The Second Booth at Horseshoe Diner

"Get dressed," I say to Jesse, who is too shocked to respond. "Young lady, downstairs, now."

"But..."

"...You only know two phrases right now. Yes ma'am, no ma'am. That's it," I say, and she appears to lose her will to fight me. "We got a problem?"

"No ma'am," she says.

"Good. Downstairs," I order.

"Yes ma'am."

I get the kids downstairs and have them sit on opposite ends of the couch while I sit on a chair with my legs crossed watching them. I have had to pee for ten minutes, but I suffer in silence. These two will feel my glare for as long as I can muster.

"If you need to go to the bathroom..." Wendy begins to say, but my eyelashes fluttering speaks for me. "No ma'am, yes ma'am."

It is an agonizing half hour before we hear a car pull up on front of the house. I see Jesse flinch each time a sound is heard. The car door closing. The key fob locking the door. The gate in front of the house swinging closed. He is a ball of nerves right now. I know Jill well, so I understand what is about to happen to him.

I leave the chair and answer the door before she knocks. Jill steps inside in pajama pants and slippers. Is there anything this woman could wear that would not make her look like an assassin?

"Mom..."

"...Car. I'll deal with you later," she says, too angry to even look him. Jesse looks at Wendy, tries to say something but does not, then quietly leaves my house. I can tell Jill wanted to slap him in the back of the head but managed not to.

"Sorry about this," I say.

"No, he's at your house, I'm sorry," Jill says, sighing while pinching the bridge of her nose. "You are a remarkably poised pregnant woman."

"I'm barely pregnant," I say, touching my stomach on reflex.

"I was a crier," Jill says with a grin. "You are doing great. Stepmom to stepmom."

"Thanks," I say.

"Other than the obvious, how did he behave?"

"He tried to threaten me with his dad," I say, and her face is beyond description.

"Derek has made it perfectly clear what happens if he does that. Hope you didn't like him too much sweetie, because he's going to military school," Jill says, and Wendy sinks her face into her palms. "Have a nice night. Or morning."

"Later," I say, and close the door after she leaves.

I take this opportunity to go to the bathroom. When I return, Wendy has not moved an inch from her spot on the couch by the time I sit down.

"I'm going to ask you, point blank. Don't fuck with me. Yes or no?" I ask, and she knows what I am asking. She shakes her head. "No ma'am, yes ma'am."

"Fuck you," she mumbles.

"What was that?"

"Fuck you," she says louder, and leaves the couch. I stand up as well and block her route to the stairs. "You're not my mom."

"I am giving you the opportunity to have her not know," I say, and she pauses. "Did you tell her you were considering starting to have sex?"

"No," she says, and attempts to push her way through me. "I don't want to talk to you about this. I don't want to talk to mom about this. It's my business."

"Not in my fucking house it isn't," I say.

"It's always your house."

"Because it is my house. Your mom couldn't be on the mortgage because your dad left her so fucked a co-loan could have raised the interest rate fifteen percent. You need to understand this young lady, you are in my house," I say, and she pushes me hard to clear a path. I have had enough and grab her by her collar and shove her into the side table next to the stairs. "I will not hit you first, but if you put your hands on me like that again, I will fuck you up. Pregnant or not. Do you understand me?" Wendy is seething in rage and does not reply to me. "Young lady, do you understand me?"

"Yes ma'am," she says, though her tone sounded an awful lot like fuck you.

"Will you please, just talk to me?" I ask, and she looks away from me. "Wendy."

"Why would I talk to my lesbian stepmother about sex with a man?" she asks. "Or my lesbian mother?" That boy in her bed was not a man.

"Just because I am not sexually attracted to men, doesn't mean I don't understand them, or can't help you understand what's going on with you," I say.

"I'm not going to take advice on men from someone who hates men."

"Hates men? My best friend is a man. My partner, who I unambiguously trust with my life, is a man. I love your brothers with every fiber of my being," I say, and she realizes that was a stupid accusation.

"You need to tell us these things. As much as we don't like it, we know you're going to anyway. You can at least let us help you be safe about it," I say, and Wendy is starting to calm down. She is still angry, so much in fact that a tear rolls down her cheek. When it slithers to her chin she wipes it away with her thumb.

"I went to a clinic and got birth control last week," Wendy says.

"I am proud that you did that," I say, and I am serious. At least she had some foresight. "I am. Just don't make yourself easy."

"What is that supposed to mean?" she asks.

"I mean leaving the house looking like a prostitute," I say, and she scoffs at me.

"My body..."

"...my choice, yes I understand you're reading sophomoric feminist theory. I'm not saying don't convict the guy who takes advantage of that. I say castrate and crucify him, but the reason he thought he could, doesn't exist in a vacuum."

"What would you know about any of that?" Wendy says. What would I know about men taking advantage of a situation? Too much. I think about when I was raped, and I know the memory must have slapped my face because Wendy saw the change in my demeanor immediately. "M?"

"Just," I say and then start crying because I am thinking about it. "Be more careful than I was."

"Did something happen to you?" she asks. I walk to the couch and sit down. "M?"

I have been doing so well at not being an emotional pregnant woman. I never thought it would be an off handed comment from Wendy that sets me off. Wendy sits down next to me and wraps her arms around me, and I flinch hard, but she pulls me closer. She puts her cheek on my shoulder, and I tilt my head onto hers.

"How did I never think about the fact you don't like being touched?" Wendy asks herself out loud. "You don't have to say anything right now. I promise to talk to you, about my stuff, if you promise to talk to me about yours."

"Promise," I say with a sniff, but do not have it in me to tell her right now. I think she already knows what I would tell her if I did. We both know that is enough.

-

Thursday - August 6, 2026

-Chase Kramner-

Jennifer is gone when I wake up, but she left me a handwritten note. She lets me know last night was fun, and that she was open to a real date, or a second evening.

I shower, and while getting dressed I constantly push Atticus back with my foot to keep his fur of my pants. A tie is forming around my collar when my phone rings. Leaning over, I look straight down and see that number from last night is calling. That journalist. I let it go to voicemail.

After brewing a to-go coffee, I drive to work and make my way to the Homicide Department office to see the progress of the board. The first thing I see is someone I do not know examining it.

"Who the fuck are you?" I say as I enter the office. The Kaiser looks displeased, his arms folded across his chest while Midge looks more tired than usual. I will chalk that up to the pregnancy.

At our case board is a blond woman looking at all our work. Her back is to us, and she keeps looking at it like we are not in the room. All I see is a formal black Nine West suit and three-inch heels. Her long blond hair is contained by a single hair tie, hanging over her back in a ponytail.

"Excuse me?" I ask, and she keeps ignoring me. I wait for a moment, and I think I hear music. I lean a little, and see she has white air pods blasting music. I put my hand in front of her, and snap once. She turns her head to me, seemingly surprised that other people are now in the room. "How's it going? Who are you?"

Without saying anything, she removes the air pods from her ears, and returns them to her case. She inserts the case into her pocket, then flicks her hair behind her ears.

"Yvonne Grimsdotter, Special Agent with the FBI," she says with a soft smile and a firm handshake. She is taller than me without the heels and her skin is icy pale. Her eyes resemble frost. Her last name sounds Nordic, maybe Icelandic. She is a smirking angel with a Glock.

"Why is the FBI here?" Midge asks.

"Who are you?" Yvonne asks.

"Detective Midge Fucking Appletree," she says.

"Something tells me that isn't your real middle name," Yvonne says with a giggle.

"Why is the fed here?" Midge asks.

"Because we received a call you are investigating the possibility of a serial killer," Yvonne says, and we all look at each other to discern who made that call. I do not think it was either of them. My money is on Doll. The one time the FBI does not have a response that is measured by a glacier.

"We do not know that yet," I say.

"Are you a profiler?" she asks, and I sigh.

"No."

"Well, I am. What's your name? Detective?"

"Kramner. Sergeant," I say, and she grins.

"Well, Sergeant Kramner, I am a trained FBI profiler, and I will determine if what you have is a serial killer," she says, and looks at the board again. It is like we are not in the room.

"What do you think so far?" The Kaiser asks. His tone is inviting and pleasant. The Kaiser felt the room and decided someone needed to play good cop.

"I think you're on the right track," she says, and turns to him. "You are?"

"Will," he says. He is playing the diplomat, leaving out his rank and title.

"Hello Will. I'm Yvonne," she says, shaking his hand and sitting on his desk. She is noticeably warmer to him. "If you guys are worried about credit, don't be. My boss is already talking to your boss, and if we do have a serial killer, this will be joint. Joint statements, joint information, joint credit. You guys would likely benefit from our resources."

"Right track?" Midge asks.

"That's what I said. These cases are connected. Why, is the question," she says.

"Don't you mean how?" I say.

"No, I mean why. I think you all figured out the how. Or are close to having a half decent guess. Why is more important. Why did they do it? Why did they stop?"

"Did they stop?" The Kaiser asks, and she points at him to concur.

"The cases were brought to your attention because of an internal review, right?" she asks me.

"Yeah."

"Just convictions?"

"That's accurate."

"Did you guys tear open your cases to see if anyone was acquitted or had charges dismissed for murder or attempted murder by strangulation in twenty-eleven?" she asks, and we all look at each other. "Maybe ask different jurisdictions to see if the killer isn't moving hunting grounds?"

"We wanted to examine the cases directly in front of us before we dove headfirst into a rabbit hole," Midge says.

"I went ahead and did that for you," she says, and points to a case folder on the table. "Don't worry, it matches all of your other similarities. Victim has occupational surname, strangulation with a related material. Kobbler strangled with bootlaces. Variant spelling with a K instead of a C."

"Cobbler?" Midge asks.

"Shoe repair person is a cobbler," I say.

"I noticed you said, victim has occupational surname, not had. Was that misspeaking?" The Kaiser asks.

"I like him," she says, and hands him the file. "Venessa Gray, maiden name Kobbler. Attacked by a man who attempted to strangle her to death in twenty-eleven. Only our girl here, was packing and shot him over her shoulder and in the face." She demonstrates the action, holding her left hand like someone had something wrapped around her neck. Her right hand takes the shape of a gun, and she pulls the trigger next to her left ear.

"Perp?" I ask.

"Fredrick Aimer," she says. "No priors. Guess what was found in his car?"

"DNA or forensic evidence of some hapless fuck?" Midge asks.

"Ding ding ding," Yvonne says. "And a business card for a law firm where a Mr. Lacer worked. The evidence was a few strands of hair Mr. Aimer kept in a glass vial. Couldn't match it, because Lacer refused to cooperate, and the judge refused to sign a warrant to make him."

"Aimer is our killer?" I ask.

"Assumed," Yvonne says, closing the folder, then handing it over to me. "I still want to know, why? Why these people? Why frame people for it in the way he did? Did he have an accomplice?"

"Midge," I say then hand her the Aimer file. "You got Aimer."

"Because I'm pregnant?" she asks.

"You shouldn't have been doing interviews yesterday anyway. Don't push it," I say, and she groans, but accepts the task.

"Congratulations," Yvonne says.

"Up yours, fed," Midge says without looking at her.

"Will, I want you to hunt down all the material evidence of this case. Fine tooth comb it with Jill or whoever she delegates it too," I say.

"What about you?" Will asks.

"I'll make sure we don't have any more cases to follow, and then I'm going to interview Hank Silverlake later this afternoon," I say, and Will asks who that is. "He was the Lieutenant for Homicide in twenty-eleven."

"Speaking of," we all hear from the door, and we turn to see Jennifer. "I tried your office, figured you were down here. Those investigations regarding you know who are on your desk."

"Thanks," I say as she trails her finger down my arm as she walks away. I hope no one saw that. I turn to the room, and it is apparent everyone saw that. "Shut it. Let's get to work."

-

Thursday - August 7, 2026

-Jill Whitaker-

I picked up my son past midnight from what I presume is his girlfriend's house. His girlfriend just happened to be my friend's stepdaughter, and they were likely doing something they should not be doing. I feel like I cannot lecture him in good conscious considering I have been having sex since I was fourteen. I was simply better at not getting caught.

When I get to work, I am greeted with one of the strangest requests I have ever received. Detective Kaiser from Homicide is asking for us to dig out the material evidence from several cases, each around fifteen years old. What the hell is this about?

"You know, no one was here when these cases were done?" I ask Will after he enters my office and asks us for assistance. "This lab wasn't a thing back then."

"I figured as much," he says and hands me one of the cases. "Humor me."

"Some of this shit is probably in storage downstate," I explain, and he says that is fine. We do not have a high case volume right now, so I guess we do have the time.

"What do you need from us?" he asks.

"We'll get the stuff, but the mileage costs will come from your department, not mine," I say, and he says he will cover any overtime costs or travel expenses. That is not his decision to make. "Since when are you the LT?"

"Since Chase got Leo suspended," he says, and I am not sure I follow. "Chase starts case review, and suddenly we're investing five of Leo's old cases and he's taking a sabbatical? It might not be recorded as a suspension, but let's call it what it is."

"I'll send Frankie and Heath when they get in," I say, and start a search in our online archives for the evidence we have on station. Which is none of it. "It's all in storage. I can't promise we'll start looking at it today, but definitely tomorrow. Ted!"

"Boss lady?" I hear him shout back.

Tedman Puthera came from a recommendation by my nearly retired friend Frank Blanchard. He was rolled up in that Property Crime bust that got Lauren the recommendation for the Secret Service. A perfectly cooperating witness who is tech savvy and had potential to be our digital forensic analyst. I was concerned because of his history, but it was ruled as duress and his record is squeaky clean.

"Don't call me that," I say, and he laughs. "Makes me feel old."

"Sorry, Chief," he says, and I smile. "What do you need?"

"While the material evidence for these cases are downstate, some of the electronic stuff isn't. Do a full scrub on the victims and the suspects in these cases. Full social media scrub, LinkedIn, everything," I say and hand him the first folder. "Start with this one."

"You got it," he says, looking at the cover. "Twenty-eleven?"

"Is that a problem?"

"The iPhone four was old in twenty-eleven," he says.

"Was Myspace still a thing?" I tease.

"What's Myspace?" Ted asks, and both Will and I look at him. I forget Ted is twenty-three sometimes. "I'm kidding." I am not sure he is.

"Get to work, give me a report within six hours, then I'll give you the next folder," I say, and Ted nods and begins his process.

"How's he working out?" Will asks me.

"He is enthusiastic to not be in Sri Lanka," I summarize. "He is one of my most diligent workers."

"Let me know when the old evidence gets here. Send me your mileage costs, we'll take the hit," Will says, and I say he will definitely cover my budget.

Now it is quiet in my office, and I have a moment to think about Jesse. I did him a massive favor by not telling his father what he did last night. Derek was deadly serious when he said Jesse would go to military school if he used his authority to threaten a police officer.

Jesse was doing so well. I thought we were beyond this pattern of behavior. After he told us he felt worried the girls would make it feel neglected, we made sure he never felt left out. Derek gets out of work early at least one night a week for boardgame night. No exceptions. That is what deputies are for, and Derek has two.

Even with that, he came back full circle. He is lying again. He is bullying again. He still thinks his dad being chief of police is a get out of jail free card. These are just the things we know he has done. Is he stealing again? What else is he doing? That phone call from Midge is not the way I wanted to find out he had a girlfriend. I thought we had gotten to a point where he could share that with me.

If I tell Derek this happened, Jesse is going to a boarding school. He has lied to Derek too many times for this to end a different way. I do not want that to happen. That would be outsourcing the problem. We have not even diagnosed the problem.

My phone rings. "CSI Chief, Whitaker."

"Hey Jill, front desk. Someone is here to see you. Can I send him down?" the desk officer asks.

"Who is it?"

"Your son," he says. I sigh into the phone. "Jill."

"I'll get him," I say, and leave my desk. I take the elevator to the first floor and walk to the reception area where Jesse is sitting in the chair next to the reception window. "You know I have a cellphone, right?"

"I wanted to call a number you wouldn't ignore," Jesse says, and my face scrunches together.

"It's the last week of summer. You asked for freedom, and you got it. You abused it, and now you should be at home. Why are you here?" I ask, and he looks down at the floor. "Young man, what have I said about eyes?"

"Her name is Wendy," Jesse says, then looks at me. "I'm sorry I threatened her mom."

"You shouldn't be telling me that," I say, and he nods.

"I know, I was hoping I could tell her. Does she work in this building?" Jesse asks, and I smile at him.

"She works here," I say, but I know she is working that case with Will and Chase. She could be too busy, and I do not want to interrupt her with an apology from a fifteen-year-old. "She's busy though. How about I call her after work, and we'll drive over to her house. You can properly introduce me to Wendy."

"Okay," Jesse says.

"How'd you get here?" I ask, and he says he took the bus. "You too cool to get coffee with you mom?"