It turns out that assisting Detective Fulbright encompasses all of standing off to the side as Fulbright maneuvers a mobile hamper, identical to the bloody one, through the maze of clutter and parks it flush against a far wall.

Eventually, returns to beside Simon, observing his work. "How does that look, Sir? Would you say its about as far apart from us as the computer desk and the wuk were in the sorting room?"

"The what?"

"Haha! I just learned that today, that's what those giant wheeled hampers are called; wuks. What a silly name. But learning the lingo always helps."

Simon is unable to roll his eyes hard enough to fully express how much he does not care. "Yes, it does. But tell me, Fulbright; does the postal service have a term in their glossary for 'overzealous berk'?"

"Maybe! I'll ask Mr. Herr when I question him tonight." Fulbright completely deflects Simon's barb and points to the clock on the wall near them. "Alright, so when I say 'go', start counting the seconds, and don't stop until I say so. Got it?"

"What in the hell are you—"

"Ready? Go!"

Simon's gaze moves to the clock, where the second hand has just passed the twelve. He can't watch it the way Fulbright has directed him to, though. Not when his attention is entirely captured by Fulbright sprinting off toward the hamper—the wuk, that is— and making a valiant attempt to haul himself into it.

Fulbright succeeds only in tipping the wuk over. Simon draws the notebooks up to in front of his mouth, shielding the spurt of laughter that escapes him as Fulbright falls gracelessly to the floor with a "Nyarrgh!", sprawled on his stomach as the wuk flips over on top of him.

Luckily for Fulbright, the wuks are not heavy at all when they're empty. He may come away with a bruise from toppling over, but that's the extent of the damage as he groans and glances in Simon's direction—or would be glancing, if his mop of hair weren't serving as a blond curtain in front of his eyes, causing him to very much resemble a sheepdog.

"Sir... Stop. Stop counting."

Simon doesn't bother to tell him he's already done so, too busy laughing instead. He crosses over to Fulbright, who wriggles out from under the wuk and swipes the hair away from his eyes. Before Simon knows it, he's offering a hand to pull Fulbright to his feet, and Fulbright accepts it.

"Perhaps if your hair weren't so..." Simon's hand goes to his own hair, indicating how long and flowy—and absurd—Fulbright's is. "You could more ably see what you're doing."

"Oh... yeah, true. Could I borrow your hair tie, then, Sir? I'll make sure to give it back; I know it's important to you."

"It's not for—!" Simon starts, but knows it's pointless to try and pretend as if Fulbright hasn't caught him fiddling with it all day. He huffs and tugs the elastic from his wrist. "Here."

Fulbright takes it, deftly securing his hair back in a limp ponytail and, from a head-on perspective, giving the illusion of a well-coiffed style as shorter layers still frame his brow. "How's that?"

"Yes, you look much better." Immediately, Simon's struck with the urge to bite his tongue off for betraying him. "That is...! I mean...! You don't look like a... a... "

"Like some degenerate hippie?"

"Yes, well, something like that." At least he's aware of how ridiculous his appearance is; that says something, right? "Although, it'd help greatly if you'd trim those sideburns..."

"That's what my grandfather says. Haha, you sound just like him!"

Simon glares; he hasn't any clue if Fulbright is insulting him or complimenting him. Likely neither, and only jabbering like a jay, enjoying his own chirps.

"You are dressed like your grandfather, with that sweater!"

"Oh, right, it's kind of bulky, and I am getting pretty hot, moving around like this. Here."

Fulbright slips out of his gray cardigan, revealing the short-sleeve brick red button-down beneath. It's quite hip, some might say, printed with a tiny repeating pattern of triangles.

But the way it clings to his broad form—not too tightly but enough, and the sleeves ending slightly below his biceps...

Heat floods through Simon's chest, spreads to his neck, his face. He knows he's staring, as wide-eyed as when he'd seen his hand coated with blood.

Fulbright's cardigan ends up folded over Simon's forearm. He's thankful his hands are currently occupied by their notebooks, else he'd fear leaving the cardigan drenched in sweat for how overwarm he suddenly feels.

"Er, right, would you..." Simon nods to the wuk. "Try again."

Fulbright lifts the wuk back into an upright position. "Yes, Sir! Don't time me, though. I think I got it."

This time, Fulbright doesn't rush; he doesn't tarry about, no, but he's more deliberate in his execution. He uses a spare chair, much like the one at the computer desk, as a step, entering the wuk by unceremoniously dropping into it from above, like one trying to hurdle a fence that is too tall for them.

Simon places their belongings on the chair, and moves back to the entrance, to the lightswitch on the wall. Loud enough that Fulbright can hear him, he says, "Ah, well that was an exhilarating investigation; I think I shall be off, to interrogate Mr. Herr and prepare further for the trial."

He switches off the lights to punctuate his sentence.

"Sir, get over here!"

Simon chuckles and turns the lights back on, then hurries over to his contained detective. He stares down at Fulbright, who is not offended, exactly, but none too amused that he was about to be left behind. "I jest, Fulbright. Now, what information have you unearthed from your cozy new abode?"

Fulbright is laying back, fingers laced on his chest and knees bent, as if enjoying a relaxing day at the beach. "Well, let me ask you, Prosecutor Blackquill: what do you think is the most confusing aspect of this case?"

"Besides working with you?" Simon snarks out. He has no time to regret it, as, to his surprise (though decidedly less surprise than had he commented with this only a few short hours ago), Fulbright responds with a well-taken laugh. Clearing his throat, Simon continues. "Ah, well, there is the matter of the victim being stabbed in the thigh to begin with. I can only conclude that the accused meant to maim, not kill, although did not have any qualms if he did."

"Right, it's not the—" Fulbright lifts his hands away from his chest to fingerquote "—'normal' way to go about killing someone. I agree, completely. But that's what we're looking at; that the victim was stabbed while laying in the wuk, here."

"Also, er..." Simon trails off, the thought having just come to him and not making a terrible amount of sense. Yet, he's intrigued by his own instinct to assume this in the first place.

"Go on, Sir."

"I just... on the topic of the sheer amount of blood that was found, both in the sorting room and around Mr. Herr's truck: shouldn't it be one or the other? That is, if the victim was murdered up here, and then moved... I'm not sure I understand how so much blood ended up at the dock. So, is it possible the victim was not dead at the time he was moved from one level to the other? Hence, spilling blood at both locations?"

"That's... you know what, Sir? That's... actually a really good point!"

"How do you mean, 'actually'?!" Simon glares down at Fulbright. "You are aware, you are in the same helpless position you claim the victim was in?"

"Haha! I just mean, it's good that you're sharing your ideas with me! I promise, it's a compliment."

Try as he might to rebuke this statement—that he does not require compliments, most certainly not from an enormous prat such as Fulbright, it stirs something pleasant within him. "And now, provide me with the chain of events leading to Mr. Ecsprest being stabbed. Your theory, as it were."

"Okay, well, Mr. Ecsprest was in the sorting room, which is relatively secluded, to use the computer. He heard someone—the killer, it turns out, approaching, and he couldn't escape anywhere. I mean, the only other way out of there would be going down the package chute, and that's just silly, and dangerous, as we've seen by the number of bruises on the corpse. So, he hid."

"Or tried to."

"Right. Because if he did hide, he would probably have to climb in the same way I did. With the chair he was in. It wouldn't take long; he could just slide over, climb onto the chair and sort of just..."

"Spill right in." Simon finishes. "Yes, and of course leaving the chair nearby would be a dead giveaway. His attempt to conceal himself would be futile. He carried some kind of fear of his killer, it would seem."

"Yeah. Which reminds me, we should check the chair for footprints when we get back. But anyway, when the killer found Mr. Ecsprest in the wuk, they probably talked for a bit about... well, whatever. We'll see what Dakota finds in his employee drive. I'm sure that has something to do with it, don't you?"

"It's a strong likelihood, yes."

"Okay, so I'm thinking Mr. Ecsprest struggled to get out of the wuk." Fulbright thrashes about. It nearly tips over again, but Simon snatches its sturdy frame with both hands. "But his killer held it fast."

"Like this?" Simon grip tightens, a devious grin surfacing. "Perhaps even gave him another shake, for good measure?"

"Sir! Stop it...! Th-This...Hey! Stop, please!" Fulbright splutters as Simon jostles the wuk side-to-side. "This is a serious investigation!"

When Simon doesn't relent, Fulbright draws his legs up and braces them on the wuk's internal wall, shoulder-width apart, effectively stabilizing it.

That's when it all comes into sharp clarity. He'd meant it only in jest, but it's what happened, after all.

"Hold still, Fulbright."

"Sir, what...?"

Simon reaches to his vest pocket, removes the pen from within and brings it down by his slacks pocket, turning it cap-side down in the process. His fingers close around it solidly, as if clutching the hilt of a dagger. "Is this your theory?"

Before Fulbright can answer, Simon swings the pen up and against the wuk with unchecked ferocity. The cap, being so dull, does not puncture the wuk's wall, only presses the canvas inward and with enough force that Fulbright swears mildly as it prods his thigh.

The residual indent left behind is at approximately the same location as the slit in the bloodied wuk.

"Mr. Ecsprest was stabbed in the thigh because he could not be stabbed anywhere else," Simon concludes, slipping the pen back into his vest pocket.

"I...I would agree, Sir." Fulbright is still frazzled, and Simon decides this suits him quite well. In fact, he's only encouraged to see it continue.

"And now, imagine if the knife were still lodged in his thigh for a few moments. He would be in a state of shock, and, in essence, dead weight. It would not be all that difficult for a grown man to... " Simon shifts to the side of the wuk, and with a mighty push, upends it and sends a yelping Fulbright spilling halfway out.

Simon peers over to stare down at Fulbright, who's disgruntled and scowling at him in return. "When I asked you to help, Sir, I didn't mean for you to do..." He gestures wildly, an homage to all Simon has just put him through. "All that!"

"Sorry," Simon smirks, not sounding as though he means it in the least. "But I wanted to reenact it as true to the actual crime as possible, you understand? The victim, certainly, hadn't any warning of what was to come."

"No..." Fulbright begrudgingly agrees, and sighs. A lock of hair has escaped its ribbon enclosure, and Simon's breath stills momentarily as he watches Fulbright tuck it back behind his ear and survey his surroundings from a new perspective. "Hey, but... look, Prosecutor Blackquill. If the victim had been tipped over like this, the blade would have gone deeper into his thigh. It wouldn't have come out."

"Correct. But somehow, Fulbright, the knife was removed. And once so, blood would have come gushing out. Also, it couldn't have been a simple process for one man to drag him to the chute. Thus, so much of it soaking into the wuk. And into its side, not the bottom as one would expect."

Simon still can't account for Mr. Herr's broken hand—he would have had to incur the injury at some point after the murder, for how else would he have wielded the knife? Although, it could easily be a product of his emotions reaching a boiling point. Simon can vividly recall when Aura broke her pinky toe by kicking a table leg out of frustration that her senior year Tech Ed project was not up to her far-too-lofty standards, and would not consider it implausible that Mr. Herr reacted similarly when the gravity of what he'd just (allegedly) done hit him.

Fulbright has since scrambled out of the wuk and to his feet, and for the final time adjusts their prop to an upright position. "That all makes a lot of sense—well, more than anything else. But, you keep saying knife, Sir, when—"

"Fine. Blade. You know what I mean." Although, who is he kidding; he would be doing the very same to Fulbright, if Fulbright were, in his opinion, misspeaking. Simon lets out a gusty sigh, gathering his notebook from the chair, as Fulbright does the same with his own possessions. "I can't believe this murder weapon—this box cutter, of all things—has become so bloody difficult to track down! What, did it just grow wings and fly away?"

Fulbright doesn't answer right away, doesn't even move as Simon starts for the doorway. Then, just as Simon glances over his shoulder to command his detective to quit dithering about, Fulbright exclaims to him, "Sir, I... that might be exactly it!"

"...I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, it's simple, really! Remember where we are, Sir." Fulbright is in his cardigan again, a brisk pace as he catches up to Simon, and they hasten through the lobby.

"Yes? The post office. What of it?"

"How does anything get into or leave the post office?".

"Packages." Of course; Simon feels every bit a remedial dullard for not having even considered it. "So you think the weapon left the facility via a parcel?"

"Not yet, no. But, if I were a murderer—whether I intended to be one or not, and were at a post office, of all places, I sure as heck would think to get rid of it by mailing it. Or, I guess, pretending to."

A whirlwind of questions and their possible answers flurry through Simon's head, and he does his best to snatch the pieces he's gathered out of that storm, piece them together neatly.

If Mr. Herr meant to dispose of the corpse while on his delivery route, why not box the weapon up and hide it amongst all his other parcels? Even, marking it with the required labels so it'd blend in. No one would be any the wiser, seeing one box among thousands. Then, he could simply remove it and toss it into the river along with the body.

And then, Simon remembers Ms. Prior-Stewart's request to have all the outgoing mail transferred out by end of business. If that were to happen, their progress in this case would be severely impeded. They have to find the weapon; no amount of it has to be, it can only be, it only makes sense if can replace being in possession of indisputable, properly examined evidence.

"Fulbright," Simon tugs on Fulbright's sleeve to halt him, and turns to regard him sternly. "We must have every package opened and searched, starting with what was in Mr. Herr's truck."

"That could take all night! And we have no proof it's sealed away, or if it even is a box cutter. So, no, Sir, not without a warrant or, at the very least, probable suspicion. At least let me talk with the accused, first!"

"You've no guarantee that will yield anything. By then it could be too late! I told you, I want—"

"Prosecutor Blackquill!" Fulbright raises his voice over Simon's, not angry or threatening. Only assertive, as Simon has attempted to be all day. "We can't just rip into the public's mail! That's a federal offense!"

"You're damn right it is," a new voice cuts in, deep and ominous.

Emerging from the same hallway Simon and Fulbright are headed towards are two men. Both are a far cry from Detective Fulbright. Their matching navy suits are worth more than Simon's full wardrobe at home, and not a hair on their heads is out of place—nor tailing a girl's ribbon from it.

"You Blackquill?" The leaner of the two sports a smirk that is asymmetrical to his cocked brow. His associate, conversely, bears no expression at all; his mouth, eyes, nose are all the very definition of flat.

"I am." Simon nods, not caring for their casual omission of his title. However, with Fulbright here to vouch for him, he feels emboldened where he might not otherwise. "Prosecutor Simon Blackquill."

"I'm Detective Bobby Fulbright!" Fulbright snatches up his hanging badge to show it off, and Simon can't help from fixating on what he knows now is a well-toned arm. Is the definition from flexing his arm so often, lifting his damned badge to show every individual he passes?

"I'm Agent Pat Cage." The man tells this to Simon only, ignoring Fulbright completely. He flips open a leather, wallet-like case to reveal a badge that Simon is unfamiliar with. "This is my partner, Barton Parcells. United States Postal Investigation Unit, Violent Crimes."

Simon takes note that, unlike Fulbright, neither man extend him a handshake—that they are not, in any sense, pleased to meet him.

The feeling is already mutual.

Fulbright, unsurprisingly, seems ignorant of this animosity trickling in. "What can we help you gentlemen with?"

Cage laughs dryly, still avoiding any acknowledgement of Fulbright's existence. "Glad we could finally catch up with you, Blackquill. We've been trying to track you down all day. Didn't know you'd come here to investigate on your own."

"He's not on his own!" Fulbright replies immediately. "He has me!"

Cage exchanges a significant look with Parcells, who just shrugs. It's as if they've some joke between them, and Simon has the notion Fulbright is a large part of it.

"Come with us, Blackquill," Parcells says, a nod to suggest he's ready to take this conversation elsewhere. "We got the blood test results back from that tape we found in Herr's truck. You oughta see it. Pretty decisive."

"What are you on about? What do you mean, 'tape'?!" Simon demands. Who are these agents, just traipsing their way into the investigation, as if their involvement in the case has not long since concluded?

"You'll see," Cage tells him. He snags out a folio that's been tucked under Parcells's trunk of an arm this whole time, and hands it to Simon. "Oh, and there's this. An updated autopsy report. Hot off the press."

Simon takes it, scanning it over, but unable to read at the moment, the way he's swarming with nerves thanks to the agents. They're now standing on either side of him, a flagrant indication that this piece of evidence is meant for their, and Simon's, eyes only.

Over the top of the report he can't focus on, he finds Fulbright staring back at him. Their shared worry, the confusion on Fulbright's face that Simon knows mirrors his own...

This is what Simon had hoped for: that he and Fulbright finally, blessedly, approach this investigation with the same blade at the ready. And now, it is so.

Both of them haven't any idea what's going on.