"You didn't?...And you're sure nobody could have opened up the racks and tampered with the contents anytime in between…mhm…okay…yes, for now it is. Thank you very much!"
Mike heard his partner draw in a deep breath before hanging up the phone again and running a hand over his dry eyes. Rising from his desk for a fresh cup of coffee, the Lieutenant smiled faintly as he dropped a dime into the change jar, refilled his mug, added two helpings of cream and sugar and sat down in the guest chair by his partner's desk.
"Sounds like you're hitting some roadblocks, eh?"
Next to him, Steve glanced up wearily and nodded, before leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms behind his head.
"Feels like it for sure. The chickens came in through an Air Illinois Flight out of Chicago, landed in SFO yesterday evening, Gate 11C. They were packed with some turkeys and other…other poultry parts…and were slated for delivery to a handful of upscale restaurants across the city. Apparently, some of the chefs prefer midwestern raised poultry over Californian poultry. Something about the quality of the forage increasing the tenderness of the meat…"
Steve hesitated when Mike reached forward and squeezed his elbow, before nodding eagerly.
"Ok, never mind all that talk about food…do they know where the…the chicken could have gotten exchanged with our victim?"
Shaking his head, Steve leaned forward again, taking a sip of cold coffee, cringing from the taste as he met his partner's curious blue eyes.
"The security Inspector at Air Illinois swears up and down that once the cargo gets checked in at O'Hare, nobody can touch it. It gets sealed in a special compartment of the plane because it's frozen and highly perishable, then, once the plane lands, the distributor is called and must pick up within 90 minutes…which they did. The cargo was brought to a warehouse up on Powell and Beach, where our driver picked it up around 2AM and started to deliver."
When Mike opened his mouth to ask another question, Steve grinned cheekily, before putting his index finger on his lips to silence his partner.
"I know what you are going to ask next…could the head have been planted into the box somewhere along the route…", when Mike nodded satisfied, the young Inspector continued, "The answer is no. The ehm…the poultry processing facility actually shrink wraps and seals their product according to each order they receive. The clerk at Air Illinois checked the books and said that they ship over to SFO every other week. The label and packaging do not get removed until the delivery driver is at the actual delivery address and the chef or receiver signs off on the cargo. It's some fancy procedure of assuring product safety and integrity. It also explains why the driver didn't find the head until he and the guy from the restaurant began to remove and unwrap the order. I also made several phone calls into Indiana and I've got the address of both, the farm and the processing facility. Took a little bit of digging but I am finally filling in those gaps."
Mike nodded at the thorough explanation, the gears in his mind turning, before a wily smile spread on his lips.
"Can I tell you something, Buddy Boy?"
Returning a cheeky smile, Steve cocked his head, unsure of that his seasoned partner had up his sleeve this time around.
"What's that? One of those Michael Stone axioms about calling strangers across the country until you find your answers?"
"Oh no, no, no,no,no.", the Lieutenant answered facetiously, before tapping the side of his head, "See, as you get older, you learn to take some more time to read through what you already have before investing all your energy into research for answers that are right in front of you."
"What are you talking about?", Steve countered with his voice raised, only to have Mike squeeze his shoulder amicably.
"I am talking about the label on those chickens, Smarty. Remember how I pulled one of them off to take to the office with me? All that marketing spiel of specialty wrapped food and how it's sealed for protection from the moment it leaves the slaughterhouse until it arrives at the customer's doorstep. All you had to do was read the label. Even the address and phone number of the farm is on it. And a serial number to track the day the meat was processed."
Taking a deep breath and rolling his eyes, the young Inspector fell quiet, trying not to let the frustration of an hour of wasted research get the better of him. In the end, it was Mike who cleared his throat, a sympathetic smile playing on his lips.
"Just remember, with age comes wisdom. You'll get there eventually. In the meantime, it's safe to assume that the only chance our deep-frozen head could have ended up in that shipment was at the processing facility in Indiana."