A/N: After a several month hiatus, my muse has decided to make a return visit. She has very little sense, as this is the busiest time of year for school teacher/bakers. I make no promises on the promptness of my updates, so if you chose to wait until the story is complete, I totally understand. This story may turn out to be a comedy or a tragedy, or a bit of both. The jury is still out on that one.

The standard disclaimers apply. Didn't invent these fine gentlemen, nor do I own them. I only take them out to play, I make no money from this endeavor. I promise to return them when I am done, although they may be slightly worse for the wear. MBC

Greatly Exaggerated

Steve grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table at 768 De Haro Street. Mike was taking an inordinate amount of time in getting his act together this morning. Steve commiserated with his lagging partner as he absentmindedly brushed the bandage on back of his left hand. After another late night spent in the ER, getting stitched up as a result of his close encounter with a broken bottle; Steve chalked up his partner's delay to the fact that Mike was, more than likely, just as tired as he was.

The Chronicle laid on the table, itching to be read. He glanced at the headlines wondering what the world was coming to. The President of the United States had announce his resignation last night on national television and Steve read through the maudlin recap splashed on the front page. The country would soon be led by a man who had not been elected for the job of president, or even vice president, but was appointed by the disgraced man he was replacing.

With a sigh, Steve flipped past the front page to the international news, for the moment unable to stomach the path the nation was toeing. After catching up on OPEC's latest shenanigans and the normal outrage-o-thon on the editorial page, he turned to the local headlines.

Steve perused stories about the newest information regarding the ongoing SLA/Patty Hearst saga, alleged BART mismanagement and political blustering about violent crime statistics. Further demoralized, he paged to the back of the section. Steve never really knew why he was drawn to the obituaries, but for some reason he read them on a regular basis. The details of lives well led, or lives over too soon held a strange fascination for him. He supposed it was a result of his job. Dealing with death on a daily basis made him acutely aware of the transitory nature of life. When you came right down to it, an obituary was tangible proof, in black and white, that someone had lived.

000000

Mike heard the coffee cup smash as he was coming down the stairs. He picked up his pace. Entered the kitchen, he found Steve on his hands and knees, trying to mop up coffee that had erupted from the broken mug on the floor. He seemed a touch pale and shaken to Mike.

What's up buddy boy? It looks like you've seen a ghost." Mike asked as he grabbed a tea towel and tossed it to Steve.

Steve finished with the cleanup and dropped the shards of pottery into the trash bin. "Well I haven't, but you might have." He replied cryptically. The young detective seemed to rally as he washed and dried his hands. Steve picked up the newspaper and slipped it into Mike's hand with a flourish, pointing at an item.

KELLER, STEVEN J.

1944-1974

At 11:39 pm, on August 8, 1974. Inspector Steven J. Keller, of the San Francisco Police department succumbed to duty-related injuries at San Francisco General Hospital. Inspector Keller, a homicide detective, is a UCBerkeley graduate and a 6 year veteran of the SFPD. Keller is survived by his father, a resident of Modesto, California. Steve, as he was known to his friends and fellow policemen, is remembered as a dedicated and compassionate public servant and a loyal friend. Visitors may call to pay their respects on Sunday, August 11, 1974, 2-4 pm at Halsted Funeral Home, 1123 Sutter Street, San Francisco, California. Interment will follow a private ceremony on Monday, August 12, 10 am at Cypress Lawn Memorial Park, Colma, California. In lieu of flowers, memorial donations can be made to SFPD benevolent fund.

"Apparently, I've reached my expiration date," He said with a grin, "Really wish someone would have warned me." Steve continued on, snickering at what he now took to be a very funny joke. "On the plus side, I guess I don't have to go to work today. Correct me if I'm wrong, but um, I'm pretty sure meeting my maker is a valid excuse for missing work." Steve took off his tie and undid the top button of his collar. He made a show of getting another cup of coffee, plus one for Mike, and settled in with the rest of the paper, adding "This is going to be great, I really needed a day off."

Mike was dumbfounded. How could a mistake like this possibly happen? True, they had been in the emergency room last night, but in what red tape level of hell did ten stitches turn into a fatality? He dropped into a chair, still shaking his head. Thinking about the bureaucracy of death he mused, I don't think Steve realizes it yet, but this is going to turn into a huge headache.

Several minutes passed in silence as Mike concentrated on his coffee and Steve busied himself with the crossword. Mike suddenly jumped up and ran to the phone.

"Where's the fire?" Steve called, as Mike frantically dialed the phone. Steve got up and followed his partner into the hall.

"Jeannie!" was all Mike said as he tapped his foot nervously.

Steve face fell. "Don't tell me, she reads the San Francisco papers in the library at school," he said with a groan, as the humor of the situation evaporated.

"Not all the time, but better safe than sorry." Mike replied as he listened to the phone ring for the twelfth time. He slammed down the handset and turned to Steve. "Let me see that obit again."

Mike reread the item, disquieted by the level of detail. He had a very uneasy feeling. Was this really a simple mistake or something much more sinister?