3:37 p.m.

"They got Joan," Tortimer said, "Son of a bitch."

Nosegay banged her head against the bars of the cell, screaming through the dirty dishrags he'd shoved in her mouth. Behind her, Booker was lashed to the wall, shaking his head as if to clear it.

Tortimer bent closer to the radio, which protested his proximity by giving a short burst of static so loud it made his eyes water. He leapt back, and the radio tumbled off the desk onto the concrete floor, exploding on impact into a million tiny pieces, screws and springs like little missles landing everywhere about him. He cursed and swiveled around in the old leather office chair. He glared at Nosegay, still standing with her head against the bars, "Look what you made me do! Are you ready to talk?"

She gave him a menacing look and kicked at the bars.

"That's fine by me. Very noble of you to die so that this friend of yours can live. I must say I didn't expect it from you, Nosequeer."

This more than anything seemed to infuriate her, and she stomped about the cell, snorting like a bull, quivering with rage.

Tortimer leaned back in the chair and smiled, "That's right, honey. Let it all out, exhaust yourself. And when you're ready to talk, we'll talk. But until then," he stood up and made his way to the faded blue duffle bag laying dejectedly on its side by the station's front door, which was barracaded with a desk, some filing cabinets and a few chairs Booker had pushed up against it, Tortimer's small pistol pressed painfully against the back of his head. He wheezed as he bent down, his knees popping, his back cracking audibly, "Until then, why don't you just take a gander at this?"

He whirled around, his cane falling, forgotten, to the floor. He hoisted Mink's head high above his own, grinning triumphantly. Nosegay gasped, her eyes widening, almost choking on the rags stuffed into her mouth. Booker was white-faced, staring at him with what appeared to be unspeakable horror, his eyes wide and accusing. The mayor's smiled widened.

"Yes," he hissed, "I did it. I killed them. Some fucking cop you are, huh, Booker? You couldn't catch a fucking cold." He laughed and arranged the head on the surface of Copper's desk so that it stared at them with its cold dead eyes. He bent back down and came up with Sven's head, which he placed besides Mink's, "I fucking killed them, and unless you tell me who this little friend of yours is, I'm going to kill you too. Three heads. Three heads for my little grandbaby back, that's a fucking bargain if you ask me."

Nosegay closed her eyes and sat on the toilet seat, trembling.

"What's it going to be, baby? I need three heads. It's yours, or it's his. You decide."

Nosegay gave him a pleading look, but he stared her down. Finally, she gave a slight nod and walked dejectedly to the front of the cell. Tortimer crossed the room and reached cautiously into the bars, pulled the rags from Nosegay's mouth. She gasped, sinking to her knees and letting out a low moan, "Water," she said, panting.

"First, tell me. Tell me his name."

"It's...a she. Sable."

Her eyes fluttered and then she collapsed onto the floor.

"Sable," the mayor whispered, his eyes widening, "Of course."

Booker thrashed about against the wall, his screams muffled, his eyes burning with anger. Tortimer gave him a quizzical smile, and then pulled the cell keys from his vest, "Sable, huh, Booker? What say you help me move some of that furniture by the door so I can pay her a visit?" He turned the key in the lock, and the door popped open, wobbling on its rusty hinges. He stepped over Nosegay and made his way to where Booker stood, chest heaving, eyes ablaze. "And if you try any funny business, I'll make sure I make her death more painful than it needs to be. Understand?"

He caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, and as he turned he saw Nosegay's face contorted into a mask of triumph and hatred. She buried the screw in his eye and thrust her arm skyward, kicking his legs out from under him. His eye burst, and blood gushed onto her hand and ran in rivulets down her arm and she brought it down, again and again, the screw she'd used to free her hands tearing into his cracked flesh, embedding itself in his cheek bones so that when she lifted her arm his head rose slightly off the ground, and then slammed back with a sickening thud. She realized she was laughing, but she couldn't stop, or doubted she would even if she had been able. And she was never happier to hear sirens in her life.