Note: See the last chapter for the credit disclaimers.

Forward

I bet you never thought I'd finish this, Roger, but here it is. It goes without saying that it is for your eyes only. Not that anybody outside of the city would know who most of these people are; but I think I would have been more circumspect if I wanted anyone else to read this. Please forgive the format: I had intended to write just the facts, but the story sort of ran away with me, so you can expect an invented speech or two.

Also, there's a photo I wanted to include in this e-mail, but your service doesn't accept attachments. Just enter "side chair" and "mountvernon. org" in a search engine; the first link returned will include something very close to the primary piece of evidence in the case.

Chapter 1

It was a cold, dark morning, late in the winter. The tan Plymouth crept slowly around the curves of the parking garage before sliding into its accustomed spot, a trail of white exhaust creeping behind it. After the engine was turned off, the whole car shook, twice, as it lost the fight against the encroaching chill in the air.

The occupants of the car sat there for a few moments, the driver nervously, the two passengers with a growing sense of satisfaction.

"Well," the driver said slowly, "we're here." The first thing you noticed about her (in most cases, the only thing) was the uniform of a police officer. She was a brunette, fast approaching middle age. Her attention was on the man to her right.

"It hasn't changed," the man said, looking straight ahead. His brown hair was somewhat streaked with gray and he wore a tan business suit under his winter coat that had been out of business fashion for at least a decade, with a matching fedora in his lap. He leaned forward to take in more of the city through the windshield of the car. "I can't believe it hasn't changed."

The other passenger, sitting behind the man, merely barked, which was to be expected, as he was an English bulldog, sitting up proudly despite (or perhaps because of) the hand-me-down blue pullover sweater he was wearing.

"Plato's right," the man laughed. "We need to get on with this."

"Right, Uncle," the woman replied, jumping out of the car and racing around to open the door for the older man before he had the chance to let himself out. They both helped the dog Plato out and onto a leash. The dog stood on the frozen concrete for a few seconds, its legs shaking slightly as it nerved itself to the cold. The man underwent a similar process, but he hid the transition by carefully placing the fedora on his head just so.

In the meantime, the woman had gotten a backpack out the trunk of the car and put it on. "I can walk you to the station, Uncle Don..." she began.

"Don't even think of it. Go out there and get your exercise. A dispatcher has to get some at every opportunity. We'll be fine."

The woman didn't need much encouraging. "I'll see you at the station," she said. The man and dog followed her out of the parking structure and across the nearby intersection, then watched her jog into the park before following at a more leisurely pace.

Fifteen minutes later, they were both exhausted. It was a big park.

They stopped at a clearing near a huge oak tree. The man swept the snow from a park bench before sitting down. He tied the dog's leash to a railing before removing his hat, grabbing his handkerchief and mopping his brow. The breaths of both man and dog came out looking like billows of steam.

"Well, Plato," the man said wryly, "I guess this proves that playing 'armchair detective' for your retirement isn't good for you. We'll rest for a bit, and then we'll be there before you know it. I'm going to make sure I get a replacement badge for you-I still want to know how you managed to lose it so fast after I pinned it on you. Oh, well. I expect we'll have to wait for Chenture (he was always late in the winter), so that will give us a chance to...you're not listening to a word I'm saying, are you?"

Sure enough, Plato was at the end of his leash, sniffing intently at a nearby bush.

The man shook his head. "You have managed to figure out we're back in the city, right?"

The dog looked back at him with what could be interpreted as a hurt expression.

"I'm sorry, Plato. It's just...we're both getting old, you know, and I think I might be losing it. And if I am, maybe you are too. I wonder what the new detective wants us for?"

Plato turned away from the bush and put his big head in the man's lap. The man sighed and petted his head. "I'm getting worked up over nothing, I know, Plato," he said. "He probably missed something obvious on one of his cases and he doesn't want anyone at the precinct to know-that's all. Or maybe it's a surprise party...do you think that's it?"

The dog lifted its head and looked up at him expectantly, which is when the man noticed that Plato had accidentally crushed the fedora in his lap. With a shrug, he restored the light brown lump to something resembling its original shape and planted it on his head before getting up and untying the leash. After a brief glance back at the oak tree, the dog walked alongside the man the rest of the way to the police station.