The Second Booth at Horseshoe Diner

"I'm sorry I'm late. Slow morning," I say to start.

"I didn't think I'd hear about this fifteen some odd years later," Vanessa says once we were situated in our seats at her dining room table. "You mentioned on the phone this was about the man who tried to murder me?"

"It is," I say.

"That was purely self-defense..."

"...I'm not questioning that..."

"...the second amendment..."

"...Mrs. Gray," I cut her off, raising my voice to get her attention. "The man who tried to kill you, may have killed other women. I am asking what you remember about him."

"What I remember about a man who broke into my house and started strangling me for no reason? I didn't stop to ask him before I blew his fucking head off," Venessa says.

"Had you ever seen him before that?" I ask, and she shakes her head in disbelief.

"I told the fucking detective this fifteen years ago. Ask him," Venessa says while leaving her chair.

"I know that," I say, then open my page and pull out Leo's case notes. "He wasn't as thorough as me. He probably figured, perp dead at the scene, clear cut case of self-defense. Case closed. He didn't know about the other victims. Now that we do..."

"...it took you fifteen years to discover a serial murderer?" she asks.

"Had you seen him before the attack?" I repeat.

"Goodbye detective."

"Mrs. Gray, there are two men in prison, right now, for a crime they didn't commit. The man who did, is the man who attempted to kill you. Please, help me figure this out, if only to get them released," I plead, and she slowly sits back down in the chair. "Had you seen him before?"

"I had," she says, and I open my book. "I think he was following me for about week before the attack."

"Did you file a police report?" I ask.

"Yeah, and that was about as useful as a boner in a blizzard. I got a gun instead. If this state had a waiting period, I'd be dead," she says, and I write that down. "What are you writing down."

"Notes," I say.

"Is that bad? Suspicious I got a gun to defend myself?" She cannot stop being a gun lobbyist for fifteen seconds.

"Let's get this out of the way," I say in frustration. "I own three guns besides my service pistol, and I shoot them more than I masturbate, and I love a good yank. My father wrote a scathing review of the dissent for D.C. vs Heller before he was appointed to that appellate court. I'm not the biggest fan of him as a dad, but I love his jurisprudence. Save your lobbying for congress please."

"Kramner? Your dad is Jordan Kramner?" she asks. Of course, a gun lobbyist knows who he is. I would not be surprised if her organization endorses him for the Supreme Court.

"Yup."

"Your brother's a butt munch. No offense." A gun lobbyist would know my brother too. There is viral video of him making an ass of himself during a gun control town hall. Easy to do when you do not believe what you are saying, and then leave the venue with three-armed security guards. I keep telling him optics matter.

"Let's just say I'm glad I don't vote in Connecticut," I say with a smile, and she laughs. "Can we focus a little?"

"Yeah, sorry. Hard to not be a lobbyist," she says. "He started following me. I called the cops, they couldn't do anything, so I got a gun."

"Did you ever meet Matthew Lacer?" I ask, and she nods. "When?"

"After the whole thing. The police asked me if I knew him from before, and I didn't. I met him once after his lawyer called me," she explains.

"About?"

"To get my official statement saying I had never met him," she says, and that is perfectly reasonable.

I hear footsteps running downstairs, and kids laughing.

"Keep it down," Venessa says, and it they do settle down some. "Thank you. Do you have children detective?"

"I don't."

"Is that a choice or lack of opportunity?"

"My last relationship, we were close, but didn't work out the way I hoped. Just started a new one though. At least I think I did," I say with a smile.

"Put some labels on it. Not defining it is poison," she says with a grin. "After the attack, I stopped dragging my feet and told my boyfriend, now husband, right now. We're having babies, right now." We share a laugh, and I close the notebook to show I am not writing that down. "Four babies later."

It is way too soon to be thinking about that with Jennifer. I think it is too soon to have the discussion. The relationship is fun right now, and that is what I want it to be. We have interoffice politics to consider. I do not know how she feels about her career.

"We are far away from figuring that out," I say, and she nods in understanding. We make small talk for a few more minutes before I pack my notes and leave.

-

Friday - August 7, 2026

-William Kaiser-

Abigail and I were called in for a meeting with the Chief of Police. He let us know immediately we were not in trouble, but something was about to happen, and something else needed to be remedied before it did. Homicide, Violent Crime, and Missing Persons were going to merge into a single department. Meaning Abigail and I would be in the same department. You cannot date within the same department.

"I'm going to be blunt. Which one of you is staying? Which one is going?" Chief Whitaker asks. Abigail and I look at each other, then back to him. "I'm not saying decide today."

"I've been in the same department for ten years," Abigail says, and looks at me. "I can move."

Damn, that was easy.

"Are you sure?" Chief asks.

"What sense does it make to have a Sergeant in a new department who will being going on maternity leave in a few months?" Abigail asks.

"Official policy states I can't justify your movement based on pregnancy," Chief says.

"Policy was written by a bunch of Karens," Abigail says, and Chief looks at me for what the means.

"Karens?" Chief asks. Abigail giggles into her palm. "Sergeant?"

"Sorry sir, I forget you're old sometimes," she teases. I love how she has the confidence to say that to him.

"Will?" Chief asks me.

"I guess I'm okay if she's okay," I say. Just like that, the meeting is over.

We stand quietly in the elevator which opens to the sixth floor first. I escort her off the elevator and to her office, where she takes a seat and taps the spacebar on her computer.

"You sure?" I ask.

"About what?" Abigail asks, and realizes it a moment later. "Yeah."

"You've been in violent crime for almost ten years," I say.

"Exactly. Time to diversify," she says.

"It's your life's work," I say. Why the hell am I trying to talk her out of this?

"It's my job. That I also happen to take seriously, and am passionate about," she says, and starts typing on her computer.

Abigail is a detective for violent crime who investigates every violent crime except homicide. Rape very much included. Abigail gets invested into her cases because she herself is a rape survivor. She leaves no stone unturned and is enormously successful with securing convictions of those she arrests. I cannot believe how easily she is letting that go.

"Don't you have a serial killer to find?" she asks.

"He's already dead. This is more to vindicate the men wrongfully convicted," I say, and she nods.

"Well, get to it. I'll see you at home later," she says. We exchange 'I love you', and a kiss. I take the stairs down one floor and walk in front of the elevator as Chase is leaving it.

"Anything with the survivor?" I ask because he just interviewed Vanessa Gray.

"Aimer followed his victims to establish pattern of life," he says, and we enter the homicide space together. Yvonne is dancing in place as she listens to music. Midge is looking over a group of folders on her desk.

"What's that?" I ask.

"Digital forensic report on the victims," Midge says, then turns a page. "Surprised they got so much considering how long ago this was."

"Anything good?"

"Oh yeah," Midge says, and points to a file on my desk. "I made copies of Aimer's report. He was cyber stalking all of them. Both the men and women. Two of them accepted a goddamn friend request on Facebook."

"What has she been up to?" I ask, pointing to Yvonne.

"She," Yvonne says, removing her air pods. "Can hear you when the song changes."

"Anything new?" Chase asks.

"Remember how Aimer took a swing at Silverlake in court?" Yvonne asks. "What do you think Silverlake did that pissed him off that much?"

"My money is he framed his son, or thought he did," Midge replies, closing a folder and grabbing the next one. "You guys said he was a douche nozzle. Is framing him outside of the realm of possibility?"

"If Lance didn't kill his fiancé, who did?" I ask, and everyone looks at me. "Assuming Aimer is correct in his belief Silverlake, or someone else framed his son. Who killed her?"

"That is the question I have been trying to answer," Yvonne says, and the room turns to her. "Aimer was interviewed by Silverlake, so we have those notes. Aimer suggested Silverlake investigate a man named Jonah Maxwell."

"Maxwell?" I ask. Why does that sound familiar? "Any relation to the Mayor Oliver Maxwell?"

"His nephew," Yvonne says. "Jonah was Stella Archer's ex-boyfriend."

"Record?"

"Drunk and disorderly. Three DUIs. One assault charge. Possession of a controlled substance," Yvonne rattles off from the top of her head. "Family connections guaranteed community service at his uncle's charity."

"Fucking rich kids," Midge says. Chase whistles while looking away, because in a different life, that could have been him.

"Anything to that claim?" I ask.

"That Jonah Maxwell killed her?" Yvonne asks, and I nod. "He acknowledged the fact he was in an argument with her the night before. His alibi is shaky, claimed he was out partying with his friend who corroborated. However, that friend had receipts putting him, not even close to that club."

"Any lying to police charges?" Chase asks.

"Maxwell was the Deputy DA, you tell me."

"Fucking rich kids," Midge says.

"That's not a shaky alibi, that's the absence of one," Chase says in frustration. "Where is Jonah now?"

"Missing," Yvonne says.

"Since when?" Chase asks.

"January, twenty-eleven," Yvonne says, and the room comes to the same conclusion. Aimer killed him first. "Missing Person investigation was mostly conducted by the FBI because they believe of the possibility of a ransom. No call ever came."

"Did you request the case file?" I ask, Yvonne nodding. "Timeline?"

"We should have it on digital within the next hour," Yvonne says, then extends me a file. "This is what local police had."

Jonah Maxwell, nephew of the Mayor, and resident entitled shithead. Disappeared when he went on an ice fishing trip in January 2011. Pictures in his file from his social media show him as a sports hunter and fisherman. Dropped out of Brown his freshman year, because not even the family had enough money to keep him enrolled. His uncle tried shielding him by giving him a job on his campaign for District Attorney. He could not even send out mailers without getting into trouble.

"What a piece of work," I say. I get to the part of the file with photos taken of his truck. The interior was covered with his blood, with hard impact spatter on the steering wheel. Like his face was repeatedly slammed into it. Not enough for the attack to be fatal. More like it was meant to be disorientating. Something about it does not make sense though.

"You see what I see?" Yvonne asks.

"This looks staged," I say, and she smiles. "The assumption is his face was slammed against the steering wheel. This much blood, suggests several hits. There is blood on the passenger window, but not on the driver window. That means the window was either rolled down, or the door was open, in twenty-degree weather."

"Where was the truck found?" Chase asks.

"Near Lake Erie," I say. "A second set of tracks were found near the truck, but it dragged something behind it, likely a tree branch, until it reached a plowed road. Aimer follows him, kills them, then stages an attack?"

"Local police conducted a cursory investigation because Oliver Maxwell put pressure to get the FBI on it. They investigated it for a month, but never found anything beyond the truck," Yvonne says, sitting down and checking what I assume is a playlist. "Anyone up for a field trip?"

"I'm waiting for the forensic evidence from Jill. Midge?" I ask.

"Am I not too pregnant all of a sudden?" Midge asks.

"Want me to..."

"...just let me pee first," she says and starts walking toward the bathroom.

"I'm going with her?" Yvonne asks while pointing the door Midge exited through.

"Problem?"

"Nah, she's a peach," Yvonne says, and puts her air pods into her ears.

"Chase?" I ask, and he looks at me. "You got something to do?"

"How pissed do you think Chief will be if I talk to the mayor?" Chase asks.

"More if you don't let him know first," I say, and Chase nods and grabs a desk phone.

"Doll, it's me. Could you send a message up the vine that I need to interview Mayor Maxwell in relation to the reopening of his nephew's disappearance?" I ask, and he listens for a moment. "I understand." He hangs up. "It might take a few days to schedule."

"What are you doing in the meantime?" I ask. Chase pulls out his phone and checks the time. "Lunch?"

"Yeah, but before you do, call this guy up," he says and hands me a card. "Jason Boatman and Eric Woolworth are sharing a lawyer. Let him know what we've found and hand off anything you legally can. Let's start getting that ball rolling."

"You got it."

-

-Midge Appletree-

The Fed and I start driving in her car, and I let her know when I need to use the bathroom, we are stopping at the next available location. She understands that perfectly and guarantees all my bathroom needs will be met. She plugs her phone into the car and selects a playlist. A few second later, Michael Jackson starts playing.

"Didn't we culturally mute him?" I ask.

"You can never mute the King," she says, and starts bobbing her head.

"Art vs artist kind of thing?" I ask.

"Jackson is innocent," she says, and I am flabbergasted. An FBI agent just said that. "I have never seen a single piece of compelling evidence."

"The maid saw some shit."

"You mean the maid who lied under oath, committed perjury on more than one occasion, was selling stories to tabloids, and was coached on her accusations by a guy Jackson sued for libel, and won?" the Fed asks. She has rehearsed that a few times. "What was her name?"

"Huh?"

"The name of the maid? If you are willing to lynch a man's reputation on the testimony of someone, you sure as shit better know that person's name," the Fed says. She is a super fan. A highly researched fan at that. "If you want to know why I think he's innocent, we got two and half hours."

"Let's just go," I say.

"Do you know if you're having a boy or girl yet?" she asks. I suppose if she is willing to give a normal conversation a try, I can cooperate.

"My baby daddy knows, but I have sworn him to secrecy," I say, and she smiles a little. "Donor. Lesbian."

"Figured as much. But you never referred to him as a donor. He's your friend, maybe even more than that," she says, not asks. Profiler.

"Don't profile me," I say, and she giggles.

"Can't help it," she says and looks forward. "I have two."

"Huh?"

"I have two sons, eight and five. I understand trying to work while being pregnant. Whatever you need, I'm here for you," she says, and I did not see that coming. She does not wear a ring, and she noticed I looked. "Not married, but I'm with the father. We just never felt the need. Like I said, whatever you need."

"Thanks," I say, then leans against the window. It is bugging me too much now. "How did you profile me as a lesbian?"

"I profiled more than just a lesbian," she says.

"How?"

"If you looked at your male colleagues the way you looked at me, I would assume you were having sex with them," she says. I cannot help where my eyes go sometimes. To put it in simple terms, she is hot. "The hair, the style, that's all garnish."

"You said you profiled more on me?" I ask. A minute ago, I asked her not to profile me. Now I am curious how good she is.

"You can drop out of this conversation whenever you want," she says, and I nod. "You're a rape survivor." Damn. "Am I right?"

I hesitate, but I do confirm she is correct.

"You behave bigger than you are. You're needlessly confrontational, and I can tell you avoid physical contact whenever possible. Some women internalize. You externalize, you keep people away. You are however, in the midst of reopening yourself back up. Starting your family, being more open. Last year you wouldn't have admitted you were assaulted."

"Eighty percent," I say, and she looks at me. "I'm expanding my family. This will be my first, but the fourth overall."

"It's not an exact science."

We manage to talk the entire drive, and I only use a bathroom twice in three hours. Most of the surrounding area are one story houses on several acres of flat land with low vegetation. It does not look like much of it is for farming. Several businesses involved boating or fishing, and I know the lake is within ten miles as the crow flies. I grew up in a similar small-town community. I joined the Coast Guard because I was tired of people telling me to pray the gay away.

I called the country Sheriff's Office, and I was promised a deputy would meet us where Jonah's truck was found. We have the case file they compiled, so we brought that with us. Yvonne wants to walk around where it happened, with the simple explanation being that it helps her processes.

"It's August," I say as Yvonne pulls up behind the Sheriff's deputy SUV.

"And?"

"This happened in January in below freezing weather, fifteen years ago," I say as she stops the car. "We're not ice fishing today."

Yvonne exits the vehicle, and I follow her out a moment later. I watch a female deputy step out of the SUV and shake hands with Yvonne as I walk between the vehicles. I shake her hand, and she introduces herself as Peggy Coon. Peggy looks older than both of us with streaks of grey and a tired, wrinkled face. A small-town cop still doing it because she has nothing else to do.

"Detective Appletree," I say. The Deputy looks conflicted at my appearance. I look like a lesbian, but I am pregnant. Whatever thought she has about me she thankfully keeps it to herself.

"That's where I found it," Peggy says and starts walking to the spot while pointing to the right of the cars.

"You found it? You were on duty when this was called fifteen years ago?" I ask, and she states she was.

"Got the call at about eight in the morning about a loitering vehicle with the door open," Peggy says. "This one I remember more than others. You tend to remember when the FBI shows up."

"What was the state of the car?" Yvonne asks.

"Like it had been here a minute. The interior was frosted over, but I remember the blood. On the steering wheel, on the windshield, on the seat, it was everywhere. No body though. They never found one," Peggy explains.

"Tracks to or from?" Yvonne asks.

"Only the local who found it. We investigated him plenty, alibi checked out. Snow filled in the rest."

"What about the tree branch a second vehicle dragged?" I ask.

"I thought she was only talking feet. There are tracks of the truck turning into here, but the side road was brushed out by a second vehicle," she says, and Yvonne opens her back door and grabs the case file. "That the file?"

"Mmhmm," Yvonne says, and starts flipping through the photographs. "So, as we're facing this road, the truck is on the right, and the brush out is on the left. This vehicle turns onto the side road, then the main road, turning left, and ditches the branch sometime later. Ever find that branch?"