The Second Booth at Horseshoe Diner

"Nope. If he was smart, he took it with him. He also turned out from this road wide to scrub as much as he could," Peggy says.

"What are you thinking?" I ask.

"Which vehicle got here first?" Yvonne asks, and we all look at each other. "I don't see how this is a spur of the moment. Beat someone's face into a steering wheel, throw them in your vehicle and drive away with a tree on your bumper?"

"The killer, or kidnapper, or whatever, stages the vehicle here? How does he know he's pulling off the road? Is he meeting him?" I ask, and Yvonne's chin rocks to the side as she thinks. "Any of his texts in there?"

"I think so," Yvonne says and starts reading the file. "You found the truck on the sixteenth?"

"That's right. Old man who lived down the street found it on his way to church. He had an alibi, like I said," Peggy says.

"His correspondence makes no mention of any meeting. Not even to an unlisted number if he was picking up something illegal. What direction was the truck facing? Away or toward the road?"

"Away. Like it pulled in and stopped. Wrong side too," Peggy replies.

"It just looks, staged," Yvonne says, looking at the pictures of the blood in the cab. "There is blood on the passenger window, which means the person striking him was not sitting in the passenger seat, blocking that blood spray. Which means this attack occurred on the driver's side. The driver side that is facing the tree line, on a truck where the window is up to my shoulder," Yvonne says, and shows off how much taller than us she is.

"Door is open, then they have to jump on the step to even get in reach, then bash is head with one hand already holding them upright?" I ask. That does not make any sense. I do not care how strong you are, no one is smashing someone's head like that without that person defending themselves. "Which direction did they turn onto the main road?"

"Left."

"So, away from the lake?" I ask, and Peggy nods.

"You got a theory?" Yvonne asks.

"Did he say where he was going to be fishing?" I ask, and Yvonne reads for a moment.

"Last location pinned on his GPS was a lakefront Hotel," she replies, then starts searching it on her phone. "One-star piece of shit, but good enough for a weekend of ice fishing and blow."

"I remember searching his room. His stuff was still there, including the illegal drugs which he made no effort to hide. A camera overlooking the parking lot saw the truck leaving the parking lot on the morning of the fifteenth. He never came back," Peggy says, and I think.

"What was in the back of his truck when he left?" I ask, and Yvonne looks to see if still images were in the folder.

"Hard to tell, but it looks like fishing equipment. I see what looks like a rod, and maybe one of those small shelters. Hard to tell," Yvonne summarizes.

"Any of that equipment still there when the truck was found?" I ask, and Yvonne says no. "Thinking what I'm thinking?"

"He was attacked on the ice and thrown in the lake?" Yvonne asks, and I nod. "I think I do."

"What about the blood?" Peggy asks. That certainly does put a damper on the theory. Where does the blood come in?

"Not sure. How do you get onto the ice?" I ask.

"Never fished walleyes?" Peggy asks, and I shake my head. I was born in a small-town, but I did not belong in one. I love the city, were people are rude and honest instead of pretending to be polite.

"Can't say I have," I say.

"My husband is all about fishing. Took our sons last winter. He's prepping the airboat and counting the days," Yvonne says. Married my ass, but Peggy is instantly more friendly. Profiled her in no time.

"Most folks take an airboat."

"Did he rent one?" I ask.

"Not that I can tell," Yvonne says, reading his last purchases. "Wait, hold up. He was meeting someone, just not here."

"Where?"

"At a boat ramp at a park," Yvonne says, and keeps reading. "Who is Bobby Mercer?"

"We never found out. The number that contact is associated with was a temporary phone," Peggy says. "We concluded it was an alias of a drug dealer or something. Having to do with the drugs we found in his hotel room. We never got to dig in before the FBI showed up."

"Bobby Mercer," I say aloud and type it into my phone and wait for the results to populate. "I don't think he's a baseball player who died in two-thousand eight. Different spelling." I do an image search, and my screen is flooded with pictures of the actor Mark Wahlberg from the film Four Brothers. "Mother fucker."

"Pardon?" Peggy asks.

"Bobby Mercer is a character in a movie," I say and show them my phone.

"You're saying, Marky Mark killed him?" Peggy asks sarcastically.

"No, but I'm saying, the killer used an alias from a movie, that ends with that character dumping a body in a frozen lake."

"Little on the nose, but everything with Aimer is," Yvonne says.

"Aimer?" Peggy asks.

"Our suspect for the disappearance," Yvonne replies.

"Aimer befriends him under an alias, and because he's done his homework..." I start, and as I hoped she would, Yvonne continues.

"...he knows Jonah is a fisherman and invites him on a fishing trip," Yvonne says.

"That's great that you two have theories and all, but you were asking which truck got here first. Assuming he killed him at the ice, and Mercer, or Aimer, whatever, is the one who brought the boat because one wasn't rented, did he drive both vehicles here after the lake? Because the only vehicle we can put somewhere else is the truck, a little less than twenty-four hours beforehand."

"Accomplice?" I ask, and Yvonne reads the messages. "Anything?"

"Nothing," Yvonne says and closes the folder. "We can look more into Aimer, see if he has traceable purchases around here shortly before or around the same time. I think we're done here."

"Really?" I ask, and she nods. "You drove us all the way out here to just look at this spot?"

"It helps..."

...your process," I say and walk to the car. "Let's go, I need to piss."

"Thank you for your time Deputy," Yvonne says and climbs into her car as I am putting my seat belt on. After a bathroom break at a gas station, we drive back onto the highway and start our journey back.

-

Thursday - August 13, 2026

-Chase Kramner-

When people think of a court room, they think the O.J. Simpson Trial. A huge court with twenty rows of seats for the audience and press. The Judge sitting high on their bench with a heavy gavel. Next to the him is the witness stand. To the right is the jury, cordoned off by a banister of polished wood with two rows of six chairs, their notepads awaiting their arrival. Two large tables are in front of the judge for the defense and prosecution. The stenographer typing is the loudest sound in the room.

The key elements are universal, but the scale is different. I am sitting in the second of neatly aligned chairs that stack onto each other when the room is vacuumed. There is no prosecutor present. Sitting at the table are two defense attorneys who are waiting for their clients to arrive. The Judge hands over the paperwork from the last court visitor to a well-dressed woman. I hear the door behind me shut as spectators for the previous case leave.

"Are your clients ready?" the Judge asks, and the lawyer stands to confirm that they are ready to proceed. The bailiff opens the door, and Jason Boatman along with Eric Woolworth step into court in ill-fitting suits. Jason sees me, and I give him a little nod in recognition. The two-stand next to their lawyer, and I hear the door open behind me. A woman and a girl who looks late teens walks in. Eric seems to recognize them. His lawyer grabs his shoulder to stop him from moving toward then. I know his wife did not leave him, because she was his alibi for the murder. No one is here for Jason though.

"I do not wish to take any more of your time. We have taken too much of it. What you two have gone through, I cannot put into words proper enough to express my apology for the failures of the criminal justice system. I will say it anyway. I am sorry," the Judge says, and they both say thank you. Eric is noticeably shaking. They went into this room thinking this was a pipedream like every appeal before. Now the judge was apologizing. His body was reacting to the idea this might be real.

"Bailiff, please remove their constraints," the Judge says, and Eric's wife starts crying. "At this time, the defendant's motion to vacate the judgement of conviction, is granted. You are free to leave."

Eric collapses onto the table with tears, and his family climbs the rail to embrace him. Jason hugs his lawyer, and pats Eric on the back. Eric jumps to his feet and hugs Jason as well. Jason leaves him with his family and walks to me. He does not say anything, and only offers me a handshake. I stand up and grip his hand. His nod is a thank you, and he leaves a free man.

I watch the family reunite for a moment, before quietly leaving the court room. I am intercepted in hallway before I get to the elevator.

"Detective Kramner, Summer Pillsbury. I've been trying to reach you," she says to me as I press the button to go down. Appears roughly my age. She is chubby with puffy red cheeks. What an unfortunate last name, because I want to poke her belly and hear what noise she makes. Jeans and a suit jacket with tennis shoes. Strawberry blonde with her face framed by rectangular bangs.

"Media liaison office," I say, tucking my hands into my pockets.

"Is it true you found three other related cases to Boatman and Woolworth?" she asks, and I want to stop, but do not. We have not released anything, that I know of. Regardless, I do not engage media. "No comment?"

"Have a nice day," I reply then board the elevator. I cannot hit the close button fast enough to stop her.

"You gotta give me something," she says.

"No, I don't," I say bluntly.

"You look good. Diligent police officer going against the grain and reversing a judgement of a corrupt justice system to save the lives of two innocent men. Story writes itself."

"If it writes itself," I say as the door opens on the first floor. "Media liaison."

On the first floor I make my way back toward security. Near the detectors, I hear my name again and turn around. Walking toward me is Daniel Huddleston, closely followed by another prosecutor, though last time I saw her in an official capacity she was a public defender.

"How's the case?" I ask.

"Small update. The judge ruled the evidence regarding the charge of stalking, can be submitted because it is relevant to the other charges. They tried arguing because it crossed state lines, we couldn't prosecute it," Daniel explains, and I sigh. "Expect a deposition within the week."

"Who'd be deposing me?" I ask.

"Most likely, Zillah Calvin," the other prosecutor says and shakes my hand. "Billie, we've met."

"Though I think last time you were defending a drug dealer," I say.

"No, last time you were damn near black out drunk at detective Kaiser's promotion party. Your girlfriend and I were stopping you and my husband from practicing choke holds on the floor of the bar."

"You're Nathan's wife?" I ask, and nods in a manner suggesting she is annoyed I did not know my own friend's wife. "Sorry, I should probably know that."

"Probably," she says.

"Anyway. Should I get a lawyer on retainer?" I ask.

"I'd recommend it. Zillah is an aggressive attorney, don't let her appearance convince you otherwise," Daniel warns, and I try to take a mental note on what lawyers I know. I think I might call dad and borrow the family attorney. I hate that I am becoming that guy.

"Thanks for the heads up," I say, and the conversation is over, but we awkwardly start walking in the same direction.

-

Jenn and I place our guns and badges on the kitchen counter and relax on the couch, her stretching out on her side with her head in my lap. Atticus sits above us on the backrest. We are streaming a show on Netflix. Are we dating now? Our first night together she told me not to overthink it. In the last week she has spent the night at my apartment more often than at her own. I think about what Venessa Gray said about putting labels on it. Are we even on the same page?

"Jenn," I say, picking up the remote and pausing the show. She made me stop calling her Jennifer early this week.

"What's up?" she asks, rolling to her back and looking straight up at me.

"You told me not to overthink it before. Should I still not be overthinking this?" I ask, and she tilts her head in curiosity. "Is this casual?"

"What do you want it to be?" she asks.

I know remarkably little about Jenn considering everything we have done. I do not even know how old she is. Does she have children? Has she ever been married? What does she want out of a relationship? Is she even interested in a relationship? Right now, all I know is that she cries when she orgasms.

"I don't know," I say, and she crawls off my lap to sit upright.

"Yeah, you do," she says, and I prepare myself for disappointment.

"It just seems like everyone is having a baby, except for me," I say, and she laughs. "Literally half of homicide is having a baby."

"I noticed," she says with a giggle.

"Do you have..."

"...kids, no. I do have an ex-husband though. You?"

"I don't have an ex-husband," I say, and she slaps my arm. "Never married."

"See, we're learning about each other. I wouldn't bother with this if I only wanted something shallow," Jenn says, and I slowly smile. "I'm not saying tomorrow. Let's say, six months, a year. What do you want out of a relationship?"

I am worried this will scare her. This is not the kind of things you usually bring up this early in a relationship. Jenn is open to the discussion. Maybe lack of communication ruined her marriage, so she is getting ahead of it.

"I want a kid," I say, and I cannot believe I did. Lauren and I talked about it, and that disappointment still hurts.

"Does it matter with who?" she asks, and I stammer. "Do you want a kid, or do you want a family?" No one has ever asked me that. "What is your family like?"

"My family?" I ask, and she nods. "We were normal, until my mom died."

"I'm sorry," she says, and I look away. "How?"

"She committed suicide when I was eight," I say, and she puts her hand on my elbow, rubbing my arm with her thumb. "In hindsight, as an adult, it isn't that surprising. She was kind of manic. I think she was bi-polar, but I've never gotten a straight answer out of my dad. I just remember these insane high moments of energy where she'd play for hours, or zoom through books and draw, even though she wasn't good.

"I also remember the lows. She'd lock herself in her room for days at a time. She'd just start screaming at my sister. I think she did something to Nicole, that changed her for the worst. Something bad, even in that environment. I remember when I was seven, I was in the middle of one of her downswings. She could transition in a snap..." I say, physically snapping. "...and I don't even remember what I did. I don't remember what she did. I just remember Nicole grabbing me and locking us in dad's office, and mom trying to ram the door down. My mom was sick, but when she was lucid, it almost made up for it. The kind of person who personalized suicide notes.

"She knew I was the kind of person who would blame myself. And I did. I actually believed, me, an eight-year-old, was the reason she killed herself. Maybe she did it, at least partly, because she was scared of herself. As a kid, I have no idea what my mom was going to do if she broke the door down. As an adult, I have a better idea. She was scared she would hurt us."

"Are you and your sister close?" she asks.

"I haven't spoken to her in nearly ten years," I say, and she is taken aback. As I explained it to her, I realized Nicole most likely saved my life. Mom hurt her in a way I will probably never understand. Nicole was fourteen, so she was better able to comprehend what was happening. What does that do to someone? After mom died, Nicole became a bully. That is all I remembered about her. "Mom changed her into someone horrible."

"I'm surprised you want a family," Jenn says, and I laugh. "I would think you'd be allergic to the concept.

"What about you?"

"My mom was a Fighter Pilot in the Marines, and my dad was a Japanese Naval Officer. Usually it is the white men who leave with the Asian women, but apparently my dad was K-Pop hot back in the day," she says, and I chuckle a little. She seems surprised I know what K-Pop means. "I'm the youngest of five, and the only one of my siblings to be born in the United States. My parents retired about two years ago. They went back to Japan.

"I have eleven nieces and nephews," she says, and I share that I have two nephews from Quintin. "My oldest niece is only seven years younger than me, and she has two kids. Every time I talk with my parents, they're asking when am I having kids."

"What do you tell them?" I ask.

"I ignore the question," she says with a giggle. "Ask me in six months."

"What?" I ask.

"I want a family too. I need more than just both of us wanting the same general thing. Six months, if we're still going, we'll have a serious conversation."

"Six months huh?" I ask, and I can sense her becoming frisky. The curl of her lips are sharper, her brow wrinkles, and she starts touching my body with her inner finger between the first and second knuckle. My sense is correct, and she straddles me a moment later. I receive a sensual kiss accompanied by her ready-for-anything smile.

"In six months, I will have your baby," she says, and I am almost instantly hard. "That turn you on a little bit?"

"You seem to be getting there," I tease.

"Why don't we go to the bedroom and practice," she suggests. She jumps off me so fast it hurts my nuts a little, but I grin and bear it to run after her.

-

Friday - August 14, 2026

-Jill Whitaker-

I requested the homicide team and Chase come to the lab so I can lay out the complete analysis on the evidence we pulled from storage. Jennifer Ito arrived as well, seeing how she will be one of the new Lieutenants taking over Homicide. The Lieutenant of Violent Crime Bryan Whitmore is also present, him taking over the other billet. Lincoln is here, seeing how this case leaked to the press somehow, and I think it was likely the defense attorney who did.

The group is gathered in the labs break room; the only space I have that can accommodate this audience.

"I would first like to apologize for how long this took. I know I said a day, and that was several days ago, but I assure you, it was worth it," I say, the room gesturing for me to get on with it. It also took so long because I wanted Frankie to brief this, and I practiced with her for four hours. She could not stop trembling when the audience was just me. Her first court appearance is going to be a steep learning curve.

"BLUF, bottom line up front, is that the evidence collection of these cases was extremely sloppy, lazy, and convenient. I know it's going to be a headache, but we also have a huge PR problem that could be alleviated by reevaluating the work conducted by the forensic team. This forensic lab is only ten years old. Prior to that, we outsourced analysis. Hell, we still outsource a large amount of it."

"Starting with the Sailor murder, then proceeding in chronological order, what mistakes were made?" Lincoln asks, and I look at Frankie who hits the spacebar of the computer. We have an HDMI cable connecting to the television to show the Power Point presentation I made.

"Jason's Boatman's semen was stolen from a sperm back and placed inside of Alexandra Sailor's vagina. Likely by a cylindrical object."