The Second Booth at Horseshoe Diner

"That sample is missing. Someone took it, and used it to frame you," I say, and he looks flabbergasted. It is one thing to think you were framed. It is another thing entirely to be vindicated in that belief.

"I fucking knew it. I always fucking knew it," Jason says.

"Do you know of anyone who would?" I ask.

"Frame me for murdering a stranger? I ain't a saint, but no one hated me that much," he says. "I do remember, like right before I was arrested, some dude poking around my apartment."

"Could you describe him?" I ask.

"Fifteen years ago, man," he says, and I nod. "I did describe him to Sweeney. He didn't seem to care." I search the folder for his interview notes, and see he wrote down something about Jason saying that but did not write down the description. Goddammit Leo.

"Let's go vague then. Old or young?"

"Old. Older than me. Later fifties," he says, and I write that down. "Whitehaired grandpa looking fucker."

"Where around the apartment?" I ask.

"Near the parking lot. Saw him near my car once, like he was looking for stuff, casing it out," Jason explains.

"Besides your DNA being on file from an unfounded allegation, is there another way the police would have found you?" I ask, and he nods.

"Yeah. They found a business card in her shoe under her foot. Low and behold, it was my card. I was an executive assistant for a market research firm," he says, and I scan the paperwork until I find a picture of the card. "That's it."

"I thought you said you were between jobs?"

"I was when I jerked off into a cup, I wasn't when I was arrested."

This is fifteen years in the past for him, so I never expected to get much of value. I reconfirm his alibi and ask if he had given his card to anyone. He says when he was unemployed, he would leave the card in tip jars, or pin it to board in public areas. Twenty-eleven, several parts of the economy were still recovering, so he was advertising his expertise anywhere he could.

The hour I have with him zooms by, but I find it very productive, and he legitimately thanks me for talking to him. He certainly left with a good feeling about his chances of getting out of here.

-

Eric Woolworth does not help much either, but I am starting to a see a trend of the killer's modus operandi. Besides leaving behind one form of DNA or forensic evidence, he leaves behind a business card. In the event the man he is framing is not in a database, the business card will lead the police to that person. I am sure there are other correlating things. This killer seems to be trying to prove something.

I scroll through my phone in the elevator, and see I have a missed call. It must have come in when I was interviewing Jason and Eric. When I click the app, I see it is a voice mail from a number I do not recognize. I hit play and put it to my ear.

"Detective Kramner, this is Summer Pillsbury with the Tribune. I would like to ask you a few questions regarding the Jason Boatman case. Please call me back..." she says and leaves me her phone number. Delete.

I exit the elevator with my backpack over my shoulder. My notes are in a secure travel bag I can lock with a key. I walk to my apartment and jiggle the doorknob. It is open and I assume Jennifer is still here.

I drop my keys in the bowl and look toward the living room to see Jennifer coiled up on the couch with Atticus. The television is on, and she is watching Netflix and chilling with my cat. Before she came over, she had changed from her business casual work attire to pajama shorts and her police physical fitness shirt. Her long black hair is free and spread out on her shoulders.

"You could have told me he was an unsufferable cuddle bucket," Jennifer says, rolling him on his back and rubbing his belly. He retaliates by kicking his back paws into her hand. What the hell is a 'cuddle bucket'? I think about that phrase for a moment and come to a rational conclusion of the cat liking to cuddle.

"He's a pathetic sellout," I say, kicking my shoes off. "Drink?" I ask as I walk toward the kitchen. I see an open beer on the table next to the couch. "You seem to be situated."

"Call it my fee," she says, continuing to battle the cat.

"Thanks for doing that," I say, grabbing a glass from my cabinet and filling it with water from the faucet.

"I don't like drinking alone, have a beer," she says, and I put the water to my lips.

"It's midnight," I say, then take a sip.

"And?" she asks, taking a sip of hers. Every time I have ever interacted with her, she has been nothing but an adamant professional. A badass professional even. I remember us arresting Helga Texada together, and her aggressiveness leading up to it. Like her ambushing me in the elevator for information. Now she is popping a beer at midnight with an American Wirehair on her lap. I guess those things are not mutually exclusive.

"I decline, I got a case," I say, taking the water with me to the couch. "Thanks for the offer of my own beer."

"Anytime," she says, leaning deeper into the couch, then blowing the hair that landed on her eye. "I might catnap this little guy."

"Feel free. Barely even my cat," I say, putting my feet up on my coffee table.

"How's that?"

"Bastard broke into my apartment last week," I say, moving my hand to pet him, and he playfully attacks my wiggling fingers.

"How?"

"I opened my patio door when it rained, and he bolted inside," I say, motioning my hand to the sliding glass door.

"We're on the fourth floor," she says.

"I know. I think I was impressed," I say, and she laughs.

"Ninja," Jennifer, picking him up, moving on the couch a little. I see the side of her breast through her sleeve. She is not wearing a bra. She adjusts to put her back against the arm rest and extend her feet toward me. As I watch her do this, I see her slit through her shorts and snap my head forward. She is not wearing panties. "You okay?"

"Mmhmm," I say, and sip my water. It is not enough. "I think I will get a beer."

"That's the spirit," she says, playing with the cat more. I found her sexy last year. Now she is on my couch in pajamas without underwear. Playing with a pussy. This is the kind of shit that always happens when I am in a relationship. I am not that guy, so I do not do it when presented an opportunity. This is the time I would be misreading things.

"I did find a file on that Silverlake guy," she says from the couch as I remove a beer bottle from the fridge.

"Really?" I ask, and she confirms. "What's the skinny?"

"I didn't look at them, just found them. Seven files in total. You'll get them tomorrow," she says as I pop the beer with a bottle opener she left on the counter.

"How'd you end up in IA?" I ask, as she is taking a gulp. "If you don't mind me asking."

"Believe it or not, Internal Affairs is not actually recruited through the police. Most of us aren't even cops. Only two people in the department have arrest authority," she explains as I sit down. "I'm one of the two actual cops, which was some kind of deal between the DA and the Police union way back when. To have at least a few officers so it isn't perceived as a cop hunting unit."

"Yeah, because the force absolutely loves IA," I say, and she giggles. "How'd you get stuck with the job. I know Doll used to."

"Dolly was my Sergeant when I was recruited," she says.

"I'm going to tell her you called her that," I say, and Jennifer sticks her tongue at me. Never call Doll, Dolly.

"For this job, they look for integrity, minimum complaints, what you'd expect."

"Who is they?" I ask.

"City council review of recommendations from the DA's office. I was voluntold," she says, and I laugh. Voluntold, a derogatory term for someone else volunteering you for something, but you have no opinion on the matter.

"How long?"

"Two years. Then I can go back with a lovely stigma of a snitch," she says, and I nod. "You caught the dirtiest cop in history and look what happened to you. Imagine being the person who processed her."

"I'd do it again. The blue wall is bullshit," I say, and take a sip.

"Says the guy who didn't turn in Dolly for failure to report," Jennifer says, and I pretend I have no idea what she is talking about. "You know I have a file on you, right?" she asks.

"What?"

"I had to investigate you when you recused yourself from the Hopkins case. Automatic investigation. I think your ex is guilty as fuck," she says. I appreciate the sentiment. "It was the right thing to get away from that. I imagine it was frustrating."

"It still is," I say, and take several gulps. I goes down the wrong pipe, and I cough it up a little, wiping the small spillage on my sleeve.

"You good?"

"Wrong pipe," I say, and she laughs.

"You still with Hill? I know she moved, but you still a thing?" she asks, and I finishing coughing while shaking my head. "Shame, I liked her. Good cop. A little ditzy, but a decent investigator."

"We still talk, but we're both realistic," I say, and she reaches over, takes the beer from my hand, and places it on the coffee table. "What's up?"

"Just wanted to make sure I wasn't a home wrecker," she says, then quickly straddles me.

"Whoa," I say, and she kisses me. "What are you..." I start to ask before she shoves her tongue into my mouth.

"Exactly what you think I'm doing," she says. "We're two single adults, don't overthink this."

"Turning brain off, right, about, now," I say, and she laughs while kissing me.

"Not all the way off, just the douchebag," she says. Ouch.

While she is straddling me, I grip the bottom of her shirt and slide it off her body. It takes an extra moment to pull all her hair out of it. Lauren turned me into a tit man, so I do not know how to feel about Jennifer's much smaller breasts. One touch of my hand to her soft skin, coupled with the feeling of her nipples hardening as I rub my thumb over them, alleviates my dissatisfaction.

I pick her up as I stand, gripping her butt to support her weight. Her arms wrap around my neck, and I carry her across the apartment and into my bedroom. I drop her on the he bed, and start kissing down her body, pausing longer at her breasts to suckle her nipples. She grips my hair, and I feel her push my head down.

I pull her shorts down, revealing her fully naked body. I thought I saw a trimmed black bush earlier. My lips trace down her torso and abdomen, then begin servicing her properly. Her fingers lock in my hair, and I take my cues of pacing based on the tightness of her squeeze.

Jennifer's body spasms, her back arching upward, then collapsing as I slow down. I can hear her gasping. She leans up, pushing me backwards until I am standing upright. She pulls up my shirt until I take over, then she starts on my belt. My pants drop the floor, and she slithers down the side of the bed. I feel her hot mouth on my dick. I moan as I move her hair from her face and watch her suck my dick.

Once I am erect, Jennifer lays back on the bed and spreads her legs.

"Protection?" I ask.

"Don't worry about it," she says.

I push into her pussy, and goddamn she is tight. Her legs wrap around me, and I bury myself in her. She pulls me onto the bed, and I place my body on top of her as I push my hips down. Her hands grip my ass, and I feel her nails in my skin. I never noticed how tiny she was until I wrap one arm around her back. The opposite hand is behind her head so I can kiss her.

"Slow down, slow down," she says, but I can tell it was not from discomfort. "Enjoy it, take your time."

I slow down. I grind into her slowly, but our kissing intensifies. I can feel heat coming from our bodies. The sweat is beginning to run down her face, and I can taste the salt on her lips. Her pelvis is pushing up against me, and that effort on her part pays off when she releases my mouth to grunt out her climax. She hiccups, and I feel her body convulse, but not the from the orgasm. I reach over to my nightstand lamp and click it on.

"Are you alright?" I ask, and immediately see she is crying. "We can stop."

"No, I cry when I come," she says, laughing a little from embarrassment. That is a first for me. "Lights off."

"Why? I like it on. You're goddamn sexy," I say, and she shakes her head.

"I'm not. No one likes to watch a girl cry when you fuck her," she says, then flicks the light off.

"Okay, this is what we're doing," I say, and roll over so she is on top. I sit all the way up. "Extend your legs out, wrap your arms around my neck."

"What are we doing?" she asks, but still does as requested. Our position is now deeply intimate, close contact, and face to face. I then turn the light back on. "Stop," she says, then reaches for the switch, but I do not let her.

"We are going to look right at each other," I say, and she shakes her head, still struggling for the light.

"I look disgusting when I cry."

"You look beautiful," I say, and she puts her forehead on the pocket of my shoulder to hide her face. I have never understood beautiful women who are self-conscious. I probably never fill. "Look at me."

"Not when I'm crying," she mumbles into my shoulder. I thrust up hard, making her gasp and jump back. "Keep your eyes, right here."

We resume. I gently lift her off my dick and glide her back down. We alternate between heavy kissing, and unblinking eye gazing. My hand drifts up her back, wiping away her sweat, and I feel her pussy tightening around me. She starts to reach for the light, but I grab her hands.

"Don't look," she says, and I see the tears starting. She grips my back, and exhales all the air in her lungs, then rests her teary face on shoulder. I tilt her head back and kiss her, and it is right back to the hard kissing. She falls backward so I am on top, and I keep my slow pace to enjoy it as instructed.

Jennifer cries two more times and is nearing a third when I say I am getting close.

"Look at me as you come," she says, and I say I will. I pump faster at the very end, and grunt inside of her, trying to maintain eye contact as I do. It makes her cry again, and our lips embrace. We both lose track of time as we resume kissing.

I reach down to my pants to grab my phone and ready an alarm for work in the morning. I wear Jennifer like a comforter, her arm draped over my chest. She falls asleep well before me. I smell her hair and kiss her head, her twitching with every warm touch of my lips. Just before one in the morning, I turn the lamp off, and join her in sleep.

-

Wednesday - August 5, 2026

-Midge Appletree-

Will and I both get home late after conducting interviews. We tried to sit down with Marvin Hyde, the other man who has already been released from prison. He immediately told us he had no intention of speaking to us. The last time he talked to police to clear up a few things, he spent a decade in prison. With him out of the way, we spoke with more people on our interview list. At least the ones were could immediately talk to in person. We called at least three dozen family members and friends of the victims.

What we both found incredibly strange, was the fact two of the victims had an immediate family member who told us they did not think the person convicted of the crime committed it. Patty Visscher's father did not believe Aaron Pike murdered his daughter. Nor did Helen Ryder's sister, and she even went as far as hiring a private investigator and was on the witness list for the defense before he took a plea deal the day before trial. She forwarded us the contact information for the PI she used.

The house is going to be quiet. Gianna is driving the boys to spend time with their father for the week and will not be back until Thursday evening. Wendy likes to pretend I am the reason her parents are divorced, but it is really telling she refused to go and visit him. Unlike her brothers, she is old enough to remember her father being a cheating dirtbag who blew their money on gambling and prostitutes. Wendy is too cool to talk to me, so it is essentially like having the house all to myself.

I plan on catching up on my violent television shows at the very least.

"I'm home," I say, just to give Wendy a head start if she is doing something stupid. I pause for a moment to listen. There is the faint sound of music coming the upstairs. Just where I left her.

I place my gun in the safe above the fridge and toss my shield on the counter. Wendy left a tub of ice cream open next to the fridge. I groan as I put it away, mostly because I have barred myself from eating it during the pregnancy. Do not tempt the pregnant lesbian with the gun.

I drop the ice cream scoop into the sink, and see two bowls, two spoons, and two plates from a separate meal. I wipe my hand over the counter where the ice cream was, and do not feel condensation. This was not that long ago. Looking toward the stairs, I see her shoes that I always tell her to put next to the door. I also see a pair of boy's tennis shoes.

"Oh, fuck no young lady," I say, and stomp up the stairs as loud as I can. "Wendy!"

I do not hear a reply by the time I noisily arrive at her room. The door is locked, so slam the side of my hand into it. "Young lady, open this door, right now!"

I hear her muttering for someone to leave. Unlucky for her Gianna and I specifically chose this house because it came with doors that I can easily unlock with a small tool. I would like to thank my time in Property Crimes for the skill set. I pop her lock with the tool I keep on the top of her door frame, and barge in.

"What the fuck M!" Wendy says, trying to block me, nearly slamming the door on my stomach. She realizes what she almost did and flinches back like I was about to pistol whip her. "I'm sorry, I..."

Wendy keeps stammering as I glare at a startled young man still in her bed looking for clothes. "We didn't do anything..."

"...because I came home. Do your parents know where you are?"

"That's none of your business," he says, and Wendy starts to step between us. Her and her brothers get an earful for a lot less than that.

"The fuck did you just say to me?" I ask.

"He's leaving," Wendy says.

"No shit," I say, and turn to her. "Not before his parents know."

"Like I'd give you their number," he says with a tone if I heard come out of my kid's mouths, dental records would be required to identify them.

The young man's pants on the floor. I grab them and feel the back pocket for a wallet.

"Hey that's mine..."

"...don't fucking talk," I say. In his wallet I finding a student ID card. "Jesse Whitaker...are you fucking kidding me?"

"I'll call the cops..."

"...I am a cop. Right now, the only thing making this not trespassing is me," I say before I toss his pants to him. "Get dressed."

"You're a cop?" he asks. "You might want to let me go."

I know you did not just try hiding behind your daddy's rank. That might scare a rookie patrol officer, but not a detective on the job for over a decade. Certainly not one who knows his mother on a first name basis.

"Let's play that game," I say, and call Jill. It starts ringing.

"Who are you calling?" he asks.

"You had your chance," I say, and it connects.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" Jill asks.

"So, funny story, let me skip to the end. I just got home, and someone wants to say hello," I say, then hand Jesse the phone.

"Hello?" Jesse asks, and I watch him go deathly white. "I can...mom I...but...no I...I know I lied, but..."

Wendy is mortified, but maybe she should reconsider putting out for guys who cry when I call their mother.

Jesse hands the phone back to me.

"Jill?" I ask.

"Oh, I am very awake now. I will be there, very soon. You have my permission to fucking handcuff him if needed," Jill says, and I let her know I will see her soon.