a really hot blond that I met a week ago, and I want to live long enough to enjoy it."
"Mister, please, gently put the grenade down," Jim quietly and calmly commanded.
"We either need to run like hell, or somebody needs to inspect it," Karen whispered, as if that would make a difference.
"Okay," Marty responded. "Rock, paper, scissors."
"Mornin', Howie," Lieutenant Fisk said as he strode down the hall toward the homeless man. "What you got there?"
Mutely, the man held out the hand.
"Russo, go get an evidence bag-- what are you staring at?" Fisk laughed and said,"The grenade? Hell, Howie's been carrying that thing around since Vietnam. Haven't you, Howie. None of you Sherlocks notice it's all rusty?"
"I did," Jim said, straightfaced.
Fisk stifled a snort and rapped out, "Bag this, someone. And let's get Howie into Interrogation One, bring him a cup of coffee, and find out where this came from."
After Marty escorted Howie into interview room one, Jim turned to Fisk and asked, “What’s the story with this Howie, boss?”
“Howie? Oh, he’s been around for as long as anyone can remember. The story I heard, he volunteered for ’Nam when he was nineteen, and he was never the same after he came back. Post-traumatic stress, you know?”
Jim nodded. Yeah, Fisk thought, Jim would know about post-traumatic stress. He continued, “People tried to get him some help, but he always ends up back on the streets. Still, I never heard of him being violent.”
“You don’t think – ?”
"No way," Fisk said crisply. "Howard Carstairs wouldn't hurt the proverbial fly."
Jim entered the interrogation room, confidently striding to the side of the table opposite Howie. "Detectives Dunbar and Bettancourt," he said, gesturing to Karen at his heels. The smell he'd identified earlier was stronger in here, encapsulated and concentrated, the smell of habitually unwashed human overlaid by the rank aroma of fear.
Howie gazed at Jim over his coffee. "You're that guy, right?"
"That's me," Jim answered. "Boss tells me you served in the Nam. Where were you stationed?"
"Khe Sahn."
"Jesus," Jim breathed. "So tell me . . .
… about the hand.”
“It was in the bin at the park. I was doing a can collection and . . . there it was, wrapped around the Pepsi can.” Howie sighed.
“What time did you find it?” Karen asked.
Howie made a face and shrugged; he had no idea. “Before I came here. After the sun came up?”
Karen sighed and coughed (the smell really was too much).
“Karen, how about you go get some air freshener?” Jim said quietly.
As soon as she left, Howie reached forward, touched Jim's hand, and whispered, “The hand, I think it belongs to . . . .
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Post by mlm828 on May 25, 2007 21:38:42 GMT -5
The moment Detective Jim Dunbar entered the squad room that morning he knew something was not right. The room was icy, as though the heating system had suddenly gone on strike during the night, and there was an odd smell in the air. Beside him Hank whined softly, his ears laid back.
“Hello?” Jim called out. “Karen? Boss?”
Silence. A door banged somewhere in the distance.
Suddenly, the air was split by a shrill scream.
Quickly, Jim’s hand went to his hip; then, of course, he remembered his gun was at home in the nightstand. “Shit,” he muttered. “What now?”
A moment later Karen entered the squad room complaining, "I took a shower and suddenly there was no hot water!"
"What's that smell?" Jim asked.
"Why do you think I was showering here, as if I didn't already shower at home today?" Karen groaned. "And now I'm freezing my butt off from the icy shower and apparently there is no heating in here either."
Jim tried to hide a smile but failed miserably and started laughing, while Karen groaned and moaned about showers and dumpsters and being jinxed.
Then Marty arrived. "Is Sonny here? I smell dumpster. Dunbar, you really need to get a better class of--" Marty broke off, mid-sentence, stifled a snort, then said appreciatively, "Karen? You're . . . "
"Don't you even think about finishing that sentence!" Karen snarled.
"Ooo! Feisty!" said Marty.
Jim felt something nudge his arm. He had a sneaking suspicion that it might have been an elbow. Marty's elbow. Then Marty whispered, loud enough to make sure Karen could hear, "She's wearing a towel."
Behind his dark glasses, Jim's eyebrows crawled northwards. "A towel?"
"Uh, huh. Looks like a refugee from a Miami beach holiday. It's got a picture of a palm tree and a beach umbrella. Must've been some vacation, huh, Dunbar?"
"Zip it," Karen snapped as she headed back to the shower room to get dressed.
As he listened to Karen's footsteps disappearing down the hall, Jim noticed Hank getting restive. He could feel it through the harness. "What's the matter, boy?" he asked. Hank whined again in response.
"It's gotta be that smell," Marty said. "It's getting worse. What is it?"
"I have no idea," Jim replied, shaking his head. "Where d'you think it's coming from?"
"I dunno. Let's check it out."
Jim had Hank follow Marty as the other detective made his way toward the locker room. The smell became worse, if that were possible. He was just thankful that the heat was off because he was finding that it was taking almost all of his self-control not to gag. Even worse, he had smelled something like this before. He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the sweetly rancid odor as he searched his brain for the memory. Hank whined, straining at the harness.
"What's the matter, Dunbar? Dog afraid I'm gonna find his secret stash of Milkbones?" Marty said and laughed.
Jim shook his head. "No, Marty, I think he's reacting to that dandruff shampoo of yours,"Jim said, mirroring Marty's sarcasm.
Marty stopped short, causing Jim to almost crash into him. "What the?"
“What?” Jim nudged him. “Marty!”
Marty opened his mouth but no words emerged, just a random bunch of syllables.
“It's a man." Karen said and looked at the dirty man huddled in the corner. "A street guy,” she said, dropping her voice.
Marty stepped forward with his handkerchief over his nose. “What you doing here?”
“I found this.” The man held out a bundle toward the three detectives.
The tension rose several hundred notches. “Okay, pal, you just stay where you are, just stay where you are.”
Jim nudged Karen.
“He’s got a grenade," she said. "And a . . . a hand.”
"Whoa!" exclaimed Marty. "I've got a date with a really hot blond that I met a week ago, and I want to live long enough to enjoy it."
"Mister, please, gently put the grenade down," Jim quietly and calmly commanded.
"We either need to run like hell, or somebody needs to inspect it," Karen whispered, as if that would make a difference.
"Okay," Marty responded. "Rock, paper, scissors."
"Mornin', Howie," Lieutenant Fisk said as he strode down the hall toward the homeless man. "What you got there?"
Mutely, the man held out the hand.
"Russo, go get an evidence bag-- what are you staring at?" Fisk laughed and said,"The grenade? Hell, Howie's been carrying that thing around since Vietnam. Haven't you, Howie. None of you Sherlocks notice it's all rusty?"
"I did," Jim said, straightfaced.
Fisk stifled a snort and rapped out, "Bag this, someone. And let's get Howie into Interrogation One, bring him a cup of coffee, and find out where this came from."
After Marty escorted Howie into interview room one, Jim turned to Fisk and asked, “What’s the story with this Howie, boss?”
“Howie? Oh, he’s been around for as long as anyone can remember. The story I heard, he volunteered for ’Nam when he was nineteen, and he was never the same after he came back. Post-traumatic stress, you know?”
Jim nodded. Yeah, Fisk thought, Jim would know about post-traumatic stress. He continued, “People tried to get him some help, but he always ends up back on the streets. Still, I never heard of him being violent.”
“You don’t think – ?”
"No way," Fisk said crisply. "Howard Carstairs wouldn't hurt the proverbial fly."
Jim entered the interrogation room, confidently striding to the side of the table opposite Howie. "Detectives Dunbar and Bettancourt," he said, gesturing to Karen at his heels. The smell he'd identified earlier was stronger in here, encapsulated and concentrated, the smell of habitually unwashed human overlaid by the rank aroma of fear.
Howie gazed at Jim over his coffee. "You're that guy, right?"
"That's me," Jim answered. "Boss tells me you served in the Nam. Where were you stationed?"
"Khe Sahn."
"Jesus," Jim breathed. "So tell me . . .
… about the hand.”
“It was in the bin at the park. I was doing a can collection and . . . there it was, wrapped around the Pepsi can.” Howie sighed.
“What time did you find it?” Karen asked.
Howie made a face and shrugged; he had no idea. “Before I came here. After the sun came up?”
Karen sighed and coughed (the smell really was too much).
“Karen, how about you go get some air freshener?” Jim said quietly.
As soon as she left, Howie reached forward, touched Jim's hand, and whispered, “The hand, I think it belongs to . . . .
Who’s that?” Jim demanded, more forcefully than he’d intended.
Howie recoiled slightly before answering. “There’s this guy,” he began slowly, “he hangs out at the park sometimes. Always has a can of Pepsi in his hand. I haven’t seen him around, the last coupla days. They say he used to be a cop.”
Jim felt a sudden stab of fear in the pit of his stomach and drew in his breath sharply. There were a lot of ex-cops, he told himself. Surely it couldn’t be –
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Post by inuvik on May 25, 2007 23:11:01 GMT -5
OMG--OMG--I can't believe it! I've just waded into the ff pool! The water's fine.  The moment Detective Jim Dunbar entered the squad room that morning he knew something was not right. The room was icy, as though the heating system had suddenly gone on strike during the night, and there was an odd smell in the air. Beside him Hank whined softly, his ears laid back. “Hello?” Jim called out. “Karen? Boss?” Silence. A door banged somewhere in the distance. Suddenly, the air was split by a shrill scream. Quickly, Jim’s hand went to his hip; then, of course, he remembered his gun was at home in the nightstand. “Shit,” he muttered. “What now?” A moment later Karen entered the squad room complaining, "I took a shower and suddenly there was no hot water!" "What's that smell?" Jim asked. "Why do you think I was showering here, as if I didn't already shower at home today?" Karen groaned. "And now I'm freezing my butt off from the icy shower and apparently there is no heating in here either." Jim tried to hide a smile but failed miserably and started laughing, while Karen groaned and moaned about showers and dumpsters and being jinxed. Then Marty arrived. "Is Sonny here? I smell dumpster. Dunbar, you really need to get a better class of--" Marty broke off, mid-sentence, stifled a snort, then said appreciatively, "Karen? You're . . . " "Don't you even think about finishing that sentence!" Karen snarled. "Ooo! Feisty!" said Marty. Jim felt something nudge his arm. He had a sneaking suspicion that it might have been an elbow. Marty's elbow. Then Marty whispered, loud enough to make sure Karen could hear, "She's wearing a towel." Behind his dark glasses, Jim's eyebrows crawled northwards. "A towel?" "Uh, huh. Looks like a refugee from a Miami beach holiday. It's got a picture of a palm tree and a beach umbrella. Must've been some vacation, huh, Dunbar?" "Zip it," Karen snapped as she headed back to the shower room to get dressed. As he listened to Karen's footsteps disappearing down the hall, Jim noticed Hank getting restive. He could feel it through the harness. "What's the matter, boy?" he asked. Hank whined again in response. "It's gotta be that smell," Marty said. "It's getting worse. What is it?" "I have no idea," Jim replied, shaking his head. "Where d'you think it's coming from?" "I dunno. Let's check it out." Jim had Hank follow Marty as the other detective made his way toward the locker room. The smell became worse, if that were possible. He was just thankful that the heat was off because he was finding that it was taking almost all of his self-control not to gag. Even worse, he had smelled something like this before. He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the sweetly rancid odor as he searched his brain for the memory. Hank whined, straining at the harness. "What's the matter, Dunbar? Dog afraid I'm gonna find his secret stash of Milkbones?" Marty said and laughed. Jim shook his head. "No, Marty, I think he's reacting to that dandruff shampoo of yours,"Jim said, mirroring Marty's sarcasm. Marty stopped short, causing Jim to almost crash into him. "What the?" “What?” Jim nudged him. “Marty!” Marty opened his mouth but no words emerged, just a random bunch of syllables. “It's a man." Karen said and looked at the dirty man huddled in the corner. "A street guy,” she said, dropping her voice. Marty stepped forward with his handkerchief over his nose. “What you doing here?” “I found this.” The man held out a bundle toward the three detectives. The tension rose several hundred notches. “Okay, pal, you just stay where you are, just stay where you are.” Jim nudged Karen. “He’s got a grenade," she said. "And a . . . a hand.” "Whoa!" exclaimed Marty. "I've got a date with a really hot blond that I met a week ago, and I want to live long enough to enjoy it." "Mister, please, gently put the grenade down," Jim quietly and calmly commanded. "We either need to run like hell, or somebody needs to inspect it," Karen whispered, as if that would make a difference. "Okay," Marty responded. "Rock, paper, scissors." "Mornin', Howie," Lieutenant Fisk said as he strode down the hall toward the homeless man. "What you got there?" Mutely, the man held out the hand. "Russo, go get an evidence bag-- what are you staring at?" Fisk laughed and said,"The grenade? Hell, Howie's been carrying that thing around since Vietnam. Haven't you, Howie. None of you Sherlocks notice it's all rusty?" "I did," Jim said, straightfaced. Fisk stifled a snort and rapped out, "Bag this, someone. And let's get Howie into Interrogation One, bring him a cup of coffee, and find out where this came from." After Marty escorted Howie into interview room one, Jim turned to Fisk and asked, “What’s the story with this Howie, boss?” “Howie? Oh, he’s been around for as long as anyone can remember. The story I heard, he volunteered for ’Nam when he was nineteen, and he was never the same after he came back. Post-traumatic stress, you know?” Jim nodded. Yeah, Fisk thought, Jim would know about post-traumatic stress. He continued, “People tried to get him some help, but he always ends up back on the streets. Still, I never heard of him being violent.” “You don’t think – ?” "No way," Fisk said crisply. "Howard Carstairs wouldn't hurt the proverbial fly." Jim entered the interrogation room, confidently striding to the side of the table opposite Howie. "Detectives Dunbar and Bettancourt," he said, gesturing to Karen at his heels. The smell he'd identified earlier was stronger in here, encapsulated and concentrated, the smell of habitually unwashed human overlaid by the rank aroma of fear. Howie gazed at Jim over his coffee. "You're that guy, right?" "That's me," Jim answered. "Boss tells me you served in the Nam. Where were you stationed?" "Khe Sahn." "Jesus," Jim breathed. "So tell me . . . … about the hand.” “It was in the bin at the park. I was doing a can collection and . . . there it was, wrapped around the Pepsi can.” Howie sighed. “What time did you find it?” Karen asked. Howie made a face and shrugged; he had no idea. “Before I came here. After the sun came up?” Karen sighed and coughed (the smell really was too much). “Karen, how about you go get some air freshener?” Jim said quietly. As soon as she left, Howie reached forward, touched Jim's hand, and whispered, “The hand, I think it belongs to . . . . Who’s that?” Jim demanded, more forcefully than he’d intended. Howie recoiled slightly before answering. “There’s this guy,” he began slowly, “he hangs out at the park sometimes. Always has a can of Pepsi in his hand. I haven’t seen him around, the last coupla days. They say he used to be a cop.” Jim felt a sudden stab of fear in the pit of his stomach and drew in his breath sharply. There were a lot of ex-cops, he told himself. Surely it couldn’t be – Glen Semple?
"He was a fat guy," Howie said. "Must be all that Pepsi he drank. I think his name was Gary, or something."
"Glen?" Jim asked. "Glen Semple?"
"Yeah, that's it!" exclaimed Howie.
Karen returned with the air freshner and tried to discreetly spray it in the room without Howie noticing. No such luck.
"Look, if it's that painful to be around me, I'm not wasting anymore of my time here!" Howie got up and stormed out of the room. |
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Post by Dreamfire on May 25, 2007 23:52:03 GMT -5
OMG--OMG--I can't believe it! I've just waded into the ff pool! The water's fine. Glen Semple?ROFL!!!!! Oh my Innie that was precious and wonderful and such an excellent bomb drop splash into the pool! |
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Post by bjobsessed on May 25, 2007 23:54:36 GMT -5
Nothing like jumping in with both feet! So cool!
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Post by inuvik on May 26, 2007 8:59:13 GMT -5
Glen Semple?ROFL!!!!! Oh my Innie that was precious and wonderful and such an excellent bomb drop splash into the pool! Why thank you my dear Ashatan! I'm never one to just go with the flow--that's the fun of the game, it may be leading somewhere but others can change it. |
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Post by Deleted on May 26, 2007 9:32:50 GMT -5
Glen Semple?ROFL!!!!! Oh my Innie that was precious and wonderful and such an excellent bomb drop splash into the pool! Why thank you my dear Ashatan! I'm never one to just go with the flow--that's the fun of the game, it may be leading somewhere but others can change it. I love that Ash and I call you "innie" - LOL!! HEHE! |
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Post by maggiethecat on May 26, 2007 10:20:24 GMT -5
The moment Detective Jim Dunbar entered the squad room that morning he knew something was not right. The room was icy, as though the heating system had suddenly gone on strike during the night, and there was an odd smell in the air. Beside him Hank whined softly, his ears laid back.
“Hello?” Jim called out. “Karen? Boss?”
Silence. A door banged somewhere in the distance.
Suddenly, the air was split by a shrill scream.
Quickly, Jim’s hand went to his hip; then, of course, he remembered his gun was at home in the nightstand. “Shit,” he muttered. “What now?”
A moment later Karen entered the squad room complaining, "I took a shower and suddenly there was no hot water!"
"What's that smell?" Jim asked.
"Why do you think I was showering here, as if I didn't already shower at home today?" Karen groaned. "And now I'm freezing my butt off from the icy shower and apparently there is no heating in here either."
Jim tried to hide a smile but failed miserably and started laughing, while Karen groaned and moaned about showers and dumpsters and being jinxed.
Then Marty arrived. "Is Sonny here? I smell dumpster. Dunbar, you really need to get a better class of--" Marty broke off, mid-sentence, stifled a snort, then said appreciatively, "Karen? You're . . . "
"Don't you even think about finishing that sentence!" Karen snarled.
"Ooo! Feisty!" said Marty.
Jim felt something nudge his arm. He had a sneaking suspicion that it might have been an elbow. Marty's elbow. Then Marty whispered, loud enough to make sure Karen could hear, "She's wearing a towel."
Behind his dark glasses, Jim's eyebrows crawled northwards. "A towel?"
"Uh, huh. Looks like a refugee from a Miami beach holiday. It's got a picture of a palm tree and a beach umbrella. Must've been some vacation, huh, Dunbar?"
"Zip it," Karen snapped as she headed back to the shower room to get dressed.
As he listened to Karen's footsteps disappearing down the hall, Jim noticed Hank getting restive. He could feel it through the harness. "What's the matter, boy?" he asked. Hank whined again in response.
"It's gotta be that smell," Marty said. "It's getting worse. What is it?"
"I have no idea," Jim replied, shaking his head. "Where d'you think it's coming from?"
"I dunno. Let's check it out."
Jim had Hank follow Marty as the other detective made his way toward the locker room. The smell became worse, if that were possible. He was just thankful that the heat was off because he was finding that it was taking almost all of his self-control not to gag. Even worse, he had smelled something like this before. He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the sweetly rancid odor as he searched his brain for the memory. Hank whined, straining at the harness.
"What's the matter, Dunbar? Dog afraid I'm gonna find his secret stash of Milkbones?" Marty said and laughed.
Jim shook his head. "No, Marty, I think he's reacting to that dandruff shampoo of yours,"Jim said, mirroring Marty's sarcasm.
Marty stopped short, causing Jim to almost crash into him. "What the?"
“What?” Jim nudged him. “Marty!”
Marty opened his mouth but no words emerged, just a random bunch of syllables.
“It's a man." Karen said and looked at the dirty man huddled in the corner. "A street guy,” she said, dropping her voice.
Marty stepped forward with his handkerchief over his nose. “What you doing here?”
“I found this.” The man held out a bundle toward the three detectives.
The tension rose several hundred notches. “Okay, pal, you just stay where you are, just stay where you are.”
Jim nudged Karen.
“He’s got a grenade," she said. "And a . . . a hand.”
"Whoa!" exclaimed Marty. "I've got a date with a really hot blond that I met a week ago, and I want to live long enough to enjoy it."
"Mister, please, gently put the grenade down," Jim quietly and calmly commanded.
"We either need to run like hell, or somebody needs to inspect it," Karen whispered, as if that would make a difference.
"Okay," Marty responded. "Rock, paper, scissors."
"Mornin', Howie," Lieutenant Fisk said as he strode down the hall toward the homeless man. "What you got there?"
Mutely, the man held out the hand.
"Russo, go get an evidence bag-- what are you staring at?" Fisk laughed and said,"The grenade? Hell, Howie's been carrying that thing around since Vietnam. Haven't you, Howie. None of you Sherlocks notice it's all rusty?"
"I did," Jim said, straightfaced.
Fisk stifled a snort and rapped out, "Bag this, someone. And let's get Howie into Interrogation One, bring him a cup of coffee, and find out where this came from."
After Marty escorted Howie into interview room one, Jim turned to Fisk and asked, “What’s the story with this Howie, boss?”
“Howie? Oh, he’s been around for as long as anyone can remember. The story I heard, he volunteered for ’Nam when he was nineteen, and he was never the same after he came back. Post-traumatic stress, you know?”
Jim nodded. Yeah, Fisk thought, Jim would know about post-traumatic stress. He continued, “People tried to get him some help, but he always ends up back on the streets. Still, I never heard of him being violent.”
“You don’t think – ?”
"No way," Fisk said crisply. "Howard Carstairs wouldn't hurt the proverbial fly."
Jim entered the interrogation room, confidently striding to the side of the table opposite Howie. "Detectives Dunbar and Bettancourt," he said, gesturing to Karen at his heels. The smell he'd identified earlier was stronger in here, encapsulated and concentrated, the smell of habitually unwashed human overlaid by the rank aroma of fear.
Howie gazed at Jim over his coffee. "You're that guy, right?"
"That's me," Jim answered. "Boss tells me you served in the Nam. Where were you stationed?"
"Khe Sahn."
"Jesus," Jim breathed. "So tell me . . .
. . . about the hand.”
“It was in the bin at the park. I was doing a can collection and . . . there it was, wrapped around the Pepsi can.” Howie sighed.
“What time did you find it?” Karen asked.
Howie made a face and shrugged; he had no idea. “Before I came here. After the sun came up?”
Karen sighed and coughed (the smell really was too much).
“Karen, how about you go get some air freshener?” Jim said quietly.
As soon as she left, Howie reached forward, touched Jim's hand, and whispered, “The hand, I think it belongs to . . . .
"Who’s that?” Jim demanded, more forcefully than he’d intended.
Howie recoiled slightly before answering. “There’s this guy,” he began slowly, “he hangs out at the park sometimes. Always has a can of Pepsi in his hand. I haven’t seen him around, the last coupla days. They say he used to be a cop.”
Jim felt a sudden stab of fear in the pit of his stomach and drew in his breath sharply. There were a lot of ex-cops, he told himself. Surely it couldn’t be –
Glen Semple?
"He was a fat guy," Howie said. "Must be all that Pepsi he drank. I think his name was Gary, or something."
"Glen?" Jim asked. "Glen Semple?"
"Yeah, that's it!" exclaimed Howie.
Karen returned with the air freshner and tried to discreetly spray it in the room without Howie noticing. No such luck.
"Look, if it's that painful to be around me, I'm not wasting anymore of my time here!" Howie got up and stormed out of the room.
"Go after him," Jim snapped at Karen. "Now."
"Great move, Karen," he muttered after she was gone. "Insult the only lead we got." He took off his sunglasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, frowning. Could it really be Detective Semple, the "fat hump" who had been Terry Jansen's last partner? He'd retired after the Rivington Street shooting that had forced Terry off The Job, and disappeared from sight. Or so he'd heard -- Glen wasn't exactly someone he would have befriended, sharing a beer at the end of the day.
The door banged open. "We're back," Karen panted.
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Post by Colorado girl on May 26, 2007 15:05:25 GMT -5
The moment Detective Jim Dunbar entered the squad room that morning he knew something was not right. The room was icy, as though the heating system had suddenly gone on strike during the night, and there was an odd smell in the air. Beside him Hank whined softly, his ears laid back.
“Hello?” Jim called out. “Karen? Boss?”
Silence. A door banged somewhere in the distance.
Suddenly, the air was split by a shrill scream.
Quickly, Jim’s hand went to his hip; then, of course, he remembered his gun was at home in the nightstand. “Shit,” he muttered. “What now?”
A moment later Karen entered the squad room complaining, "I took a shower and suddenly there was no hot water!"
"What's that smell?" Jim asked.
"Why do you think I was showering here, as if I didn't already shower at home today?" Karen groaned. "And now I'm freezing my butt off from the icy shower and apparently there is no heating in here either."
Jim tried to hide a smile but failed miserably and started laughing, while Karen groaned and moaned about showers and dumpsters and being jinxed.
Then Marty arrived. "Is Sonny here? I smell dumpster. Dunbar, you really need to get a better class of--" Marty broke off, mid-sentence, stifled a snort, then said appreciatively, "Karen? You're . . . "
"Don't you even think about finishing that sentence!" Karen snarled.
"Ooo! Feisty!" said Marty.
Jim felt something nudge his arm. He had a sneaking suspicion that it might have been an elbow. Marty's elbow. Then Marty whispered, loud enough to make sure Karen could hear, "She's wearing a towel."
Behind his dark glasses, Jim's eyebrows crawled northwards. "A towel?"
"Uh, huh. Looks like a refugee from a Miami beach holiday. It's got a picture of a palm tree and a beach umbrella. Must've been some vacation, huh, Dunbar?"
"Zip it," Karen snapped as she headed back to the shower room to get dressed.
As he listened to Karen's footsteps disappearing down the hall, Jim noticed Hank getting restive. He could feel it through the harness. "What's the matter, boy?" he asked. Hank whined again in response.
"It's gotta be that smell," Marty said. "It's getting worse. What is it?"
"I have no idea," Jim replied, shaking his head. "Where d'you think it's coming from?"
"I dunno. Let's check it out."
Jim had Hank follow Marty as the other detective made his way toward the locker room. The smell became worse, if that were possible. He was just thankful that the heat was off because he was finding that it was taking almost all of his self-control not to gag. Even worse, he had smelled something like this before. He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the sweetly rancid odor as he searched his brain for the memory. Hank whined, straining at the harness.
"What's the matter, Dunbar? Dog afraid I'm gonna find his secret stash of Milkbones?" Marty said and laughed.
Jim shook his head. "No, Marty, I think he's reacting to that dandruff shampoo of yours,"Jim said, mirroring Marty's sarcasm.
Marty stopped short, causing Jim to almost crash into him. "What the?"
“What?” Jim nudged him. “Marty!”
Marty opened his mouth but no words emerged, just a random bunch of syllables.
“It's a man." Karen said and looked at the dirty man huddled in the corner. "A street guy,” she said, dropping her voice.
Marty stepped forward with his handkerchief over his nose. “What you doing here?”
“I found this.” The man held out a bundle toward the three detectives.
The tension rose several hundred notches. “Okay, pal, you just stay where you are, just stay where you are.”
Jim nudged Karen.
“He’s got a grenade," she said. "And a . . . a hand.”
"Whoa!" exclaimed Marty. "I've got a date with a really hot blond that I met a week ago, and I want to live long enough to enjoy it."
"Mister, please, gently put the grenade down," Jim quietly and calmly commanded.
"We either need to run like hell, or somebody needs to inspect it," Karen whispered, as if that would make a difference.
"Okay," Marty responded. "Rock, paper, scissors."
"Mornin', Howie," Lieutenant Fisk said as he strode down the hall toward the homeless man. "What you got there?"
Mutely, the man held out the hand.
"Russo, go get an evidence bag-- what are you staring at?" Fisk laughed and said,"The grenade? Hell, Howie's been carrying that thing around since Vietnam. Haven't you, Howie. None of you Sherlocks notice it's all rusty?"
"I did," Jim said, straightfaced.
Fisk stifled a snort and rapped out, "Bag this, someone. And let's get Howie into Interrogation One, bring him a cup of coffee, and find out where this came from."
After Marty escorted Howie into interview room one, Jim turned to Fisk and asked, “What’s the story with this Howie, boss?”
“Howie? Oh, he’s been around for as long as anyone can remember. The story I heard, he volunteered for ’Nam when he was nineteen, and he was never the same after he came back. Post-traumatic stress, you know?”
Jim nodded. Yeah, Fisk thought, Jim would know about post-traumatic stress. He continued, “People tried to get him some help, but he always ends up back on the streets. Still, I never heard of him being violent.”
“You don’t think – ?”
"No way," Fisk said crisply. "Howard Carstairs wouldn't hurt the proverbial fly."
Jim entered the interrogation room, confidently striding to the side of the table opposite Howie. "Detectives Dunbar and Bettancourt," he said, gesturing to Karen at his heels. The smell he'd identified earlier was stronger in here, encapsulated and concentrated, the smell of habitually unwashed human overlaid by the rank aroma of fear.
Howie gazed at Jim over his coffee. "You're that guy, right?"
"That's me," Jim answered. "Boss tells me you served in the Nam. Where were you stationed?"
"Khe Sahn."
"Jesus," Jim breathed. "So tell me . . .
. . . about the hand.”
“It was in the bin at the park. I was doing a can collection and . . . there it was, wrapped around the Pepsi can.” Howie sighed.
“What time did you find it?” Karen asked.
Howie made a face and shrugged; he had no idea. “Before I came here. After the sun came up?”
Karen sighed and coughed (the smell really was too much).
“Karen, how about you go get some air freshener?” Jim said quietly.
As soon as she left, Howie reached forward, touched Jim's hand, and whispered, “The hand, I think it belongs to . . . .
"Who’s that?” Jim demanded, more forcefully than he’d intended.
Howie recoiled slightly before answering. “There’s this guy,” he began slowly, “he hangs out at the park sometimes. Always has a can of Pepsi in his hand. I haven’t seen him around, the last coupla days. They say he used to be a cop.”
Jim felt a sudden stab of fear in the pit of his stomach and drew in his breath sharply. There were a lot of ex-cops, he told himself. Surely it couldn’t be –
Glen Semple?
"He was a fat guy," Howie said. "Must be all that Pepsi he drank. I think his name was Gary, or something."
"Glen?" Jim asked. "Glen Semple?"
"Yeah, that's it!" exclaimed Howie.
Karen returned with the air freshner and tried to discreetly spray it in the room without Howie noticing. No such luck.
"Look, if it's that painful to be around me, I'm not wasting anymore of my time here!" Howie got up and stormed out of the room.
"Go after him," Jim snapped at Karen. "Now."
"Great move, Karen," he muttered after she was gone. "Insult the only lead we got." He took off his sunglasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, frowning. Could it really be Detective Semple, the "fat hump" who had been Terry Jansen's last partner? He'd retired after the Rivington Street shooting that had forced Terry off The Job, and disappeared from sight. Or so he'd heard -- Glen wasn't exactly someone he would have befriended, sharing a beer at the end of the day.
The door banged open. "We're back," Karen panted.
Before Howie and Karen could even sit down, Jim began to apologize for the events that had just
taken place.
"Howie, my partner and I are very sorry that we offended you earlier. "
Howie answered," Hey man, no sweat. I'm just crabby and tired because someone ripped off my coat
last night. That's what I was doing at the dumpster, to see if there was something there to
keep warm. You know, man, it's hard to sleep when you're cold."
"Absolutely", Jim replied.
Karen added," Is there anything we can do to help with that?"
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Post by bjobsessed on May 26, 2007 20:35:46 GMT -5
The moment Detective Jim Dunbar entered the squad room that morning he knew something was not right. The room was icy, as though the heating system had suddenly gone on strike during the night, and there was an odd smell in the air. Beside him Hank whined softly, his ears laid back.
“Hello?” Jim called out. “Karen? Boss?”
Silence. A door banged somewhere in the distance.
Suddenly, the air was split by a shrill scream.
Quickly, Jim’s hand went to his hip; then, of course, he remembered his gun was at home in the nightstand. “Shit,” he muttered. “What now?”
A moment later Karen entered the squad room complaining, "I took a shower and suddenly there was no hot water!"
"What's that smell?" Jim asked.
"Why do you think I was showering here, as if I didn't already shower at home today?" Karen groaned. "And now I'm freezing my butt off from the icy shower and apparently there is no heating in here either."
Jim tried to hide a smile but failed miserably and started laughing, while Karen groaned and moaned about showers and dumpsters and being jinxed.
Then Marty arrived. "Is Sonny here? I smell dumpster. Dunbar, you really need to get a better class of--" Marty broke off, mid-sentence, stifled a snort, then said appreciatively, "Karen? You're . . . "
"Don't you even think about finishing that sentence!" Karen snarled.
"Ooo! Feisty!" said Marty.
Jim felt something nudge his arm. He had a sneaking suspicion that it might have been an elbow. Marty's elbow. Then Marty whispered, loud enough to make sure Karen could hear, "She's wearing a towel."
Behind his dark glasses, Jim's eyebrows crawled northwards. "A towel?"
"Uh, huh. Looks like a refugee from a Miami beach holiday. It's got a picture of a palm tree and a beach umbrella. Must've been some vacation, huh, Dunbar?"
"Zip it," Karen snapped as she headed back to the shower room to get dressed.
As he listened to Karen's footsteps disappearing down the hall, Jim noticed Hank getting restive. He could feel it through the harness. "What's the matter, boy?" he asked. Hank whined again in response.
"It's gotta be that smell," Marty said. "It's getting worse. What is it?"
"I have no idea," Jim replied, shaking his head. "Where d'you think it's coming from?"
"I dunno. Let's check it out."
Jim had Hank follow Marty as the other detective made his way toward the locker room. The smell became worse, if that were possible. He was just thankful that the heat was off because he was finding that it was taking almost all of his self-control not to gag. Even worse, he had smelled something like this before. He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the sweetly rancid odor as he searched his brain for the memory. Hank whined, straining at the harness.
"What's the matter, Dunbar? Dog afraid I'm gonna find his secret stash of Milkbones?" Marty said and laughed.
Jim shook his head. "No, Marty, I think he's reacting to that dandruff shampoo of yours,"Jim said, mirroring Marty's sarcasm.
Marty stopped short, causing Jim to almost crash into him. "What the?"
“What?” Jim nudged him. “Marty!”
Marty opened his mouth but no words emerged, just a random bunch of syllables.
“It's a man." Karen said and looked at the dirty man huddled in the corner. "A street guy,” she said, dropping her voice.
Marty stepped forward with his handkerchief over his nose. “What you doing here?”
“I found this.” The man held out a bundle toward the three detectives.
The tension rose several hundred notches. “Okay, pal, you just stay where you are, just stay where you are.”
Jim nudged Karen.
“He’s got a grenade," she said. "And a . . . a hand.”
"Whoa!" exclaimed Marty. "I've got a date with a really hot blond that I met a week ago, and I want to live long enough to enjoy it."
"Mister, please, gently put the grenade down," Jim quietly and calmly commanded.
"We either need to run like hell, or somebody needs to inspect it," Karen whispered, as if that would make a difference.
"Okay," Marty responded. "Rock, paper, scissors."
"Mornin', Howie," Lieutenant Fisk said as he strode down the hall toward the homeless man. "What you got there?"
Mutely, the man held out the hand.
"Russo, go get an evidence bag-- what are you staring at?" Fisk laughed and said,"The grenade? Hell, Howie's been carrying that thing around since Vietnam. Haven't you, Howie. None of you Sherlocks notice it's all rusty?"
"I did," Jim said, straightfaced.
Fisk stifled a snort and rapped out, "Bag this, someone. And let's get Howie into Interrogation One, bring him a cup of coffee, and find out where this came from."
After Marty escorted Howie into interview room one, Jim turned to Fisk and asked, “What’s the story with this Howie, boss?”
“Howie? Oh, he’s been around for as long as anyone can remember. The story I heard, he volunteered for ’Nam when he was nineteen, and he was never the same after he came back. Post-traumatic stress, you know?”
Jim nodded. Yeah, Fisk thought, Jim would know about post-traumatic stress. He continued, “People tried to get him some help, but he always ends up back on the streets. Still, I never heard of him being violent.”
“You don’t think – ?”
"No way," Fisk said crisply. "Howard Carstairs wouldn't hurt the proverbial fly."
Jim entered the interrogation room, confidently striding to the side of the table opposite Howie. "Detectives Dunbar and Bettancourt," he said, gesturing to Karen at his heels. The smell he'd identified earlier was stronger in here, encapsulated and concentrated, the smell of habitually unwashed human overlaid by the rank aroma of fear.
Howie gazed at Jim over his coffee. "You're that guy, right?"
"That's me," Jim answered. "Boss tells me you served in the Nam. Where were you stationed?"
"Khe Sahn."
"Jesus," Jim breathed. "So tell me . . .
. . . about the hand.”
“It was in the bin at the park. I was doing a can collection and . . . there it was, wrapped around the Pepsi can.” Howie sighed.
“What time did you find it?” Karen asked.
Howie made a face and shrugged; he had no idea. “Before I came here. After the sun came up?”
Karen sighed and coughed (the smell really was too much).
“Karen, how about you go get some air freshener?” Jim said quietly.
As soon as she left, Howie reached forward, touched Jim's hand, and whispered, “The hand, I think it belongs to . . . .
"Who’s that?” Jim demanded, more forcefully than he’d intended.
Howie recoiled slightly before answering. “There’s this guy,” he began slowly, “he hangs out at the park sometimes. Always has a can of Pepsi in his hand. I haven’t seen him around, the last coupla days. They say he used to be a cop.”
Jim felt a sudden stab of fear in the pit of his stomach and drew in his breath sharply. There were a lot of ex-cops, he told himself. Surely it couldn’t be –
Glen Semple?
"He was a fat guy," Howie said. "Must be all that Pepsi he drank. I think his name was Gary, or something."
"Glen?" Jim asked. "Glen Semple?"
"Yeah, that's it!" exclaimed Howie.
Karen returned with the air freshner and tried to discreetly spray it in the room without Howie noticing. No such luck.
"Look, if it's that painful to be around me, I'm not wasting anymore of my time here!" Howie got up and stormed out of the room.
"Go after him," Jim snapped at Karen. "Now."
"Great move, Karen," he muttered after she was gone. "Insult the only lead we got." He took off his sunglasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, frowning. Could it really be Detective Semple, the "fat hump" who had been Terry Jansen's last partner? He'd retired after the Rivington Street shooting that had forced Terry off The Job, and disappeared from sight. Or so he'd heard -- Glen wasn't exactly someone he would have befriended, sharing a beer at the end of the day.
The door banged open. "We're back," Karen panted.
Before Howie and Karen could even sit down, Jim began to apologize for the events that had just
taken place.
"Howie, my partner and I are very sorry that we offended you earlier. "
Howie answered," Hey man, no sweat. I'm just crabby and tired because someone ripped off my coat
last night. That's what I was doing at the dumpster, to see if there was something there to
keep warm. You know, man, it's hard to sleep when you're cold."
"Absolutely", Jim replied.
Karen added," Is there anything we can do to help with that?"
Howie hesitated, “Uh…well…,” Uncomfortable silence followed but Karen noticed that he couldn’t take his eyes from Jim’s coat.
“Jim,” she whispered, “he’s eyeing your coat. Give it.
Jim looked incredulous. “Karen, have you lost your mind? This is my coat—my burberry coat.
“You want to solve the case? Giving him your coat will go a long way in getting him to trust us. Give it to him—now!
Jim sighed. No matter what, Glen was a cop, and if it was his body they found, he had to do whatever it took to solve the case. “Here Howie….
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