Battle Creek:
Wolf the Door

My one great talent lies in making those who wrong me suffer horribly.
—Archilochus

Chapter 1

When the vile combination of body odor, urine, and vomit finally hit Milt, it should have ripped him back into the land of consciousness. Instead, he had to struggle to find consciousness and it was more akin to a hung over frat boy looking for his clothes.

Finally he was conscious enough to look around him. The room he was in was dark and he could see the forms of other people. The people were everywhere in the room, outnumbering the furniture by two to one. Milt wanted to move, he really did, but he felt weak, lightheaded, his lips were numb making it difficult to wet his dry mouth, and his stomach growled angrily about lacking food to work on.

Slowly Milt moved into a sitting position and that was a mistake. His head immediately started throbbing to his heartbeat and a violent wave of nausea threatened to make him vomit. He leaned over his legs, waiting for both to pass. Once the nausea passed, he slowly stood, only then realizing he was wearing just a T-shirt and boxers – he didn't even have socks or shoes. Another look around him gave him no clues as to where he was, whose house he was in, or who all these people were. But judging from all the evidence of drugs, used syringe and needles scattered everywhere, and wasted bodies, he was guessing that somehow he had ended up in a drug house. But how he got here confounded him.

Milt started walking. Several times he almost stepped on used needles and nearly fell trying to avoid them. He had to step around human waste, which added to the rancid smell of the house. Finally he spotted a door that led out of the wretched place and he made his way to it. It opened up onto a sagging porch that looked out on a sad, dilapidated neighborhood. Judging from the cool air and liveliness of the birds, Milt guessed it was morning, but none of that told him if he was still in Battle Creek

He walked down the rickety steps and across the weed choked yard to the front gate. Milt looked both ways, unsure which direction to start walking. He spotted a kid wearing a backpack walking down the street.

"Hey!" Milt called.

The kid just glanced at him.

"Hey! Is this Battle Creek? Am I in Battle Creek?"

"Don't talk to me."

"Just tell me if I'm in Battle Creek."

"You're in Battle Creek. Leave me alone druggie." The kid ran off.

He hoped the kid wasn't lying. He stopped to hold the fence as dizziness and nausea swept over him again. Once the feelings passed, he started walking, hoping it was the right direction.

Russ kept glancing into the FBI Field Office across the hall. After having left Milt ten dozen voicemails, with progressively well-chosen words, and six more with his secretary, Russ was quickly losing patience with the golden FBI agent. His terse and less than professional attitude finally wore out Milt's secretary cordial patience and they got into a verbal spat over his last message. The fight had jumped Russ' grump meter straight to 'rip a new one' and when he saw Milt streak past and into the FBI office, his grump moved it dangerously close to the 'I need a blunt object to throw' mark.

He stormed out of the squad room and into the FBI office.

"He's here now," Milt's secretary told him, "but give him a few minutes." Although she didn't even try to stop Russ, or look away from the paperwork she was filling out.

"You think the dead guy got a few minutes?" Russ snapped at her as he walked past.

Russ burst into Milt's office and stopped short. There was something very off in Milt's office and it set off Russ' detective alarm. The first thing he noticed was the slightly greasy hair that told Milt had missed a shower that morning. That had happened before when they had been working late hours and early mornings on a case, but he didn't even know they had a case right now, so why would he have missed a shower? There was also his suit: it was the same suit from yesterday, with wrinkles. Milt never wore the same suit twice a week, and they were always neat and pressed. Throw in the fact he had never been late without calling a single day since he'd come to Battle Creek, but today he hadn't called and he was two hours late. Or maybe Milt had just gotten lucky and Russ was reading too much into the signs. Russ suddenly brushed all that aside; there was a killer out there and did he really care why Milt looked like a mess?

Milt was doing something in front of him that not even the opening door distracted him from and kept his back to the door.

"We have a body," Russ told him.

"Leave the address. I'll meet you there."

"I did. For the last two hours. He's in the morgue now. Where the hell have you been?"

"I was tied up with a personal mat—" Milt paused. "Personal matter."

"So your personal matter trumps a dead guy?"

Milt didn't answer.

"Didn't you wear that suit yesterday?"

"Does Meredith have the preliminary done?" Milt asked.

"Yeah. She had it done an hour ago. When you weren't here."

"I'll be there in a couple of minutes."

Milt finished whatever he was doing and bent over as he turned to reach under his desk. Russ heard something plunk into his empty trash can, and when he stood up, two lower buttons on his shirt were unbuttoned. What the hell had he been doing? Milt button his shirt and tucked it in, then buttoned his jacket. Russ turned his attention to Milt's face, and found plenty that should concern him. Milt was perspiring despite how cool the office was, he was pale, and looked like he might vomit any moment. Russ' eyes traveled down to Milt's hands that tremored lightly. All these signs could mean Milt was sick, scared, or something worse.

"You look like shit. What happened to you this morning?"

"It's been a rough morning and it was personal. I'll meet you at the morgue, Russ."

He knew that tone. That was Milt's overtly 'get out of my office now' politeness. Fine. Russ decided the dead guy was more important, so he left a rumpled, strange behaving Milt to sort out his 'personal matter.'

He had a killer to catch, Milt could do all the damned sorting he well wanted.

Russ and Meredith's verbal combat was interrupted when Milt walked into the morgue. He looked a lot less frazzled than he had thirty minutes ago, but his rumpled suit told Russ he hadn't imagined the strange behavior from earlier.

Meredith didn't notice anything. She smiled sweetly at Milt, basking in a man she had a huge crush on - even if she knew it would never work.

"How are you today, Milt?" she chirped.

Russ glanced at him when he lied, "I'm doing well today, Meredith." Milt glanced at Russ. He didn't acknowledge the suspicious look on Russ' face, and instead turned back to Meredith, asking, "Have I missed anything?"

"Aside from Russ being an ass as usual?" she asked, shooting Russ daggers.

Milt diverted the brewing spat between the two, asking. "What things has the body told you?"

She walked over to the exam table where Russ was standing, and had been arguing over. She wasn't about to make it easy for him to get information about this victim – but Milt was another story.

"He was shot twice, once in the back of the skull and once in his lower back. Whoever shot him was quite the marksman, too. It logged in his spine and would have paralyzed him on the spot. I've sent bullets off to see if we can match them," she told Milt. "He had enough drugs on him to fund a small cartel. But the odd thing was he was clutching a watch in his hand. They couldn't collect it at the scene because rigor mortis had set in and I had to break the bones to get it out."

"May I see it?" Milt asked at the same time Russ berated, "And you're just now mentioning this?"

She smiled, telling Milt, "Of course you can."

She retrieved the bagged watch and held it out to Milt. Russ snatched it away before he could take the bag and she glared at him. He ignored her. Milt surprised them both when he pulled the bag away from Russ.

"That's strange," Milt said.

"It's a watch," Russ told him. "People do still wear them, you know."

"It strange because it looks just like one I have."

"I'm sure lots of people own the type of watch you have, along with your suits, shoes, underwear…"

Milt smiled, "Maybe. I misplaced mine a few months ago and haven't been able to find. It belonged to my great-grandfather, and he wore it in the Revolutionary War. Although mine had this crack…" Milt stopped as his finger traced a crack on the face of the watch.

Russ looked up at Milt's face. Milt looked like he was seeing a ghost even as he stared intensely at the watch. He turned the watch over several times in his hands. What was he looking for on the watch?

He came out of his trance suddenly. "Meredith, be sure the lab swabs this for DNA" Milt handed her the watch back. "Did he have any I.D.?"

"I don't need an I.D." Russ answered. "His name is Corey Mansfield. He's a pain in the ass drug dealer that I can't keep in jail or off the streets."

"He's dead now. You're job here is done," Meredith quipped.

Russ sneered at her. She glared back.

"What kind of drugs?" Milt asked.

"If it's hit the streets, he's dealt it. I'm not surprised to see him in the morgue."

"He wasn't very likable?"

"He was well liked. In fact, it was his buyers that usually bailed him out of jail, so he could go on dealing to them."

Milt smiled. "Russ, you liked this guy."

"I did not!"

Milt smiled more. Even Meredith saw through Russ' lie.

"I did not like him. He just… He wouldn't sell to kids, ever. And he would snitch on anyone who did. I respected his morals."

"So maybe we're looking at a rival dealer?"

"Possible."

"Let me know when you have a list of suspects."

Russ watched him leave, before he turned back to Meredith. "Was he acting weird to you?"

"Milt? No. I can't say the same for you, but then, you always act weird, weird-o."

She turned her back on him and went to work on something. Russ heaved an annoyed sigh and walked out.