Murdoch, Brackenreid, Crabtree, and farmer Simpson stood in the barn, staring down at the shrunken head that lay on the dusty straw floor. "What do you make of it, Murdoch?" the Inspector asked as he looked down at the object with some caution as he'd never seen anything like it before in his life.

Murdoch crouched down and motioned Crabtree to join him, "George, this seems like something you would find interesting and may know something about. What do you know about shrunken heads?" the detective asked. Anyone that knew the constable could see him almost salivating over the prospect of having the knowledge of such things.

"Genuine shrunken heads usually come from South America, where rival tribes of indigenous people who would kill one another and shrink the human head and display them are a show of force and not embroil with them. These tribes have hardly had anyone study them because they are so far into the rain forest," the Constable stated.

"Genuine? You mean there could be fake ones, Crabtree?" the Inspector asked.

"Certainly, Sir. I bet one on the black market could fetch a pretty penny," Crabtree replied.

"Well, it that one real or not?" the Inspector quickly asked.

Crabtree slowly reached out to pick it up. He made a face as his hand touched it, and it wasn't the texture that he expected, so he put it back down. "Pick it up, Crabtree," the Inspector ordered as he poke him in the shoulder with his walking stick.

"It like it will feels horrible, Sir," George responded, looking up at the Inspector.

Brackenreid huffed, "Are you a man or a mouse?"

Murdoch pursed his lips and decided to intervene by using his handkerchief to pick up the little head. Even with the cloth, the texture was off-putting. "We'll have to get Julia," he paused, "er, Doctor Ogden, take a look at this," he said looking up at the farmer, who was watching on with great interest.

"Just take it away," Simpson almost ordered the men to remove it, waving his right hand.

"Certainly Mister Simpson," Murdoch said as he stood up. "You are certain you don't know how this found it's way into your barn," he studied the farmer's face.

"Not a clue," Simpson replied.

Whilst George was crouching, he spotted the sack just behind the farmer. He slowly stood and walked to the heap of cloth, "Sirs?" he looked down at it. "Doesn't that look like the same material we found on the councillor's body?" he questioned as he lifted the sack with his pencil.

"It sure does, George," Murdoch stated as he quickly handed the wrapped head to the Inspector, who was now more focused on the sack, to even notice what the Detective had done. Murdoch moved next to the Constable, "Let's get this back to Station House No. 4 for further examination," he said.

"I suppose we should wrap it in something," Crabtree suggested.

"Agreed," Murdoch reached for his handkerchief and then realized it was already in use. He looked over to the Inspector who was still looking at the sack hanging off the end of Crabtree's pencil. Murdoch batted his eyes in slight bemusement, "Sir, do you have a spare handkerchief?" he then asked.

"Yes, yes, Murdoch," Brackenreid stated then looked down to his hand, "Bloody hell!" he exclaimed, almost throwing the shrunken head to the floor. He then looked at the Detective with a scowl, "Not funny," he huffed. Murdoch's left eyebrow lift, realizing what he'd done and a slight smirk formed on his lips. The Detective held out his hands and received the wrapped head. The Inspector didn't take his eyes off Murdoch as he reached into his pocket and produced a handkerchief, "Crabtree, use this," he tossed the hanky over to the Constable. George grabbed the cloth out of the air and quickly rolled the sack up for safe keeping.

"I guess we have all we need,' Murdoch announced. "Should we have further questions," he looked at the farmer.

"I'm not going anywhere. Unless another one of those things shows up!" Simpson gruffly pointed to the shrunken head.

"Let's hope that doesn't happen," the Detective smiled and bid the farmer ado. Brackenreid and Crabtree followed close behind, leaving Simpson standing alone in his barn still wondering where the little head came from. The old farmer scratched his whiskered cheek before he turned and left the barn for a stiff drink at his house.

Across town, Maxwell Best had just changed out of his damp clothing and into a new suit. He realized that he still had time for his three o'clock meeting with R.W. He was rather eager, and a slight smile curled his lips. He even dobbed on some cologne on either side of his neck and cheeks. With a slight adjustment of his cravat he was ready. He quickly checked his pocket watch smiled in satisfaction as he walked down the stairs of his spacious house.

He scooped up his derby and placed it on his head as he opened the door and left the house. No sooner had he turned the corner on the block, Mrs. Best arrived home. She sniffed the air, noting the fragrance that lingered outside the doorway. "Maxwell?" she called out as she entered her home. The cologne was even stronger inside, "Maxwell?" she repeated.

With a huff, Mrs. Best climbed the stairs and looked around the upper storey, when she spotted the soiled clothing draped over the back of the chair in the master bedroom. Perhaps he was in the bath, "Maxwell?" she called out again, this time opening the door into the empty room. Clearly he had gotten cleaned up. She firmly placed her hands on her hips and growled, "Where are you?" There was no answer. "Well, perhaps you're eating. After all you didn't come home last night," she said as she left the room to go down to the kitchen. It too was empty. Truly puzzled, she thought she should notify the police at Station House No.4.

Constable Henry Higgins tried to ignore the telephone, but the other constables were staring at him as it continued to ring. Finally he dropped his pencil to the blotter and picked up the candlestick phone, "Police Station House No. 4," he spoke into the daffodil-shaped mouth piece. He held the receiver away from his ear, as Mrs. Best bellowed into the phone on her end, "Well that is really good news," Higgins looked at the other men and shrugged as he continued to listen. "I will indeed, ma'am," he nodded.

Higgins was still on the phone when Murdoch, Crabtree and Brackenreid returned to the station. All three men watched the Constable as he kept pulling the receiver from his ear, "It's Mrs. Best," he held the phone out hoping someone would take it from him.

Murdoch flexed his jowl, cast a glance to his boss and took the telephone. After a few seconds of trying to interrupt and get Mrs. Best attention, he was finally successful, "I see," he said with interest. "Yes, Ma'am," he finally said as he hung up and placed the phone down on the desk.

"What is it Murdoch?" Brackenreid asked.

"It would seem that Maxwell Best is alive and somewhere in Toronto," the Detective informed his boss.

"But how?!" Brackenreid stammered. "He was dead!"

"Or was he?" Murdoch replied with an arched eyebrow. Brackenreid, Crabtree and Higgins exchanged looks.