The Second Booth at Horseshoe Diner

"Boatman is likely getting a new trial. I wouldn't be surprised if the DA just dismisses the case," Jennifer says, and I agree that is likely to happen. They would rather not have that in a trial. Not after the Helga Texada debacle.

"The whole thing was insane. Boatman kills Sailor with deck line. You can't make this shit up," Jennifer says, and I say the coincidence was astounding.

"I didn't ask, was the sample at the sperm bank missing?" I ask, and she confirms it was. "Who framed him then?"

"Not Leo," she says.

"What about Silverlake?"

"Who?"

"The Lieutenant for Homicide in twenty-eleven."

"No evidence anyone in the police were involved," she says.

"So, that killer is still out there?" I ask, and she says it is possible.

We talk for a minute about Atticus before I hang up. I place the book on the coffee table then stand up, Atticus rolling off my leg and looking up at me in betrayal.

I go to my office and turn on my laptop. Once it boots up, I immediately search for Henry Silverlake. I see his Private Investigator credentials and read some of the information on his LinkedIn. He does not have an official website. Defense Investigator by the looks of it. A cop who suppressed evidence to put people in jail, now works for defendants.

Boatman and Sailor? That is still bothering me. What were the other cases? Eric Woolworth murdered Darcy Lane? Nothing matching there.

I search for the surname Lane. Nothing seems to work with Woolworth. English name seems to be geographical for someone living along roads or narrow hedges. Then I see it also derives from the French word Laine, meaning wool.

"Fuck me," I say aloud. How did Woolworth kill Lane? Strangled her to death with several overlapping strands of wool rope. "Fuck me."

Occupational surname strangled to death with a correlating material by someone with a related surname. Are you shitting me? How many of these are there?

Atticus jumps on my desk and walks his front paws up my arm to nuzzle my face. I flinch away, and pet him with the opposite hand.

"We may have found a serial killer buddy."

-

Monday - August 3, 2026

-Midge Appletree-

This is the first week where I will be placed on official light desk duty. I am about three months pregnant, give or take a week, and I have a slight baby bump. I was expecting to not show at all because I am a freak of nature, but I did start showing. I actually look like I am pregnant. I even weigh one hundred and twenty pounds.

Gianna hates me because I did not get morning sickness. She said she was an open fire hydrant all three times and completely bed ridden for the last month of her pregnancy with Preston. Something about a woman who has an easier time doing something makes women angry.

Lieutenant Sweeney took a sudden leave of absence, so Will is the acting Lieutenant. He asked me what I would say if he suggested I get moved to Property Crimes for the duration of my pregnancy, and I my stare was all the words he needed in reply. Graham was waiting for a detective position to open, and it finally did in Property Crimes when Lauren Hill was recruited by the Secret Service. I miss Graham, but I do not miss wondering how he magically appears in a room.

It is early in the morning, and I see our office door open, but no one enter the room. "Hello?" I ask. I hear wheels rolling on the ground, and the side of a whiteboard being rolled into the office. "What the fuck?" When it is all the way in, I see the person pushing it is Chase.

"He brought the whiteboard," Will says from his desk in an awe-inspiring tone.

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?" I ask.

"When Chase brings the whiteboard, he is not fucking around. Get ready for information overload," Will says, and wheels his chair over to my desk. "What is this about?"

Chase had put a thin curtain on the board, that he flips over the back. On the board is information related to five interrelated cases that were investigated separately in 2011. Fifteen years old already. To the far left of the board are all the similarities. He has dates, possibilities of relationships, theories. All he is missing are strings connecting people with events and a tin foil hat.

"Sweet baby Jesus," I say.

"You guys interested in potentially finding a serial killer?" Chase asks as he picks up a dry erase marker. If any other cop said that, I would say he had shiny object syndrome. The cop sees a sparkle on a case, thinks it will make their career when it is just bullshit. Chase is ambitious, but he does not waste his time digging rabbit holes.

"Five cases, seemingly unrelated. Victims all had occupational surnames," he says, directing our eyes to them. "The accused, all have surnames, related to the victim's name."

"Related how?" I ask.

"Sailor was killed by Boatman. Lane was killed by Woolworth," he says, and I open my mouth. "Lane is French for wool." Chase is annoying efficient at preempting questions. "Visscher was killed by Pike." He lets me know that is Dutch for fisherman. "Ryder was killed by Heyward. Lastly, Leatherman was killed by Hyde."

"Lot of coincidences, but that's all I'm seeing so far," Will says to him. His favorite role on a team is the Devil's Advocate. If there is a case, he will question it. Just not his own.

"All of them were strangled to death by material used in that occupation. Sailor with deck line. Lane with wool. Visscher with deep sea fishing line. Ryder with horse reins. Leatherman with, well leather. All over the span of March to October twenty-eleven," Chase explains, and Will and I both silently digest that. Fucking weird. How the hell did no one notice this?

"Convictions?" I ask.

"All were convicted. Three pled guilty for reduced sentencing, two fought it in court and lost. Jason Boatman might be released soon because I found reason to believe the DNA evidence found was planted."

"By us?" Will asks.

"Thankfully, no. Most likely the killer," Chase replies, and we both let out a sigh of relief. Please God, not another Helga Texada.

"Is planting evidence how he got the other men convicted?" I ask, and Chase nods.

"Each had a different form of DNA or forensic evidence against them as the linchpin of the prosecution. Used in order: semen; blood; saliva; fingerprints; skin."

"Each different?" I ask, and he nods. "Why a correlation with the rest, but not that?"

"Good question," Chase says, looking at the board. "What's the message?"

"Assuming this is real?" Will asks, and Chase nods. "Hahaha, I'm smarter than you by the looks at it. This almost comes across like this guy wanted to get caught. He's nearly flaunting it," Will says.

"Why does it have to be a dude?" I ask.

"He has the strength to strangle five people and most murderers are male any way," Will says, and I roll my eyes dismissively.

"A woman would have better access to gather the evidence to use against the men," I say, and Chase agrees that is a legitimate possibility.

"Why did he stop?" Will asks. "Why do this five times, then just stop. Did he stop? Or is this just the ones we know about?"

"All good questions. So, you guys in?" Chase asks. Will and I look at each other, and kind of shrug. We have no active cases right now. Beats additional duties.

"I'm in," Will says, and I nod to say I am in too.

-

Wednesday - August 5, 2026

-William Kaiser-

Chase giving us a weirdly compelling case just when we had nothing else to do, is exactly what we needed. We spent a day going over priorities and creating a list of people to interview. It is a rather long list of people. One of the men had died in prison and two were released because of their reduced sentences. The other two are still incarcerated. The two who did not take a plea deal.

Midge and I track down the two men who are already released. Aaron Pike still lives in the city. He was nineteen when he was arrested and was released two years ago. He is still on probation, so does not really have much of a choice if he was going to talk to us or not. I ask Midge to wait in the car, but she tells me to fuck off and joins me for the interview.

Aaron Pike looks like a completely defeated man. Slumped shoulders, unkept facial hair, nervously twitching, and I can smell alcohol from him. We are interviewing him at his mother's house where he has been living since his release. Unemployed with no prospects or future.

"What do you want?" Aaron ask, sniffing a little, rubbing his nose. Maybe cocaine too. This event turned him into an addict to cope.

"Talk about the Patty Visscher murder," I say, and he looks away.

"What about it? I did my time," he says, and Midge leans over to look at him better.

"What if we told you, we think you might have been wrongly convicted?" she asks. She is skipping to the end. I guess it does make some sense to establish the rapport first. Make sure he knows were here to investigate his potential innocence.

"What do you mean?"

"Where were you when Patty was murdered?" Midge asks.

"I already told the cops everything. You guys railroaded me," he says.

"We," Midge says, pointing between the two of us. "We didn't do anything to you. We're relooking at this case, because our predecessors made some mistakes," Midge says, and Aaron is started to get the point of why we're here. "Where were you?"

"I was at my girlfriend's. In the interview, I said I was out with my girlfriend, so they charged me with lying to police because I was slightly mistaken as to where," he says.

"Let me guess, you said that without the lawyer the cop said you didn't need?" Midge asks, and he nods. "Who was the detective?"

"Detective Leonard Sweeney," he says. We already knew these were Leo's cases, but it is still shocking to hear he was that kind of detective. Ignoring evidence and digging for those kinds of linguistical loopholes.

"Did you have any relationship with the victim?" I ask.

"None. Never even heard of her. We had no relationship, what-so-ever. I didn't know her. I don't even own a fucking fishing pole, or a boat, let alone go deep sea fishing in the mid fucking west," he rants. She was strangled with deep sea fishing line. On the surface, that does sound stupid to insinuate.

"But they had your DNA at the scene," Midge says.

"They had my saliva on a fucking toothpick and a business card for where I worked in her purse," he says dismissively. "When he interviewed me, he asked if I'd provide a sample. I said fine because I had nothing to do with it. Fucking matched."

Aaron worked at a loading dock while attending community college. Aaron loaded boxes into FedEx trucks, while Patty Visscher was a substitute math teacher. She had not sent or received a FedEx package for years, so why would she go to FedEx for a business card? They had no crossover in stores visited. No relation, tangential or otherwise.

"Did you ever notice, someone stalking you? Immediately before?" Midge asks.

"Why?"

"To know your routine, your work, the best means to incriminate you," she explains, and he shakes his head.

"No. Guys don't really worry about that shit," he says. Point taken.

"You pled guilty? Why?" I ask.

"They had my DNA and accused me of lying to police. My lawyer said twenty-years, or ten years. I was going to jail regardless. I plead down. Maybe get out before I'm thirty. I got thirteen years."

"Who was your lawyer?" Midge asks.

"Some public defender. He wasn't there long, I don't remember," he says, and I write down that we'll look into that. "Are you guys serious though?" he asks, and we look at him. "That you're looking into this case again?"

"We found new evidence," I say, and he is not sure what to believe. The last time police asked him to talk and told him to trust them, he ended up in prison for thirteen years. For a crime he likely did not commit.

"But I could be, proven innocent?" he asks, and we both hesitate to answer him.

"I'm not going to promise anything," Midge says, "But the case is reopened."

Midge and I leave the home a few minutes later, both agreeing we did not get much from him. It was too long ago. We did however learn plenty about the way Leo handled this case. He just followed what was convenient and played lazy entrapment games by what I can figure.

"Who's next?" Midge asks, and I open my notebook and hand it to her as I start the car. "Marvin Hyde"

"The last one, that we know of," I say, and asks for the address so he can type it into his dashboard. He doesn't live in the city, but he does live just outside of the metropolitan area. A good two-hour drive. Midge reminds me to make a stop for the bathroom before we hit the highway.

-

-Chase Kramner-

The Kaiser and Midge are interviewing the two men who were framed and have already been released. Tomorrow, I have the two still in prison to interview. Today, I am going to interview former detective Lieutenant Henry Silverlake.

His home office is downtown, in an apartment on the second floor above a used bookstore. I buzz the door on the first floor, while standing next to a sign that says 'Silverlake Investigations'. His apartment just happened to be on Silverlake Boulevard. He saw that street, and just could not resist.

"Silverlake Investigations, how may I help you?" a female voice asked from the intercom.

"Detective Kramner with the police. Can I speak with Mr. Silverlake for a minute?" I ask.

"Do you have an appointment?" she asks.

"No," I say.

"Appointment only. Please call the number and come back at your appointment time," she says, and I groan.

"When's the next appointment available?" I ask.

"Use the number sir." Are you kidding me? I read the number on the sign and call while leaning against his door. "Silverlake Investigations, how may I help you?"

"Still me," I say, and she asks me if I want to make an appointment. "Sure."

"Nature of investigation?" she asks.

"Not hiring services. Just need to talk to him," I say.

"I'll put down consultation for now. Next appointment available is tomorrow at three in the afternoon. Is this a good time for you sir?" she asks, and I want to kick the door down. I only tap my toes against it.

"How can I get in today?" I ask.

"You can't. Is three okay sir?"

"Fine," I say, kicking the door again.

"Name?"

"Chase Kramner," I say, and I hear her typing.

"You are inked in for tomorrow. Have a great day sir," she says, and hangs up. That was one of the most annoying conversations I have ever had. I was going to go in there on good faith but fuck this guy. I check my contacts and call Jennifer again.

"What is it this time?" she asks.

"Feel free to tell me if I'm out of line, but can you get me information if a former detective has a file with IA?" I ask, and she is cautious.

"I can if it exists. I'll send you some paperwork to justify the request and cover both of our asses. Don't tell me who until you fill it out," she says, and I thank her in advance. I guess I will interview the guys in prison today.

I call the prison warden to arrange an interview. He says he will get back to me shortly, so until that goes through, I do not have much to do. I return to the station and fill out the forms for Lieutenant Ito. With that out of the way, I read over a few of the cases again.

Jason Boatman and Eric Woolworth are the two still in prison, and Jeremy Heyward was the one who died in prison. The Jason and Eric are in the same prison, so I hope to spend an hour with both. The prison is going to be four-hour drive, both ways, but seeing how I am interviewing Silverlake tomorrow, I can make the time. The warden gets back to me around noon.

This is the first time I have to think about this kind of thing, but I ask Doll if she could go into my apartment and feed Atticus for me. Seeing how I likely will not be back until almost midnight. Doll cannot do it. I would call my landlord if he was not such an asshole. I cannot call The Kaiser or Midge because they will be getting back late as well.

"You know Lieutenant Ito lives in your building, right?" Doll asks, and I honestly did not know that. "How did you not know that?"

"I'll give her a call, thanks."

I call her a moment later and she answers, "Lieutenant Ito."

"It's Kramner," I say.

"What's up?" she asks. "I'm still looking over the request form if that's why you're calling."

"It's not. Do you live in Juniper Tower?" I ask, and she confirms she does in a confused tone. "I'm going to get home late, could you possibly feed my cat Atticus?" I ask, and she laughs. "What?"

"Like To Kill a Mockingbird?" she asks, and I say yes. "Sure, I guess. Hand the key off to Dolly and I'll swing by before I leave. What number?" Do not call Doll, Dolly.

"Four-O-three," I say, and she says she will take care of it. I thank her and hand my apartment key off to Doll before I leave to drive to the prison.

-

"No handing off anything to the inmate. No physical contact. No knifes, no guns, no weapons of any kind. You will be searched before you enter, and upon leaving. Do you understand officer?" the prison guard asks me as we walk from my car to a gate.

"Detective," I say, and he looks over his shoulder at me. "Sergeant Detective."

"Not in here you're not," he says, then unlocks the first gate door and holds it open for me. We both step through, after which he relocks it and we resume walking.

Upon reaching a security checkpoint, I see a reception window, more guards, an x-ray machine, and a metal detector. I sign in with my name, reason of visit, time of visit, and person I am meeting. I am then instructed to hand off my firearm to the guard, which I do. I place the folders in x-ray, and step through the metal detector once motioned to. It does not go off, but I am still frisked. They confiscate my pen, and I watch them remove a paper clip from the case folders.

"I need something to write with," I say, and they hand me a floppy pen that almost feels like a noodle. "Thanks."

"Right this way," the guard says, and escorts me through three secure doors, then sits me in a room with several tables and chairs that are bolted to the floor. There is a guard at each door, and an additional guard above me on the catwalk.

I hear the buzzing sound and see a man in a white shirt tucked into orange pants being escorted to me in wrists and ankle restraints. It has been fifteen years, but I can still recognize him as Jason Boatman. Short black hair, gray eyes, sharp pointy chin with a small goatee at the tip. He is prison buff with large chest and biceps, but scrawny legs. He was thirty-seven when he was incarcerated, and he certainly looks early fifties.

"Mr. Boatman?" I ask, and he looks at the guard who nods.

"Yeah," he says, then is helped into a seat. I sit across from him and open his file. "I'm getting a lot of visitors this week."

"Take it your lawyer already told you?" I ask, and he nods. "That you might be getting out."

"I ain't gonna hold my breath, but that's what he told me. That someone finally believes me when I said they planted my jizz in that chick," he says, and I nod.

"I'm the reason this is happening. I was assigned to review the case and found that it wasn't passing a sniff test. You want to get out of here, sooner rather than later, helping me, help you, is what you want," I say, and he does not reply. "Mr. Boatman?"

"That's what that cock sucker Sweeney said. Help me, help you," he says.

"I'm not Sweeney," I say, and open the folder. I spread out a few documents and point out the information from the sperm bank. "Did you donate your sperm in twenty-ten?"

"It looks like you know I did. Yeah. I was between jobs, and that money was a week of groceries," he says.