Robert 'Mongo' Porter was in bad shape. He was lying on a bed in the ICU with his neck in a brace, his left arm and shoulder in a cast, his left leg in traction and his bruised and battered head swaddled in bandages.

The Eureka patrolman standing near the doorway nodded as his boss and two men he didn't recognize approached. Chief Ryan smiled. "We'll be a little while, Carson. Why don't you go on down to the cafeteria and get yourself a coffee?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

As the young man headed away, Ryan led the others into the ICU cubicle. He stood near the door as Healey moved closer to one side of the bed and Haseejian crossed around to the other side.

Porter's eyes were closed. Haseejian looked from the biker to his partner and frowned. Healey shrugged. The Armenian sergeant leaned over the bed. "Mr. Porter," he stage whispered to the seemingly unresponsive man. When there was still no response, he raised his voice. "Mr. Porter!"

The biker's eyes shot open, glaring straight up at the ceiling then turned slowly to meet the sergeant's.

"Gee, you are awake," Haseejian said cordially as he straightened up, chuckling. "I'm Sergeant Haseejian and this is Sergeant Healey, SFPD," he added with a quick glance at his partner, both of them holding out their stars and I.D.'s. and smiling coldly.

"We have a few questions for you, Mr. Porter," Healey said, pocketing his badge and taking out his notebook and pen. "Hope you don't mind."

Porter's eyes had slid in Healey's direction but his mouth remained closed. When the two detectives didn't elaborate, he growled lowly, "I ain't never been to 'Frisco."

Wincing, Haseejian leaned over the bed again. "Yeah," he began slowly, "that's obvious… but we're not interested in that. We're interested in why you got into this little, ah…" he gestured with his chin towards the biker's broken body, "this little… accident. That's what it was, right? An accident?"

Porter's eyes returned to their study of the ceiling. "Yeah. An accident."

"So… what?" Healey asked facetiously, "Are you that bad a biker…? You lost control and drove into a ditch?"

Porter could hear the other cop laugh and he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. Healey looked at Haseejian and they shared a brief smile.

"Who'd you piss off, Porter?" Healey asked almost casually and watched as the injured biker squeeze his eyes closed even tighter. He knew he had hit a nerve. "Who did you make so angry they'd want to run you and your buddy off the road?"

Haseejian took a Polaroid snapshot out of his pocket. "He's dead, Porter. Your buddy? He hit a tree, did you know that? Elvin 'Paunchy' Laird. That was his name wasn't it? Well, anyway, he died in the ambulance on the way here. If you don't believe me, look at this." He held the photo in front of the biker's face.

After several tense seconds, Porter opened his eyes, refocusing onto the Polaroid. Both sergeants saw the sudden shock and grief that briefly washed over the otherwise stoic visage.

"What did you do?" Healey tried again. "What did you and your buddy do to make someone so mad they'd want to kill you?"

Porter closed his eyes again.

"Did it have something to do with what happened at Patches the other night?" Haseejian prodded. "To what you and your… friends did to those two guys who were just in there playing pool?" Porter stiffened slightly; the cop glanced up at his partner and they exchanged a subtle nod. "They weren't just…you know, bar patrons, if that's what you were thinking. They were cops. Homicide cops from San Francisco… like us. The guy that was stabbed with the beer bottle? He's our lieutenant."

Haseejian paused to let the full weight of this revelation to sink in. "We know it was your dead buddy that stabbed him. And we know you were the one that kicked him in the head when he was down. And we haven't even mentioned our colleague who just disappeared, the one someone hit over the head with a pool cue. So, ah, in case you were wondering why two San Francisco cops are here talking to you right now… well, that's why."

Porter hadn't opened his eyes but his entire body had tensed.

Healey leaned closer. "Is that why they tried to kill you? To shut you up about what happened the other night? Or is there more to it than that?"

When there was still no response, Healey straightened up. "Okay, if that's the way you want to play this. But you know, if they tried to kill you once, and they didn't succeed, you think they're just going to walk away? You don't think they're gonna try it again?" He looked up at his partner. "What do you think, Norm?" His tone was almost playful.

"Oh, I don't know… if I was them, I'd want this guy gone for good, wouldn't you? I mean, hell, you can't move, you're kinda stuck here, aren't you? Talk about a sitting duck!" He chuckled evilly.

"Yeah," Healey laughed, "that's for sure. But, hey, that's his choice, right? If he doesn't want to talk, well, then we don't have to offer him protection, right?" He looked over his shoulder. "Chief?"

"Yeah?" Ryan answered, pushing away from the door and taking a couple of steps deeper into the room.

"We're getting nowhere here. How about you take the guard off the door and we'll let Porter here figure out what he wants to do. How does that sound?"

"Sounds like a good idea to me. There's no reason for us to offer him any protection if he's not going to cooperate. I'll tell my man to stand down."

As the police chief moved towards the door and reached for the handle, Porter finally spoke. "Wait a minute."

All three cops turned back to the bed. The biker's eyes were once more staring at the ceiling. He let an ominous silence hang in the air for several seconds then he said quietly. "I'll talk… but I want protection… and I want immunity."

Haseejian took a step closer to the bed. "You'll talk about what? About what happened to both those cops?"

Porter finally turned his head to make eye contact with the stocky sergeant. His lips curled into a mirthless smile that sent a chill down Haseejian's spine. "That's just the tip of the iceberg. There's things going on in Crocker that'll curdle the blood in your veins. But time's runnin' out… and it's runnin' out fast."

Their eyes locked in silence for several very long seconds then Haseejian turned his head slightly towards Chief Ryan. "Can you get us in to see the District Attorney?"

"I'll set it up as soon as I can."

With a smug, insolent smile, Porter's eyes slid away to stare at the ceiling once more. When he closed them, the smile remained.

# # # # #

"What do you think he was getting at?" Devitt asked, snapping a quick look in Mike's direction. His colleague was back in the bed, but sitting up and watching them with his usual intensity.

Both sergeants shook their heads. "We don't know," Healey answered, "but whatever he was alluding to, I have the feeling he's not bluffing."

"I agree," Haseejian concurred. "He definitely knows something. And I have a feeling that him and Laird going after you and Steve," he said to Mike, "that's the reason they were targeted and taken out. I just don't know why yet."

"Any hunches you want to share?" Mike asked with the ghost of a smile on his lips.

Both sergeants smiled. "Not yet," Healey answered and Haseejian nodded in agreement. "There're some things we want to check out first."

Haseejian glanced at his watch. "And if we're gonna get it done today, we gotta get outa here." Both men stood.

Healey looked at Devitt. "Ryan said he'd call here to let us know when we can get in to see the DA."

Devitt nodded. "I'll take the call."

"Great. Okay, see you guys later. Hopefully with more good news." Healey stopped at the door and turned back, looking directly at Mike. "It isn't exactly concrete evidence, but Porter didn't deny that Steve was in the bar. It's not much, but it's something."

"It's a lot, Dan," Mike said quietly, "believe me, it's a lot."

Healey nodded grimly. "We're getting closer."

# # # # #

"This could be something," Healey said softly, almost squinting at the slightly fuzzy type print on the large black-and-white monitor in front of him.

"What's that?" Haseejian was doing the same at the desk adjacent.

"It's a notice in the Crocker Comin's and Goin's column again." Neither of them could stifle the smile and chuckle that always accompanied the title of the regular feature in the town's Wednesday weekly. "A Robert Edward Crocker married a Brenda Joyce Phillips." Healey made a notation in the notebook near his right hand.

"How many is that?"

"Crockers?" Healey mumbled as he counted. "Nine, and I've only gone through two years worth so far… Big family…"

Haseejian laughed, continuing to stare at his screen. Suddenly he looked away, paused, then raised his head. "Dan, what was her name again, her maiden name?"

"Ah, Phillips. Why?"

Haseejian turned the right knob on the microfiche reader, 'turning' the pages back. He stopped moving the facsimile of the newspaper and leaned closer to the screen. "Yeah, I thought so. A B. Phillips is recorded as the owner of B.P. Motors, the Ford dealership – the only car dealership, by the way – in Crocker." He looked at his partner and raised his eyebrows. "Coincidence?"

Healey smiled sardonically. "Of course it is…" He leaned back and picked up his notebook, flipping a few pages. "I have six major businesses in Crocker owned by members, one way or another, of the Crocker family. You?"

The Armenian sergeant was doing the same. "I got four, so far."

They sat in silence for several seconds, attempting to sort out in their own minds what this could mean. It was Healey who finally put it into words.

"You know, ever since I saw that note in Steve's book about 'company town' and we talked to Manley about it, something's been tickling me in the back of my mind."

Haseejian snorted. "I know that feeling."

"Yeah, I know you do."

"So, what's your little niggling trying to tell you?"

Healey swallowed heavily then shook his head with a look of dread-filled inevitability. "I'm beginning to think that Crocker is a company town too – but the company isn't lumber, it's heroin."

# # # # #

It was crowded in Mike's hospital room. The legitimate occupant was lying on the bed; Chief Ryan, Sheriff Manley, Devitt and Haseejian were in chairs; Healey had the floor.

"So what we're saying is," Healey was coming to his conclusion, "from what we've been able to glean from the microfiche and talking to some people steeped in local history, Crocker was founded by the Crocker family about a hundred years ago and has been a sort of a 'company town,'" he glanced at Manley and smiled, "ever since.

"Now from what we found out, and we still have to confirm it, of course, the Crocker family started out in lumber… same as the founders of Colville, right?" He directed the question to Manley, who nodded.

"Right. So, anyway, Crocker prospered and grew bigger than Colville, and survived when the lumber company pulled out of Colville because the one in Crocker stayed put. But from what we've found out, the mill in Crocker hasn't been doing very well, and it hasn't for a long time." He glanced at his partner, who stood up and took over while Healey grabbed his bottle of Coke from the table near Mike and took a swig.

"Yeah, so, Crocker, the town, seems to be flourishing. And it is. So the question becomes, how? It's certainly not the mill. And we've found out that just about every business in Crocker is owned by a member, by birth or by marriage, of the Crocker family, including Patches."

He smiled at Mike, who was watching him with a slight frown. "We have a couple of pictures to show you, boss."

Healey picked up a file folder that had been sitting on the bedtable. He opened it and took out a copy of a newspaper photo. It was slightly blurry but not enough to make it illegible. "Does she look familiar?"

Mike stared at the young woman in the wedding photo. Something triggered in his mind. He closed his left eye, concentrating. The others waited. Suddenly his eye shot open again and he looked up at Healey. "The first night Steve and I went to Patches. She came in with a couple of young men and she was eyeing Steve, rather blatantly, I thought, in front of her… friends." Mike cocked his head. "Why?"

Healey smiled slightly. "This is Rachel Jane MacArthur, nee Crocker. The fourth of the current patriarch James Crocker's five daughters. Her uncle-in-law Brian MacArthur owns Patches and his son Charles – whom everybody calls Chuck – manages it."

Mike handed the paper back to Healey with a light smile. "What else you got?"

Grinning, Healey handed him another photo. It was of a pretty young brunette posing in a cheerleader outfit and holding a baton.

"She was our waitress," Mike stated immediately.

Nodding, Healey took the paper and showed it to the others. "Meet Joan Karanski, Rachel MacArthur's niece… another Crocker."

"Jesus, they're like rabbits," Devitt snorted, taking the photocopy from Healey and staring at it.

"More like cockroaches," Manley offered, holding out a manila file folder of his own. "Have a look at this."

Warily, Healey took the folder and opened it. His eyes scanned the top page. Suddenly he froze and his eyes snapped back to Manley. "Is this for real?"

The Colville sheriff nodded.

"What is it?" Chief Ryan asked.

Healey's eyes met all the others before settling on Mike. "Sheriff Barry Lassiter's wife's maiden name is Mary Elizabeth Crocker."