The Second Booth at Horseshoe Diner

"Like a Turkey baster?" Midge asks.

"That sounds absurd, but, possibly," I say, and Midge shakes her head in disgust. "Because Boatman had a previous, dismissed charge, and a DNA sample was taken that ultimately cleared him, he was on file. That sample should have been purged, but it wasn't. Prosecution never handed that information over. I'd say mistake one, but that was clearly not an accident.

"Next, Darcy Lane was killed. Eric Woolworth's blood was found on the rope used to strangle her, and his DNA was on file from military service. This is confusing because he had no injuries on his hands at the time of arrest." I show pictures of his hands. "In fact, he had no injuries at all. He was however, a frequent blood donor. I shit you not, guess where Fredrick Aimer volunteered?"

"A blood bank?" Chase asks, and I nod.

"At the processing center for one. The White Cell count on the blood was almost non-existent," I say, and everyone in the room but Midge is confused. "Midge."

"Donated blood is leuko-reduced to prevent rejection," she says, and the room is still confused. "The white cells are removed." Now the room is puzzled. "My wife is a nurse."

"Patty Visscher is killed. This time, a saliva covered toothpick is found at the scene. Forget that Aaron Pike did not fish, did not own anything related to fishing, and Patty was strangled with deep sea fishing line. Aaron was pressured into a guilty plea by a combination of inarticulate response to police, and the toothpick that did not match the brand he had in his home."

"Don't talk to police, ever," Midge says, and seems to look at William in particular.

"Helen Ryder. This one is just fucking weird. Almost like Aimer was getting fed up he wasn't getting caught. The prior murderers he seemed to leave these little clues to suggest it was a frame up. This time, it was readily apparent. He appears to have stolen a framed photo from Jeremy Heyward's house, one he knew was touched. Jeremy reported a break-in two weeks before the murder. He left, a framed photo, at the crime scene. He literally framed him."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Jennifer says, and we turn to her. "Sorry, but, what the fuck? This guy died in prison because of this bullshit."

"It gets worse. Tabitha Leatherman. Skin is found on the strip of leather used to kill her. The skin was a peeled callus. Problem was his hands did not have calluses; his feet did. They got him to plead guilty through picking apart his alibi. He was nervous because he was having an affair. They told his wife, and you can guess how that went."

"Never talk to police, ever," Midge repeats.

"Aren't you cop?" Queen asks.

"If you arrest me, you can talk to my lawyer sir," Midge says. "I know the tricks, so I know better than to fall for them."

"Lastly, Venessa Gray, maiden name Kobbler. My favorite gun lobbyist," I say, and I can physically feel the moans of the more liberal members of my audience. "Aimer didn't succeed and was killed in self-defense. Unfortunately, a lot of information died with him."

"I want one answer in particular," Lincoln says, and I direct my attention to him. "Did Silverlake frame Aimer's son? What does the evidence suggest?"

"I can't say who, but someone should be in jail," I say, and the room tenses up. "One of the key pieces of evidence in Lance Aimer's trial was the semen found in Stella Archer's vagina, and the autopsy supported the conclusion she was raped shortly before her death. The prosecution brought up the fact semen was found, two-hundred and eighty-seven times during the trial. Which is weird because it was never tested."

"What?" Chase asks, him visibly the most outraged, and I nod. "Has it been tested since?"

"I made sure that happened. No match of anyone in the system. That includes Lance Aimer." I say, and then continue. "Stella was found at the home they shared, so the fingerprints, skin, and hair would all be incidental evidence. It was allowed in as relevant."

"Unfucking believable," Chase says.

"Blood was found, but on a shirt in the laundry hamper. Lance had severe allergies, and often suffered nosebleeds related to that. The blood on the shirt was mixed with nasal mucus," I say, and Chase would flip a table if he was near one.

"Saliva?" Chase asks, now standing and gripping he back of the chair. I can tell he is not the only one who is pissed. This is their precinct's reputation being further tarnished. That can be repaired over time, but sometimes you need to make a mess to start cleaning properly.

"This was found on the top of her ear..." I say, gripping the top of mine with my thumb and index finger. "...during the second autopsy," I say, and Chase already has a feeling what I am about to say. "It was requested by Silverlake. His whereabouts are highly suspect. When Lance came into the station to give a sample of his DNA via a cheek swap, Silverlake was present. They took three samples. Records show Silverlake entered the autopsy lab after collection, and hours before requesting the second autopsy. One of those swaps, was missing."

Chase leaves the room, and everyone is uncomfortable. This entire thing, was started by a dirty cop. Maybe even a dirty DA.

"Oliver Maxwell was the prosecutor for that case," I say.

"No fucking wonder he declined interview!" Chase shouts from the other room.

"Conflict of interest? Wasn't his nephew the ex-boyfriend?" Midge asks.

"Silverlake interviewed him and his friend to corroborate an alibi. They did not even check out, but Silverlake dismissed him, then didn't turn over that name in his interview notes." I ask.

"Maxwell, whether or not his nephew was guilty, doesn't want the name Maxwell next to murder suspect," Lincoln explains, and I concur. "What does Silverlake get from that?"

"The sudden closure of an active investigation on him," Jennifer says, and we all look at the IA officer, so we know what she is saying is likely true.

"Now what?" Midge asks.

"What do you mean?" Jennifer asks.

"What I mean is, what the hell do we do with this? Arrest the mayor for prosecutorial misconduct twenty years after the fact for a crime we can't even prove he did intentionally? Arrest Silverlake for something well beyond any statute of limitation?"

No one is sure what to do. Or even what we can do.

"For now, we follow protocol. The protocol is for investigations into the personnel at the DA to go to the Attorney General's Office," Lincoln says, and everyone slowly accepts that is all they can do. "All press is done through the Media Liaison Office; do you all understand?" A not so subtle warning not to leak this to the press. "I want everyone to acknowledge."

"Yes sir," the entire room says.

"Chase?"

"Yes sir," Chase replies from the room he is still brooding in.

"This stays in this room for now. Jill?"

"You know me Link, I ain't touching that shit," I say and look at Frankie, who nods to me.

"For now, let me just say, holy shit," Lincoln says, and the room laughs a little. "Tremendous work. The Chief has said one of his top priorities is uprooting the old corrupt rot from this institution. I see no better example of his intent, than what has just been done. The fact we can't do anything to them, is bitter, I understand." I feel that was directed at Chase who just reappeared at the doorway. "But don't forget, two innocent men aren't in prison anymore. That's because of the drive, passion, and dedication to service of the people in this room."

"Link, can you ever just say good job?" I ask, and the room laughs.

"Good job. I will see you all tomorrow," Lincoln says, and the room departs in a neat line out of the door.

"Midge, got a minute?" I ask as she tries to waddle out. Probably to the bathroom.

"I gotta pee, is it important?" she asks.

"Not really, but I'll be fast. Jesse wants to come by today. We've both been busy, and I couldn't catch you to ask earlier this week," I say.

"Okay? What for?" she asks.

"To apologize to you, and to introduce me to...Wendy?" I ask, hoping I did not forget her name.

"I'll reward the effort," she says. "But be honest. Is someone making him do it?"

"No, he actually decided it on his own," I say, and she looks genuinely impressed.

"Okay. I'll help you reinforce that," she says, and says she will send me a text when she is leaving work.

-

Monday - August 17, 2026

-Chase Kramner-

The Kramner family lawyer Sebastian Alvarez meets me at the law offices of Calvin & Willard. Located on the fourteenth floor of an executive building, the moment you step off the elevator you see the mounted plaque. To the left are restrooms, and to the right is a glass door leading to reception. After the glass door is a receptionist who stands up to greet anyone who enters but does not lower her wireless headset.

"Welcome to Calvin and Willard. Do you have an appointment?" the woman asks pleasantly.

"Yes. My client is here for a deposition with Ms. Calvin," Sebastian says, and the woman gives a small nod and presses a button on her phone.

"Ma'am, your one p.m. is here...I'll send them in. Down the hall, last door on the right."

"Thank you very much," Sebastian says, and gestures for me to lead the way. I adjust the gun on my hip and begin walking.

"Sir, there are no guns allowed in this building," the receptionist says.

"My client is an on-duty police detective," Sebastian says, but I keep walking unfazed.

"My apologies," she says, and returns to her seat.

To my left is a twenty-chair conference table in a glass room that is currently unoccupied. To my right are several private offices. The last door on the right is another conference room, only with a smaller table with four chairs. Across the hall is a room labeled records.

The last room is empty when we sit down, but we are ten minutes early. Sebastian opens his leather carrying bag and pulls out a legal pad. He fishes out a mechanical pencil from his breast pocket.

"Thanks for flying out," I say, and he nods.

"I'm usually working for your brother," he says. "Mostly for libel suits. When you enter politics, it happens."

Sebastian Alvarez has dark skin tone from his Brazilian heritage. Short hair, basically a buzz cut. Thin mustache with a pointed goatee. His suit suggests not many can afford him. His travel bag and back to school supplies suggests he does a lot of pro-bono.

"Your dad talks about you a lot," he says, and I huff into a laugh. "He regrets that he pushed you too hard. Proud that you did something positive with that energy."

"Did he give you a script before you left?" I ask, and he shakes his head.

"Your parents and I went to law school together," he says, and I look at him. "You've actually met me before. You were probably ten the last time we spoke."

"Sorry," I say, genuinely not remembering him.

"I apologize for the delay," we both hear, and turn to see a beautiful woman enter the room. Not beautiful in a classy sense. Beautiful like an expensive prostitute. "Zillah Calvin. You can call me Zillah."

"We're early," Sebastian says, shaking her hand first. "Sebastian. I'll be representing Detective Kramner."

"Alvarez?" she asks, and Sebastian confirms. "Like Alvarez and Thompson?"

"Yes," he says.

"Don't you have like a two hundred-thousand-dollar retainer?" Zillah asks. She asked that in way to suggest he was out of my price range. For a cop he normally would be. She likely has not done her homework on my family.

"I believe you have a one hundred and fifty," Sebastian says, and Zillah smiles. "Now that we have finished measuring our dicks, can we proceed."

"Have you ever been deposed?" Zillah asks me.

"I have."

"Let's just get into it then. Do you mind if I film it?" she asks.

"You did not request that during the correspondence for this meeting. My client refuses to be filmed," Sebastian says, and Zillah sighs. "Have you ever deposed someone?"

"Likely more than you."

"Then you should have asked for it to be filmed if that's what you wanted," Sebastian says, and Zillah smirks. She likes to start by making people nervous. Something tells me this usually does not backfire on her. Too many people do not know they can bring a lawyer to a deposition.

"Very well. May I use an audio recording?" she asks.

"You may, and I want a copy before I leave. Not next week, today," Sebastian says, and she says that is reasonable.

Zillah removes the tape recorder from her pocket and places it on the table between us. Sebastian sits next to me while Zillah licks her finger to flip pages in her notebook.

"Let's begin. Is your name Chase Kramner?"

"Yes."

"Are you a police detective?"

"Yes."

"Were you in a romantic relationship with Marlene Black from twenty-twenty, to twenty-five?"

"Yes."

"Who ended the relationship?"

"Marlene did."

Zillah takes a moment to write notes, then looks back up.

"What was your involvement in the murder of Amanda Hopkins?"

"My client refuses to answer that question as asked," Sebastian says, and Zillah scratches something out. "Care to rephrase?"

"Were you the lead investigator for the death of Amanda Hopkins?"

"Yes," I reply, and she writes some notes. She could be doing chicken scratches for all I know.

"Is it true you found a picture, which allegedly shows my client in a vehicle in Indiana, shortly before the murder of Amanda Hopkins?" she asks.

"Yes."

"Where did you find it?"

"At the home of the victim's mother," I reply.

"Her name?"

"Francine Hopkins."

"Where does she live?"

"Ladysmith, Wisconsin," I reply.

"Why were you there?"

"Francine invited me to attend the memorial for her daughter Amanda. She had arrayed a collage of pictures in her memory. The incriminating photograph was amongst them," I explain, and Zillah writes for a moment.

"Is this that picture?" she says, and slides over the picture to me. Discovery has already begun it seems. I look at Sebastian who nods to me.

"Yes."

"Could you describe it?"

"It's winter. The victim Amanda Hopkins is building a snowman with a young boy. Coal is already on the middle level. A top hat is on the boy's head. In the background of the photo is the parking lot of the park. The accused is sitting in a parked orange Ford Mustang."

"Is this your opinion?" she asks. She is trying to make me sound like I doubt the credibility of my own future testimony.

"An educated guess," I say.

Zillah pulls the picture back and writes some. I notice immediately she does not ask about who the boy is. Or ask me about the screen shots of the video of her license plate. She is conveniently leaving that out, and looking for court fodder.

"Did you recuse yourself from the Amanda Hopkins case?" she asks.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I discovered my ex-girlfriend was a suspect."

"When did you find the photograph I just showed you?" she asks.

"In May of this year. I do not recall the exact date."

"Could you find the letter her mother sent you?"

"I likely still have it. I can find the exact date."

"Okay," she says and writes some. She really maximizes these silent moments. Her pen scratches are loud and exaggerated. "When did you turn over the picture to authorities?"

"About a week later," I say.

"To whom?"

"Assistant DA Daniel Huddleston."

"Why not police?" she asks.

"I wanted to confer with legal to see if this evidence was pursuable. I handed off the picture, and I was not involved with the case," I say, and she writes some notes. Quieter this time, so I think the notes are real.

I answer an hours' worth of questions before we all shake hands and politely leave. Zillah is masterful at loaded questions, linguistical traps, leading questions, and body language. Everything she did was designed to make me as uncomfortable as possible. The room was hot, so I was sweating in my suit while she was comfortable in a skirt. I can imagine what that would have looked like on film. Those long pauses to write were to give me enough time to second guess my answers.

"You did good," Sebastian reassures me on the elevator ride down. "I heard she was nasty."

"Now what?" I ask.

"I'm in touch with the DA, so I'll know when you testify. I need to get back to Washington. If you need me before that, just let me know," he says, and I say I will.

"How long have you known my dad?" I ask.

"Forty years, give or take," he says. "Your mother too."

We leave the elevator and begin walking out of the building. From the sidewalk we walk across the street to the parking garage.

"I can't get a straight answer out of my dad. What was wrong with my mom?" I ask, and he sighs.

"It's probably not my place to tell you," he says, and I am instantly frustrated. Sebastian sees it, and looks down, debating whether to tell me. "Your mom was schizophrenic."

"When did they know?" I ask.

"She was likely late onset, but before that I remember her having chronic depression. Highs and lows, but she managed it pretty good for years," Sebastian explains as we reach our cars which we parked next to each other.

"Do you know why?" I ask, and I can see on his face I do not have to fully ask the question.

"Your mom could get violent when she'd transition. We never knew what triggered it, or if there even was one. She hurt your sister once. Bad," he says, and I swallow hard. "She tried drowning her in the pool when she was twelve."

"Fuck," I say, and lean against the car.

"Your father had no choice but to institutionalize her. She went through treatment for a few months, and they released her. A year later, Nikki is calling me because she's locked you and herself in your father's office. When we got there, she had destroyed half the house, and was still trying to break the door down while clutching a kitchen knife.

"She went back in, went through treatment, was released again. She asked me to help her with her will, while she was still herself. That should have been a red flag to me, but with everything she had just gone through..." he says, and I nod to him. He rationalized she was doing it in case something happened during an episode. "She overdosed her meds soon after. She left me a note too. She didn't trust herself. Not after what she did to Nikki and almost did to you."

In the end, she kind of did kill herself because of me. At least I understand it now. Nicole suffered too, and I need to talk to her. I have worked the courage to reconnect with everyone else. Nicole is the last person I need to make peace with.

"Thank you," I say to Sebastian, and he departs. I remain in the garage, leaning against my car for at least five minutes. After I take my time to absorb it, I go back to work.

-

Tuesday - August 18, 2026

-Jennifer Ito-

Chase and I meet for lunch at a diner I have been coming to for years. I take the second booth from the door and wait for him to arrive. When he does I wave him down. Chase sits across from me, and then leans into the seat to decompress.

Yesterday, Chase told me what he learned about his mother. That is some rough shit. News like that, was stacked on top of a case we cannot prosecute because it was too long ago. He takes everything personally, so I know this is eating him alive.

"How are you holding up?" I ask, touching his foot with mine.

"I'm just tired," he replies.

"I get that," I say, and look at the menu. "What are you having?"

"I drive by this place at least twice a week," Chase says. "Never been."

"It's good. I always get breakfast. I'm pretty basic," I say, and he chuckles.

"That does sound awesome actually," he says, and when our server arrives, we both order coffee. He tries to read the menu but slaps it down. "Fucking Silverlake."