Sledge Hammer! - The Mourning After

by ghost-writer-in-d-skyz

What happened when everyone woke up the morning after Hammer's notorious proposal to Doreau? Follow Detective Dori Doreau, Captain Edmond Trunk, and Inspector Sledge Hammer as they as they solve murder, robbery, arson, break up an major organized crime ring, and prove that conspiracy isn't always a theory, while making sense of the night before.

6. Chapter 6 - Bent, Folded and ?

Chapter 6 – Bent, Folded and ?

Speeding down Market Street, Hammer realized he had a problem. Technically, another problem.

Gough Street was one way. Unfortunately that way was the wrong way from his point of view. While he routinely ignored trivial details of that sort, in heavier traffic the presence of a police car, even one with flashing lights, a siren and a sign declaring ".44 Magnum on board" would simply bring oncoming traffic to a complete standstill long before he could negotiate five blocks.

If I don't want to end up walking, I'd better take Franklin. This is Franklin, he realized a tad belatedly.

Rather than recalculate, Hammer cranked the steering wheel hard, keeping his foot down solidly on the accelerator.

Through it all, Doreau sat marvelling at the alacrity with which other motorists avoided seemingly inevitable collisions. Clearly, there were advantages to an older model automobile with dents and bullet holes that at least partially made up for the lack of comfort. She braced herself and tried to hold on. The St Regis leaned into the turn, tires screeching. All the oncoming motorists could do was brake, and honk impotently, as he swerved across both oncoming lanes and raced northbound.

200 block; 300 block; Hammer counted down the addresses and again cranked the wheel, this time onto west bound Hayes. Gough was just one block over, and if he was right, 380 should be right on the coroner, uhm, corner.

Bearing down on the intersection Hammer was alert for two things – Norman's van and a parking spot. Simultaneously, he found both; the large white vehicle with "Coroner" across the back doors and right beside it a space that he was reasonably certain would be just wide enough – although it might be a little tight on Doreau's side.

How many times have I said "Girls wait in the car"? Once, for sure. Maybe this time ...

Hammer took his foot off the accelerator, moving it to the brake and once again depressing the pedal all the way to the floor.

I really should get that fixed someday.

As the car veered towards the curb, Doreau closed her eyes and instinctively braced herself for the inevitable collision that was Hammer's version of a controlled stop. It didn't happen. Tentatively, she opened one eye. It took a moment to convince herself that the vehicle was no longer moving. She released her grip on the dash and pinched herself. Deliberately. In a sensitive location. Only after a stab of pain confirmed that this was real did she accept that she was not dreaming. Oddly, the fact that Inspector Hammer had, for once, actually parked his car without striking any stationary objects, left her feeling even more certain that something was seriously wrong.

She had no time to consider the situation further, however. Hammer already had his door open and was sliding out of his seat. She released her seatbelt and attempted to open her door, determined not to let him out of her sight again. Her door thumped against Norman's van, revealing only a three inch gap. In spite of herself, she marvelled that Hammer had missed such a substantial target. Then, closing her door quickly, she slid sideways towards the space just vacated by her alleged partner. She was just in time to have that door slammed in her face.

How typically inconsiderate! I bet he planned it ...

She fumed, realizing even as the thought formed that there was no way he could have known, in advance, exactly how wide this space would be. She pulled on the handle, opening the door herself, and exiting.

Enough humiliation, she thought darkly, slamming the door in frustration. A wasted gesture as it turned out; her partner had already disappeared inside, completely unaware of her mood. Tempting as it was to storm after him, Doreau took a deep breath instead.

There is no point, she decided, in letting him get under my skin. What could I possibly do this morning that I haven't tried before, always without success? I might as well concede that even the attempt is futile, unless I want to end up like Captain Trunk.

Deciding that, in this instance, Captain Trunk was poor role model, Doreau tugged at her blazer to straighten it and used the moment to orient herself. Glancing around she realized that she was standing on a pleasant tree lined street, fronted by an eclectic mix of two and three storey buildings. At ground level they formed an assortment of shop fronts. From where she stood she could make out a coffee shop, a furniture shop, a deli and at least one restaurant. The upper floors appeared to be residences, or perhaps office space. made a mental note to have uniformed officers canvas the area in case anyone had noticed something out of the ordinary earlier in the morning.

Continuing her study she noted that one end of the street was a public parking lot. I bet there would be room in there to open both doors, she fumed. At the other end of the block, a rectangular brick square surrounded by well-manicured lawn and several benches marked a park of some sort. A portion of the street around her had been taped off with the familiar yellow "Police Line – Do Not Cross" tape. Two loose ends of tape lay coiled in the street, parted by the abrupt passage of Hammer's car.

So, he hadnt missed everything after all.

Other nearby spaces were occupied by various emergency response vehicles, including the Coroner's van, a patrol car and a Fire Department vehicle that still remained on the scene.

An investigator? Arson?, she speculated.

Most passers-by, she noted, were simply stepping around the taped off area and continuing about their business. A few, perhaps with nothing else to do this morning, or perhaps simply curious, had gathered along the sidewalk, pressing close to the tape.

Rubbernecking, she thought as she scanned their faces. If one of them was the guilty party, returned to watch the investigators, or gaining some vicarious enjoyment from watching others try to figure out what had occurred, then none of them showed it outwardly.

All that she could see in these faces was idle curiosity. Doreau sighed.

If Sledge was here, he'd say they all looked guilty; it's only a matter of figuring out why.

Although his methods were, on the surface, no better than hers when it came to picking one suspect out of the crowd, more than once his steely gaze had caused someone to bolt. No one in this crowd looked ready to reveal themselves that easily.

She turned to face the building that was the focus of everyone's attention. The brick faced structure appeared to be some sort of fashion boutique, from the clothing and accessories on display in the front window. The sign out front, "Luigi's Fashions – Vincent Luigi, Prop.", appeared to confirm her assessment. Briefly she wondered at the seemingly uninspired store name.

Either it's the owner's name, or all the good ones really are taken, she decided.

She stepped closer to the window, to examine the display more closely. After a moment of inspection she realized that, like the store name, the merchandise also appeared unexciting.

This is definitely not one of the trendier shops in the city. From the cut and color, the items on display were probably last fall's selections, perhaps even older. A consignment store or perhaps a discount outlet? From what I can see, it appears to be good quality though.

Her eye fell on one of the signs in the window.

"Steal of a Deal SALE" shouted one sign. The next window built on that theme: "Steal yourself a Deal!". And then, on the other side of the entrance another window proclaimed: "If You Want a Better Price, You'll have to Steal It!"

If the merchandise selection appeared uninspiring, that had not dampened the owner's advertising enthusiasm.

This looks like the sort of place that attracts someone more interested in price than the latest trends. Like a police officer on a budget. I wonder if they have anything in my size?

The sudden "BOOM" of Hammer's magnum being discharged brought her out of her reverie. reminding her that she was still on duty and on a case. And that Hammer had entered the building several minutes ahead of her. She drew her service revolver and pulled the door open.

As she stepped inside she found herself in an area that had obviously served as a display and sales area. The display racks that had once might have been neatly filled with various items of fashionable apparel stood nearly bare, pushed aside, and in some cases, overturned. A few loose garments littered the floor, but mostly she had the impression that the place had been ransacked.

A robbery gone bad? She speculated as she surveyed the scene. A damp, somewhat acrid smell hung in the air. There was no sign of her partner.

A face momentarily appeared behind the sales counter, and then quickly ducked back out of sight. Doreau pointed her service revolver at the area where she had last seen the figure, and spoke from instinct.

"Police!" Her voice was sharp, deepening slightly in tone as she sought to convey her authority. "Show me your hands – now!"

The man behind the counter stood slowly, revealing himself to be a uniformed police officer. He appeared visibly shaken. His hands, raised to shoulder level, palms forward, trembled perceptibly. Instinctively, Detective Doreau flashed her badge towards the startled officer, who swallowed hard, and then found his voice.

"He went up there! He's armed and …," the officer swallowed hard, again, "… insane. I've called for backup." He added the last comment as a helpful afterthought.

Yes, clearly Hammer went this way. She sighed. There had been no further sounds of a scuffle of any sort, so it didn't seem that her partner was in any immediate danger. Although the Coroner's workload might have just doubled.

"Relax, Officer ..."

"Mahoney, Ma'am."

Ma'am? Is he serious?

"Relax, Officer Mahoney," she emphasized his title, irritated. "I'm Detective Doreau. That was my partner, Inspector Sledge Hammer. We're here to investigate the murder."

Doreau re-holstered her service revolver more emphatically than was strictly necessary. She had intended to reassure the officer, but that was before he'd had called her "Ma'am".

Hands still raised, the officer's face assumed an astonished expression. "That man was a police Inspector?" He asked incredulously. "He's one of us? Are you certain?"

Doreau's lips twitched as she fought the urge to smile. As Inspector Hammer's partner she thought she was used to unusual reactions to Hammer and his sidearm. Even so, this one was new.

He's outdone himself this morning. I need to be professional. Take charge.

She stepped over to the counter and reached around the cash register. Triggering the mechanism, she sprang the till drawer open. Bills, along with credit card receipts, reposed neatly in each of the compartments.

Probably yesterday's sales, she speculated.

"Doesn't look like a robbery", she mused out loud. "And it doesn't look like the owner had time to make up a night deposit before this all happened."

Even as she said it, she realized that it didn't necessarily tell her a lot.

With afterhours deposits, the bank didn't even need to be open. Still, this can't have happened while the shop still had customers so it's the start of a timeline.

"Aren't … aren't you going to check out that gunshot?" The officer stammered, interrupting her train of thought.

It was a gunshot. He is your partner. Shouldn't you at least check on him?

Both the officer in front of her, and the voice that had been nagging her all morning were offering the same advice, it seemed.

"It was only one shot," she responded, unsure whose question she was answering. Seeing the officer's puzzled look, she shrugged and continued, "He gets a little trigger happy sometimes."

A little trigger happy? We are talking about the man who used half a box of ammunition trying unclog a drain in the mens room, right?

Look, that was clearly his magnum, and no one else returned fire. He's fine.

"You're only thinking about him. I'm worried about everyone else. Wait … you are thinking about him …"

Pffft!

"I understand there was also a fire?" She let the words hang as a question, while ignoring, or at least distracting herself from, her inner thoughts.

"Are you changing the subject now …?"

"I'm trying to investigate a murd …" Doreau blurted out before realizing she had spoken out loud and choked off the remainder of her response. The young officer was openly staring at her now.

"Who are you talking to, Detective?"

"Look … Ah … No one …," she felt her face flush. "The fire …?" She prompted again.

"Yeah, sure. Right through there." The officer's expression was sceptical, but he nodded his head indicating a second door, bearing a sign "Employees Only" that evidently lead into the back. "There's a Fire Department Investigator back there. He says it looks like arson."

As Doreau took a step back, the officer remained frozen behind the counter. She paused. He appeared to be inexperienced, perhaps even a rookie on his own for the first time. "Maybe you should cancel that call for backup," she suggested, trying to be gentle. "And you can put your hands down now."

Flushing with renewed embarrassment, the officer quickly keyed his shoulder mike.

Without waiting to hear what the man said next, Doreau turned away, considering her options as she surveyed the room. She had seen Hammer enter the shop and assumed that he would make a b-line for the coroner.

He must be upstairs with Norman Blates, she reasoned, to herself. And the victim. How does he always know where the bodies are? I guess I'll start down here, she decided.

"Taking the easy way out?" Her conscience chided her.

A dead body isn't going anywhere, she responded, trying to be reasonable. We can cover the scene faster if we each look at separate areas. Besides, we can always compare notes back at the precinct. Why am I justifying myself to myself? She wandered, stooping to retrieve a loose garment from the floor.

She gave it a quick shake. and then a closer look. As she had expected from her earlier inspection of the front windows, it had a feel of quality to it. She checked the label and wasn't surprised to see it was from a well known fashion line. It was slightly more surprising to find it here. She couldn't help herself; she flipped the tag over to check the size. And sighed, draping it over an upright rack. To distract herself from disappointment she shot a question to the officer.

"Do you know what time the 911 call come in?"

"I can't say for sure Ma' .. Detective." He caught himself, following protocol as he checked his watch. "I was called out about an hour and a half ago. The hose crew was just finishing up when I arrived. The EMTs were still upstairs. They called the Coroner and he arrived about 15 minutes before you did."

Doreau nodded in acknowledgement.

Close enough for now, narrowing the time window a bit more. Norman will have barely started his examination. And now with Hammer running interference, I should have plenty of time to check things down here.

She checked her watch, noting the time, opened her purse and pulled out a spare pair of gloves, and a couple of evidence bags, before starting a complete circuit of the room. There didn't appear to be a lot to see, but you never knew what you could find until you looked. And. as much as she hated to admit it, Hammer's lack of trust had rubbed off - and paid off - more than a little. There was simply no way to replicate the visceral impressions that came from viewing the scene yourself.

It only took ten minutes to complete the circuit. During that time she hadn't found so much as a cigarette butt. All she had to show for her efforts was one out of place size 12 boot print, which she had covered and pointed out to the officer, suggesting further documentation.

With that task completed to her satisfaction, she considered her options. Upstairs to the murder scene, or out back where the fire had been?

A shriek from upstairs interrupted her deliberations. Instinctively, she reached for her sidearm, before relaxing.

Hammer! He still screams like a little girl. I wonder what set him off this time?

Deciding that she could do without the ten minute rant on why other people shouldn't leave stuff like that .. whatever "that" was this time .. lying around for other people .. Hammer specifically .. to find, she headed for door number two. Ignoring the questioning look the officer shot her way, she reached for the doorknob.

Before she could complete the motion, a Fire Department Officer pushed his way through, furiously scribbling notes as he strode towards the exit. Head down, he didn't see Detective Doreau and the two of them collided, scattering papers and his clipboard across the floor.

"Where's the fire, Officer?"

When Inspector Hammer had bolted from the car, he had only one thought on his mind: finding the crime scene and finding Norman and finding a clue and then finding the killer and taking him down and solving the case and getting back together with Gun. OK, it was a run on thought but it was still one thought. Hammer drew his magnum from beneath his jacket.

"Look," he whispered, "Norman's already here. That means we won't have to waste time trying to question the victim; we can just question Norman."

Hammer was hoping he would find something inside that would capture Gun's interest. He needed a solution quickly. The first 24 hours were the most critical. Hammer knew that if you don't get them back in that time, often you never will. He also knew that Gun and the Coroner, Norman Blates, shared several interests; dead bodies and wound tracks being at the top of the list. Finding Norman as soon as possible was, therefore, a top priority. And then there was the homicide. Captain Trunk would want to hear about that. He dashed through the door, not bothering to call out a warning, or even to identify himself as a police officer.

To the uniformed officer who had been standing inside, Inspector Hammer's unannounced entry was nothing short of traumatic. At over six feet, Hammer was an imposing figure, even without the oversized silver sidearm in his fist. The wild look in his haggard, sleepless eyes as he peered over his sunglasses and the grizzled, day old beard did nothing to assuage the officer's sense of unease. The officer declined to ask questions, or shoot. He simply dove for cover behind the sales counter.

"Typical", Hammer growled holding Gun up for a clearer view of the area. "Whenever you need help in one of these shops, all the salesmen go into hiding. Well, we don't have time to look for the "Complaints" department, do we? Door number one or the stairs? Say, this feels just like a game show – a cheap game show where they could only afford one door."

"Unless you count the door we just came in through. Then there's two doors."

"Don't confuse me."

Wait! Who said that? Had Gun actually spoken?

Hammer forced himself to concentrate.

Try to act normally! Eenie, meenie, miney, moe. The stairs it is.

Having reached a snap decision, Hammer strode forward purposefully and took the stairs one at a time. He was in a hurry, but he held his breath and let Gun lead the way.

Now, if Doreau would just hurry up, the three of us could get to work. Just like old times.

What's holding her up this time? Probably reading the "Sale" signs out front. Or, maybe she has discovered a way to warp the space/time continuum so she can get upstairs 13 steps ahead of me? In either case, there was no point in arriving at the crime scene winded.

Reaching the top of the stairs Hammer was forced to acknowledge the obvious – Doreau had not perfected teleportation. Gun had not spoken again. He was on his own. As he paused to consider his next move, he instinctively scanned the area, evaluating the scene for potential risks.

The second storey appeared to be a combination living quarters and office. At the top of the stairs, almost directly in front of him, was a table with what appeared to be fabric samples strewn haphazardly across it and spilling onto the floor. Evidently the shop owner was someone who took his work home with him at night and preferred a short commute.

Seeing nothing of immediate interest, Hammer let his gaze wander. To his left, he observed a doorway opening on a compact kitchen, not unlike the one in his own apartment. The stove and counter top looked unused, but several boxes from a take-out restaurant were heaped in the trash receptacle. Whoever lived here didn't enjoy cooking and hadn't taken out the trash for about a week. Exactly the sort of details that would be important to Doreau, but told him nothing about his case. The hallway leading past the kitchen ended in an open window. A fan whirred there, pulling fresh air into the room. Without hesitating, he turned toward the hallway. There must be other rooms he surmised. He turned, took one catlike step intending to investigate more thoroughly. The floor creaked...

"Is somebody there?"

At the sound of another voice coming from somewhere from his right, Hammer spun, crouching, balancing lightly on the balls of his feet, with Gun held in front of him, ready for action. He found himself facing an armed individual who had somehow remained hidden during his initial inspection of the room. As Hammer assessed the situation, the figure stared back, silently. Hammer had the queasy feeling he seen his assailant before. Something about this man's expressionless expression made a cold shiver running down his spine. Even with his sunglasses on, Hammer felt the stare boring right through to his visual cortex.

Enough procrastination, he thought, as he pulled the trigger.

Gun responded with an enthusiastic "BOOM", and suddenly the area was filled with flying glass shards. The odour of freshly burnt gunpowder overpowered the stale pizza. Hammer was ecstatic; Gun's words and actions were satisfyingly exclamatory.

"What are you shooting at this time, Inspector?

The voice spoke again, sounding slightly annoyed and coming from further to his right, Hammer realized. Removing his sunglasses and turning his head, he caught sight of a thin face raised just high enough to peer at him from the other side of an office desk.

It's not like Norman to be behind a desk; he's usually examining a body, he thought, belatedly realizing that it was Norman who had spoken both times. But, if Norman is behind the desk .. then who did I see … and shoot?

Hammer glanced back. Without his sunglasses he easily made out the shattered remains of a full length mirror. Realization dawned

Me. I saw me. And I outdrew me! Can I be faster than ME? Enough philosophy!

He tore his gaze from the jagged remnants of the mirror, to look back down the stairs.

Where is Doreau? My Amigo and I don't have all day...

Seeing he was still alone with no one to blame but himself he did the only thing possible. He shrugged, put on his best expression of innocence and stepped forward intending to cross in front of the broken mirror to conceal it. Glass crunched under foot. He stepped back, made a shushing sound and motion and spoke quickly to avoid additional questions.

"Me? No one. Nothing. Why? Did you see someone?"

As he spoke, he studied the rest of the room carefully. The nearer portion he confirmed as a tailor's work area. The table he had first seen appeared to be the scene of some disturbance; a stack of fabric samples appeared to have been scattered across the top, even spilling onto the floor. Beyond this was another table. A cutting table perhaps, with a bolt of fabric partly unrolled. Nearby were several dressing mannequins, a couple of which wore garments apparently undergoing alteration. Several cases of pattern books completed the area.

The far end of the room, where Norman was working, appeared to be the owner's office. A desk, a tall filing cabinet, a wooden office chair and a couple of high backed chairs, apparently for guests furnished this part of the room. The drawers of the filing cabinet were open, and papers had been strewn about on the floor and on the desk.

Norman ducked down again, his attention apparently drawn by something on the other side of the desk. "Where is your partner?" His now disembodied voice asked.

"Hey, how should I know, Norman?" Hammer answered querulously. "She refuses to wear the GPS bracelet I gave her last Christmas."

Why is everyone always so concerned about Doreau? Why do they never ask about Gun? Why is Norman hiding?

Hammer was acutely aware of every potential hiding place in the room. He eyed every shadowy corner suspiciously but the most dangerous thing he detected was the lingering acrid odour of smoke with an undertone of stale takeout. He rubbed at his ear, unconsciously.

Hammer knew how possessive Norman was about his crime scenes, so he began circling the room cautiously, working his way closer to the desk. That this caution also kept his back to the outside wall was a bonus. He rubbed his ear again. He began to feel uneasy. Something was .. he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Hammer paused, and tried to focus. The two high backed guest chairs seemed an obvious potential source for his disquiet. Both were turned in such a way that any occupant would be concealed from his current vantage point. He was about to step forward for a better look. Something held him back. Something .. he shook his head in annoyance. Once again his hand reached upward to rub his ear. This time he froze in mid motion.

There was a sound. Subtle. Repeating. Krrrrrsh.. krrrrrsh. Krrrrrsh..krrrrrsh.

Now that he was aware of it, he searched for the source. From behind me, he realized, spinning to face .. what? This time he held his fire. For one thing there was no obvious target. The first thing he was able to identify was nothing more than the tiny glow from an off/on power button. As his eyes adapted he found enough light to discern a rotating vinyl disk on a turntable. The needle was still down, producing short repeating bursts of white noise with each rotation. Hammer stepped closer. He poked the power button and the light vanished. The repetition immediately began to slow, stopping abruptly as he placed his finger firmly on the rotating disk.

He read the album title: "Ono, More Yoko".

"Who listens to that garbage/" He asked, of no one in particular. No one answered.

Disgusted and deciding it wasn't important to the case, he turned to survey the room again. His eyes were drawn to the high backed chairs again. Were they turned to provide someone with concealment? He kept one eye on them and resumed circling the room. He was perhaps three quarters of the way to his objective when his suspicions were confirmed! The nearer of the two chairs was occupied, he now saw. Small in stature, the occupant had been concealed by the back of the chair until Hammer's circling had placed him nearly on the other side of the room, and within view of the Coroner, who remained kneeling behind the desk. Hammer was puzzled. The figure hadn't moved, or made a sound, not even in response to the earlier gunshot.

So this must be the victim! He concluded.

The Coroner's behaviour now seemed even stranger than usual. Usually the Coroner and the corpse were together. Since he already knew that Norman was behind the desk, he had expected the body to be there as well.

So why is the body over here?

An eerie chill crept up his spine. Something about the figure seemed familiar. Cautiously, his earlier incident with the mirror still firmly in his mind, Hammer inspected the body carefully, looking for mirrors, hidden wires, or other means of deception.

The figure remained silent and still as death, the eyes closed and apparently sightless. Female, he decided, judging from the long, straight hair that flowed from a center part down over her shoulders. The flower decorating her hair, as well as the wide floral headband, loose flowery blouse and flared, wide legged trousers, along with the oversized glasses seemed to confirm the impression. Although the white color of the hair hinted at advancing years, the vivid colors of her clothing suggested someone more youthful; or perhaps just unwilling to acknowledge the passage of time. Seated in a lotus position in an oversized chair, hands folded neatly in her lap, she appeared serene.

The killer must have posed her, he surmised.

Hammer took a step closer, inspecting the body more closely, looking for signs of foul play. The rosy colored tint to her glasses partially obscured her features, but from what he could see, there were no obvious wounds or signs of blood loss. Perhaps Norman had something useful to add.

"How did she die?" Hammer inquired, curious, as he poked her tentatively with the barrel of his magnum.

The corpse turned its head, opened its eyes, and stared up at him.

"Are you here to take my statement? It said.

"EEAAH!" Yelled Hammer, leaping backward in spite of himself and crashing against the wall.

The sudden commotion once again caused the Coroner to raise his head from behind the desk.

"She's not dead, Inspector,"

"I can see that! So, what is she …," Hammer stopped suddenly, realizing there was only one other possibility.

It's always the innocent looking ones.

"She's the killer!" Hammer jumped to his own conclusion as he levelled his magnum at her chest, feeling a sudden sense of respect for the frail looking figure. "Give me a few minutes alone with her and I'll get a confession."

A wild gleam of excitement entered his eyes and he took another step forward, eager now that a solution to the case seemed close at hand.

"I think you'll want to see this first, Inspector." Norman spoke once again.

Hammer glanced quickly in the Coroner's direction. Quick as his glance was, by the time he looked back, the woman had turned her head away and returned to her meditations, clearly disinterested, or at least unconcerned, in whatever the two men in the room were doing.

Hammer remained suspicious.

Anyone who could sit so calmly at a crime scene was clearly cold blooded. Since she wasn't a reptile that made her, at the very least, a cold blooded suspect. And he wasn't going to eliminate the possibility of "killer", not just yet anyway.

Keeping an eye on her and talking to Norman was going to be challenging, he realized.

"I'll keep an eye on her. You go over and take a look at whatever Norman has found." Gun offered an alternative.

Hammer was elated that Gun was taking an active interest in events and readily assented to the suggestion. Cautiously he edged his way around the desk.

In the shadows behind the desk he made out the Coroner, Norman Blates, kneeling over what appeared to be a large black suitcase. A small flashlight rested on the floor, a short distance away. The indirect light revealed the Coroner as he removed a piece of tape from the surface of the case. Hammer recognized it immediately, and realized Norman was attempting to recover fingerprints.

"A suitcase?" Hammer inquired. "Norman, I deal in lost lives, not lost luggage."

"I think you'll find this case interesting, Inspector," the Coroner suggested, pausing in his work and shifting to one side.

Even in the dim light, Hammer saw red.

This is more like it!

As his eyes adjusted to the shadows behind the desk and the contents of the suitcase became more visible, Inspector Hammer let out a low whistle.

"Is that his face? What did that? How are we supposed to figure out who he is?" He asked, honestly uncertain at that moment. He took another step so that Gun would also have a clear view of the scene.

Norman shook his head.

"I have no idea, Inspector. I've never seen anything like it. And I'm a Coroner. As for who he is, meet Vincent Luigi."

"I'm impressed, Norman. How did you figure that out?" Hammer had seen no sign that Norman had found a wallet or ID.

"The name is on the luggage tag, along with the address of the store." Norman pointed to a large tag affixed to the suitcase. "Also, his name was on the sign out front."

Why does Norman always waste time telling me the obvious? Inspector Hammer wondered, hoping that the Coroner had more than a name.

Norman continued his examination of the suitcase, motioning for Hammer to come closer. As he did, Norman dug into a pocket of his lab coat, producing a six inch magnifying glass, which he handed over.

What's he doing now? And what am I supposed to do with this? Hammer wondered.

"Take a closer look, Inspector." The coroner directed, almost as if he could read Hammer's mind.

Hammer glanced behind himself, and then bent over to do as Norman had requested. He squinted. He considered asking Gun's opinion and belatedly realized that his amigo was back inside his jacket and unable to see anything. Trying to be inconspicuous, he removed his sidearm from its holster and tried angling the magnifier so that they could both see. There was, apparently, nothing to see. No knife wound, no bullet hole, or any other sign of trauma, just a zipper.

"You called me over here to inspect a zipper?" Hammer inquired.

No, the inferior quality stitching. Norman bit off the sarcastic remark, keeping that to himself while matter-of-factly, without glancing away from his work, stating, "Of course I meant the zipper. Do you see anything?"

Hammer looked again, still trying to turn the magnifier so that Gun would also have a view of the area. He squinted and furrowed his brow. He shook his head.

"No. It looks like a zipper. What was I supposed to see?"

Norman sighed. "I was just making sure there wasn't a fingerprint that I'd missed. Or some other clue."

The Coroner rocked back and began packing up his fingerprinting kit.

"That's it?" Inspector Hammer protested. "A few fingerprints? And a name? You expect me to solve a murder with that? I need you to tell me something about the suspect, Norman," Hammer growled, trying to not appear ruffled and failing as usual.

"This is a corpse, Inspector, not a suspect." Norman turned back to the figure in the suitcase.

"Don't confuse me, Norman! Captain Trunk says until a man is convicted, I should refer to him as a suspect. So, until this man has been convicted, tell me about the suspect …"

Norman could sense the police Inspector's frustrations rising. He had seen the results when the Inspector became frustrated. He was unpredictable at the best of times; frustration made him even more so. Norman could already feel the sweat on his palms. He rubbed them on his smock, looking for a way out. The stairs seemed impossibly distant, and the second storey window too far from the ground. He took a deep breath.

"Your 'suspect' is a corpse, Detective," the Coroner began, trying to keep his voice from cracking. "I'll know more about him when I'm finished examining him. But, my work requires a precise and methodical attention to details. It can't be rushed, unlike you, and your shooting..."

"Norman, I could have fired six times and reloaded while you said that." Hammer growled.

"Six ... times?" Norman swallowed. Quickly he retrieved his flashlight and turned it towards the suitcase.

"Take a closer look at this area, right here," he suggested.

Hammer, his expression one of mixed suspicion and curiosity and annoyance at being told what to do, complied anyway. The case lay flat on the floor, unzipped and the top flipped open. Norman angled the light beam obliquely towards the top and suddenly an image seemed to leap out. Hammer blinked. It was still there. Now that he'd seen it, he couldn't unsee it.

"Is that what I think it is?"

Norman nodded. "If what you think it is, is a face, then yes, I think so. This case has been closed."

Hammer was more confused than usual. Closed? How can the case have been closed before I even got here? Has Creepy Coroner been taking night courses?

"What do you mean, the case was closed, lab rat?" Hammer growled through clenched teeth.

Norman paused, silent, and appeared to focus his attention on some invisible detail while his life flashed before his eyes. Hammer briefly wondered what thoughts were passing through the Coroner's mind, before deciding that he didn't care. Then he heard the deep inhale which he interpreted as Norman's equivalent to Doreau's exaggerated eye roll.

"I meant that it was closed, Inspector. Now it's open."

"Oh." Hammer said. "That's different then."

Something in Hammer's tone warned the Coroner that he had stepped in something soft, warm and fragrant. He looked up, and had just time to glimpse Hammer's furrowed brow and narrowed eyes. Norman was accustomed to the Inspector's wild mood swings. He knew Hammer's maniacal glare. Other people would have taken a step back, but Norman was kneeling and unable to take steps in any direction. Hammer's magnum slipped into his holster and, in one smooth motion, he reached down and grasped the lapels of the Coroner's lab coat, pulling him upright. Norman Blates found himself held, firmly, with his nose just scant inches from Hammer's haggard visage.

"Case closed? Have you been taking detective night courses, you meddling .. mutant .. medic?"

There were only two people that he knew who had ever faced Hammer at this distance without blinking. With neither Captain Trunk nor Detective Doreau were present to intercede, Norman found himself on his own. He blinked. Yet he felt strangely calm. Perhaps, as a Coroner, he'd seen death often enough to recognize it. And this wasn't it.

"No," he stated his voice sounding unnaturally calm in his own ears. "My current job keeps me too busy for that."

"Right!" Hammer snarled, relaxing his grip just slightly. "This is my case, and it's not solved until I say it is! Comprehendo?"

"Excused me, Inspector. I wasn't saying the case was solved; I said it was closed."

Hammer's eyes glazed.

The Coroner's cryptic comments confused the cop … momentarily.

"I'm not Batman, you riddling Riddler. I need clues. Or suspects. Or clues I can use against suspects." Hammer forced the words through his clenched teeth.

"I am trying to do that, Inspector. That is, I would … if you'll put me down first," the Coroner suggested hopefully.

Hammer released his grip abruptly. Feeling his weight once again fully on his feet, Norman took a step backward, away from Hammer's glare.

He hesitated, but there was no avoiding it. "The case was closed when first responders arrived. His face must have been pressed tightly against that flap while it was .. closed. Somehow it left a visible impression."

"Great!" Hammer exclaimed. "All I need to do is take that back to the precinct, compare it to some mug shots, and I'll know who he is. Wait! I already know who he is. So having his faceprint doesn't help me."

Norman could sense the Inspector's impatience beginning to rise again. He cast about for something to distract Hammer's attention until .. until what? He wasn't sure yet, so stalling seemed his only option

If I could just put him to sleep – without getting shot in the process. Something like a bedtime story … wait … my notes!

"Perhaps I should bring you up to date on my observations so far, Inspector." Norman extracted his field note book, and flipped through pages to the beginning. He propped it open next to the suitcase, so he could check his notes and continue working.

"Norman, why don't you fill me in on you've found out so far?" Inspector Hammer suggested, as though he had not heard Norman's comment, and the idea was entirely his own. Norman didn't really care, as long it bought him a few moments to think of something better.

"At approximately 4:55 this morning the Fire Department responded to a 911 call for fire on the ground level of this building."

"What if the fire is on the second floor?" Hammer mused.

"That's also the Fire Department, Inspector. They have ladders." Norman consulted his notes and resumed his report. "At about 5:10, they entered the building, searching for occupants and attacking the fire. The initial sweep found no one inside."

"After knocking down the fire, a second search commenced. That turned up this case, with what appeared to be a body inside. EMTs were brought in immediately, but they were unable to revive the victim. That's when they called me."

"Don't keep me on pins and needles, Norman. It's a dead body, right?"

Norman waved to draw Hammer's attention shiny metal objects scattered across the floor.

"An interesting choice of words, Inspector. They don't usually call me for the live ones. And, this is a tailor's shop. There's pins and needles everywhere. I've been walking on them since I arrived."

While waiting for Norman to continue, Hammer picked up one of the pins, inspected it closely and then stabbed himself while testing its sharpness.

"First responders opened the case to check vital signs and administer CPR," Norman began again. "That's when they saw ... that," Norman nodded to the body in the case. He was just in time to see Hammer kneel and test the pin again, this time on the victim. "Paramedics described it as 'like a real life Edvard Munch'. Second responders had to be called to treat the first responders."

"So, how did she get here?"

Hammer nodded in the direction of the still, silent figure waiting in the chair on the opposite side of the desk. His attempt to distract the Coroner while he poked the victim a second time failed. This time, it was too much for Norman.

"Inspector, between two teams of EMTs, my own assessment, and you poking him repeatedly with that pin, I think we've established that he's deceased. As for her ..."

Norman glanced in her direction as well, wishing that a certain someone could be as patient and as quiet.

"She approached the firefighters outside, as they were packing up their equipment to leave. She claimed to be looking for a friend who was missing in the area. The officer downstairs was holding her as a potential witness, but as soon as she found out that we had a deceased victim up here, she insisted on coming up with me. I thought she might be able to assist with identification, so I let her wait in that chair. She hadn't moved until you poked her."

"She's not the only one waiting, Norman!" Hammer's impatience began to show again. "How much longer do you plan to keep me on ... you know ...?"

"I'm just about done with the suitcase …there!" Norman exclaimed in satisfaction, as he began repacking his evidence kit. "Now, just a few more photos, and we can get a closer look at the body."

While Norman documented the scene with his camera, Hammer steeled himself for a closer examination of the victim. This time he was prepared, and took in more details.

The corpse itself, he noted, appeared twisted, contorted. It was clear that the body had not fit easily into the confined space of the suitcase, but somehow these contortions gave the impression of something more. Repeated flashes from Norman's camera lent the scene an even more surreal appearance. The victims's fingers had the appearance of talons, digging into the sides of his bloodied face. So severe were the lacerations that one ear appeared to have been almost torn away. Blood from the lacerations was spread over his features, where it had dried to a thin crust. Even in death, the man's features screamed, as though in agony. Eyes, frozen unnaturally wide, stared blindly back at him. In spite of himself, he shivered.

"What a disgusting way to go," Hammer mused. "Bent, folded and … Norman? How did Van Gogh .. uh .. go?"

"At this point, Inspector, I have no idea. I need to get him back to the morgue and out of the case for a more complete examination.

Hammer had waited impatiently for the Coroner to get to the meat of the matter. Now, it appeared that Norman intended to delay things even further.

"Enough waiting!" Hammer growled. "This isn't a Doctor's office. We can speed this up if we just cut it open here. I'll do it. Just let me get a scalpel"

He reached for the Coroner's black bag.

Norman seemed to anticipate the move and grabbed his bag first, pulling it away. "I need that intact."

"Look, I only need one scalpel. I won't break it," Hammer protested. "Well, I probably will break it, but you have others."

Norman stood his ground, determined.

"I didn't mean my instruments, Inspector. I need the suitcase."

Hammer was taken aback.

"For what? You already have a black bag."

"That's barely big enough for my tools, Inspector. This is just the right size to pack my lab coats for the CSI convention in Vegas. Everyone will be there … Miami … New York." Norman actually seemed excited.

Well, excited for a coroner. Hammer felt his excitement waning. The prospect of having to wait for the suitcase and its contents to be transferred to the morgue before he got any more details was too much.

"Fine," he snarled, his appearance and tone making his true meaning clear. "But I'm not waiting for transport to show up. The suitcase has wheels, so let's get it rolling."

Before Norman could protest, or intervene, he seized the handle at the top of the suitcase and lifted. The suitcase pivoted upward onto its wheels, as he intended, stopping in an upright vertical position. The body's momentum carried it onward, falling free from the suitcase and landing with a thud on the floor. It took Norman a moment to recover, and open his notebook.

"Body … in … full … rigor," Norman mumbled dispassionately, while adding the comments to his field notes.

Then, withdrawing a thick piece of white chalk from a coat pocket he proceeded to draw the outline of the body on the floor. Belatedly, a white plush animal rolled out of the suitcase and onto the floor as well. Unperturbed, Norman drew the outline for that as well. Satisfied, he slipped the chalk back in a coat pocket.

As Hammer reached for the white plush toy, Norman snatched it quickly. After a cursory examination, he turned it for Hammer to see.

A stuffed bear? What was a grown man doing with a stuffed toy?

Norman reached toward the desk, setting the bear to one side and out of his way.

Both men heard a startled gasp and spun around.

Hammer drew his magnum while the Coroner held his camera defensively. While their attention had been focused on the victim the woman had unfolded from her lotus position in the chair. Silently, apprehensively, she had approached until she had a clear view. Now she stood transfixed, her hands covering her mouth. Her face was pale and her eyes were wide in shock.

In that moment, Hammer realized why she seemed familiar.

"You're a hippie," he accused her. "Look, this is a crime scene, not the in scene."

She ignored his outburst, her attention focused on the body on the floor.

"That's not Linc!" She exclaimed, in a voice that simultaneously proclaimed both horror and relief.

"Great! You let some stoned hippie anthropologist in here to look for her missing monkey? What happened to 'Secure the crime scene'?" Hammer snarled through his clenched teeth. "Look, just give her Terry Jones' phone number and get rid of her, Norman."

The woman turned to Inspector Hammer in disbelief.

"I'm not stoned," she asserted, "I've been meditating. And, I'm more lucid than you are! I'm not hunting the missing link, either, but if I was I've certainly found him … you …you Neanderthal!" She turned to Coroner Blates for support. "I'm looking for my friend, Linc … Lincoln … that's not him." She pointed assertively.

"Right, and it's not Carter or Reagan, either." Hammer continued to be dismissive. "Norman, at least take this cuckoo bird back to her perch and keep her out of my hair. I need to think …"

"Fine!" Furious at Hammer's overt chauvinism, she directed her comments to Norman. "I'll be back there when you find a real cop to talk to me … instead of this … this pig!"

She turned and walked back to her chair, pointedly ignoring Hammer's glare. Hammer raised his magnum to chin level.

"What does she mean 'real cop' …," He began before Norman's flash fired, temporarily blinding him.

That's why I should always wear these, even inside, Hammer thought, holstering his amigo for safety while fumbling for his sunglasses and watching spots dance before his eyes.

With Inspector Hammer momentarily out of his way, Norman shot a final series of pictures, documenting the empty case, the twisted figure on the floor and the immediate surroundings. Once he was convinced he had everything covered, he set his camera aside.

Kneeling, he first shone his light into the now empty interior of the suitcase. He found nothing of any immediate significance there, which in itself was significant. He then began investigating the corpse more closely, starting with the more obvious signs of trauma.

He shone his light in both eyes, using his magnifying glass for fine details. Using fingers and flashlight he probed the subject's hair. Then he viewed the facial lacerations and checked the fingernails, making a note to take samples. The blood and tissue were probably the victim's, based on the facial lacerations, but it was important to be certain. Dried blood partly covered the victim's nostrils, but checked as well as he could. The victim's frozen scream made checking the mouth, throat and upper airway much easier. He then used the flashlight to scan the remaining visible parts of the corpse. When he had finished the visual inspection, he extracted sample bags from his evidence kit. Randomly selecting from the accessible fingers, he carefully scraped material into the bags, sealing and labeling each. It was during this sample collection that he noted a metallic bracelet on the right wrist, where the cuff on his sleeve had concealed it. Finally, using a set of tweezers he extracted and bagged a sample from the victim's mouth. He then flicked the flashlight off, and considered his findings. Ignoring Hammer, he began making notes.

Hammer waited impatiently again while Norman completed his examination, but then began to fidget as the Coroner wrote. He picked up another pin, began fiddling with it and moments later winced as he stabbed himself yet again.

"Enough journalism! How did this maggot become maggot food? Multiple puncture wounds?"

"I still have no idea, Inspector," Norman replied. Seeing Hammer's reaction, he hurried on.

"As you can see, aside from the facial lacerations, there's no sign of significant blood loss, either inside the suitcase or on his clothes. Additionally, my preliminary exam shows no sign of any knife of bullet wounds, or evidence of blunt force trauma to his head. Unless I find something different when I get him on the table, he wasn't shot, stabbed, or bludgeoned to death."

Inspector Hammer nodded. "He looks like he was scared to death, doesn't he?"

"Frightened to death isn't a recognized cause of death, Inspector. But I agree that something appears to have caused him considerable distress before he passed. However, he is claustrophobic, according to the Medic-Alert bracelet he's wearing. If he was alive when the suitcase was zipped shut, that may account for his expression."

"In that vein, there is some evidence that he may have been stuck, several times, with either a pin or a needle. Before you started testing poking him," he clarified. "As you've discovered, those things can be quite painful, but they aren't normally fatal."

"Are you suggesting that he was tortured?" Hammer inquired.

"Possibly. From the look of the office there was some kind of scuffle, and someone appears to have searched for something. They may have used pain to get him to reveal where something was in here. But, that alone should not have resulted in death. Or caused him to look .. like that."

Norman pointed, but did not look.

"Smoke? From the fire?" Hammer offered, hopeful of a resolution.

"Initially, that is what I suspected. I believe he was alive when he was put in the suitcase, and died after that. But I found none of the usual indicators of smoke inhalation or asphyxia, suggesting he died before the fire."

"So what's left? Voodoo?" Absently, Hammer picked the stuffed bear off the desk, turning it to inspect it more closely.

I believe you're holding one possibility." Norman indicated the roughly twelve inch high, snow white, plush bear that Hammer was holding.

"Norman, Gunds don't kill people."

"People kill people, Inspector, using whatever they find handy. Look here."

Norman held the magnifying glass up to the man's eyes.

"This is petechial hemorrhaging. I also found white fibres in his upper airway. Both are signs of possible asphyxiation. Not as much as I would normally expect in cases of suffocation. But possibly consistent with someone trying to keep him quiet. Perhaps while he was being tortured. Which would explain the plush bear we found with him, rather than covering his mouth and nose."

"That doesn't mean the bear did it." Hammer argued, as he turned the bear over again for another inspection. He suddenly grimaced in disgust as one hand encountered a wet, sticky substance in the plush fur. Norman continued his recitation of observations.

"Because of the dried blood I can't check thoroughly for signs of manual strangulation either. But …," Norman indicated Hammer's hand, "… if I'm correct, that is probably mucous and saliva aspirated by the victim as he struggled for air. What I can't explain is why anyone would force him into a suitcase and then asphyxiate him. There are much easier ways."

Hammer indiscreetly wiped the goo from his hand off on the shoulder of Norman's spotless jacket.

Norman protested immediately. "Inspector," he complained in trademark monotone, "you are compromising evidence. And my lab coat."

"You may be right … this time," Hammer conceded. "Do we know when this piece of spam exceeded his 'best before' date?"

"I can only give you a rough approximation, Inspector."

Inspector Hammer looked at the Coroner, questioningly.

"The degree of rigor suggests he's been dead more or less six to forty-eight hours ..."

"What do you mean, 'dead … more or less'?"

"Oh, he's completely dead, Inspector. Six to forty-eight hours, more or less, is to my estimate of how long."

"That's not an estimate, Norman, that's the weekend. Can't you stick him with a meat thermometer and narrow that down?"

"The fire complicates things, Inspector. I don't know what temperature he's been exposed to, or for how long. At best, I could tell you if he's still rare, or well done."

"Look, Norman, right now you're leaving me clueless." Hammer looked around the room once more. There had to be something here that would provide a lead, or at least at least a good excuse to question someone at gunpoint. Gun particularly enjoyed the latter option. He noticed the pins again. His hand was again reaching for one when he remembered his last encounter and hesitated.

"What about these pins, then? Hammer's eyes scanned the metal objects scattered over the floor speculatively. "If this wasn't torture, did some shortsighted seamstress mistake him for a pincushion?"

Norman seemed to consider Hammer's question seriously. "From what I've seen, it's all standard stuff for a tailor's shop. I think is more likely that they were scattered in a scuffle."

Norman was starting to pack up; preparing to move the victim and suitcase to his morgue for further study.

Hammer pondered Norman's comments.

Torture? Pain? Both were certainly consistent with the contorted body and facial features.

Who tortures people? Spies and women. What would a spy want with a tailor? That left women.

That made Hammer think about his marriage and his ex-wife.

Those years had felt like a torture, for sure.

He took a quick look at the suspect. Not Scott. Well, with a face like that, I'm pretty sure it's not Scott. So, not Susan, he reasoned. Maybe some other woman? Why would a wife …?

Unfortunately, as he was only too aware, there were too many reasons to count.

The only thing worse than a dead end is a trail that leads everywhere.

Norman completed his last sample. He stripped off the gloves he had been using and tucked them inside his case. He picked up his case and walked over to the hippie who had resumed her sit-in on the other side of the desk. Hammer's eyes followed him. Norman drew on a clean pair of gloves, and spoke quietly.

Hammer needed to narrow his list of suspects down, ideally to the nearest convenient person. He watched as Norman began taking her fingerprints for elimination samples.

She is a woman. She might even be a wife. His wife? Perhaps she only pretended not to recognize the victim. Perhaps the two of them were … were what?

Hammer was tempted to walk over and pistol whip her to get the truth, but for some reason the phrase 'Hammer, you can't do that!' was echoing in his ears. He looked around, certain he had heard Doreau speaking, then shrugged his shoulders and returned to his contemplations.

Speaking of Doreau, what would she do in this situation? Usually she's here, telling me what to do next. Or what not to do.

For some reason, he missed her direction. Even though he often mocked Doreau's 'by the book' approach to crime scenes, he had to admit that she had a way of noticing important details – even if she had trouble figuring out what they meant.

So, what would she do? Well … sometimes she says that it is important to look at a case from all sides.

Hammer began a slow circle, centred on the body and suitcase.

What was there to see?

The first thing to catch Hammer's eye was the chair and desk. And pins! Lost in thought, he absently picked one up, somehow avoiding impaling himself for the third time. Holding it up, he examined it closely. It appeared to be a standard type used, generally, for pinning garments during fitting. Nothing special or unusual. He tested the tip with his index finger and, in so doing, managed to once again prick his finger. Startled, he flinched, dropping the pin he held on the floor. Quickly he bent over to pick it up, and bumped against the chair, sending it spinning and rolling across the floor. Hammer had enough experience with losing streaks to recognize one when he saw it. He distanced himself from the mess, glancing in Norman's direction, and attempting to appear innocent. Norman was still occupied with the hippie and appeared not to have noticed.

No doubt about it, those things were certainly sharp. And painful, he reminded himself. There was also no doubt that they appeared to be standard clothing pins, not hypodermic needles. So, although the body had several needle marks, it seemed unlikely that cause of death was a drug overdose. Unless the pins were a cover up? What if there were more needle marks than there were pins?

Quickly scanning the pins scattered on the floor Hammer shrugged and decided there were some things best left for Norman. He resumed circling.

Assuming the pins had been used for torture, this torture victim was dead. Who tortures a dead man? You'd have to be some sort of psychic … of course … I'm looking for a psychic woman! Probably a gypsy! But she's a hippie. Were there psychic hippies? Or were they only psychedelic?

Why would a psychic woman torture a dress shop owner? For information, obviously. What kind of information does a dress shop owner have? Sale dates? That would explain the ransacked store. Hordes of women had descended on a "Going Out of Business Sale". I bet the cash register is stuffed with money! One of them couldn't find her size. So, she took her frustrations out on the owner while others stripped the place bare. I bet she was a "plus" size! That explains how one woman could have stuffed a grown man into a suitcase in the first place. In addition to being expert at cramming as much stuff as possible into any given size of bag, she could have just sat on him. It also explains the suffocation. An overweight, psychic, woman would fit his profile exactly. If she had a four year old rug rat in tow, it also explains how a stuffed toy came to be at the crime scene.

That wasn't so hard. Hammer congratulated himself. I didn't even need Doreau to help figure it out. Now, if my prime suspect wasn't a 115 pound waif, the case would be solved! He made a mental note to have uniformed officers canvas all the local Weight Watchers and Jenny Craig meetings.

Having now eliminated his prime suspect, Hammer felt he had reached another dead end. That made three today, or four if you counted the corpse. Whenever they reached a dead end on a case, Doreau would suggest that they look for a different perspective. OK, I've looked at the victim from all sides … what other perspective is there? Distracted, and lost in his thoughts, Hammer tripped over the victim and fell full length on the floor.

He blinked a couple of times before he realized that he was flat on the floor, looking at the crime scene as if he was about four inches high.

This is certainly a different perspective. What can I see from down here? Maybe the low down? This is about as low down as I can get.

Twisting his head around, he tried to decide what he was looking at. It appeared to be a high, black, vertical wall. It took a couple of seconds before he realized that he was looking at the side of the suitcase. Letting his eyes scan along the wall before him, they lit upon … a luggage tag? Norman said it had the victim's name on it, perhaps there was more. Pushing himself up off the floor, Hammer grabbed the tag and pulled it free from the case. Flipping it over he found the name 'Vincent Luigi' neatly printed in block letters on the other side. His fingers could feel some sort of raised design on the opposite side, so he flipped it over again and tried examining the pattern in the light of the desk lamp. Gradually, his eyes adjusted to the light and picked out the pattern his fingers had first identified. The wild glint reappeared in his eyes as he drew his magnum. He held Gun up, for a clear view of the tag.

"See that? I think we've just solved the case. We need to get back to Captain Trunk."

Things were suddenly looking up! Without waiting for an answer, he tucked Gun safely under arm and spun on his heel. He was almost to the top of the stairs when he heard Norman's voice again.

"Inspector … what about the witness? Shouldn't you take her with you?"

Hammer paused, but only momentarily. If he took the woman back to the precinct, Captain Trunk would insist that he take her statement. That would waste a bunch of his time. He already knew who the killer was. Of course, he could try sneaking her past Mayjoy into a holding cell, but Mayjoy had been much more observant of late and if he caught Hammer trying to sneak by, he would insist that all the proper booking steps be followed to the letter. More paper work. In either case his meeting with Captain Trunk would be delayed, letting the case get cold.

"Seal her in one of your evidence bags, Norman. I'll pick her up later."

Hammer dashed down the stairs before Norman could protest further.

"Where's the fire, Officer?"

Doreau observed the fire department insignia on his shoulder as the officer stared at her with a blank expression, as though he had not understood her question.

Come to think of it, it's odd he didn't hear the gunshot … or the scream ...

That's when she noticed the ubiquitous ear buds, and heard the only slightly muffled strains of some hip-hop beat. She reached forward, and tugged one free.

"Where's the fire, Officer?" She repeated.

"Um … uh," he stammered, uncertain how to respond.

"That's a joke." She let just a trace of annoyance creep into her tone.

"The comedy club is one block east." He found his voice and pointed with his pen, as he stooped and began collecting his papers and clipboard. Then, apparently curious, he stopped to glance up. "This is an active investigation. You shouldn't be in here, Ma'am …"

Ma'am? Seriously?! This kid has to be 28 ... well, 25 for sure. I'm not that much older. Oh my God – did I just call him a kid?

Feeling flustered and a trifle embarrassed, she flashed her badge for the second time this morning. "Detective Dori Doreau," she identified herself. Why do men always seem to assume I'm lost?

It was the Fire Officer's turn to flush, realizing his faux pas as he examined her credentials. At least he has the decency to be flustered, too, she thought.

"It looks like a clear case of arson," he reported. "Looks like someone pulled all the stock out back, piled it in the centre of the room and torched it. There isn't much left. Fortunately, the floor is concrete and the walls are cinderblock so other than the destroyed merchandise, and a bit of scorching and smoke damage … well, let's just say it could have been a lot worse. Have you checked on the body we found upstairs?"

"My partner's up there now, talking to the coroner. Mind if I take a look in back?"

"Help yourself. We've cleared the area of smoke, so it should be safe. Here, you'll need these. The ones you're wearing aren't up to conditions back there."

He handed her a pair of heavy duty nitrile gloves. Doreau nodded.

"There's soot on just about everything back there so you want to be careful what you touch. Oh, take these, too. I doubt you'll find anything useful, but it doesn't hurt to be prepared."

He handed over a couple of plastic, sealable evidence bags.

"We're running short staffed, so I need to get over to my next call."

He produced a business card, and handed it to her, flashed her a Pepsodent smile and waved, heading towards the front entrance. Detective Doreau turned her attention the back room.

"Give me a call when you complete your investigation and we can compare notes over coffee," he called over his shoulder.

Is he hitting on me? After calling me ma'am? Do I look desperate?

Well, your clothes are rumpled, your hair is a mess and your make-up …

She ignored the nagging voice and shrugged, determined not to lower her standards, not yet anyway. He will have to call me, if he wants that coffee. And he is definitely buying, she decided, continuing into the back room.

The scene that greeted her there was pretty much as the officer had described. A sodden mass of mostly burnt fabrics was now spread out in the centre of the room, as the firemen had pulled it apart to search for and douse any smouldering hot spots. Looking up, she saw blackened spots where heat and smoke had reached the ceiling, but fortunately had not ignited anything else.

Walking slowly around the debris, she scanned it for anything the fire had failed to destroy. A largish clump of something caught her eye. She knelt down close to the edge, pulling on the nitrile gloves as her eyes scanned the area around the object for any hint as to what it had been. Pulling a pen from her purse, Doreau used it to nudge the unidentified object closer. Still using the pen as a tool, she worked to tease bits of charred fabric apart gradually revealing something relatively intact. Even before it was completely freed, she was able to identify it as a lady's clutch, soaked, but relatively untouched by the fire. Picking it up carefully, she turned it over, examining it carefully. At first glance the item in her hand appeared to be from the one of the well-known fashion lines she had encountered in the front area. New, it would probably cost at least two hundred dollars.

Why would anyone deliberately burn something like this?

Puzzled, she examined the item she had found more closely. Not sure what she might find, she ran her fingertips over the surface. Nothing about the feel stood out for her. Perhaps a bit stiff, but her gloves reduced the sensitivity of her fingertips. The fire and heat had probably altered the feel of the material. In either case, she probably shouldn't trust her what she felt. All told, the result was unrevealing.

Now that she was looking closely though, the seams were all stitched; the edges even. Still suspicious of a counterfeit, she rubbed the surface vigorously. The soot came off, leaving the finish intact. She tried harder, using the tp of her pen. She easily penetrated the surface color. After some effort she managed to get the clasp to open. The finish was dulled, again probably from heat and ash but as it grudgingly gave way she could see that it was not cheap plated material.

She forced the clutch fully open and examined the inside.

Empty! Well, what did I expect? That someone would leave their identification behind and make solving this really simple.

Curious, she turned it to the light, prying the sides farther apart for a better look at the interior. If the glued inside lining was not enough to confirm that the item was a counterfeit knock off, the monogram text was a dead giveaway. "DNKY."

Who misspells DKNY? She thought to herself. Weren't they teaching spelling in the penitentiaries these days? Or does this mean I'm looking for a dyslexic reform school drop out? Oh God! I'm thinking like Hammer!

Doreau shook her head, trying to clear it of that thought.

A counterfeit! That much is clear. Well enough made to pass from across a room, or even cursory inspection, but not the quality that normally came with this brand either. The sort of thing that might appeal to a wide audience mostly into appearances without the burdensome expense.

Focus, Doreau. Focus! No one, not even an eight year old girl, could mistake that label for the real thing. So, who would buy this thing? Who were they selling to? A husband. Or maybe Hammer. Don't be ridiculous, she told herself, the last gift Hammer had given anyone, was a hand grenade – for protection from an abusive husband. No, she corrected herself, he gave me that GPS bracelet last Christmas.

Still .. maybe ..

Doreau closed the case again, held it up and looked at it dispassionately.

Before I saw the label .. at a distance .. this could be real . If I didn't care about the label, just the appearance?

She shook her head again.

It made sense, but it didn't. You go to the trouble of making something that looks authentic, that can easily pass casual inspection. Why spoil it with an obviously misspelt label? Is that why they burned it all? Quality control? In that case, this might not be the work of a dissatisfied customer

She decided to run the label through the computer once she was back at the precinct. Maybe the unusual spelling had been found seen before.

Still, she thought, looking around at the shop, this doesn't make much sense either way. If I'm an unhappy customer; mad after being taken in by some forgery, why kill the owner, burn his stock and leave the cash behind? And, if I'm a supplier, burning some evidence to cover my tracks, why kill the owner selling this stuff? Don't I need him to run the store?

Doreau stood up and placed the clutch inside one of the evidence bags, sealing it shut. She'd give it Norman and, hopefully, after a little forensic magic, he might be able to tell her something useful. Right now, this pile of ashes before her appeared to be a dead end. She swept her gaze around the rest of the room. Aside from the burned debris, and some storage shelving that appeared to have been hastily pushed to one side, the interior appeared empty. For just an instant she wished Hammer was next to her, making some observation completely unrelated to the facts. True, his "hunches" seldom panned out, but occasionally they forced her thoughts down a path that logic and deductive reasoning would not have taken.

With no better idea of what to do next she walked over to the shelving. Peering into the gloomy, dimly lit area she was unable to see anything except darkness. She crouched, pulling out a small flashlight. Flicking the light on, she swung the beam from side to side, for a clearer look.

Nothing. What am I missing? What would Hammer do?

"We're wasting our time, Doreau, there's nothing in here."

Startled, she stood and spun around.

"Sledge …," she began.

The room was empty. The voice had come, seemingly, out of thin air. There was no evidence of anyone else in the room.

"Sledge?" She said again, more hesitantly. "Look Sledge … it's not funny … if you're here come out."

A faint echo was not the only answer. Her annoying inner voice had also returned.

There's no-one else here. It's just you … and me. But I'm you, too.

"But, I heard …," she protested in a whisper.

Now you're hearing voices? His voice? Why do you suppose that is?

I'm not going to start talking to myself.

And yet, here we are.

Desperate for a distraction, Doreau scanned the room. Her eyes lit on the back door. An older wooden door, it appeared quite solid and substantial, but someone had managed to smash a gaping hole in the centre. This must be how the firemen had gained entry, she speculated. She walked closer to study the opening. Jagged wooden splinters surrounded the rough opening. No hazard if you're a fireman wearing heavy protective clothing. She was about to return to the front of the shop, but a memory tugged at her, holding her back.

"There's nothing in here." That's what she had heard. She remembered the words clearly, spoken in Hammers distinctive gruff tone. She turned back to the door and reached for the knob. It turned in her hand. The door swung open easily.

Unlocked? Was it possible that Sledge had a doppelganger working at the fire department?

You're thinking of Broad Axe?

No, her brother, Half-Wedge.

Doreau shook her head and walked through the doorway, blinking for a moment in the bright light, uncertain what she expected to find. She found herself standing on platform raised somewhat above the pavement. A loading dock, it appeared.

No surprise there, this was a commercial establishment. There must be deliveries regularly.

A gently sloping ramp on one side led to street level, about two feet below. The pavement adjacent to the platform was painted with a yellow cross hatching. Two signs were visible, one demanding "Keep Clear" and the other declaring "Loading Zone No Parking". All of the signs confirmed her conclusion. Easy access from either the street or the back of a truck for anyone maneuvering racks filled with clothing. Walking along the edge of the platform, she surveyed the scene looking for anything out of place. A liquid glint reflected sunlight, catching her eye.

Led on by her curiosity, she descended along the ramp, heading towards the point she had marked in her mind, and crouched. Something liquid had definitely been spilled here. She ran her gloved fingers through the spot, coming away shiny and wet. Rubbing her fingers together the fluid felt slick and a tentative whiff revealed a definite petroleum odour. Probably motor oil she decided.

Glancing back toward the loading platform, she estimated the distance.

Too far away, she estimated, to be backed up to the platform. Something had, however, been parked here, and recently, judging from the fact that the spot seemed fresh. If not a delivery, then what? A pick-up? If the owner had been expecting someone picking up an earlier purchase that might explain the unlocked door. But why park so far away?

Doreau sighed and stood up. Idly, she strolled toward the platform again. Skid marks, as though something heavy had been dragged a short distance across the pavement, caught her eye. She knelt, ran her fingers over the marks and felt shallow grooves.

Standing up again, she took a couple of steps backwards to take in the entire scene.

I'm missing something. The back alley provides convenient access to the loading area. It is also screened from the street. Someone could have taken advantage of the relative seclusion of the loading area to avoid attracting attention to their activities. Perhaps there are vantage points in the alley where someone might have seen something? Another business owner, maybe?

Doreau decided the question warranted a short stroll. She set out down the alley, looking left and right for anything out of place. Only a few short feet later, a patch of color caught her eye. Moments later she was standing beside an older model VW van, staring incredulously. She had heard stories, but had never actually seen anything quite like this. Someone had painted a mural of vividly colored flowers all over the outside of the van. Over that, in a psychedelic pastel font, were the words "Maud's Quad Rentals".

Why was a mint condition museum piece like this sitting, apparently abandoned, in the alley right next to a crime scene?

The driver appeared to have deliberately squeezed the van as far as possible to the side of the alley. Probably with good reason, the alley was narrow so it would be easy to get scraped, or even dented, by someone trying to squeeze by. Or, perhaps, that someone had been watching, and did not want to be seen.

Bur who? And where had they gone? For that matter, what brought them here in the first place?

Doreau made a few quick notes so that she could run the business name, license plates and VIN as soon as she got back to the office. Of course, she would have to get it towed back to impound where Norman could examine it completely. A quick check of the windshield confirmed that, although clearly parked illegally, it had not yet been ticketed.

It can't have been here that long, she thought as she looked around for any hint as to where the owner might have gone. All her instincts said it couldn't be a coincidence. She walked around back, and looked around again, trying to imagine what someone else, parked here, could see. There wasn't much.

You can't even see the shop from here. I can barely see the street over there. Is that the point? If I can't see, I can't be seen either. Well, someone came here for something. Either to do something, or see someone. Or something.

She stepped across the alley and tried a couple of doors.

Locked! Not a surprise. Probably only used for pickup, or deliveries. Or garbage. Most of the doors had waste receptacles nearby.

She copied numbers from the back doors into her notes. Officers could canvas these shops later to see if any of the owners had met with someone. Or seen anyone coming or going.

Whatever they came to do, they clearly had not come back. Why? She mused as she strode back to the shop. How did they leave? Clearly not their vehicle.

Excited as she was by what she had discovered, the questions left her frustrated. Closing the notebook, it suddenly occurred to her that she would have missed all of this had not the strange voice directed her outside. A strange voice that sounded a lot like Inspector Hammer.

Do you expect me to believe that's a coincidence?

Dismissing the thought, and the annoying voice, she turned returned to the rear of the crime scene. As she stood on the pavement behind the store, looking at the scene with fresh eyes she noted something she had missed before. There was no garbage receptacle. She wasn't certain what it meant. She couldn't even be certain that it meant anything. She made a note of it anyway. She scuffed at the skid marks with the toe of her shoe, then knelt to check more closely. She rose again more certain than ever that the marks were fresh. Something had been here earlier, and now it was gone.

So .. maybe .. a truck had picked up a garbage bin. It would explain the marks on the pavement, and the fresh oil leak. Coincidence? Shouldn't they have dropped a replacement?

Re-entering the shop she took another look at the back door.

Perhaps this was the original point of entry for her suspects. Smash the door to get in; unlock it and leave more easily That could explain the van, although not why the suspects would abandon it. It's not like no one is going to notice it, with that paint job..

She paused for a second, closer, look at the door. No snagged fabric. No trace of blood. If her suspects came this way, they hadn't left any physical evidence that she could see. She gave up. Checking her watch, she was startled at how quickly time had passed. It was time to find Norman, and to face her "partner".

Striding quickly through the back room, she retraced her steps to the front of the building. At the door to the display area she paused and stripped the soot and oil coated gloves off carefully, dropping them beside another abandoned pair next to the door, and pushed it open. For the second time since she had arrived, she saw the display in the front window – untouched.

"Find anything?"

The uniformed officer still stationed at the sales counter momentarily startled her.

"Maybe. Did any of the firemen happen to mention how they made entry?" She responded absently, her attention drawn again to the displays in the front window.

"Not to me. They were busy packing up their gear, and I was still getting the lay of the land. We didn't say much to each other."

"And these ... did any of them go near these? She eyed the display speculatively. "They don't look disturbed at all."

The question was almost rhetorical, but the officer was obviously becoming bored with his assignment, and responded, hoping to be seen as helpful.

"Nothing has been touched since I got here, Detective. The window was probably too public for the per .. thieves. Anyone on the street could …" He broke off, embarrassed again. "But I guess that's kind of obvious?"

"Kind of. Make sure the coroner checks for prints down here. And the back door. That looks like where they made entry."

He needs more to do, she decided.

"Officer Mahoney, I need you to radio Dispatch and have them send a couple of officers to canvas the shop owners on both sides of the alley." She tore a page from her notes with store numbers. "Particularly these stores. It looks like someone broke in through the back door. If we're lucky, someone may have seen them coming or going. There's a vehicle parked in the alley that nay be connected. A VW van with "Maude's Quad Rentals" written on the side. Have them ticket it and have it towed to impound. Oh, and check into the trash pick-up schedule in the area."

Based on what she had found in the back of the store, Doreau now eyed the window displays more closely. She noted specific items now, picking out clear differences between things in the display, and the one she carried in a sealed bag. Now that she was checking details, they couldn't be more different.

Choosing a clutch from the display similar to the one she had found in back, she picked it up. Even the heft was different, she noted. This felt .. heavier .. more substantial. She held it closer and inhaled. Not even the lingering smoke could obscure the distinctive odor of natural leather. All of the stitching was neat; the edges finished evenly. The zipper pull also had a certain heft to it, and even when subjected to determined press with her pen, the finish refused to flake or scratch off. These might be last fall's fashions; some might even be used and on consignment, but she was pretty sure that these were all originals and that the labels would not feature any dyslexic misspellings. Having handled both items; being able to compare them side by side, made the sharp contrast in quality and value starkly obvious.

She turned slowly, speculatively, trying to imagine the shop as it might have appeared before being ransacked. No matter how hard she tried, it didn't make sense.

The odds that this was the only forgery; that it had somehow survived for her to find; were astronomical. So, the stuff in the burned pile in back was likely all forgeries. There was no other explanation. Authentic stuff on display, intended to lure people into the shop where the owner could sell them something from an inventory of counterfeits? Sort of a bait and switch operation? Possibly, she mused, wondering again if a cheated customer could be angry enough to commit murder. But then why risk getting caught burning the stuff? There was cash in the till. If you felt cheated, why not take that? Murder and arson feels like more than a dissatisfied customer.

Her circling gaze ended back at the sales counter without spotting anything else noteworthy. She glanced at the sales terminal and realized it was actually a computerized model. Hopeful, she crossed over and took a second look. A thin slit caught her eye ... a disk drive! On a whim she idly pressed the eject button and was rewarded when a mini diskette popped out.

As she reached for the disk she heard hurried, heavy footsteps descending the stairs. Inspector Hammer burst back into the room. Without thinking, she spoke.

"Sledge, look at this."

"Doreau, this is no time for window shoppingThere's a big game slime-ball to bag." His voice was a completely disinterested growl. Without pausing to allow her to continue or to see if she was following, he pushed open the front door and exited. Sensing that she was about to be abandoned miles from the Precinct, she did the only thing she could. She pocketed the disk and tossed her sealed evidence bag to the uniformed officer, who caught it neatly in spite of his surprised expression.

"Give that to the Coroner when comes down."

She dashed for the door, determined not to be left behind again.