Border, KS

The movie went well, with a small amount of amusing heckling from Siobhan at the dumber scenes of the major active movie sequel. There had been more people there, girls and boys, and it had been fun. They had parted ways at the theater with many of them, until it was Lacey, Monica, Scotty, and Siobhan and Annie.

“You can just drop us off here, Monica.” Siobhan said as they passed by the brick rows of riverfront shops. She and Annie were growing increasingly comfortable with the layout of the city, and recognized easily how close they were to the ‘fake’ psychic shop.

“Your dad’s ex-military?” Monica asked. “And a cop, right?”

“Yes…” Siobhan answered as she reached for her seat belt release.

“Ten sit your ass down.” Monica said simply as she continued to drive along. The shops continued to pass at sedate pace of the shopping area’s low speed limit, the street lights hazily scattering the darkness for the people enjoying their evening.

“But…” Siobhan started, only for Monica to shake her head.

“Unless your but is ‘I made up him being a soldier and a cop’, it won’t help.” Monica said wryly.

“We need to go back to the psychic shop, Monica.” Antigone sighed, pulling the folded note out of her purse. She handed it up front, and Lacey unfolded it. Reading the note, she paled and looked to Monica. “Stop the van, Mon.” She said quietly. Monica blinked at her friend but pulled the car down a dark alley and put it in to park. They were a couple of blocks from the shop as the headlights went off, and Monica reached out to take the note. She didn’t pale, but her mouth tightened in anger.

“That creepy son of a—” Monica grumbled. “Yeah, we’re gonna go back, to whip his ass something good.” Siobhan, startled, laughed and Antigone smiled.

“We just want to see if he’s got like…photos of the High School, or a creeper van. We’re not forming a posse.” Annie explained.

“Yet.” Siobhan added, helpfully. “Cause yeah, that’s freaky.”

Lacey and Monica shared a look, one of great silent communication, and it made Siobhan wonder how long they had known each other. They held each other’s gazes for a few heartbeats before they both nodded. Then they turned to look at Scotty.

“Promise me if we get caught you’ll smuggle me in to the women’s prison.” Scotty said somberly, drawing a round of exasperated laughter before he nodded. “Criminal records are sexy. Come on, let’s go play Orange is the New Black.”

**** ****

“Why do you own lock picks?” Antigone asked Lacey as she knelt down in front of the door.

“Why don’t I own lock picks?” Siobhan asked. “Where did you get them?”

Lacey slid the slender picks in to the lock and started to work. “Because.” She answered cryptically. “And Amazon.com.” Siobhan nodded, making a mental note.

“Her boyfriend kept losing his handcuff keys.” Monica answered for her friend. “She started learning with them, but got bored and moved up. Apparently so we could commit breaking and entering instead of freaky stuff.”

“I will cut you.” Lacey said absently. Siobhan smirked, and shared an amused look with Scotty and Antigone as the kneeling girl worked. It took a few moments, during which Siobhan felt like her heart might burst out of her chest and start dancing on the walls. While they hadn’t picked the front door because they weren’t stupid, the back door was still more exposed than she’d like. Once a cop car drove by and they had all almost needed new underwear, but the car had kept going apparently without seeing them.

Finally the door clicked and Lacey turned the handle. It swung open, and the short blond took the lead in walking in. But as the others entered the dark back room, apparently a storeroom for the faux-mystic set dressing style of the front of the shop, Lacey’s steps stopped short. She reached forward and picked up a folded note, and handed it back to Siobhan. She picked up another and kept it, while a third went to Scotty.

Siobhan saw the notes were labelled ‘Siobhan and Antigone’, ‘Lacey and Monica’, and ‘The Body’. Siobhan flipped hers open and angled it so both she and Annie could read it together, both their brows furrowing in identical expressions of confusion.

Dear Siobhan and Antigone,

I am sorry. If there had been a way for me to stop you from coming, I would have. Even if I hadnt given you the note curiosity would have sent Siobhan back, and it would have been worse. If you follow my instructions you should be safe.

When the first gunshot happens, run to the front fo the shop. Turn over the desk, it’s thick. Remember: Goo low through the door. Dodge left. At the crack, out the door. ‘He’s near the glass balls’.

Tell your father he’s on the right track. Siobhan, be calm. Antigone, be strong. I’ll talk to you all when I’m back—by then you’ll know more.

Peace to your foes, Lady of the Summer Glade. Good hunting, Lady of Ravens.

Gabriel Shepherd

They all blinked.

“Ours said: ‘Learn to read faster, and follow Antigone and Siobhan.’” Monica explained to their curious looks. Slowly they all turned to look at Scotty.

“Mine said ‘German suplex, brah’.” He offered with a shrug.

They all considered this, and Scotty kicked his legs out a bit one at a time in nervousness. It probably saved his leg from being blown off as the first crack of gunfire pulverized a glass lamp, raining shards down among them like falling snow.

Robby Rocket’s Rocket Burger Bar (with Rocket Fries and Rocket Sauce) was an exercise in branding gone awry. The whole place was covered in NASA and Sci-Fi paraphernalia, and Antigone thought the menu desperately needed a thesaurus for synonyms of ‘Rocket’ and ‘Lift Off’; it was bad to the point where ordering things could be difficult because so many menu items were named so similarly.

Still, it was popular wit both high school and college students for its part retro, part hipster ironic vibe. Apparently it was the standard pre-movie watering hole for the group of cool kids that Antigone and Siobhan inexplicably found themselves falling in with.

They were crowded around a table with burgers and fries and voluminous soda jugs, eating and talking and laughing. Antigone and Siobhan had ended up somewhere near the middle, near Lacey. And, as Annie found out, near the odds on favorite for the next year’s Homecoming King and Kansas Backyard Wrestler of the Year.

World Class Hottie Scotty “The Body” Ravotti, verbatim from the way he intoduced himself and his business card, leaned across Annie to grab some fries. “So.” He began after swallowing the deeply fried food and ‘rocket sauce’, which Annie thought was just ketchup with pretensions of taste. “Why goth?” He asked Siobhan.

“I was beaten as a child by my priest and drown my pain in the darkness of my satanic master, Baphomet.” Siobhan rattled off boredly as she nibbled on a Chirocket Lift-Off Sandwich with Spicy Rocket Sauce (Which was a chicken sandwich covered in ketchup with pretensions of both taste and spiciness).

“Bullshit.” Scotty answered simply, but amicably. “Too practiced.”

“She does it like mad-libs. Last time it was that she had been molested by a ballet teacher who wanted to sell her in to white slavery.” Antigone supplied with a grin as Siobhan stuck out her tongue.

Scotty turned turned his gaze, light blue and probing beyond what his idiotic nickname would suggest, on to her. “And you. That’s the longest sentence I’ve heard you say in public.” Antigone flushed a bit sheepishly at that, her own gaze flitting down to her ridiculously named and fried food for a moment. “Not much of a talker?”

Antigone shrugged self-consciously. “Maybe I don’t want to say something stupid.” She responded, still a bit flushed—although she did raise her eyes to meet his. “Easier when you don’t say anything at all.”

“Doesn’t seem very likely.” Scotty responded. “I like people who think about what they say. Normally means what they do say is worth listening to.” He smiled, and Antigone blushed even more so, a pretty pink.

The other girls looked between Scotty and Antigone, which didn’t help her blush at all. After a moment Scotty spoke again, an almost philosophical tone in his voice. “But then again I like punk girls too. So who knows? Maybe I can live the American Dream of sleeping with twins.” He offered with a broadly lascivious grin. Even as Lacey punched him in the arm and the conversation moved on, Antigone saw a satisfied look in his eyes. Spotting her looking, he winked, and she knew he had done it on purpose so she could stop being embarrassed.

She sipped her milkshake as she watched the conversation continue on its twisting path. They were talking about the movie now, and she drowned it out. Scotty was…interesting, and she saw that Siobhan had noted his motives too. They shared a cryptic glance as they set their drinks down, and rose to pile back in to the van.

BEGIN CHAPTER 5: AN EVENING INTERLUDE

Later that week evening came to the Border with an unseasonal hint of crispness, a snap to the late August air that few had expected and fewer appreciated–a promise of the chill to come later in the year. Not so unpleasant as to require heavy coats, it nonetheless smelled like future frost and caused Siobhan to consider a hoody. She looked at her outfit in the mirror and considered.

A black shirt off one shoulder, strategically ripped at the bottom enough to give peeks at her midriff and the as of yet still fake magnet backed navel ring. Black jeans with holes displaying fishnets, combat boots, and tousled hair completed the look. Suitable chicness for a night out with the girls (and boys), but also a little extra-curricular breaking and entering. She grabbed her studded purse and walked out in to the main room to meet her sister.

Antigone had chosen a long shirt and legging look, the shirt in a dark purple with some flirty gold bits. The leggings were black and tucked into sensibly heeled black shoes. Her clutch matched her dress and flashed with little gold sequins. “Ready?” She asked.

Siobhan nodded. “Ready.” They moved out of the house to wait on the porch for their ride. Monica had inherited, much to her shame and utility, a family minivan to drive; apparently she got detailed for troop movements a lot because of it, both with family and friends.

Their father was on the porch reading in a flannel jacket. “What’s the plan, girls?” Walter asked.

“Movie with Lacey, Monica, and the Gang.” Antigone answered. Siobhan smirked a little bit, waiting for the inevitable follow up question.

“Boys?” Walter asked without looking up from his novel. Siobhan’s smirk blossomed into a full smile that she shared with her twin.

“Several.” Siobhan answered, before Antigone could. “Many, even. Of varying quality and social class. We may, in fact,” Siobhan continued as she gave a little twirl, “mix it up with rogues, blackguards, and worst of all Nebraskans, ‘ere the eve is done.” Antigone giggled at Siobhan’s tweaking of their father.

“Mmm.” Walter mmm’d noncommittally. “Got your OC?” He asked, looking up. Both girls produced slender bottles with spray fronts labeled Oleoresin Capsicum, beneath the brand name Pep-Arr Spray with a picture of a crying pirate. Despite the amusing branding it was some of the strongest civilian pepper spray on the market, and Walter bought it for all three of his children. “Where are you planning on sneaking to after the movie?”

Siobhan blinked as Antigone flushed guiltily. “What do you mean?” Siobhan asked in a carefully neutral voice, even though both girls and Walter knew what she meant was ‘How did you know?’

Walter gestured to Antigone’s shoes. “Even with a chill in the air I’m lucky Annie isn’t trying to go out barefoot. Sensible shoes equals shenanigans.” He looked between the two girls with a knowing and amused smile. “Are you going to be safe?” He asked, and when they nodded he continued. “Am I going to get a call from the police?” Both girls shook their heads. “Alright, I suppose that’s good enough. Have fun, try to come back with your shoes this time, and don’t do anything that will keep you out of college.”

Both girls gave their father a grin and a hug as Monica drove up with Lacey in shotgun. They waved as they made their way to the van. Antigone paused halfway into the van, looking back to their father with a merry smile. “Community College still counts, right?”

Both girls laughed as Monica gunned it in reverse to escape the empty can of soda their father chucked at the van.

The room stayed deathly silent for the space of several heartbeats. Walter thought he could hear those stunned organs pumping blood in the shocked quiet. Even the cameras recording the room seemed quieter, as if solemn.

“Four or five?” Alexander asked in a voice of quiet awe, or perhaps somewhat subdued terror. “Four or five Three Stripes Killers?” He asked again, as if it would make it more manageable if he repeated it. It looked, for a moment, like he wanted to ask a third time on the same theory.

“We’d heard the theory that there were two.” Andre said, shaking his head slowly. “I liked the theory because it explained a lot, and the psychology worked a little better. But four or five…”

Leah shook her head, but it wasn’t in disbelief. It was with dawning realization and agreement. “But the psychology works so much better now!” She said with an excited loudness unusual for the quiet young woman. She blushed and started to quiet, but Alexander and Walter both leaned in.

“Go on.” The Marshal said. They all paused and turned as a thunk and a clink filled the room. Tania Summers had produced a large wooden lock-box that looked like it had come off the set of a pirate movie and set it on the desk. She calmly pulled out files, and laid them out on the table. Leah considered them for a brief moment before she realized what they were, and leaned in to grab specific files.

“Denver, two years ago. Banker, normal Three Stripes injuries. Found in City Park, in a copse, fully clothed.” Leah said, flipping another file open. “Washington, D.C., one year ago. Aide to a lobbyist, normal Three Stripes injuries, but with a black eye. Found outside a burning meth house.”

“Right.” Alexander agreed. “Those two are the reason why people thought there might be two killers. And some believe the aide wasn’t a target, but got in the way, possibly during a drug deal that the killer was engaged in. The Denver murder is controlled, and almost regretful—because of how the body was arranged in a shady spot. The other one very violent and angry.”

“Right.” Leah agreed. She then pulled a third file out of the stack and laid it open. “Los Angeles, 18 months ago. Social worker with the normal injuries. Found naked in a warehouse. Not beat up, but not re-clothed. Fits some of the methodology of both killers. But doesn’t really fit with either one of them. But if its a third person, then we can start to see a consistent pattern.” She pointed to the first file. “Clothed in natural settings, naked and violent, naked in warehouses.” She pointed to the second and third files in time.

Tania gestured. “There’s at least a fourth. There’s been three murders around the country where all they found were pieces.” She paused distastefully. “Chunks, really. But no evidence was found of defensive wounds, and cauterizing consistent with the Three Stripes techniques or weapons. Since they all came back as chunky salsa, however,” she offered macabrely, “no one tied it to the rest of the murders until Arthur did.”

Leah nodded eagerly. “And it explains why we could never figure out how they picked victims. It’s not one person picking the victims. It’s a camel!” She exclaimed.

Tania and Morgan both blinked at that, and Walter leaned in. “It’s an old saying. What’s a camel?” He asked, before answering his own question. “A horse, by committee.” Both women considered this for a moment, before nodding slowly.

“So your theory is that there is a criteria that they are using, but we can’t see what it is because it’s being subjected to the same processes as my granddaughter’s group projects in school?” Alexander asked. His tone was not necessarily one of derision, Walter realized. It was…awe, or maybe bewilderment at the bizarre turnings of the universe.

“Yes, sir.” Leah answered. “And so in order to find the motive, and eventually catch them with anything but dumb luck, we need to try to get our minds around it. We’ve got lots of data points, we just need to think more abstractly about what they mean.”

At this point, Tania leaned forward to pull the papers—her papers—back to herself. “I’m so glad we could be so useful, gentlemen.” Tania paused. “But let’s remember that these data points do belong to me. And I do need to fulfil my journalistic avarice.” At their blank looks, she clarified. “I want to write about it, friends. Mama’s Pulitzer shelf needs some more company.”

“You mean any company.” Morgan said with a hint of acid. “You won one, ten years ago.”

“My papers have won others.” The business woman sniffed. “In any case, I want to write about it, but I’m willing to be flexible.” The Marshal slowly raised an eyebrow at that comment.

“Flexible how?” He asked, and her smile turned positively leonine.

“I want access.” Tania answered bluntly. “Right from the begining. And when it is done I get interviews without any bullshit or stonewalling. I don’t care who you tell, for God’s sake tell the FBI, but at the end the Border PD answers my questions exclusively.” Tania paused. “Deal?”

The Marshal paused for a moment, but only a moment as the answer was written n the eagerrness of his face. “Deal.”

The smile had never left Tania Summers’ face. She knew that he would answer yes before she asked, and Walter figured that she wouldn’t have asked or offered if she hadn’t known what it would be. A formidable woman, to be sure.

“Alright ladies, gentlemen, Morgan.” Tania’s eyes glimmered with amusement and hidden knowledge, as Morgan sniffed. “Let’s catch the Three Stripes Killers.”

I don’t do a lot of blog posts, but today warranted it for two reasons. First off, it’s Halloween, and if there is something Border should celebrate it is Halloween. Second because yesterday’s post represents one third of a year (four months) that Border has been live.

I wanted to take a minute to thank everyone who reads Border. Right now there aren’t a lot of you, but I know there are people who have been reading it since the beginning, and you have my heartfelt thanks. This is a crazy dream, and I’m glad to have you with me for it.

Some stats:

Border has 38 ‘pages’ written, and two blog posts up to this one. These represent roughly 20,700 words and roughly 86 pages. I say roughly because I write this in a word processor called Scrivener and then copy and paste it, and my backup file includes a cover page and some additional spacing. Over 80 pages and over 20,700 words is amazing for you all to have read my crazy stuff.

Border receives between 100 and 150 page views every week. And that doesn’t seem like a lot, but I was expecting around…5. So that’s a huge boatload of people compared to my pessimistic expectations. I’m amazed at the people who do make the time to read this.

If you do, feel free to share it! There is a share button on every page that will let you put it out into the interwebs on your venue of a choice. There are also comments available on every page, and I’d love to hear from you. For those already commenting…hi Dad, hi Aunt Ann.

But very seriously, thank you all. I’m not doing this to put it out into the ether, I’m doing it to connect to people and hopefully tell them an interesting story. So here’s to another third of a year, and everyone enjoy Halloween. Here, have the Monster Mash:

The teacher was droning on about the history of the area, but Siobhan didn’t care. She could tell that Antigone didn’t either, from the volume of hasty and encoded notes the two of them were passing. And when the teacher’s back turned and she entered the bizarre teaching trance that locked her somewhat in a different universe, they began exchanging hushed whispers. As did several other pockets of students in the classroom.

“Uniquely, the Marshal of Border is also the Sheriff of Tecenoo County, and appoints the warden of the county jail with advisement from the city council.” The teacher said as if this was a particularly salient or interesting tidbit. Which, Siobhan thought, it was not.

“He has to have a brother.” Antigone said for the second time. “Or a son.” She added, new to the debate. “How old did he look to you?”

“Older twenties to…maybe young 40s.” Siobhan answered absently. She doodled a raven in quick, artistic strokes. It soared over the Constitution of Kansas in her textbook, majestic until she drew it making the avant-garde political statement of pooping.

“That’s like two decades, Bonnie.” Antigone pointed out with a pout. “Supremely unhelpful. Also, stop crapping on the State Constitution.” She said primly. “The Lecompton Constitution is a few pages earlier. Crap on Godless Missourians.”

Obediently Siobhan turned to the original constitution of Kansas, disputed and ultimately tossed out as bleeding Kansas went anti-slavery, ad began doodling on it instead. “He was kind of hard to pin down, Annie.” Siobhan said defensively. “If you had a really good idea you would have said so. And I don’t think it was someone else, not with an exact quote. I still think-” She began, but Antigone cut her off once more.

“He’s not a real psychic.” Antigone said firmly. Siobhan started to object, but her sister shushed her. “One, because psychics don’t exist and you know that because you pretended to be one at our last school-”

“Two schools ago.” Siobhan corrected.

“Whatever. Secondly it would be false advertising.” Annie continued, drawing a snort from Siobhan. “Third, and I feel like I cannot stress this enough, psychics. Aren’t. Real.” She enunciated clearly enough the teacher paused and turned with a harumph, firing off a question Siobhan didn’t even catch as a punishment to the class.

“John Brown’s Raid on Harper’s Ferry.” Antigone called out the answer. The teacher blinked owlishly. But she turned back to the board, not noticing as the class breathed a collective sigh of relief.

“The weird shit we’ve seen so far, and you’re willing to draw the line at psychics?” Siobhan challenged softly. “I had a vision in a creepy forest which may not exist.” She monitored her volume carefully. “And it came true!”

Antigone grumbled, but couldn’t disagree. “Certain hallucinogenic incidents aside-”

“A dude disappeared in our closet!” She hissed. “In our closet! Disappeared!” Siobhan paused to consider her words carefully. “In our closet!”

“Yes, I know. Repeating it just makes you sound like a crazy person.” Antigone sighed, before amending. “More of a crazy person.” She shook her head, however, as she considered. “Ok. Maybe. But if he is a real psychic, we need to report him to the Better Business Bureau, because his signs clearly make false promises about him being a fraud.”

“I’m sure they’ll get right on that” Siobhan commented tartly. “We have to go back.” This was firm, a statement and not a question.

“I was afraid you’d say that.” Antigone sighed again, but held up a hand. “But you’re right. Friday?”

Siobhan nodded, and then squeaked when the teacher called on her. She had no idea where they were. “Ah…the War of 1812?” She hazarded a guess.

“In the 1850s? I think not. Please see me after class, Miss Richards.”

Siobhan’s sigh could have shaken the foundations of the school, if not the town itself.

Everyone in the room looked in quiet shock between the two women who had just been declared as sisters, so Walter felt better that he hadn’t known. The small conference room echoed with the silence of people comparing faces for similarities, looking for differences.

Tania Summers wore a grin that suggested felines catching small yellow birds as she positively flounced over to her sister to embrace her ostentatiously. Morgan returned the hug with a wry amusement that covered her exasperation.

With their faces so close Walter could see the resemblance. They both had delicate features, and slight frames. Their was a similarity in the smirk-y smile Summers wore to the one Walter had seen on Morgan’s face before, like when she was teasing him about the smoking. But there were differences, too. Morgan’s hair and eyes were darker, and Tania’s skin had a tan—although it was impossible to tell whether the tan was natural or purchased. But at such a close range he couldn’t deny the family resemblance; and if the others hadn’t known, that had meant they had not often seen them close together.

“Not that we don’t appreciate the Doctor’s presence, Ms. Summers, but why did you request she be here for this?” Marshal Alexander asked, somewhere between annoyance and morbid curiosity.

“Oh no reason, really.” Tania answered, drawing the beginnings of a scowl from the Marshal before she continued breezily along. “I just wanted her here. And if—if, mind—I decide to be helpful, I may need something from her.” Summers explained cryptically. Alexander looked like he might ask more, and Morgan’s mouth had gone into a sour little moue, but Summers kept going and waved languidly to her attorney.

“Gentlemen, Marshal Alexander, what can my civic minded—albeit occasionally litigious—pillar of the community client do for you today?” Locke asked pleasantly and directly.

The Marshal gestured and Walter sat down again with a file in his hands. He pulled a picture out and set it out where everyone could see. It was the victim in a carefully cropped photo, arranged so none of the horrific wounds could be seen. In the photo, with his eyes closed, the victim could almost be resting peacefully if you didn’t know what to look for. Summers looked at it with a trained eye, and Walter wouldn’t have bet she didn’t know what to look for.

“My client won’t answer that question until she knows why you are asking.” Locke interjected before his client could even open her mouth. She raised an eyebrow and looked at Walter with a knowing gaze. Apparently she wanted all forms to be observed even though she had secured everything but notarized affidavits from them in their assurances that she wasn’t a suspect.

“He was unfortunately killed recently. We identified him and at his residence we found a note implying he had passed you some information.” Walter answered. “We are hoping to confirm our identification and find the information that he gave to you.”

The attorney and Summers shared a look, and the amusement was suddenly gone from Tania Summers’ face like a mist burned away by the sunrise. “That is Arthur.” The tycoon answered, turning her gaze back to Walter. “He was a freelance writer and investigator. I used him for special projects at the Herald. I am also the executor of his will, and will be checking to make sure certain family valuables were not disturbed.” She said, perhaps a bit defensively.

“I assure you,” Alexander commented, “the search was based on exigent circumstances and we were respectful of the property, Ms. Summers.” His voice was dry, as if not unused to sparring with the woman, Walter noted.

“Mmm.” She offered non-commitally. But after a moment she nodded and continued. “Arthur was working on a project for me, and had recently made a break through.” At that the investigators, and interestingly the Doctor as well, leaned in eagerly. Walter thought perhaps she was just feeling the room of the mood.

“A breakthrough in the Three Stripes killings?” Walter asked. “An identity?” He tried, but only partially succeeded, at keeping the eagerness out of his voice.

“Killers, you mean.” Tania Summers said with the smirk of a know-it-all reveling in her superior knowledge. The room once more fell in to silence as the group processed what she had said. Once again they were stunned, and it took Walter a few heartbeats to ask is follow up.

“What do you mean, killers?” He ventured into the shocked quiet.

“Arthur believed he had evidence—firm evidence—that there are multiple killers.” Tania said. “He believed there might be as many as four or five.”

The total time from the initial request for an interview with Tania Summers to the first call from her attorney was exactly three minutes ad thirty-seven seconds. It was, Marshal Alexander had informed them, a new departmental record. And not just by a little bit.

It was hours later and pushing the end of business when, after a great dealing of wrangling and many assurances and promises ranging from annoying to meaningless, Tania Summers breezed in to the Border Police Department HQ with an entourage of two suited men in two.

Summers herself was dressed in airy reds ad golds, looking more like an art student or an heiress than a business tycoon; she would not have looked out of place with paint smudged on her face, or a flunky carrying a miniature dog in a purse. Her blouse was light gold embroidered with red whorls and swirls that matched the peasant style skirt swaying around her legs. Her eyes revealed the mettle of the woman who had apparently purchased most of the small town papers in the west. They were the perfect and crystalline green of emeralds found only in movies, and they were bright and clear and knife-sharp as they looked around the Police HQ and its modest conference room. She looked somewhat out of place surrounded by stain resistant carpet, and furniture built by inmates earning money at the state penitentiary.

The two men with her were more conventionally dressed in suits. Wilfred Locke sat in a conservative suit, conservative tie, and the conservatively distrustful expression of a practiced defense attorney. It wasn’t quite loathing on his face, but it was a long cooked distrust of police and opposing counsel. His features were a carefully constructed mask of politeness and a small smile that never made it to his eyes.

The other man wore a slightly more fashionable suit, still dark with with flashes of a hunter green silk lining when he moved. His features were naturally tanned and handsome, with an aquiline nose and dark brown eyes shot through with green. He stood more easily in the surroundings, leaning against the wall with a casual acceptance of what he saw and preparedness for what might come.

“I just want it known my client is here of her own free will to provide assistance.” Locke began. “At any time she can leave, and—”

“Ryan?” Walter interrupted the attorney, looking at the fashionably dressed man as the attorney permitted a slightly dark scowl through to his features. The fashionably dressed man’s face broe in to a wide grin, and he and Walter moved forward into a man hug. “I thought you were still in the suck for a private gig?”

“Not for a minute, Cap.” The man responded amicably. He gestured to the seated Summers. “Contract changed.”

“You two know each other, I take it?” The attorney asked testily. “This will not be a conflict of interest, I hope?” He asked, his eyes half lidded to hide a predatory gleam as he glanced at his client. The desire to give his client both an out and an opportunity to snub the police was not quite etched on his features, but it was certainly in the edges of his smile. He looked almost sad when she shook her head, although the mask was back up so fast it might have been a mirage.

“No, I do not expect my bodyguard’s relationship with his brother-in-law will be much of an issue.” Tania summers offered in a high, clear voice. Walter blinked and turned to her with a raised eyebrow.

“You seem to have more information about me then I’ve got about you, Ms. Summers.” He offered evenly as he, and his brother-in-law, resumed their places in the room. “How is that?”

“Well, that will become obvious in a moment, Major Richards.” Tania purred after a slow smile. She looked like she was about to say more, but paused when the door opened again and admitted one more person to the conference room.

“Hello, sister.” Doctor Morgan Winters offered with an exaggerated, if fond, sigh.

The room was as plush and well appointed as the rest of the house. It had a long desk of richly dark wood standing on a carpet made with the designs of a medieval tapestry. Large bookshelves and antique cabinets lined the walls, and a heavy chandelier lit the scene in soft but steady warmth. It also had a lived in quality, the sense that this was a room the owner had spent a great deal of time in. That sense came from a quality to the air, a warmth to the furnishings, and an intangible sense that there was a life that had been lived out here.

The only difference between the room and the rest of the house was the clutter. The bookshelves were crammed with books on dozens of subjects, leaning heavily on mythology and folklore. The cabinets were opened, apparently by the intruder looking for something, and full of newspaper clippings and articles. More of those were scattered across the desk as well. Putting the feather down carefully on the desk, Walter gingerly moved a few pieces of the pile to see the headlines.

Every single one was about the Three Stripes killings. Each of them also had notes written on them in a small, neat hand. Walter held up one to read the notes, finding it labeled ‘Copycat’.

“Kind of begging for a conspiracy wall.” Leah murmured as she carefully looked through one of the cabinets. Andre nodded slowly, stepping back to take in the room at a glance.

“Yeah. Pictures with strings running between them.” He agreed. “And a big label saying ‘Three Stripes’ above the perpetrator’s name.” He added as he looked across the room. “Cause that would be super helpful, I’m not going to lie.”

“I think that’s what he used his desk for.” Walter said as he carefully shifted some of the research around to pull out a picture. It had no name, date, or other identifying information, but it was very obviously his old friend. “Ninja grandpa.” Walter introduced his partners to his assistant. “Sadly without a name, address, or Social Security Number.” He continued to leaf through the articles carefully with his gloved fingertip. “Are all of the files on the Three Stripes?”

“No.” Andre answered from where he had moved to a cabinet. Both he and Leah were moving from cabinet to cabinet, giving them cursory glances. “This cabinet has other files. Uh…” Andre paused. “Labeled ‘Salvation’, ‘The Duke’, and ‘The Bells’.” He pondered them. “Not nearly as much information on them as on the Three Stripes though; maybe he thought they were related? Or he had ADD.”

Walter nodded as he slid the desk drawer open. “Hmm.” He murmured as he reached down to pull out a small key on a ring. It had a tag hanging from it, like an evidence tag. In the same neat handwriting as the notation on the articles it was labeled ‘Safe delivered to T.S.’ Walter considered it. “Do we have anything in here related to a person or place whose initials are TS?” He asked.

“Yeah.” Leah spoke up, from where she had been in the corner. She was next to a more mundane looking cabinet, out of place among the rare and rarefied for its simple utility. “I’ve got a filing cabinet filled with pay stubs from the Herald.” Andre winced as if this were not only terribly informative, but also terrible information.

“And?” Walter prompted.

“And the owner of the Border Herald, and about two dozen other newspapers, is one of the richest women in the State. If not the midwest.” Leah explained. “And her name is Tania Summers.”

New money dresses itself up in baubles in an attempt to look like old money; old money doesn’t need to try to look like anything else. That was what occurred to Walter. If someone was dressing their house up with statues of naked babies pissing champagne, they probably wouldn’t have been descended from earls.

Old money was more subtle. It was in the quality and the age of a house, the subtle use of marble. Hell, eve the ivy seemed like it looked down on other plants as it crawled up the side of the expannsive house. Mansion, Walter thought wryly.

He, Andre, and Leah stood in front of a large door painted a deep forest green. The frame was carved with delicate leaves, almost lifelike with little veins of gold painted into them. When he rang the bell it sounded like it was going into the depths of a cavern. The hurrying up done, they proceeded to the waiting to see if anyone answered.

“Let me see the file again.” Walter said as they waited, holding out a hand. Leah handed him the manila envelope, which he opened and began leafing through. It was the file on the previously unidentified victim, now identified due to the efforts of the creepy hat-makers.

“No drugs found, no ligature marks.” Walter said with a shake of his head as he considered the information. “So he basically just stood there and let himself be gutted with what, hot irons?” He asked. “Fireplace pokers that were on fire?”

Leah shook her head. “On the ground. As far as Doctor Winters can tell he was on his back, while he was being killed.”

Both Andre and Walter frowned as they considered the information. “So what on all of God’s green earth would make you lay down and let someone go all Spanish inquisition on you, and would give you the strength to let it happen?” Andre asked, as Walter leaned against the door.

“I don’t know.” Walter said as he considered it. But after a moment his ruminations were interrupted by the sound of cracking from inside the house, as if something was breaking. His eyes shot up as they looked between one another. Almost at once three pistols slid out of three holsters, and three thumbs clicked off safeties. They lined up on the door and Walter reached out to try the handle. With the smoothness of old use and regular oiling it turned, and the door swung open.

They entered the house in good order, moving on silent feet with their pistols out. It was as well furnished as the door had suggested. Dark wood ran in near miles on the floor and the walls and the furniture, to the point where the whole house seemed like it could have been made out of one massive tree. Pictures and paintings on the wall of verdant scenes added to the impression, as did the hunter green carpets and runners.

“Well he knows how to rock a theme.” Andre murmured as they made their way through the house. They made their way down the hallway silently. Leah one-handed her pistol and took her radio off her belt to begin murmuring in to it quietly. “Team 3, Code 5. 10-34 at last location.” The code, used by the Border PD as well as the nearby Wichita force, carried their need for backup and that they had heard a sound in the building. After relaying it she shoved it back in to her belt, never breaking her stride or lowering her pistol.

There was another slamming sound nearby, and a rustling sound. They came to the corner and paused, with Walter gesturing for them before they moved into the next room. At his final signal they moved into the room smoothly. Each of them swept their gun to a different corner, with Walter taking the farthest two since they only had three officers.

“Clear!” They all confirmed. They were standing in what seemed to be an antechamber or reading room, a room suddenly of brick walls with two large fireplaces cold and silent. Besides the door they entered there was a busted open door leading to a large room beyond them, and a small closet with the door having banged open. Walter approached it and leaned in, before he let out a little curse.

“What?” Andre asked, moving over quickly. Walter waved his gun down and pulled a single black feather out of the closet.

“Someone pulled another disappearing trick.” Walter said with a sigh. “Damn, we probably just missed him.”

“Uh…guys?” Came Leah’s voice, from the next room. “You’re going to want to see this.”