As he lit his fifth (or was it his sixth?) cigarette of the evening, Detecive Strohm looked again at the note-tabbed and well-worn file on the tabletop in front of him:
"...Subject was attacked by what was first assumed a single assailant.
Subsequent dental castings show that not only were there four seperate attackers, but that the bitemarks left in Subject's face, neck, abdomen, and thighs were human in origin. Depth of bites, which left scorings on the bones, and the additional report that forensic crime scene investigators were unable to locate any traces of the victim's tissue in the area in immediate and nearby vicinites, has lead to the conclusion by this examiner that the flesh of the victim was ingested."
Strohm's attention was once again drawn to the handwritten note at the bottom of the page: "Then why the hell is Public Relations telling everyone that these people are being attacked by wild dogs?"
"You looking at that file again, buddy?", Strohm's partner Williams said as he sat down across from him. "You know that the chief said that they were isolated incidents, and that there hasn't been an attack in over a month. Not since that old mansion burned to the ground out there in the hills. Like he said, 'they were probably living in the old place, and got caught in the blaze.' Why isn't that good enough for you?"
"Look, our job isn't just accepting what is 'good enough', ok? It's finding out what happened before, during, and afterwards, alright?" Strohms said for at least the hundredth time.
"Here we go again, with that whole 'Mulder Routine' of yours. Jeez, Dan, I'm telling you, if you get too wrapped up in that closed case, and yes, Dan, it IS closed, you're going to give yourself an ulcer. Besides, we've got those vagrant complaints to take care of, and if the chief catches you with that file, you know he's going to suspend you. And I hate to say it buddy, but you know Irons is looking for a reason to can your ass", Williams exhaled as he stretched his arms to the edges of the booth.
"Well Irons can go to hell, for all I care. There was definitely something weird going on up there, and I don't think that just because there was a fire that all the problems are going to magically just disappear. And look, I got the briefing already about the vag's complaints, and I know that they're valid, but goddamit, I have a hunch, a good, old-fashioned hunch, that there is more to this than they let on", Strohms said, leaning forward, as if he were afraid that the ever-elusive 'someone' would overhear what they were saying.
"OK, OK, I'm cutting you off right there, pal. I'm not going to get into this 'There's a cover-up going on at the precinct!' conversation again. For God's sake, Dan,
let--it--go", Williams said as he turned to tell the nearest waitress that he wanted his usual: coffee with more sugar and cream in it than actual coffee.
Just as he got the attention of the cute Hispanic girl that he'd been eyeing for the last few nights, there was a call over their new division-wide communicators (provided by the Umbrella Corporation, at a neglible charge, of course):
"HQ, this is 3202, responding to that drunk and disorderly, I am now at the location.
There are two, no, make that three, I say again, three subjects in the middle of the street. There appears to be a fourth subject, male, unconscious, in the center of their group. Request that additional units be dispatched to the location. I say again, I request that additional units be dispatched to the location."
"Should we go help? He's only about two blocks from here. You know that those jackasses can get pretty physical when you try to break up their fun," Strohms said to Williams as the waitress bashfully approached their table. Apparently, Williams' interest wasn't one-sided.
"Are you serious, Dan? That's patrolman territory. Let the patrolmen handle it. For Chrissakes, I'm a Detective!". Williams stressed this last word, in an attempt to get a bit of an appreciative reaction from the waitress.