Before we start, let me tell you one thing: I've seen a lot in this job. I've had to deal with punks so high on ritalin they thought they were invincible (surprise, surprise: they weren't). I've taken care of hostage situations that were started because someone backed out of a Pokemon trade. Hell, just a few weeks ago, I put away the principal on murder charges. After a while, you get to notice a rhythm, a pattern: things begin to make sense.

Except when you're dealing with crazy. If there's one thing I hate, it's crazy. It throws everything off.

You can guess where this is going.

"Fillmore! Fillmore! Fillmore!" The force was having our daily visit with the ever-helpful Randall C. Weems. Tenacious, rat-faced little guy. Apparently had a thing for his old teacher. Always snitched out the other kids for her, trying to get on her good side. Guy makes my skin crawl.

"Randall, you've been bouncing around for ten minutes. TEN. MINUTES. If you've got something to say, say it." Leave it to Ingrid to cut to the chase.

Randall grinned like a kid getting an N64 for Christmas. "Today...today, at lunch....I saw two people CUT in LINE!"

He beams as he finishes, as though he'd just found out the secret to turning rocks into chocolate or something. I just sigh and rub my temple.

"Randall...This week, we stopped a computer theft that would have paralyzed the school. Yesterday, we narrowly stopped a gang from whaling on one kid because of a failed attempt at cheating on a test. THIS MORNING, we managed to take down a punk trying to steal New Principal Buttsavage's car.

And you come in here, telling us about two people cutting in the lunch line?"

Randall shifts uncomfortably. Maybe I was a bit harsh, but c'mon: we don't have time for this.

"Randall, if you get a tip to something worth our time, head down here. Otherwise, get back to class."

Randall looks crestfallen.

Until TJ walks in. Then he looks angry.

"What're you doing here, Detweiller?" he growls, as though it's HIS office.

"Just stopping by, having a chat with my man Fillmore here."

TJ, you idiot. Don't you know what it means to be our guy on the inside? I motion for O'Farrell to show Randall out.

After the last big incident, TJ and I worked something out: he gets us the dirt on anything big going down, we look the other way when he draws something insulting on the blackboard or finagles an extra soda from the machine. I guess in a weird way, he's sort of what Randall wishes he was.

I don't think that fact is lost on Randall, judging by the look he shot us from the hall.

So, TJ lets us in on a plan to steal an answer key, we tell him he's safe to do his soda machine trick, and he's on his way. Simple as that.

It would be a good day, if it weren't for Vallejo's look as he walks into our office.

"Fillmore...I know it ain't school business...But...I think there's something you and Ingrid need to see."

Like I said, I've seen a lot. Not much fazes me.

But damn if I didn't have trouble keeping my lunch down after what I saw.

Someone had dug up Mikey.

It was hard enough to see Mikey when he was fresh. This is just...inhuman. The air is filled with the stench of Mikey's body and the flies that have been munching on it.

"No prints, no tracks, no nothing," Vallejo says, a handkerchief over his mouth and nose. "Just his tongue missing, a chunk of his gut carved out....and a note."

I grab it. Anything this sicko says, any possible hint I could get, I want to know.

Dear detective,

I hope you'll forgive my forthrightness. I thought I could plan a better end for Mikey than simply moldering in the ground. Mikey did the best acting this school has ever seen: rather than let his silver tongue go to waste, it shall now become part of the greatest experiment of all time.

Regarding quality, don't fret: I assure you, future parts gathered shall be fresher.

Cheers.

My blood turns cold. This isn't over. Not by a long shot.

The note is sent off for analysis, and I walk back to the office in a daze. How many cases am I going to get like this? How many cases am I going to get where I start off with no clues, no leads, no....

I notice a note on my desk. Hastily scrawled. Only one thing written on it.

RECITAL. TONIGHT. HE GETS THE HANDS.

...Apparently, this wouldn't be one of those cases.