I can't believe how long this got. I didn't think it would take too long to sum up what happened over the course of a few weeks, but... I guess a lot of details I'd forgotten about turned out to be important. Sorry/not sorry, as people tend to say in this world and this time.

Thanks for two new reviews Ne'ith5 and Nutmeg9cat! I was starting to think people were just clicking the story and not actually reading it before going somewhere else. Hope you like the new chapter.

Chapter Twenty: Cut-Throat

"You don't have to yell at me," I told Ray as we got together in the bullpen. "I've been yelling at myself for the last ten minutes. I know what I did was stupid."

"I can confirm that," Franny said, and I was pretty sure she meant that I'd been yelling at myself, not that I was stupid. Pretty sure.

"What were you thinking?" Stella asked.

"Did I not just explain that I wasn't thinking?" I snapped. Then I hung my head. "I'm sorry."

Ray rubbed his hands together like it helped him gather his thoughts. "Okay, the good news is, he agreed to talk to Fraser. I think he knows that an accusation of police brutality gives him some leverage, especially since it was witnessed by an assistant state's attorney. So, as long as Benny doesn't screw this up, I think he'll come around and give us what we want."

"When's he seeing Fraser?"

"Today, if he has time. We gotta move."

I looked at my watch. Fraser was probably putting his new furniture in place at that moment. "He doesn't have a phone installed yet... I'll call the consulate to see if he's been there yet; he was going to stop by. If not, I'll try to catch him at the apartment."

"Okay, you do that. And then you butt out, okay? I'm about ninety-five percent sure Welsh is gonna want to keep your shield for a while because of this."

I winced. "I know. I really didn't mean to do it... I just lost my head."

Ray put a hand on my shoulder. "Tell you the truth... if you hadn't o' clocked him, I probably would have. So it's better this way, in the long run."

I perked up a little and went to my desk to call the consulate. Like I figured, Fraser hadn't been there yet. "I'm going to try the apartment," I said, grabbing my jacket. My hand was starting to throb.

"I'm going back to the office, but I'll have my cell phone on me," said Stella. "Just call if you need me back here."

"Will do," said Ray.

"Hey, Tate's fine, right?" I asked, pausing in the hall. "I didn't do serious damage or anything?"

"Nah," said Ray. "He boo-hoo'd a lot, but he seemed to be talking just fine."

"Good... Hope I didn't break my hand."

"Heh. That's what you get, Rocky."

I fell into step with Stella as we both made our way toward the exit. I wasn't eager to walk with her, but it seemed like it would be more awkward not to, since we were already near each other and heading the same way.

She didn't say anything until we got to the outer door.

"What exactly was it... that made you snap?" she asked.

I sighed. "I hear these lowlifes talk trash about people all the time, but... I knew Francesca could hear him, and that pissed me off. He didn't know it, but... I guess I didn't want Franny to think no one was in her corner, that we'd just let him talk about her that way. I don't know. I didn't give myself time to think. And I know that's something I need to work on," I added the last part quickly.

"I guess knowing it is a good first step."

We stood there outside for a few seconds. She moved to leave.

"Stella."

She looked back at me like she was worried I was going to make a scene.

"I'm sorry," I said. "For losing it in there, and... because I've been kind of obnoxious to you. You've said you just want to move on, and I'm not making it any easier. So, I'm going to try—really hard—to just... treat you how you want to be treated. My feelings aren't gonna go away. But they're not your problem."

She took her time answering, something she was clearly much better at than I was, choosing her words. "Thank you," she said finally, and she put her hand on my arm. "I think there's hope that we can get back to being good friends."

My throat got really tight, so I just nodded, looking at the ground.

She gave my arm a little squeeze and let go. "I'll see you," she said. Then she was gone.

Then I had to have a serious wrestling match with my stupid emotions on the way home. The only reason that had gone well was because I'd put up the white flag. This didn't mean she was opening up to getting back together. Friends, she had said. That was all she wanted from me. Being her friend was good. I should be happy with that. It was definitely better than whatever the hell we had been for the last couple of years.

I took a deep breath and tried to blow all the crappy feelings out with it. If it were Fraser, he'd stoically give the situation a nod and go on with his life. Stella wanted to be friends. That's good, he would say to himself. Everything turned out just fine. I nodded to myself, trying to do what I had just pictured my friend doing.

I rolled into my parking space and sat there for a minute, wishing I could turn my feelings off like Fraser appeared to do so often. I knew he couldn't really just flick a switch, but compared to me, it looked like that.

Someone tapped on the passenger side window. Fraser.

I put the window down. "Hey," I said, forcing a smile.

"Hello. I was about to catch a bus to the consulate."

"Can that wait a little longer? Tate agreed to talk to you. I can drive you back over there."

"Yes, I suppose I can do that first. I take it the interview went well, then?"

I searched for a tactful way to answer while he got in and fastened his seatbelt. "Kinda. We got the result we wanted, anyway. But I'm probably going to be suspended."

"Oh, dear... you kicked him in the head, didn't you?"

I snorted. "No, I did not kick him in the head. But... I hit him."

"Oh, dear."

"Yeah. 'Oh, moose' is more like it."

Tate insisted on talking to Fraser alone, and Ray wouldn't even let me observe.

"I probably shouldn't let you be in the building," he told me. "But I'll leave that up to Welsh on Monday. Just do me a favor and don't let Tate see you."

"I'm staying at my desk until you tell me he's gone back to lockup," I said meekly.

Franny gave me a sympathetic look. "I'll let you know if you miss anything good," she told me before following her brother out of the bullpen.

Fraser slapped me on the back and followed the others. There was nothing to do but go back to my case notes.

I looked at images of serrated knives. It's weird now that I think about it, but most combat-type knives aren't serrated. Neither are most of the pocket knives I've seen. I started to ponder that. Why not serrate a knife if you're going to make one at all? Serration makes it slice more easily, right? Does more damage that way. That's why steak knives are serrated. And yet, a lot of carving knives aren't. Why?

Come to think of it, every time I'd ever heard about someone having their throat cut, it was with some slim, straight knife or razor. So, why did our killer choose a serrated knife? Was it just whatever was lying around? Or was the new killer doing it just to copy the old killer, who had his own reason?

"How do you sharpen a serrated knife?" I thought aloud. I suddenly got a vague image in my head of my dad using some metal thingy to sharpen my mom's kitchen knives. I frowned. Was I just going down pointless rabbit trails, or was there a clue here? Fraser would know.

After a while, I heard the door open and Ray was calling back the transport guards to move Tate back to his holding cell. I wanted to jump up and go out to the hall, but I kept my seat. Finally, the others came back to the bullpen.

"So?" I asked.

Ray smiled. "Worked him like a champ," he reported, patting Fraser's shoulder.

"Most people have a tender spot for their mothers," Fraser said modestly.

"Even thugs, I guess," said Franny. "Seems like this guy figured his mom just wanted to chew him out for disgracing himself and abandoning her, but now that he knows she's really worried about him, he wants to see her."

"I'm going to try to arrange it soon," Ray said. "Maybe tomorrow."

"Shouldn't we wait until all the court stuff is out of the way?" I asked. "What if he sees his mom and then pulls out of the deal?"

"I don't think he'll do that," said Fraser.

I was sure he was sure, but I wasn't sure he was right.

"I doubt he'll cooperate if he doesn't get to see her first," said Ray.

That sounded more likely than the crook having a sense of honor. "Yeah, you're probably right. I hope it works out, for Miz Tate's sake. She seems pretty nice."

"Too nice to have a son like that," Franny agreed. "His father must have been a piece of... work." She looked around like she was wondering if we'd caught that she had been going to say something else.

Yeah, we caught that, with the possible exception of Fraser. But he was probably the one she didn't want to catch it, anyway.

"So, you want a ride to the consulate?" I asked Fraser as we walked outside.

"I had planned to walk," he answered.

"Well, Ray told me to stay out of the office for now, and I don't have any other plans."

"In that case, I accept your offer."

We got into the GTO and I started the engine.

"Hey, I was looking into that other case we're working on—the slit throat. It was a serrated knife."

"That's unusual."

"Yeah, that's what I thought, but I don't know why. Why does it matter what kind of knife you use?"

"The throat is a very delicate area. It has a lot of fine veins and capillaries. A straight blade can do a lot of damage, even if you want to cut deep. I suppose, if you wanted to sever the head completely from the neck, a serrated knife would do the job more efficiently..."

"No," I said quickly, wanting to stop the flood of grisly images Fraser was conjuring up. "No, this was just a cut throat. It wasn't all one cut, though. Like... you know, usually you expect it to be like this." I did the cartoony miming of slitting my own throat with my index finger. "But this guy did like a one, two." I slashed my index finger along one side of my throat and then the other, making a V.

"It was an experienced killer, Ray," Fraser said immediately. "The crime was not personal."

"Whoa, you're saying it's a serial killer?"

"Not necessarily. But it was someone who has practiced, or at least studied, how to kill efficiently."

"How is two cuts more efficient than one?"

"It's not a more efficient action, but it does make sure of more efficient blood draining."

I grimaced and asked, even though I hated to, "How's it do that?" The consulate wasn't far from the precinct, and I was pulling up in front of it. Constable Edwards was standing guard. I'd barely met him before, and I barely registered his presence now.

"Well, I'll show you," Fraser offered.

Only Fraser, I thought to myself. "Let me show you the best way to cut a throat. It'll be fun..."

We got out of the car and he came around to my side. "Now, suppose you manage to take your victim by surprise," he said, turning me toward the car so I could see our reflections in the window. "An amateur would be anxious about getting good access to the throat, and would probably tilt the victim's head back, like so." He put his right arm over my collar bone and tilted my chin back with his left hand.

If I didn't trust Fraser so much, I'd have totally freaked out. Instead, I looked down at our reflections. "What's wrong with that?" I asked.

"Well, in so-doing, you would coax the Adam's apple forward, drawing a lot of the crucial arteries into the hollows between the windpipe, lymph nodes and muscle groups." He traced his finger along my neck, and I could feel that it sort of bumped over some places. "Your slash would likely miss a lot of them, causing the victim to bleed out more slowly."

"Oh. That makes sense."

"But, tilt the victim's head forward," he said, acting it out as he spoke, "and the veins are nicely bunched together in soft tissue. Use a serrated knife for good measure, and you ensure that the vessels won't be able to slow the blood flow with clots because the wounds are too ragged. Two quick slashes..." He drew his finger down one side of my neck and then the other. "...and it's all over in a few minutes at most."

"No chance of calling an ambulance?"

"Certainly not. If the victim had use of his hands, he would almost definitely be using them in an attempt to stem the tide."

I cringed at the thought. My neck was starting to sting in sympathy.

Just then, I heard a bell in the distance... it was chiming the half-hour. It was twelve-thirty.

Edwards came to life to my left and strode toward us. "Good afternoon, Constable Fraser," he said.

Instead of meeting him halfway, Fraser just turned me around with him like a dance partner. "Ah, Constable Edwards."

I suddenly felt weird about the fact that Fraser was poised to kill me. I cleared my nervous throat.

"Building camaraderie with your CPD liaison?" Edwards asked.

Now I felt downright embarrassed. "Oh, we were just..." Just what? The truth sounded weirder than whatever Edwards was thinking.

"Discussing various aspects of a murder investigation," Fraser finished for me in a pleasant, oblivious-sounding tone. He finally let go of me with a pat on the shoulder. "I understand the inspector wished to see me."

"Yes, he's been expecting you," Edwards replied. He nodded to me. "Detective."

I didn't know whether to nod back or what. I felt like he was kind of looking down on me. I decided to give him the street nod—jerk your head upward, rather than the usual chin-bob. It was much more like McQueen. "You want me to wait?" I asked Fraser. "We can get lunch."

"It is lunchtime, isn't it? Yes, if you would wait, I'd appreciate it. I'd like to take something home, though. Diefenbaker has been cooped up for a few hours."

I figured Dief was probably sprawling all over the new couch, having a grand ol' time, but I didn't want to say something like that in front of this uptight Mountie I didn't know. "Sure, that's fine," I said.

"You can come inside..."

I shook my head. "I'm good out here."

"Please send Constable Turnbull out to relieve me," said Edwards.

Fraser nodded. "I'll do that." He headed inside.

I meandered back to the car and opened the door, but I didn't get in. Just leaned on it. I grabbed my sunglasses from the visor and put them on. Edwards was watching me from the corner of his eye. I hadn't smoked since I was a teen, and I never, ever want to do it again, but at that moment I really wished I could light up and blow a smoke ring in his direction, just to see if he'd lose his poise.

I know what you're thinking: Edwards is the killer! But I'm not writing a soap opera here. True, my life is a TV show, but it's still my life. And sometimes fiction is less strange than real life. Anyway... Edwards doesn't play a very big role in the story. I just like to think of him as the Dewey of the consulate. A much more polite, cleaner-cut and better-dressed Dewey.

You know what to do. Favorite, share, review. Look, I'm a poet. ~Ray K.