A/N: So of course this chapter is double the length of the last one, despite my resolve to write shorter chapters, but I do have a good reason - I'll be out of town for a few weeks, so I wanted to post a significant update before I go. Let me know if you have thoughts or questions! Thanks for reading, and to everyone who left notes on the first chapter; I really appreciate the feedback.
On the morning of the press conference about Ruby Tucker's murder, Stan was lingering in Kevin Stoley's bed and staring at the ceiling as the sun came up. Though he was Kevin Stoley-Donovan in most contexts, Stan couldn't help but think of him as purely Kevin Stoley when they were alone together, the kid who had always been there in Stan's classes and yet virtually invisible to Stan until he became Clyde's boyfriend. Clyde was currently in California, and would be back in Colorado in two days. Kevin was snoring on the pillow beside Stan's, which he supposed was actually Clyde's, and Stan was beginning to wish that he'd visited the other Kevin last night. So far this one hadn't done much to quell his anxiety beyond letting Stan fuck him twice. Kevin McCormick tended to be more affectionate, but he also tended to expect to get his dick sucked and to smoke a bowl with Stan afterward, and Stan wasn't up for either of those things when he had a kind of panic attack last night and showed up here.
"I have to go soon," Stan said, speaking to himself and still looking up at the ceiling. He had to prod Kevin's shoulder twice to get him to wake up. "I'd better get going," he said when Kevin blinked at him.
"God," Kevin said, and he rolled onto his back when Stan tried to nuzzle him. "What time is it?"
"Seven. The press conference is at nine."
"Why are you so fidgety about this? It's not like you have to speak. They probably won't even show you on camera."
"Oh, sorry, I guess I just discovered a brutally murdered woman two days ago or something, forgive me for being so sensitive."
"Jesus, come here," Kevin grumbled, and Stan only resisted minimally when Kevin sat up and attempted to pull him into a hug. Stan draped himself across Kevin's lap with resignation, his head on Kevin's thigh. Kevin was sighing as if it was too early for this, but he was also petting Stan's hair, and Stan needed this too much to be very annoyed about the attitude with which it was delivered.
"Her family will be there," Stan said, shivering. "I can't imagine. Their daughter - his sister. I haven't seen Craig since graduation."
"I'm sure he's still a snotty prick. But yeah, it's really fucked up. Oh, Stan, honey. You're shaking."
"It's cold in here. What have you got the heat on? Clyde can afford to heat this fucking place, can't he?"
"Poor thing," Kevin said, leaning down to kiss Stan's ear. "You're going to be okay. Aren't you? This isn't going to scare you off the force or something?"
"No." Stan sat up, insulted by that. "They're making us do counseling sessions, though. Three each."
"You and Bebe?"
"Yeah, me and Bebe, Kevin, the ones who found the body. Try to keep up."
"You're such a bastard to me all the time! And then you look at me like I kicked your dog when I return the favor."
"Don't fucking lay into me right now," Stan muttered, kicking the blankets away. He got out of bed and stood up, stretching his arms over his head. It really was pretty icy in the Stoley-Donovan manor, and the windows in the bedroom were fogged. "I'm gonna take a shower," Stan said, glumly anticipating the use of Clyde's shampoo and body wash.
"Maybe it's good," Kevin said. "You in therapy."
"Thanks for that."
"I'm not being mean! I'd love to see you, uh. Get something out of it."
Stan didn't want to go to therapy. He didn't think it would help with what he was going through currently and was afraid it might instead peel off old scabs and reopen other wounds. Last night, after coming twice in Kevin's ass and drinking half a bottle of white wine, he'd actually managed to sleep for the first time since they encountered the Ruby Tucker crime scene, but it wasn't a restful sleep. He'd awakened multiple times confused and not sure where he was, a sense that something in the darkness outside the bed was laughing at him, gloating. He didn't typically stay over at Kevin and Clyde's house.
Clyde and Kevin's shower was a theater-like marble deal with a fancy shower head and optional steam. Stan wanted to hide in the fog of the steam for at least an hour, but he kept his shower short, feeling the whole time as if he was trespassing. When he'd dried off he dressed in his uniform. He'd brought it with him the night before, not wanting to sleep alone. Kevin had seemed taken off guard but was ultimately understanding. He was wearing his robe now, yawning, and he came forward to rub Stan's biceps while he buttoned up his uniform shirt.
"Are you alright?" Kevin asked.
"Yeah. I don't know. I've got the kids this weekend, that'll be good. Don't want to be alone right now."
"Of course you don't. I'm sorry we can't go to a movie or something. And Clyde will be back Tuesday night-"
"I know, Kevin, I haven't forgotten the literary giant's schedule."
"Don't get angry. It's not as if you want me to leave him for you."
"That's-" Stan gave Kevin a wary look, edging toward apologetic. No, he didn't want that at all. Kevin snorted.
"Well, that's why this works. But you can call me if you get panicked like that again. Although, ah. Probably not best to stay for the whole night, you know. Where did you park your car?"
"Down the street. Relax. I know how to lay low, it's part of my job. Will you watch the press conference?" he asked, feeling sheepish and dumb for wanting him to. Kevin winced.
"Maybe," he said. "It's so awful. Do they have any suspects?"
"Watch the press conference and find out." They didn't. Stan kissed Kevin's forehead. "Thanks for last night," he said, mumbling. "You're- it's-"
"Don't mention it. I don't like to be alone either, especially if there's some murderer wandering around. God. Please catch him!"
"Or her."
"Probably him, though."
"Yeah, probably."
Most killers who took trophies from their victims were male. Many who did so were also serial killers, but the department's research hadn't turned up any nearby killings featuring a missing tongue. Nor had they come up with any enemies who might have wanted to harm Ruby. She was well-liked at the Bennigan's where she waitressed, and in her night classes at community college she attended in Fairplay. She was in the nursing program. Stan had seen so many pictures of her smiling and healthy over the past few days, but a million of those could never replace his now-default image of the woman: lifeless on her couch with her neck, chest and stomach sliced open, frozen in that silent scream.
It had gotten colder since Friday, but there was still no whiff of the first snow, which often came around Halloween. Thinking about how far off that was, Stan cursed on his way to his car, his shoulders raised against the cold. Tomorrow was Wayne's birthday. He hadn't forgotten, exactly, but the past few days had left him no time to get a gift. As he climbed into his car he considered stopping by an ATM later and withdrawing some cash, but he still hated the idea too much to actually do it. Cash was a gift from uncles and aunts, sometimes grandparents. Not actual parents, not yet.
The press conference was held at city hall, and there were a surprising amount of news vans parked out front, from stations all over the state. The chief had warned them that the violent death of a young white woman would quickly attract national attention, and to be prepared for the crush of interest. They hadn't released the information about the missing tongue, and didn't plan to unless it became important to the investigation. Stan had a bad feeling that it would.
"Oh, god," Stan said when he found Bebe inside, near the stage where the Chief would give his statement at nine o'clock. "There they are," Stan said, speaking low and trying not to stare at the Tucker family. They were seated in the front row: enormous Thomas, petite Julian and stoic Craig, who was seated between his parents and holding his mother's hand. She looked slightly catatonic, probably by the mercy of Valium or something stronger.
"Yeah," Bebe said, and she brought Stan over to the coffee station. "It's - I don't have siblings or kids, but that kind of grief, to lose someone violently, just. To know how scared they must have been, and that they never made it past that fear? I can't imagine how you'd bear that. You alright?"
"Me?" Stan accepted a coffee from her and went for the creamers. "Yeah, why?"
"You look a little tired is all."
"Well, yeah. Have you been sleeping?"
"Ambien, Stan, I told you. Every cop should have an emergency supply."
"I don't want to mess with that stuff," Stan said, muttering. He wasn't even sure what his reasons were, except that he normally turned to booze in a stressful situation, and it didn't mix with sleeping pills.
"I went by your place last night after dinner," Bebe said. "Didn't see your car."
"You're checking up on me?" Stan gave her an incredulous look, though he actually appreciated this. She rolled her eyes.
"Your house is on my way home."
"On your way home from where?"
"You first!" she said, swatting him. "Which Kevin was it last night?"
"Shhh!"
"Nobody's listening to us!"
"I don't want to talk about this here," Stan said, and Bebe nodded.
"You're right," she said. "Sorry."
"But you were out with someone?" Stan said, wondering if it was Kenny.
"Quiet," Bebe said, nodding to the stage. "It's about to start."
The Chief took the stage, and Stan tried to remember the last time he'd seen him in a suit and tie rather than a rumpled collar shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He mostly ran a casual station, in terms of appearances and atmosphere, but his temper had been shorter than normal in the days since the discovery of Ruby's body. Despite this, he had been handling Stan and Bebe very carefully since they radioed from the crime scene. Stan didn't like the special treatment, especially because he felt like he was more shaken by the whole thing than Bebe.
Stan tuned out most of the press conference, unable to stop looking at the Tucker family. He had never really been friends with Craig, but their class was so small that they'd often ended up at the same parties anyway. Craig had never dated and had always seemed bizarrely self-contained to Stan, who had the opposite constitution, all of him spilling out everywhere and especially in high school. Craig wore no wedding ring and stared blankly ahead during the entire press conference, still holding his mother's hand. His father was weeping intermittently and without making any noise, his fist pressed to his face.
"You mentioned that there are no suspects at this time," the first reporter who was called upon said. "Are there any persons of interest?"
"We are interviewing Ms. Tucker's co-workers and classmates, and I am not at liberty to disclose the results of those interviews at this time." The Chief seemed embarrassed, and Stan felt it, too. The last murder in South Park was before Stan's time on the force, the result of a domestic dispute and easily solvable. There were reporters here from Denver, and they had probably already decided that these small town hicks couldn't handle anything this serious. And they didn't even know about the tongue.
"Were there signs of forced entry?" another reporter asked, and Stan was surprised to realize he recognized her. She was Nicole Rutland, a girl who'd moved to South Park when Stan was a kid and who went to school with them until high school, when her parents switched her to a private school with a better reputation than Park County High.
"Based upon the evidence it would seem there was no forced entry," the Chief said.
"So it's likely that the victim knew her killer?" Nicole asked.
"I'm not comfortable making that assumption at this time. It's possible the door was left unlocked, or that Ms. Tucker was followed from her car and forced to allow her attacker inside under duress. We just don't know at this juncture."
"Were there signs of sexual assault?" Nicole asked.
"No, none. That's all we have time for, folks. Thank you for your questions."
"That's Nicole from school," Bebe whispered to Stan as the Chief exited the stage amid camera flashes and chatter from the reporters.
"I know," Stan said. "Did you two keep in touch?"
"A little bit, on Facebook. Look, um. We should say something to Craig before they leave."
"Shit. I know."
They hung back until the Tuckers had risen from their chairs and headed outside, and Bebe cut through the crowd toward Craig as he followed his parents toward the parking lot. Stan trailed behind her feeling shy and guilty, his stomach lurching at the thought of looking into Craig's eyes after being too slow to save his sister. According to the medical examiner, Ruby had been dead for less than half an hour by the time Stan and Bebe arrived, and still her killer slipped away unseen, leaving no prints or tracks behind.
"Craig," Bebe said, and he turned. His parents did, too, his father still wet-eyed and his mother's eyes focusing on nothing in particular.
"I'll be there in a minute," Craig said. His father nodded and resumed guiding Mrs. Tucker toward their car.
"Hey," Bebe said. "Jesus, I'm so sorry. We are," she amended, pulling Stan forward. Stan met Craig's eyes and nodded curtly, not wanting to pretend that they had ever been close, though he did want to hug Craig now.
"You found her," Craig said. "They told us. Officers Stevens and Marsh were first on the scene."
"Yeah," Bebe said. "We got a call-"
"I know, I read the whole report. Look, I'd like to talk to you two. Can we meet for a drink when you're off duty?"
"You want to talk-" Bebe glanced at Stan. "Like, off the record?"
"I don't have any useful information, so yes. I just like to. Know some things, I guess. Hear them from people rather than read them on paper."
"Of course," Bebe said. "Yeah, hey. Let's meet at Skeeters, eight o'clock. Does that work?"
"Perfect. See you then." Craig's eyes flicked to Stan's, and again Stan did that stupid little nod, feeling pathetic. Craig turned and left, and Bebe let out her breath.
"Is this a good idea?" she asked Stan, muttering.
"Probably not," Stan said. "But I feel like we owe him something."
"Yeah. Me too."
Stan was tense for the rest of the day, anticipating an evening spent with Craig and the memory of his dead sister. At least Bebe would be there. Stan had spent some time over the past few days feeling incredibly grateful that he hadn't discovered that body alone. Even in his nightmares about it, Bebe was always there with him.
"What the hell should I get Wayne for his birthday?" Stan asked as they were finishing up the day's paperwork: two parking violations, three speeders, one barking dog, and no missing tongues or murderers located.
"Hmm," Bebe said, looking up. "I thought he wanted cash?"
"He does, and yet I want to get him a more fatherly-type gift. Is that weird?"
"Nah. How's this: what did your dad get you for your thirteenth birthday?"
"I actually don't remember." He did remember drinking a beer with Randy in the kitchen after Sharon had gone to bed, and Kyle explaining that Stan wasn't a man in the eyes of the Jewish community just because he'd turned thirteen as a gentile.
"Well, there you go," Bebe said. "He won't remember when he's thirty-one, so don't sweat it too much. You could always get him a nice new coat for winter."
"He'd hate whatever I picked out. And he hates getting clothes as gifts."
"How about tickets to a Broncos game?"
"He won't watch football with me anymore."
"Aw, well. Gift certificates for stores at the mall?"
"That's the same as cash, isn't it?"
"Except that he can't buy beer with it!" Bebe said, grinning, and her face fell when she saw Stan's expression. "Sorry, too soon?"
"You're coming to the party, right?" Stan asked.
"Of course! I am his godmother, after all." Bebe had been friends with Lola first. Stan still got her in the divorce.
"So what did you get him?" Stan asked.
"Cash," Bebe said, grinning again.
"Ugh."
"And a card!"
Stan went home to change before meeting up with Bebe and Craig at the bar. He was anxious just being alone in his house, which seemed suddenly unsecured, and he wanted to call Lola every hour or so to make sure the kids were safe and fully in view. He put on one of his nicer shirts and even put some styling product in his hair, a tube of cream that made his hair look shiny, pushed on him by a hairdresser three years ago. It had a faint lavender scent that he found comforting. He drove his truck to the bar, sort of wishing he was in uniform and driving the squad car. It seemed irresponsible not to constantly be in cop-mode until the killer was found and imprisoned. He had his gun belted on, anyway, hidden under his coat. He usually had a self-imposed policy of not carrying when he was drinking, but he wasn't planning on indulging much in Craig's presence.
Skeeter's was typically pretty quiet, but tonight it was packed, loud, and Stan recognized a few of the out of town reporters who had attended the press conference. He passed several discussions about the Ruby Tucker murder as he made his way toward the bar, where Bebe was tolerating the attentions of Eric Cartman, who was smiling the same sharky grin he always had on when he was drunk. He was balding and pushing two-eighty, though his driver's license still said two-fifty. Stan had noticed this the last time he pulled Cartman over for DUI.
"You're here," Bebe said, shooting Stan an irritated look, though he wasn't exactly late. Bebe was wearing a tight black dress and tall black boots, her coat folded over her lap. Cartman was in his usual car salesman suit and tie. He was only leaning on the bar stool beside Bebe's, probably because it wouldn't support the full load of his fat ass.
"Marsh," Cartman said. "We were just talking about you."
"No, we weren't," Bebe said, frowning. "Eric, get lost. And if you come near us when we're talking to Craig I'll be sure to knee you in the balls the next time we have to bring you in."
"What the hell is this hostility?" Cartman asked, appealing to Stan and gesturing to Bebe with his Bud Light. "This is why you can't have women carrying loaded weapons, man. Period feelings come into play and it's like, bam. Loose cannon."
"Get the hell out of here," Stan said, and Cartman sneered but obeyed, stumbling back to a table crowded with the guys he employed at the dealership, who could usually be counted on not to let Cartman drive himself home at the end of the night. "Sorry," Stan said as he took the seat beside Bebe. "Should we get a table?"
"I wanted to, but they're all full. Maybe this isn't the best place to talk."
"Anyway," Stan said, nodding to the door as Craig entered, looking stoic and wearing a fine-looking ivory scarf that set him apart from the locals. "There he is."
Bebe waved Craig over, and Stan moved down to give him a seat between him and Bebe. It took a while to get the bartender's attention, but Bebe had more success than most, and soon they had their drinks: beer for Stan and Bebe and a gin and tonic for Craig.
"Sorry it's so loud," Bebe said. "We could go outside."
"It's fine," Craig said. He took a sip from his drink and looked over at Stan, then at Bebe, before staring down at the glass. "We weren't close," he said. "Me and my sister."
"Oh," Bebe said. "Well-"
"Which is not to say that I'm not devastated. I'm angry. When I first started reading the report, I got the impression that her murder seemed impersonal, random. Did you get that feeling at the scene?"
"Mhmm, not really," Bebe said. "It was. Ah. So violent."
"Well, yes, but she was clothed." Craig drank again, taking two gulps this time. "And not violated in any - way. That was a relief." He glanced over at Stan as if wanting confirmation, and Stan nodded.
"I'm sure, yeah-" Stan said, turning his beer in his hand; he still hadn't sipped from it. "I hope your parents took some comfort in that, as ridiculous as that probably sounds."
"It doesn't sound ridiculous. Ruby had been to her shift the night before, and to class that morning. The call to the police about a scream was placed at 5:15 in the evening, and she's said to have bled out ten minutes later. Ten minutes of suffering is horrible to think about, but it's not hours. It's not days. And the tongue was removed posthumously."
"Oh, god," Bebe said. "You know about. That."
"Of course, I told you, I read the report. Do you think she knew something, someone's secret, and they killed her to shut her up? The removal of the tongue seems pointed. It sends a message."
"Maybe," Stan said. He tried to give Bebe a wary glance, but she was staring fretfully at her beer bottle. "It's one thing the lead detective was discussing."
"Who is the lead detective?"
"His name is Joel, a guy in his early fifties. He's good, I think, um. We don't see a lot of cases like this, obviously."
"Obviously. Don't take this too personally, but do you think your department is up for the job? Do you think this person will be caught?"
"Yes," Bebe said, quickly. Stan was surprised by her confidence; she seemed to mean it. "I speak for the whole department when I tell you we are not going to let this go. You know what it's like here, how tight-knit the community is. Ruby was part of our family, too, in a way. I remember her as a little girl. In the Christmas pageant, the year she played the star at the top of the tree?"
"Jesus," Craig muttered. He finished his drink and nodded, staring into space.
"Bebe's right," Stan said. "We will figure this out."
"But the killer left no evidence on the scene," Craig said. "It said so in the report. Which suggests that this was planned carefully by someone intelligent."
"We're taking that into account," Bebe said, nodding. "We interviewed your mother briefly, and after the funeral, after she's dealt with the initial shock a bit more, we're going to talk to her again, and your dad, too. All of Ruby's friends. I think the killer did leave one big piece of evidence: the tongue. It means something that's intended to be interpreted, I think you're right. It's frightening, too, because it's the kind of move a serial killer makes."
"But I doubt it's that," Stan said, not wanting to think about a serial killer lurking amid the tight-knit South Park 'family.' "They rarely work in small towns. It's not smart."
"The killer could be moving through a series of small towns," Craig said.
"Exactly," Bebe said. "We'll be keeping an eye on reports of murders across the nation, you can count on that. Looking for any kind of similarities in the staging of the murder."
"The staging," Craig muttered, tilting the ice in his glass.
"Sorry," Bebe said. She touched Craig's shoulder and Stan saw him flinch, but only a little. "The funeral is on Wednesday, I heard?"
"That's right."
"Can I get you another?" Bebe asked. "It's on us."
"I actually need to leave," Craig said. "Talking like this. It's not easy for me."
Stan had actually been surprised by the seeming ease with which Craig discussed the facts of his sister's death, but Craig was always hard for him to read. Bebe walked him out to his car while Stan lingered to pay the tab. He took his first sip of beer and stared up at the Monday night football game on the bar's single television. The Ravens were leading the Saints in the second quarter. Stan hadn't watched much football since Randy died, and an empty feeling still settled heavy in his chest when he did. Watching with Wayne had helped, back when he was willing.
Stan heard a shout from behind him and turned to see Cartman arguing with one of his dealership buddies. It took Stan less than five seconds to discern the cause for the argument: the guy wanted to drive Cartman home and Cartman wanted to drink more before getting behind the wheel himself.
"Should I call the station?" Skeeter asked when he arrived with Stan's debit card and a receipt to sign. "Or do you want to handle this on a pro bono basis?"
"I'll deal with it," Stan said. He drank some more beer before leaving it half empty on the bar. Cartman had been banned from Skeeter's once before, but it didn't last long. Like most bartenders, Skeeter was a forgiving sort.
"You work for me, motherfucker," Cartman was saying to the exhausted-looking guy who was trying to help him into his coat. "Have you forgotten that? Huh? Who d'ya think signs your paychecks, the fucking tooth fairy?"
"Eric," Stan said sharply. "Lay off. Skeeter wants you out and I'm escorting you home, lucky me."
"Pfff," Cartman said, turning toward Stan with an unsteady wobble. "Fuck Skeeter."
"I can get the handcuffs out of my truck if I need to."
"Ooh, kinky!" Cartman cackled at his own stupid joke, looking around at his employees, who laughed nervously as they shrugged their coats on. They were essentially paid not only to sell cars but to be Cartman's friends. "Marsh wants to cuff me for being a grown man who has a few beers after work."
"Looks to me like you had a few scotches, too," Stan said. He took Cartman's coat and put it over his arm, grabbing Cartman's flabby bicep with his free hand. "C'mon, we're out of here, unless you want to sober up in the drunk tank at the station."
Cartman grumbled a lot but allowed Stan to walk him out of the bar. They ran into Bebe as she was coming back in, and she only looked surprised for a moment.
"Jesus, Eric," she said. "It's Stan's night off."
"It's fine," Stan said. "I'm not really feeling it tonight, anyway."
"Understandable," Bebe said, wilting. "You want company getting him home?"
"Nah, you enjoy the rest of the evening. See you tomorrow on shift."
Cartman made a few worrying noises as they pulled out of the parking lot of Skeeter's, but he settled in against the passenger door of Stan's truck without actually puking. He began to study Stan in a distracting, disparaging way, his lip partially raised.
"Marsh," Cartman said, and he scoffed as if the name itself was embarrassing.
"How about you put your seat belt on?" Stan said.
"How about you suck my cock?" Cartman grinned when Stan looked over at him, the backs of his ears getting hot with rage. "I've heard you like that sort of thing," Cartman said.
"Huh." Stan looked out at the road, trying to keep his face impassive. "Where'd you hear that, exactly?"
"Oh, just, around. And anyway, I could always tell, by the way you sniffed at Broflovski's crotch in high school. Whatever happened to that faggy little Jew, anyway?"
"You want to get dumped on the side of the road?" Stan barked, his heart slamming now. They were on the rural stretch of two-lane highway between Skeeter's and the center of town, and it would freeze tonight; Stan could smell it. Cartman just giggled drunkenly. He knew Stan wouldn't do it.
"Sorry, sorry," Cartman said, openly insincere. "I forgot how sensitive you are about that ginger fuck. I'm seriously, though, what became of him? He gay married yet or what?"
"I don't know. We don't keep in touch."
"Aww, what a tragedy. Hey, speaking of tragedies. You guys gonna catch this woman killer or what? My mom's real freaked out."
"We plan to catch him, yeah."
"Him? So sure it's a man? Could be some psycho lesbo friend who was in love with her."
"Thanks for your input, very astute."
"Why, you're welcome! You assholes should consult with me more often. I am a little psychic, as you'll recall."
"Mhm, no, I think that was Kyle."
Stan knew instantly that he shouldn't have said Kyle's name, thereby reopening the subject. His ears were really burning now, and his throat felt a little tight. He could practically hear Cartman's shit-eating grin.
"That's a real shame, you and Jew boy not being friends anymore. I guess he didn't take too kindly to you knocking up your other girlfriend with a teen pregnancy, huh?"
"You were always obsessed with him," Stan said, and Cartman was too drunk to keep from sputtering in surprise when he heard this.
"Me? Huh? I was? Look who's talking! You were the fucking president and founder of the Lick Kyle's Balls foundation, okay, it was embarrassing."
"He was my friend. You were something else. Hey, speaking of high school and crotch sniffing, I heard Butters might be back in town soon."
This seemed to take more wind from Cartman's sails, which Stan enjoyed until Cartman's lip started shaking.
"Oh, Christ," Stan groaned. "Don't cry."
"I'm not - fucking, shut up, I'm not crying! You. I - where'd you hear that? When's he coming?"
"I don't know, I just heard he needs to deal with his mother."
Cartman was quiet for a while, staring out the window and doing a poor job of pretending not to be emotional. His drunkenness typically went through three stages: joyous and goofy, loud and abusive, and finally came the weeping. Witnessing this reminded Stan of his father when he was at his worst.
"Who do you think did it?" Cartman asked while he was still staring out the window, and something about hearing that question in Cartman's croaky, slurring voice made the hair on the back of Stan's neck stand up.
"Ruby?"
"Yeah, Ruby. It's a small town, and they put up those road blocks near the highway after you found her. It's either a drifter who's still hiding out here or one of us. Somebody we know."
"Not necessarily-"
"I heard someone saying there's homeless people living in the old geneticist's lab up in the mountains. Bums, burnouts, dangerous folk. You and your fellow badge monkeys outta check that out."
"We've heard those rumors hundreds of times. We do routines checks up there and we've never-"
"I'm just saying, the woods are vast and thick and they're all around us, here."
Stan looked at Cartman, and regretted it when he saw that Cartman was looking at him, too. He had a wild, half-awake sort of drift in his eyes, as if he was sleep-walking, and his bloated cheeks were rosy in a disturbingly child-like way.
"You sound like you're quoting Lord of the Rings," Stan said. Cartman turned back to the window.
"Maybe I am," he said, mumbling. "I don't fucking know. Jesus, I fucked up. I fucked up real bad, Stan."
"How so?" Stan asked, alarmed. Cartman said nothing, and then he was snoring, his mouth leaving a foggy wet mark on the truck's window.
Stan walked Cartman to his front door and dumped him into Liane's arms. He went back to his truck feeling rattled. He shouldn't have attempted to talk about Kyle with anyone, let alone that asshole, and Cartman had become so strange and sad, a kind of garish flower that had rotted in its pot, never transplanted elsewhere. Stan drove home slowly, watching the roadside for suspicious characters. All he saw were a few deer, their eyes glowing from the darkness near the edge of the woods.
The following day was Wayne's thirteenth birthday, and Stan woke up feeling bereft. When they all lived together, he always made a special breakfast on the kids' birthdays, more or less whatever they wanted. One year Wayne wanted chocolate chip waffles with chocolate ice cream, and Stan made it happen. For her sixth birthday, Evan had wanted to eat an entire tub of cake frosting with a spoon, and Lola drew the line there.
Stan ate oatmeal alone at the kitchen table, then headed to Target, desperate to find something for Wayne that wasn't just a wad of cash or an equally impersonal gift card. He'd already contributed money to the new iPad Lola had purchased and wrapped for Wayne, and though it was a joint present Stan also wanted to get his son some kind of token to welcome him to teenagehood, a little something that would make him feel special and loved, even if he grimaced at it in the presence of his friends.
Target did not seem to be the place to find such things. Everything was glossy and fake, soulless. Stan tried the mall next, browsing expensive and flashy toys and feeling increasingly depressed. Finally, he found a small wooden box at a home decor boutique. He paid fifty dollars for it, which was ridiculous, but it had an octopus carved on the lid. Wayne had loved octopi as a boy. For an elementary school civics project he wrote a presentation on why octopus should be banned from the menus of South Park restaurants: because they were smart, essentially. Only City Sushi and one tapas place had ever served octopus in South Park, and though City Sushi wasn't moved by Wayne's essay, the tapas place did go out of business a few months later, probably for unrelated reasons. Stan had been really proud of Wayne for caring about animal welfare, and he had showered him in octopus-related gifts ever since. He was aware that this box probably wouldn't go over well, but he put an old picture of him and Wayne inside it anyway, hoping that he might appreciate this later, in a moment of private reflection, or perhaps in hindsight when he was thirty.
The picture Stan chose was of the two of them at the ranch outside of town. Wayne was five years old and seated on a horse, smiling widely. Stan was beaming, too, his arm around Wayne's waist as he stood beside the horse, steadying it and posing for Lola's camera. That was the year when Lola was pregnant with Evan, and they had all been happy. Stan had assumed that the feeling he had that day, warm under the late summer sun and content to be with his family, was one of finally settling into a comfortable if imperfect adult life. He was preparing to graduate from the police academy, looking forward to having a daughter and generally wanting for nothing that day. It was a couple of years after Evan was born when that feeling seemed to return much less often, and Stan felt as if he was always in a disorienting state of wanting both everything and nothing, working his way back toward the depression that descended at age ten. He kissed the octopus box when the picture was closed inside it, saying a mental prayer for Wayne. He never wanted his kids to know that empty feeling, and needed to believe that Wayne had tried beer just to impress his friends, not because he wanted an escape from his own exhausting mind.
The party was a small thing they did every year for family and a few of Wayne's friends, homemade cake and a barbecue in the backyard after the kids got out of school. Stan had the whole day off, and he showed up early to help Lola with the cooking. She sighed and put her arms around him when he came to the door, and he hugged her back with enthusiasm, greedy for human contact and feeling nostalgic about their old life together. Lola had suggested their separation, but it hadn't exactly felt like it was her idea.
"You okay?" she asked quietly, lingering in the doorway.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Saw Craig last night and talked to him a little. That was weird."
"Oh, god, yeah, I'd heard he was in town. How's he holding up?"
"He seems shaken, but I guess they weren't close. I felt so guilty, just looking at him."
"Stan." Lola shook her head. "I always worried about you and this job. You take everything to heart. And now this."
"I got him a gift," Stan said, not wanting to talk about that here. He could hear Wayne arguing with Evan in the living room, something about the TV. He passed the wrapped octopus box to Lola. "Just a little thing. He won't like it."
"He will," she said, though she didn't know what it was. "He misses you," she said, speaking quietly again.
"I miss him." Stan swallowed and shrugged. "Need help with the meat?"
"I've learned how to grill hamburgers in your absence," Lola said, but she allowed him to take over while she finished the other preparations. Stan was elated when Wayne came out to stand beside him and survey the burgers, and he tried not to show it too obnoxiously, giving him a one-armed hug while working the spatula with his other hand.
"You got me an octopus box," Wayne said, keeping his eyes on the grill.
"Aw, you opened it already?"
"Mom didn't say I had to wait. Sorry. I mean. It's cool, thanks."
"Seriously?" Stan tried to scale back his shock, grinning. "Yeah, um. I know you like them. Octopuses. Remember your octopus petition?"
"God, that was so embarrassing. Why'd you guys let me do that?"
"It was for school, and it was sweet." Stan realized he'd picked the wrong adjective. Wayne grunted and returned to the house, where Stan could hear Jimbo and Ned arriving, Jimbo greeting everyone at high volume as usual.
The party was in full swing half an hour later, and Stan was relieved when Bebe arrived, rescuing him from an uncomfortable conversation with Jimbo about the murder investigation and whether single women should be legally required to own firearms for protection. Kenny walked in with Bebe, which was interesting. He had been invited independently, but they seemed to have come together.
"Look, it's your godparents!" Kenny said as he gave Wayne a couple of back slaps, refraining from a hug because Wayne's slouching friends were present. Paul was not among them. They were playing video games in the center of the living room, Wayne occasionally pausing to receive his guests.
"Thanks," Wayne said, accepting his money-stuffed card from Bebe and some violent-looking video game from Kenny. "Oh, awesome," he said, examining the game. "Can we play this now?"
He seemed to be asking Stan, who shook his head and drank from the beer he'd been carrying around.
"Your grandma would freak if severed limbs started bouncing around the screen the next time she walks through here."
Stan was referring to Lola's mother. Sharon would visit at Thanksgiving, but she wasn't making the trip down for Wayne and Stan's birthdays this year. Airfares had gotten too expensive.
"Speaking of severed things," Kenny said as Stan led him and Bebe to the bar area. "Any developments on Craig's sister?"
"No. I take it you're doing the funeral?"
"Yeah, and they want a viewing, but it shouldn't be too tricky. No real facial damage, weirdly. Despite the tongue."
"Let's not talk about it here," Bebe said. "People don't know about the tongue," she said, more quietly.
"Rumor's getting around, actually," Kenny said, and he held up his hands when she boggled at him. "It's not me! I don't know who's talking. Maybe the family."
"Bebe's right," Stan said, feeling queasy. "Let's talk about something else."
"Such as?" Kenny said. "It's all I can think about. Karen was friends with her, growing up. I knew her, man. Who did this?"
"We're working on it," Bebe said, tightly, and Stan wasn't sure if the look that passed between them betrayed the intimacy of having recently slept together or the other, older familiarly of having slept together quite a few times in the past.
"What's with you two?" Stan asked when Kenny wandered off to say hello to Jimbo.
"Huh?" Bebe said. She glanced at Kenny. "Nothing - what?"
"I thought you came together."
"I'm his designated driver," Bebe said. She rolled her eyes. "He smoked with his brother before he came."
"Oh, lovely." Stan was kind of jealous, actually. It had been a while since he had a Kevin McCormick evening, which generally involved adopting Kevin's happily shiftless attitude toward life, at least for a few hours.
"How was it with getting Cartman home last night?" Bebe asked. "Thanks for taking that bullet."
"It was fine. Actually, weird. He said something really weird about - the woods? And he said he fucked up."
"Well, yeah, his whole life is one fuck up after another. Was Liane home?"
Stan nodded and let the subject drop. He supposed his lingering anxiety about talking with Cartman had more to do with his taunts about Kyle than anything else.
Aside from enduring his former mother-in-law's occasional cold stares, Stan was enjoying himself at the party, his mood buoyed by Wayne saying the octopus box was cool. Wayne mostly hung out with his friends while Stan spent time with Evan, who asked him several uncomfortable questions about the murder and hugged him a lot, in a worried sort of way, as if he had narrowly escaped death himself.
"If you find the guy," she said when they were sitting on the back porch together, watching the last of the sunset, "Will you have to kill him?"
"No," Stan said, though he supposed that was possible. He had threatened a few times, but had never actually fired at anyone in the line of duty. "He'd be arrested. Not killed. Everyone gets to have a trial."
"Even if they killed a girl?" Evan said.
"Yeah, even then, because the lawyers have to prove the cops arrested the right guy."
"But what if he had a knife, Dad?"
"What - huh?"
"When you found him, the bad guy. If he had a knife, and he slashed it at you, would you kill him then?"
"Ev, no - it wouldn't work that way."
Stan remained perturbed by this conversation as they gathered around the cake, darkness falling outside while Lola lit thirteen candles. Wayne was sighing like he was too old for this but not actively retreating. Kenny was laughing under his breath and Bebe seemed annoyed. Just as Lola told the group it was time to sing the birthday song, Bebe's phone went off. Half a second later, Stan's did, too. They looked at each other over the cake: simultaneous calls had never been a good sign in the past, and Stan wasn't surprised to see that it was the station calling when he pulled his phone out.
"Sorry," he said when Lola gave him a look. "I have to-"
"Maybe they caught the murderer!" Wayne's friend Trent shouted.
"Lieutenant Marsh," Stan said when he answered.
"This is dispatch requesting assistance at a residence at the corner of Trenton Avenue and Vine Street. Residence is number 745 on Vine. Sorry, Stan. I know you're off duty, but it's - they need you and Bebe on the scene."
"Me and-"
"It's a homicide. Chief needs you on the scene ASAP to note any similarities to the murder you guys called in on Friday."
"Jesus. Okay, yeah. On our way." He hung up and looked at Bebe, who nodded.
"What is it?" Wayne asked. He looked scared, but maybe Stan was only projecting. He'd forgotten to ask who the victim was. It was unlikely that it would be a complete stranger.
"We got called to duty," Bebe said. "An emergency, sorry, we have to go now."
"Is it another murder?" Jimbo asked, bellowing this.
"Whoa!" Trent said. "Really?"
"We'll fill you in as soon as we can," Stan said, grabbing his coat from the back of a kitchen chair. "Sorry, buddy," he said to Wayne, who shrugged.
"It doesn't matter," he said, and Stan left the house with a sense of dread so enormous that he felt like there wasn't enough oxygen in the air outside. It did matter: something was very wrong in South Park.
"Well, fuck," Bebe said. "Want me to drive?"
"Yeah, I had two beers." Stan felt completely sober, despite this, but too shaky to get behind the wheel. "Did dispatch tell you who the vic was?"
"Male, mid-twenties. That was all I got."
By the time they got to Trenton and Vine, Stan's stomach was pinched so tightly that it felt like it had folded in half. The whole block was flooded with parked squad cars, and there was a coroner's van parked in the driveway of number 745. Stan and Bebe had their Park County coats on, but Stan didn't even have his gun. He supposed he wouldn't need it.
"Oh shit," Bebe said as she parked. "What. Why are there kids?"
Stan saw what she was referring to as he climbed out of the car, his pinched stomach cramping up tighter. Out in front of the house there was a woman talking to the grief counselor the Park County station shared with the Fairplay PD, and there were two blond kids clutched to her sides, one boy and one girl. Stan felt the color drain from his face when he recognized them from somewhere. He couldn't place their names, but he definitely knew these people from around town. The Chief spotted him and Bebe and waved them toward the front door of the house, where he was standing with a medical examiner. Stan's vision tunnelled as he moved toward the crime scene, and he imagined Ruby's corpse waiting for him inside before reminding himself that this one could be worse.
"David Harrison," the Chief said when Bebe and Stan arrived. "Killed in the same manner as the Tucker girl. Wife picked up the kids from school, stopped by the grocery store on their way home, walked in to find this."
"Jesus," Bebe said.
"Harrison," Stan said, steadying himself on the iron railing that lined the front steps. "That's. One of the Mormon kids? Gary's brother?"
"Don't know," the Chief said, but Stan did, then: he was sure. Gary didn't live in South Park anymore, but his parents and some siblings still did, David included. Stan looked into the house, realizing that he was about to confront the fact that David no longer lived here. He'd died here.
"Gary," Stan said, not speaking to anyone present. "He'll be-"
"Have they found any evidence inside yet?" Bebe asked. She sounded angry, and Stan knew he needed to channel his anger, too, if he was going to get through this.
"Not yet," the Chief said. "They're taking photos now, but I wanted to have you two put your eyes on the scene before the coroner takes the body. I know it's not easy, but really take your time. I need you to report absolutely every detail that's similar, no matter how small it seems. Marsh, you going to be sick?"
"What?" Stan gripped the railing more tightly, putting shoulders back. "No, sir."
"You're a little green," Bebe said. "He knows the victim's brother," she said, to the Chief. "They're friends."
"I'm fine," Stan said, already wondering if he should be the one to make the call to Gary. No, that would be David's widow, or Gary's parents. "God," he said, and he turned toward the doorway, his mouth dry. "Let's go, let's do it, I'm alright."
Like Ruby, David was seated on the couch in the front room, posed to greet whomever came through the door. Stan swallowed against his gag reflex and hoped that the kids hadn't even gotten a glimpse, that David's wife had backed up before they could step through the door. At first glance, David and Ruby's dead bodies were near mirror images, cut in three places and missing a tongue, but after a few seconds Stan noticed the most obvious difference.
"The middle cut," he said. The Chief was standing between him and Bebe, poised to take notes.
"It's diagonal," Bebe said. "The chest wound - on Ruby it was horizontal."
"We noted that," the Chief said. "Look closer. Look at the room, smell the air. Anything popping out at you?"
"The furniture's not disturbed," Stan said. "With Ruby there was more of a struggle."
"Which is odd," Bebe said. "Considering David is - was - bigger and likely stronger than she was."
"There was no forced entry, either," the Chief said. "Fuck, if only it had snowed. But he would have covered his tracks anyway. This guy is a professional animal. These victims have to be connected in some way, either in reality or in his mind."
"Ruby and David?" Bebe said. "Are they the same age?"
"Nearly. David Harrison was 25. Ruby Tucker was 27."
Their discussion continued, but Stan lost the ability to follow it, his gaze frozen on David's body. David's eyes were closed, his hands turned palms-up on the couch cushions in a gesture of surrender. There was no bruising on his face, indicating that his tongue, like Ruby's, had been removed after he was already dead. His shoes were tied, belt buckled, and his hair seemed neatened in a way that made Stan envision the killer doing so after his victim had stopped twitching, just before he crept away unseen.
"It's a two," Stan said.
Bebe and the Chief stopped talking and turned to him.
"Sorry, Lieutenant?" the Chief said.
"The three cuts. I was thinking it was like a 'Z' pattern, but it could be the number two. On Ruby there were three slashes, all horizontal. And the report said they were made right to left. Like you'd - like you'd write the number three, facing left. On this one - on David it's like a number two."
"I'll mention that to Olmert. He'll want to talk to you both before he writes up his report. I'm going to have you both file a report on the scene, too, and any similarities to how you found Tucker. Take some more time here, and focus. That's a good start, Marsh. The number two, sure. Could be."
Despite his good start, Stan wasn't able to come up with anything more from viewing the body or the room, aside from an increasingly knife-sharp horror that seemed to be emanating from the pit of his stomach. An hour later the coroner transferred David's body to a stretcher, and Stan made it all the way to the station without getting sick, but as soon as he was alone in the men's room he retched a few times, unable to actually purge anything, physical or otherwise.
It was after midnight by the time he finished writing his report, and Wayne was in bed when he called the house, his birthday over.
"It's horrible," Lola said on the phone, whispering. "Who would attack that family? What kind of monster would want to hurt that sweet man?"
"You want me to come over?" Stan asked, hopeful. "Just, I mean. I could sleep on the couch, if the kids are scared. I'm sure people are already talking."
"My parents are still here, they're sleeping on the fold-out," Lola said. "But, thanks."
"You need anything, just call me. Just. Watch the kids, you know, until we- find something. Someone."
"Stan, you sound so tired. Are you still at work?"
"Headed home now."
He had intended to go home, but as soon as Bebe dropped him off at his car, still parked on the street outside the house he used to share with Lola, he knew he wouldn't make it back to his place. Instead, he headed to Kevin McCormick's apartment, relived when he saw that the light was still on in his front window. Kevin worked the night shift at the liquor store and usually slept from six in the morning to three in the afternoon. He answered the door with his usual loopy grin, and didn't seem to notice how freaked out Stan was until he was inside, engulfed in the comforting glow from Kevin's freshwater aquarium and by the smell of pot that laced the air in every room of his apartment.
"You're all pale," Kevin said, and he bent down to kiss Stan's cheek. Like Kenny, he was over six feet tall and had a wide chest. Kevin's shoulders were thicker than Kenny's, and he had a chin that was padded but not quite double. He was getting a little fat, recently, but Stan didn't much care at the moment or in general. He already felt pathetic for ending up with his head in the toilet at the station, so he avoided the temptation to dump himself against Kevin's chest and moved around him, going for the lit joint that was resting in the ashtray Kevin kept on his pot-dusted coffee table.
"I've seen two mutilated bodies in the past three days," Stan said after he'd taken a drag. "I need, just. Can I hang out?"
"Of course, dude, yeah. Jesus, I saw that on the news, they found another body? Some family man, younger than me? Some fucked up shit. You want a beer?"
"I just want to sit down," Stan said, and he did, collapsing onto Kevin's scummy old couch with the joint still pinched between his fingers. He dragged on it again, feeling guilty, though it wasn't like anyone needed him at the moment. He'd pulled an extra six hour shift, there'd been nobody to save on the scene, the person who killed David Harrison was invisible, and Stan's ex-in-laws were standing guard at his ex-house along with Lola. Stan felt like a spare part, and he wondered if Bebe had been headed over to Kenny's when she left the station, and who had driven him home from the party after she left. Possibly he'd walked; it was very Kenny to be content with just walking for miles if that meant he could have a buzz while he travelled. Stan took another hit from the joint, his stomach finally beginning to settle. He accepted a can of Country Time Lemonade when Kevin brought it from the kitchen, and gladly cuddled into the slightly rank heat of Kevin's body when he sat close and put his arm around Stan's shoulders.
"Sorry you had to see that shit," Kevin said, touching Stan's face. He was always doing that, stroking Stan's cheeks and jaw, pinching his chin. It was sort of annoying, sort of endearing. He had pretty big hands, and Stan could never decide if he was attracted or repulsed by this.
"I wish this kind of thing didn't fuck me up so bad," Stan said. "I mean, it fucks everybody up, sure, but it happens, and it's part of my job. Apparently, now."
"Is it a serial killer? They were saying that on the news."
"I don't know about that, but the murders are definitely connected. God, I don't want to talk about it. I just spent two hours writing a report, and an hour before that with the lead detective, almost an hour on the scene-"
"Okay, shhh," Kevin said, and Stan leaned away a little when he did the cheek stroking thing again. "You want me to fuck you?" Kevin asked, sweetly, and Stan snorted.
"No. Maybe later. My son turned thirteen today, did Kenny tell you? Yesterday, I guess, actually. What time is it?"
"Umm, quarter till one," Kevin said, peering at the clock on his phone, which was lying on the coffee table next to the ashtray. "Kenny said he was going to a party, earlier," Kevin said, and he maneuvered Stan until he could rub his shoulders. It felt good, and Stan let his head drop forward, his eyes sliding shut. "I didn't know it was your kid's party. Though maybe Kenny did mention that. He was buying that video game, yeah."
"Is he sleeping with Bebe again?" Stan asked, his voice already deteriorating into a mumble. He was going to sleep soon, he had to, but it wasn't going to be very restful. He felt like he was already in the prelude to a nightmare, could almost hear the eerie music building softly in the background.
"Hmm," Kevin said. "I don't know, man, he might be fucking her. She's a cool chick, probably too good for him. I gotta go to the parlor for that girl's funeral tomorrow, he wants me parking cars. I guess he'll have to do another one soon. They gonna catch this guy or what?"
"Yes," Stan said, though he felt less confident about this than he had after they found Ruby. Something darker than the killings themselves was at work in South Park. Someone was trying to have a conversation with the town, and they were writing their messages in mortal wounds.
Stan fell asleep on the couch before he could finish his can of lemonade. Though Kevin could barely fit on the couch by himself, he stayed there with Stan, half on top of him. It was comforting, being anchored to the earth by another person while he slept, but not exactly comfortable, and Stan woke five times before his phone rang at the crack of dawn, rousing him from one semi-lucid state and into another.
"Marsh." It was the Chief, and Stan was pretty sure he hadn't slept at all. "I need you back at the crime scene as soon as you can get here in uniform."
"Get - you mean, to the station?"
"No, the goddamn crime scene at Vine. I turned my back for two minutes and they've got FBI from Denver crawling all over my shit. It's not protocol - they think they can show up at four in the morning and I won't notice?"
"What - okay, um. I could be there in about half an hour, I think."
"Don't think, Lieutenant, do it!"
The Chief hung up, and Stan appreciated that, for the first time since the Tucker murder, he wasn't treating Stan as if he was delicate and in need of special handling. Kevin was still asleep behind Stan on the couch, and Stan didn't bother to wake him or leave a note. He and Kevin regularly made speedy exits while the other was sleeping; neither of them took anything about this situation very personally, despite all the cheek stroking.
Stan felt light-headed and heavy-limbed on the way to his car, and the inside of his mouth tasted terrible. At his house, he peeled off his stale clothes and brushed his teeth, but didn't allow time for showering. He wasn't accustomed to dealing with the FBI, but he'd heard they were a pain the ass, condescending, unwilling to respect local knowledge and biased against other organizations in ways that could screw over an investigation. Since this was the highest profile case South Park had dealt with in decades, Stan wasn't surprised that they were trying to get involved, but he was already in support of the Chief's distaste for their meddling. He dressed in a clean uniform, his last one, and hoped he'd have the time and energy to get to the dry cleaners later in the day.
His stomach started tightening again as he pulled onto Vine Street, and he realized he was afraid that the body would still be there, though in his rational mind he was aware that it was now at the morgue. Exiting the car in uniform and with his gun on his hip made him feel less raw than he had the day before, but only slightly. He searched the mix of cops and FBI agents on the front lawn for Bebe, and at first his eyes skipped over the red-haired man standing near the garage and talking with some other random suit. Then his breath stuttered and he felt something shift in the cold morning air, at the pit of his stomach, and in a painful corner of his heart that wasn't as strongly fortified as he'd thought, doors he'd locked there years ago already straining outward and threatening to burst open, because that was Kyle Broflovski standing there, talking to some guy, not even noticing as Stan moved toward him in a kind of disbelieving trance.
"Kyle?" Stan said, and only after Kyle and the other man turned to him did he realize he'd thought he could say that without having Kyle actually hear it.
"Oh." Kyle frowned slightly. His hair was on the short side, styled carefully, and he didn't look like he'd been up since four in the morning. "Hi, yes, good. Finally, a cop who will cooperate with us. Mac, this is Stan Marsh, we knew each other as kids. Stan, this is my-"
"What are you doing here?" Stan asked, too tired not to nearly shout this, disbelief clouding his vision at the corners. He wanted to drag Kyle aside and yell at him, because this made no sense, and because Stan was still, it turned out, so fucking angry.
"No one told you?" Kyle said, frowning again. He pushed his shoulders back, straightened his fitted suit jacket and lifted his chin a little. Stan and this Mac character were both taller than Kyle, and Stan felt like Kyle was maybe bothered by this, because he'd always been sensitive about his height, though he wasn't actually that short - but Stan didn't know Kyle anymore and there was no fucking telling what he was going to say next, based on what he'd said already.
"I'm here with the FBI," Kyle said, and Stan almost laughed when he got out his badge and showed it to Stan. "I'm lead on this investigation, though your police chief is in some kind of hysterical denial about that. We're in the process of clearing the cops out of here, actually, though we will need them to keep traffic off this road."
"What are you talking about?" Stan asked, waiting to wake up from this new nightmare, back on Kevin's couch, though everything around him suddenly felt more real than it had in days, in a brutal sort of way. Kyle glanced at Mac and raised his eyebrows slightly before turning back to Stan.
"I'm just telling you, Stan," Kyle said, stepping toward him, "Because apparently no one else has. The murders in South Park are now under investigation by the FBI. We're here from Denver to help. I took a special assignment because I have familiarity with the region, from growing up here."
"Familiarity with the region," Stan said, biting the words out.
"Yes," Kyle said. He actually had the balls to smile then, friendly-like. "To put it simply, well. This is my crime scene now."