Another twenty minutes later they were entering the police department of Humphrey, Nebraska with clean suits and the faint aroma of canine. Dean had left the dog locked in their motel room with enough water to sustain an elephant. Sure, it was in the bathtub, but they were in a hurry.

"Agents Simon and… Garfunkel?" the sheriff read off of the file that he held in his hands. He glanced up at Sam and Dean, eyes flickering between the two.

Dean smiled, trying to sell his identity to the skeptical man. "He's Simon, I'm Garfunkel."

The sheriff looked back down at the file. "Okaaaaay then," he said, closing the file and extending his hand to the newly suited up brothers. "I'm Sheriff Marks. But most people call me Bill."

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. "Well… Bill," Sam said, shaking the sheriff's hand. "What can you tell us about these murder suicides?"

Bill wagged two fingers in a 'come hither' gesture as he turned around and led the boys to his office. He handed them the file once he closed the door. "It's really odd," he said. "We're not the kind of town that gets this sort of thing. Ever."

"How many were dead, again?" Dean asked, lowering himself into a stiff wooden chair. He tried to make himself comfy, but ended up creating a loud raucous of squeaks and groans. Only when Sam glared at him and clenched his jaw did Dean settle into one spot, folding his hands timidly over his crossed legs.

"Six," Bill answered. "Each one more gruesome than the last."

Sam joined Dean in the chair next to him. "How so?"

Bill reached into an open drawer in his desk and pulled out a stack of pictures, spreading them out on the desktop. "First one we got wasn't too bloody. Guy chokes his wife to death with a phone cord, strings himself up in his barn less than an hour later. Second was a gun. A couple of kids at the bar here in town got into a tussle in the back. Real clean on the murder part due to the distance between them, but messy on the suicide." Bill visibly shivered. "Third… well, I don't want to get into specifics, but there was a knife involved. This man's girlfriend was very… creative… when it came to chopping off certain appendages."

Dean winced.

Sam took over. "How were they acting before they died?"

Bill bent over to pick a paper out of the file Sam was holding and set it on top for them. "Those are the transcripts of every conversation we've had with those close to the victims. They all say the same thing. Things were going fine until about a couple weeks ahead of time when they started fighting. Nobody saw it coming."

"And in each instance the murderer offed him—or her—self?" Dean asked.

Bill considered it then nodded. "Basically, yeah."

"How much time between the murder and the suicide?"

The sheriff wiggled his jaw. "'Bout and hour each. Why? Is that important?"

Sam and Dean shared a look. "Maybe," Dean concluded.

"May we speak with your coroner?" Sam asked.

"Is that… dog, I smell?" the coroner said, disgust evident on his face.

Dean shifted on the balls of his feet, but kept his face stone still as he stared forward stoically. "Yes. Yes it is."

The coroner gave too much of a disapproving look for a guy who probably went home smelling like dead corpses every day. Not that there was much a difference between the two stenches, in Dean's opinion.

"Mr. Evans," Sam started, "can we see the victims?"

Mr. Evans's eyes perked up too much for a guy talking about murder. "Ah, yes. Our newest additions." He opened two square silver doors and pulled out both slabs containing the corpses of a short woman and a middle-aged man with a couple dozen wounds sutured and stitched back together. "Multiple stab wounds to the abdominal area, each going a couple inches deep. Small blade, but a lot of power behind the strikes. This guy's girlfriend must've really been mad to dig it that deep so many times."

Dean chuckled, not really meaning it. "Yeah, I guess so."

"That isn't even the weirdest part," Mr. Evans said, reaching towards the lower half of the body.

"Oh, um, no thank you," Sam said, trying to stop the coroner from showing just how much damage the girlfriend had done.

Mr. Evans rolled his eyes. "Relax. I was only going to show you his wrists. There are slight discolorations on the insides, see?" He lifted the dead man's wrist that were, in fact, a bright shade of pink. "Each of the victims have this and each murderer lived in close proximity with their victim. Married, dating, roommates, you get the picture."

"Infection?" Sam prompted. "Maybe it's some kind of disease?

Mr. Evans pointed at Sam with a rubber gloved finger. "That's what I thought, but I couldn't find anything in the blood work or nothin'. I'm at a loss."

Dean stepped forward. "Can we see the others?"

The brothers looked at each of the bodies, affirming that all of them had the same pink marks on both of their wrists. But they were none the closer to knowing what they meant.

"Maybe it was some sort of ninja," Dean said, standing on his tippy toes to get a better look at the body of the wife of the first murder.

Dean smiled at Sam for approval, to which his brother responded with a roll of his eyes. "You always want it to be ninjas."

Mr. Evan's just knitted his eyebrows. "No," he said, shaking his head. "Why would you even say that? Aren't you supposed to be a professional?"

Dean cleared this throat. "Sorry," he mumbled, scuffing the toe of his dress shoes into the tile floor dejectedly.

There was a pause and then Mr. Evans slapped Dean's shoulder and laughed. "I'm just kiddin' yah. Ninja is a very plausible possibility. About as good as anything I have right now."

Dean could almost hear Sam willing Mr. Evans with his mind, telling him not to encourage him.