CATCH A FALLING STAR, CHAPTER ONE

CATCH A FALLING STAR is a prequel, taking place before A PERSON IN A POSITION OF TRUST. This story has a science fiction theme to it and it pays homage to some classic science fiction movies in addition to being a thriller and a chiller. Lots of plot twists and turns in the story with some references to the future events of A PERSON IN A POSITION OF TRUST.

Catch A Falling Star - A Beef Matson Mystery
by Rick Chris © 2008

Chapter 2 - Getting Away From It All

"You are one nicely packaged little man hunk, aren't you?"

The young man had a smug, arrogant grin on his face as he trained a revolver on Lynn Gordon Matson. "Now you just be nice and obedient and the two of us will get along real well. You stay nice and calm, do what you're told and nobody's gonna get hurt." The man motioned with his weapon towards one of the monitors in the electronics filled room. The monitor displayed an outer office showing men pointing automatic weapons at security personnel sprawled on the floor along with the wife and two small children of the one of the security guards, unfortunate visitors when the intruders broke in. "The two of us are going to keep a watchful eye on the rest of the casino's security personnel and you're going to make sure that they all think everything's A-OK and none of them come near this office until we've cleaned out the vault and are long gone. That way everybody will stay healthy…" the man leaned forward slightly and continued to speak in an almost whisper, "…including yourself."

Matson leaned back slightly in the office chair and pushed it away a bit from the communications console. He calmly began to examine the man standing behind the console in front of him. The man with the gun was perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties, five foot eight to five foot ten inches tall, very well coifed sandy colored hair, good looking with a face Matson considered very cute and dazzling blue eyes. The man had an expressive, intelligent demeanor about him, not the sort of person the private investigator would expect to be a hood. A pretty boy, Matson thought. The man continued to direct conversation at Matson.

"What do the other loser security guards call you? What is it…Beef?" the man teased, chuckling. "Your little plastic name tag says Lynn Matson. What's up with that, man? Those names sound way girlie boy gay to me, man." A pearly white toothy grin was flashed at Matson, who slid his chair back a little more to get a better view of his nemesis. Beef did an aesthetic evaluation of the menacing hood. The man had a nice, youthful build, with healthy bulges here and there, including a firm and perky butt. An intelligent, expressive and almost innocent face, which when combined with the man's twinkling blue eyes and pretty smile, allowed Matson to ignore the man's threats and insults. "Very nice," thought the P.I., "Very, very nice."

Matson got up from the chair and approached the man with the gun. "Hey," growled the man, waving his weapon at Beef, "Sit your ass back down in that chair."
"I need to show you something," Matson replied in a very matter of fact manner, continuing to approach the man.
"What the hell you think you're doing?" squealed the young man in alarm.
"This is what I want to show you," replied Beef Matson, quickly grabbing and twisting the man's gun holding arm until he released the weapon, which Matson tossed onto a nearby chair. "Consider this an intervention. You keep going in the direction you're headed, your life is going to be in the dumpster." Matson seized the man's arms, pulling him into an embrace and then Beef began to wrap himself around the other man like a human boa constrictor.
"Hey…hey," protested the young man "What are you doing, man. I'm not like that."
"Yeah, sure. You guys get your kicks out of pointing the long, hard barrel of a gun at other men…and then you say you're not like that."
The man shuddered and continued to protest as Beef Matson began to lick and gently nibble his neck. "You're being abusive, you're abusing me."
"Give me a break," retorted Matson, "You guys abuse women and children by threatening them with automatic weapons and then you whine like a helpless toddler when somebody gets romantic with you. You brought this on yourself, pretty boy."

"Oh yeah," continued Matson, "I like that cologne you're wearing, you really wanted to look and smell good for this heist, didn't you? You are one nicely packaged little man hunk, aren't you?" Matson's tongue began to invade the young man's ear.
"Man…leave me alone," the young hood complained, "I'll start yelling. I'll start yelling really loud."
"Be my guest," volunteered the private investigator, "You were the one who reminded me when you broke in that these offices were sound proofed, no one's going to hear you." Beef continued the exploration of the man's ear with his tongue, with the man uttering little grunts instead of yelling. "See," reassured Matson in a husky whisper, "It's not so bad. Now I want to see more of that good stuff you got." The detective began unbuttoning the man's shirt, opening it and exposing his chest.
"Oh yeah, baby," exclaimed Matson, "You've got one fun chest."
"If my guys find out about this…" the other man continued to protest.
"You know, you're like a Tucker Carlson, nice to look at as long as you don't open your mouth and say something. Just keep quiet and let me enjoy you." Beef then licked a couple of his fingers, using the moistened fingers to lightly massage one of the man's tits while continuing his oral exploration of the man's neck and ears causing the young man to issue little high pitch squeals like a chipmunk. Beef Matson chuckled. "Now I can feel your other rod poking me. Now that's the kind of weapon I like pointing at me."

The young man's demeanor suddenly changed, he stopped resisting Beef and began to press against the P.I., starting his own oral exploration of Matson's face and neck. "I thought you were so damned hot when I first saw you. Your face…man, you are so gorgeous and you're so built. That rich black hair of yours, man, you are so awesome. This is too good man, this is too good."
"From now on I don't want you to even think of getting involved with a stunt like this," Matson chastised the young man. "I'm going to see what I can do to get you out of this, maybe have you put into my custody. The police will be here any minute. What you guys didn't realize is that I set off a silent alert the minute you broke in. Your guys that headed off to the vault were arrested the minute they got there." Matson and the man continued their heavy petting. "Yes," observed Matson, "I can see how we could make a great team."

Suddenly, something alerted the young, cute man. "What is that sound? Did you set off an alarm?"
Matson paused for a second. "Damn it," he exclaimed.
"Is that an alarm for the casino?" inquired the man again.
"No, that just means, I'll have to say good-bye."
"Good-bye? What do you mean? I thought we were going to stay together."
"Yeah, that would be nice," added Matson, looking into the face of the man and kissing him gently on the forehead. "You are so good looking, but I'm going to have to say good-bye. I have to go to an assignment early this morning."
"What assignment? I don't understand. Why do you have to say good-bye just because of a burglar alarm?"
"Because that's not a burglar alarm, that's my alarm clock," explained Matson.

"Oh damn…" uttered Matson, as his hand came down upon the alarm clock, silencing the alarm. He allowed his muscular torso to fall back upon the bed, against the pillow he had been cuddling against. He looked at the pillow. "I never got to ask him his name," he muttered. Beef paused a second and then pushed himself up into a sitting position. Running his hands through his hair, giving himself a rough scalp massage, Matson added, "I think I need to get myself a teddy bear."

********

About an hour later Lynn Gordon Matson arrived at his assignment, at a branch office of a large corporation, halfway up a downtown San Francisco skyscraper. Matson casually patrolled the office reception area in a relaxed but anxious manner, choosing not to sit down after the receptionist very briefly interrupted her personal phone call just long enough to inform the detective that the woman he had an appointment with would be a few minutes late and he was supposed to wait for her. The receptionist continued her phone conversation in a loud voice making the detective an unwilling eavesdropper in a conversation he not only found uninteresting but irritating as the young woman continued to mindlessly prattle on.
"Omigawd," announced the woman, "I know…I know. It's just all so stupid. Well, anyway…on Sunday I went with my neighbor to a crafts fair where her mother had a booth…you know, selling her handicrafts. Well, I admit there was some nice things there, but who want to buy that crap? I mean, there were actually people there who were buying that junk. I sure didn't buy anything. I couldn't imagine cluttering up my house with all that cutesy junk. My gawd, hand made dolls and wreaths and potpourris, who would want to put that crap in their house? I sure wouldn't. It was just so stupid. Those people really need to get a life. Why waste your time sewing, painting, or gluing things together. Why mess up your free time with a bunch of work? With me, I get a can of beer, turn on the TV and watch my programs; that's how I spend my free time. What those handicraft people need is to find a nice bar to hand out at…"

Matson looked at the surroundings, grayish beige walls, gray/beige cubicles, gray/beige computers and gray/beige furniture. There seemed to even be a coating of grayish beige dust on everything. He couldn't imagine anything of any value being done here. Matson remembered his assistant Randy describing a scene such as this as "beige hell". As the receptionist continued to drone on, the private investigator could not imagine himself working in such a place. Perhaps not hell, but very close to the neighborhood purgatory must be in. A temple to corporate conformity and sterility. The receptionist's voice continued to gnaw at the air.
"My gawd, you should have seen what she was wearing…"
Beef Matson continued his idle stroll looking to find something interesting in the immediate corporate landscape and found nothing. He glanced at the big chrome letters affixed to the wall that spelled out the company's name. Two of the letters were crooked. How ironic, he thought. He began to wonder why the woman he was waiting for wanted to meet with him. The woman was an underling of another woman who was the manager of this branch office of the corporation and really had nothing to do with his assignment. The private investigator had been hired to investigate pilferage, primarily the loss of computer equipment that was occurring regularly at various company branches. Matson's contact at this branch was supposed to be the manager, this other woman was the manager's associate, some sort of assistant, who was a pushy individual who like to stick her nose into everything. Perhaps this woman wanted to meet with him simply to project an image of importance. The investigator suddenly glanced back over his shoulder towards the receptionist as she let out an unexpected loud braying laugh.
"Oh gawd, oh gawd…she had beer just coming out of her nose! Oh gawd, oh gawd!"
"Yes", thought Matson, "Oh God…"

Beef Matson continued to pace the area, doing his best to ignore the receptionist's grating voice. He fingered some company literature on a table, which too, was deadly boring. Matson then looked over to a maze of cubicles, which were mostly empty. The company was downsizing and eliminating this branch, the reason for the investigation; to find out why computer equipment being removed was going missing and where it was going to. The receptionist's grating voice and braying laughter became louder and more pronounced.
"Like ohmigawd, she is just a retard. Just a total retard!"

Being an unwilling eavesdropper to the receptionist's irritating phone conversation was eating away at Matson's patience like an acid. Yet he needed to wait for the woman he was supposed to meet. He also needed to be very nice and polite to both that woman and her boss. Suddenly the clopping of determined footsteps could be heard coming from the hallway. Matson turned to see the figure of a short-ish middle aged woman with tightly curled gray flecked hair approaching; it was the assistant manager he had the early morning appointment with. Her name was Sandra Elliot. She was a person who thought her position was much more important than it actually was, though Matson had a hard time determining exactly what function she did perform at this corporate branch, if anything at all. Ms. Elliot also tended to be condescending if not out and out rude. Every time the private investigator had met with her or when he had watched her interact with other employees, the woman's face carried a forced smile which looked like she was fighting off a sneer.
"Mr. Matson," Sandra Elliot called out in a terse, businesslike manner, a smile slapped on her face like a posted note pasted on a refrigerator. Beef noticed that she was not carrying a purse and her coat was unbuttoned. While waiting he had previously observed that the lights were already on in Ms. Elliot's office and her purse was sitting on her desk.
"Sorry, I just got here. The commute was a bit of a hassle this morning," the woman continued as she approached Matson. The private investigator held out his hand in greeting and Ms. Elliot quickly brushed past him and stopped at the receptionist's station, examining mail on top of the counter. Matson had noted before that Ms. Elliot avoided physical contact; in a previous meeting with her to discuss the missing computers, he had touched her on the arm and her tinny smile instantly turned into a snarling grimace.

"So…how is our private detective this morning?", Ms. Elliot attempted a smile as she dropped the mail back on the counter and turned to face Beef.
"I'm fine. What is it you needed to see me about this morning?"
Sandra Elliot turned to the receptionist with a sly grin. "Good morning, Wendy."
"Good morning, Sandra," the receptionist smiled back, sharing an inside joke.
"Mr. Matson," Elliot turned her attention back towards Beef, "Joannie and I…ah, that is Ms. Naylor, wanted me to make sure that you get right down to the plaza in front of the building the very first thing this morning and keep an eye that temporary office assistant ." The woman began to cloak her voice in concern and sincerity. "Just as we told you, we put him in charge of moving some computers. We told him that he will have to wait awhile out in the plaza for the pickup van, so there's ample temptation for him to pass on one, if not all of the computers to the people we're sure he's working with."
"That's the little blond guy you're talking about?" questioned Matson.
"Yes," replied Sandra, a bit irritated, "He may look innocent, but rest assured he's…not. Everybody in the office says how difficult he is to get along with. The women here are all afraid to be alone with him, he just has all this…ah…uh…hostility. Highly suggestive of a substance abuse problem."
"Yeah," added the receptionist, "He's a real jerk, like a real total loser and, like ohmigawd, he's real lazy. You can't get him to do nothin'."
"Hmm…" responded Beef, "Just to look at him you would never think that."
"Mr. Matson," directed Ms. Elliot, "I would think that as a private investigator, you out of all people should know you just can't judge a book by its cover."
"Oh, uh well…I guess you brought up a good point there," purposely stumbled Matson, "If he does have a substance abuse problem, he certainly would be trying all sorts of ways to support it."
"If you just get down to the plaza and watch him until the van comes to pick up the computers, and it may take awhile, I'm sure you'll catch him passing on one of the laptops to somebody. This should be a very easy case for you to solve." Sandra Elliot attempted a sincere smile.
Beef Matson nodded confidently. "Well then, unless there's something else, I'll head down to the plaza and keep an eye on him," stated Beef in a very Rock Hudson like voice.
"Joannie and I will be very relieved once this entire business is taken care of. Thank you." Sandra Elliot turned to chat with the receptionist. Matson nodded and gave a bit of a salute as he headed towards the elevators. In the reflection of the scene behind him in of a one of the office windows, he quietly observed Ms. Elliot mocking him with an exaggerated limp wristed stance with the partially muffled giggles of the receptionist drifting through the air.

Matson stationed himself in a coffee house which had an excellent view of the plaza in front of the office building. As Ms. Elliot had indicated, the temporary employee she was so concerned about could be seen in the plaza, sitting on a concrete planter and looking very bored while guarding desktop computers stacked on a hand truck. Matson leisurely sipped on a coffee while observing the young man. The young, blond man did look somewhat unhappy and bored. Beef focused his stare on his subject until the young man caught his stare and their gaze connected for a few moments. Matson smiled a generous and sympathetic smile at the man guarding the desktops. The young man then frowned and abruptly turned his head away, rolling his eyes. Matson chuckled. Taking a few more sips of his coffee, the private detective casually checked out the other patrons in the coffee shop and then decided to leave. "So much for this part of the drama," he thought as he walked out onto the street.

"Oh, she's a nice girl, but she eats her babies."

The man sitting in the drivers seat of a beige SUV called back to Joannie Naylor as she padded a blanket around a projector she had placed on the rear seat. "Why do we have to take this stuff this morning; why couldn't we just do a grab tonight?" Ms. Naylor answered very sweetly, as she carefully tended to the cargo like a soccer mom preparing for a weekend outing. "Sandra's making up the paper work to make it look like this equipment was shipped this afternoon, so I don't want any of this stuff left sitting around the office after it's supposed to have been shipped."
"I just don't like doing this when you got that private investigator snooping around," complained the driver.
"Oh, I wouldn't worry about him," dismissed Joannie like a reassuring mother, "I've got him watching that temp. Even though we're laying off people all over the place, corporate suddenly decided we needed a temporary office assistant. I think they thought we needed somebody to help us to make sure more computers wouldn't go missing during the big move. So I decided to put him to use as a distraction, have him sitting with a pile of next to worthless desktop computers on the plaza in the front of the building while we're in the back alley loading these laptops. That investigator guy is busy watching the temp out front right now, besides he might be snooping around here at night anyway. This way, I've got him exactly where I want him."

Joannie continued with a slightly more reassuring tone. "Don't worry, I've got this down to a science. When corporate hired me for this job, they told me my title would be Western Regional Offices Resources Manager, but in actuality my job was to liquidate the property assets of all the western offices because they were planning on breaking off the western region and selling it and until then, they wanted to fluff up profits with the sale of the assets. The same thing with Sandra, they really hired her to ax personnel, so the downsizing would also reflect well on the western region profit line. All that would eventually affect the Western region's ability to function, but corporate is convinced they'll unload the region by then. My thought was that if corporate is going to screw the stockholders and customers by looting the company, why shouldn't I get a chunk of it? So when they closed the Sioux Falls office and sent the computer equipment here, I diverted some of the laptops to us without any problem. The same thing with the Phoenix office and the Dallas office. I figure that if some equipment goes missing, they could care less. They just write that stuff off. Even with that detective guy floating around there's really no one in the office we have to worry about. That's why Sandra and I hired that total ding-dong of a receptionist. All her little world involves is just talking on the phone. If she came in one morning and the entire floor was stripped bare to the insulation and exposed wiring, as long as there was a chair to fling her butt on and a phone to chat on, she probably wouldn't bother to find out what happened to anything. She has absolutely no idea what Sandra and I are doing. Sandra tends to be kind of mean so people steer clear of her so we don't have a lot of people showing up for social visits. Plus we keep that nerdy new temp in the dark so he is absolutely clueless about everything. Get this, his name is Norbie Filkins. Gawd, what a dumb name, you can't get more nerdy than that.

O.k., sweetie," announced Joannie with a ray of sunshine, "I've got the laptops back here on the floor, they're pretty secure and I don't think they're going to move around much. The projector's just on the back seat here wrapped in a blanket, so I want you to avoid making sudden stops, so it doesn't go flying off the seat. We can get a pretty good price for a projector like this one."
"You think that private dick suspects anything?" asked the man.
"Oh, you mean our gay detective," replied Joannie, emphasizing the word gay, "Oh, please. Corporate probably just gave him this assignment out of a need to be politically correct and maybe show they actually care about the company's losses by hiring some third rate private investigator. He doesn't impress me at all. I mean really, a gay detective…? Besides, I know how to handle those gay ones. All I have to do is be nice and sweet to them and those little fags think that I'm their closest friend. I can tell them anything and they'll totally believe me. I've got him just spinning around my finger. We told that Matson character to go keep an eye on our temp and that gave him a good excuse to sit and stare at a man, so that's where he's going to be for awhile." Joannie put her hands on her hips and gave the vehicle interior one last inspection. "Well," she exclaimed with extreme pleasantness, "I think you're good to go".
"What cha doin'?" an unexpected male voice directly behind Joannie spoke with innocent curiosity.
Joannie Naylor froze, turning her head sharply to look behind her."Oh my gosh, it's Beef Matson. What are you doing here, Beef? Is everything O.K.?" asked Joannie in a syrupy sweet manner oozing with false concern. "You should be out front watching our temp. He's got all those computers and I'd hate for some of them to disappear if you're not there to watch him…"
"Nah, I got bored and decided to come back here and watch you guys instead," replied Beef Matson. He could almost see ice water forming in Joannie Naylor's veins.
"We're just…ahh…helping me…some personal things of mine. I'm…we're all done here." Joannie slammed the door of the SUV. "Just go. Just leave, Drew," she sweetly commanded, then more firmly, "Drew, go!"

The driver quickly started the SUV and the vehicle accelerated quickly down the alley only to be stopped by the appearance of a police car, which suddenly entered the alley from the opposite direction, lights flashing, forcing the SUV to come to a halt. The alley suddenly became populated with police who ordered the driver of the SUV to exit the vehicle. One cop then began to question the driver while others began to look over the electronic equipment in the vehicle. Joannie forced a look of panic off her face and and addressed Matson with authority. "I don't know what this supposed to be about," she exclaimed angrily, "I'm just having somebody help me with some personal items. You should be watching that temp out front with all those computers. That's who you should be watching. Who knows where all those computers are now. The temps the company hires are probably the ones responsible for all the stealing going on in the company."
"Oh, I know where those computers are," stated Beef calmly. "Look, here comes your temporary employee now. Just to make sure I'll ask him where the computers he had are now." Matson paused for a few seconds allowing the temporary employee to approach him.
"Those computers you were watching…" Matson addressed the young man, "Where are they now?"
"I left them with the concierge, just like you told me," answered the young blond man, "He locked them in a little room behind his lobby desk; they'll be there until somebody from the company comes to pick them up."
"There you see," answered Matson in a reassuring but somewhat patronizing voice, "That problem's been all taken care of."

The alley door of the office building from which Joannie had moments before brought out the purloined computer equipment opened again. This time Sandra Elliot emerged from the door. The woman made a quick survey of the situation and decided to approach Beef Matson, Joannie Naylor and the temporary employee. "Oh boy," commented the temp, "Here comes Miss Personality." Sandra stopped in front of Matson, still looking about in an attempt to size up the situation, and displaying a stern, grumpy expression, spoke. "What's going on here? Did you catch the temp trying to make off with some computers?"
The temp immediately turned to Matson, flashing a sour grimace.
The private investigator responded to Sandra, "I think both you and Ms. Naylor here know exactly what's going on and it doesn't involve your temporary help at all. He has nothing at all to do with it."
"So that's it, huh?" barked Sandra. "You started poking the fag temp and now you want to protect him?"
Both Beef Matson and the blond temporary employee frowned.
The temporary employee addressed Matson. "See, I told you that's what I had to put up with here."
Joannie shot a cease and desist expression at Sandra, who now was edging back towards the door she had entered the alley from. "Mr. Matson," addressed Joannie, "This is not what you think. Like I said…I was personally arranging to have some of our equipment myself. So it would be safer…uhhh…rather than having it shipped by a third party."
Beef Matson arched an eyebrow and smiled.
Sandra spoke up again, "This is nothing out of the ordinary, we're just moving some light equipment to another office. If you knew anything, you would know we do this all the time. We gave you an opportunity on a silver platter to catch the real culprit. If you had stayed out front and watched the temp, you could have seen who's really behind the thefts." Then in a condescending, singsong tone of voice, "Instead you had to go and make friends with our gay temp."
"That's what I had to put up with every day here," directed the temp again to Matson, "How about a bonus for this assignment?"
"How 'bout if I take you out to dinner instead, Randy?" replied Beef.
"Well…" answered the temp, "It's got to be a nice place, not a fast food joint."
"Shows how much you know…you don't even know his name," commented Sandra in the same cranky voice, "His name is Norbie, Norbie Filkins."
The temp turned to Sandra. "My name is Randy, not Norbie" he said dryly with obvious distaste for the name Norbie. Then turning to Beef Matson, "The next time I go out on assignment like this, how 'bout I pick the name I use?"
"We'll see."
"Hmmm…" uttered Randy, frowning.

A plainclothes police detective approached the group from the direction of the detained SUV. She nodded towards Beef Matson. "Mr. Matson," she greeted. The detective then turned to Joannie Naylor. "Ms. Naylor, I need to ask you a few questions. Would you step over here please?" The police detective directed Joannie a few steps away to question her in private, while Sandra Elliot continued her gradual movement back towards the building door. "Ms. Elliot," cautioned Matson, "I think you should hang with us a while longer, the police detective will want to ask you a few questions as well."
"What about him?" Sandra Elliot pointed an accusing finger at Randy. "She'd better question him, if she questions anyone."
"Oh please," responded Randy, "Give it up…"
"Your position with us is terminated immediately," interrupted Sandra, "You are no longer allowed on company property!"
"You mean I won't have to go back to your little hell hole? Oh, thank you!" retorted Randy, "I wonder how you'll make out though, seeing as how I was the only one who actually seemed to be doing any work. But then again, what do you care? After today, you probably won't be allowed on company property either."
"You think you're hot stuff, don't you?" replied Sandra angrily. "I'll fix it so that you'll never be able to find another job."
"Didn't I tell you what a nasty place this was to work at?" Randy directed to Matson, "Instead of taking me out for dinner, how about taking me out for a couple of dinners?" Matson just smiled. Randy turned back towards Sandra, "Hon, I already have a job, don't waste your time."
"What…has your detective friend got you a job as a male escort?"
"Listen, you old…"
Matson halted Randy. "Shush," he admonished quietly, "Don't agitate her."
"Arrgh," grumbled Randy.

The police detective finished her questioning of Joannie Naylor and approached Beef Matson and Randy, speaking quietly so that neither Joannie or Sandra could hear her. "Well Beef, both the driver and Ms. Naylor deny any wrongdoing. They seemed to both have a prepared script for a situation like this. They don't realize that Randy was working undercover. They say they were moving the company computer equipment because they were afraid that Randy might steal it. Ms. Naylor says she is afraid of Randy because he's so abusive. I didn't realize that you were such an animal, Randy."
"I guess I can be surprising," replied Randy frowning in resigned irritation.
"Anyway, Beef," continued the police detective, "I'm sure when I question Ms. Elliot, that she will give me the same rehearsed script as the other two. Ultimately, the evidence you've uncovered will give us enough to press charges, though not right away. However, it might make things a lot easier, especially for your client, if just one of these people would confess."
Matson paused for a moment and then spoke. "That might be doable. Make like we're having an in depth conversation…just talk about anything." After the police detective commented about the weather, Beef formed a look of sudden surprise on his face and quickly turned to stare at Sandra Elliot, long enough to make eye contact with the woman, and then suddenly turning away. "Yes, now that it's fall and the weather is cooling, we seem to be getting more fog," the private investigator informed the detective. "Now look quickly at Ms. Elliot and turn away, as if you don't want her to know we're sharing information about her, which of course, we aren't." The police detective complied, shooting at quick glance in the direction of Sandra Elliot, who was quickly developing an expression of paranoia on her face. "Now let's go over and chat with her partner in crime, Ms. Naylor." Matson and the police detective strolled over to Joannie Naylor with Beef immediately starting a trivial conversation with the computer equipment thief, puzzling Joannie but occasionally making the woman smile and chuckle as Matson even told a few jokes. As he did this, the private detective continuously shot backwards glances at Sandra Elliot who became more and more fidgety. After instructing Naylor to remain standing where she was, Matson led the police detective back to where Randy was standing and began to give his assistant instructions. Beef also requested that police detective tell Sandra to remain where she was, which the detective did.
"Disregard my shush instructions," Matson told Randy. "Regarding your friend Sandra, as you were and ah…at your leisure."
"This isn't to get out of taking me out to dinner, is it?" asked a cautious Randy. Matson playfully jabbed a finger into Randy's side. "Of course not…this is just a way to help close this case sooner." The private investigator then began to speak a bit more loudly. "Yeah, I guess we've got this all wrapped up. It's just that I was a little off base, there's really only one person involved." Matson shot a quick glance in Sandra Elliot's direction, quickly turning back to Randy and whispering to his assistant, Sandra looking on anxiously and becoming more and more wide eyed and red-faced.

"What I want you to do now…" Matson instructed his assistant, "is to shoot a quick stare in the direction of Sandra and quickly turn back, like I just gave you some juicy information about her."
"I'll do my best bitchy gossip queen in a gay bar type stare." Randy flung a wicked, dagger like stare at Sandra and turned back to his boss. "How's that?" he asked.
"Impressive," replied Beef. "Next we're going to have a conversation about Sandra, feel free to say what you feel about her and loud enough so she can hear. Knowing how she feels about you, we might get a reaction out of her." Matson began to speak loudly again, "I guess you'll be glad not to have to work here anymore, at least you won't have to be around certain people." Beef shot a quick glance over at Sandra Elliot, making it look like he tried to prevent himself from looking at her. Then quietly, he instructed Randy. "Now tell me how you feel about Sandra, just loud enough so she can hear, but do another quick look at her before you reply." Randy did just as Matson instructed and then spoke. "Oh, she's a nice girl, but she eats her babies." The police detective quickly turned away, stifling an involuntary giggle.

Randy's statement had quite a different effect on Sandra Elliot. It was like bumping a table which had a glass sitting on its very edge. Her composure suddenly fell and shattered. After making a stereotypical criminal statement of "You're not going to pin this on me," Sandra became a very loud screeching fountain of information about her associates in crime, some information Matson was already aware of, such as the driver of the SUV was the cousin of Joannie Naylor's husband. Other information the private investigator was not aware of, and as Sandra continued to rant, she sealed the fate of not only her and Joannie, but the fates of others as well. Sandra claimed that the diversion of company computer equipment was Joannie's idea, that Joannie had conducted similar exercises at other companies she had worked at, and not only that, but her husband was only diverting equipment at the company he was working at. Sandra also revealed that Sandra and her husband had a number of their relatives in on the schemes which had developed into quite a large black market operation.
"Talk about giving family values a bad name," quipped Matson offside to Randy and police detective.
Sandra ended her tirade by stating the she felt justified in with her part of the theft ring. It was her way of looking out for herself. She had always gotten ahead by aggressively focusing on her own self interests. In short order, the police detective had taken Sandra Elliot in for an official statement, keeping her separate from Joannie Naylor, who was handcuffed and left sitting for awhile in a police cruiser. Feeling his work was finished, after Matson called his corporate client to let them know that the case was solved and he would soon be filing a report, he and Randy left the scene.

Joannie was still sitting in the back of the police cruiser when Wendy, the receptionist from her office strolled by, on her way to lunch. Spying her boss sitting in the police car, Wendy called out, "Omigawd, Joannie is that you? What happened? Did you get nabbed for jaywalking or something? Where's Sandra? I bet she was with you and mouthed off to some cop. What a mouth on that woman!"
"Sandra's been taken in for questioning by the police. It's really nothing. I'll tell you about it later." replied Joannie dryly, downplaying the situation.
"Omigawd!" exclaimed Wendy."Sandra's at the cop shop! What about you? You've got handcuffs on."
"I've been arrested, Wendy."
"Arrested? Omi…GAWD!"
"They're just taking me in for questioning."
"You got arrested while you were out for lunch. What happened? You get into a fight with somebody?"
"No…I'm just going in…for questioning…Wendy."
"Will you be back in the office later?"
"I don't know, Wendy. My husband will probably have to post bail."
"OMIGAWD! Bail!"
Wendy paused for awhile, thinking. "Well, if you can get a phone number while you're in jail, call it in to me and I'll make sure your phone calls are forwarded there." Joannie stared at Wendy, wondering if there was some way she could strangle the woman while wearing handcuffs.

********
"You for me and me for you, that's the way it's going to be! This time baby, we won't be in and out of love! I will be me for you and you for me!"

The next morning Randy Hardwicke strolled through the lobby of the Harvey Milk Professional Building, on his way to the office where he worked, Beef Matson Private Investigations. Randy's mind was busy, pondering why his boss was taking so many assignments of late. Randy knew from the paperwork and the phone calls and emails coming into the office, that Matson had recently become involved with quite a number of clients and assignments. Most of them were fairly small affairs and didn't bring in a lot of money except for those like the recent corporate assignment that he had been part of, working undercover. He kept wondering why Beef had decided to increase his work load. Maybe his boss short on cash, though the cash flow currently rolling in seemed to indicate otherwise. Randy decided he was going to bring up his concerns with his boss today. He considered Matson the best employer he had ever had and grown protective of him. Randy did not want Lynn Gordon Matson to overwork himself and noticing that Beef was more stressed than usual, he was going to get to the bottom of this. Unless his boss had some pressing financial issues, Randy would suggest that Beef take some time off, a chance to get away from it all.

As Randy made his way across the shiny, waxed terrazzo lobby floor to an inconspicuous door which lead to a flight of stairs, he had no idea that two men were waiting for him on the second floor where his boss's office was located. Randy bounced up the stairwell and opened the door to the second floor hallway, which had a wooden floor with a runner of fairly new dark blue carpeting down the middle. The two men, one white and one African American, casually looked at Randy as he opened the door and marched down the hallway. Randy ignored them both. The white male began to call out to Randy. "Randy, Randy," he shouted. Then finally, as Randy passed him, he literally screamed into Randy's face, "Randy!". Randy totally ignored the man continuing to a 1940's style wooden door, having a translucent glass window with the words, "Lynn Gordon Matson, Private Investigations" painted on it. As Randy paused in front of the door, fumbling for his key chain in his jacket pocket, the black male spoke to his white companion.

"See, I told you, Brett" said the black male, "Ain't no way he's going to hear you. You should just give this up and just move on. Boy, you just carryin' a torch."
"This torch won't burn out," replied the other male, "What about you Sheevy? And that guy you follow around?"
"Now that is different," replied Sheevy, "That is what you call a justified haunting. It was one thing for that crack dealer to shoot me but tossing my body into a sewer was not what I feel a right and proper Christian burial. So I am going to haunt his pitiful, drug dealing black ass for as long as I feel a need to do so. I must say, the longer I do it, the better I get at it. Like making his car suddenly die on the Dan Ryan Expressway in the middle of evening rush hour was stroke of pure righteous genius on my part…if I do say so."
"This is not a haunting," Brett responded, "Randy's my man, we'll always be connected, we're part of one soul."
Sheevey shook his head and spoke softly. "Look, Brett. You've been my friend for a long time, and I don't want to offend you, but you got to see that you and Randy are in two different worlds. We can see and hear them but we can't feel them. Except for those rare type occasions, they can't see, hear or feel us. I mean, your obsession is pretty hopeless. You've got to move on, my man."
"No, I feel it," protested Brett, "Our connection is strong. Some way, some how, I will make a connection with Randy. I still love him so much, my soul aches. I want to be with him. I want to make him know I'm still with him. I know I can do it. I just haven't figured out a way yet."
Sheevey shook his head again. "Just no way to reason with you when you're like this. The only way you're going to learn is for you to find out all by yourself. Well, if you're not going to listen to me, no reason for me to stick around. I've got some things to do anyway. But, before I go, don't go beatin' yourself up like this for too long. Just know when to quit. You can always come back and try again."

Brett now found himself alone in the hallway with Randy. He approached Randy who had just stuck his key to the office door in the lock and was turning it. As loud as he could muster, Brett stood tight against Randy and wailed, "You for me and me for you. That's the way it's gonna be. Baby, you're my life, give me one more chance to prove my love. I promise to be true only to you!" Randy opened the office door and closed it behind him. As he hung up his jacket on the coat rack, he began to sing, "You for me and me for you, that's the way it's going to be! This time baby, we won't be in and out of love! I will be me for you and you for me!"

Randy paused momentarily as he headed for his desk. "Wow," he said to himself, "I wonder where that suddenly came from?" Then, pausing again for a second, Randy spoke again, softly, "Damn Brett, I miss you so much." Disciplining himself, Randy brushed off the gentle snowfall of pleasant memories of his old lover he was suddenly experiencing and focused his mind on office duties. Now that he no longer had to work a double shift, working under cover at the office job downtown, it would be a good day to catch up on things at his real job as Lynn Gordon Matson's office manager and guy Friday. However, instead of feeling bright eyed and bushy tailed, the loss of sleep over the past couple of weeks had Randy feeling bit fuzzy around the edges and quite a bit less lackluster than his usual self. He decided to run down to the lobby to get a hot cup of coffee with cream, his "wake-up juice", exchange his customary morning greetings with the lobby merchants and check the office's lock box in the lobby mail room. Some twenty-five minutes later, Randy was back in office, a large, steaming cup of fresh coffee beside him, along with a a couple plump sweet rolls he had picked up from the Just Desserts bakery in the lobby. The caffeine from the coffee and sugar from the sweet rolls was just the jolt Randy needed to bulldoze through the backlog of clerical duties, sorting the mail, checking the voice mail and the e-mail, and then beginning do the filing, filing which had piled up the past few weeks especially with all the new assignments, his boss had begun to take on. It now seemed like he was making some headway in putting the stacks of paper and documents in the proper places. As Randy went through all the different client and case files, he began to wonder again why Matson was taking on all these jobs, some which did not pay that well, especially since the last couple of corporate assignments had brought in some big bucks. He could tell taking on all these assignments was taking a toll on Beef, making him a bit frazzled and grumpy at times. Was there some financial crisis that his boss was not telling him about?

As Randy sat at his desk, wondering about the possibilities and reading Beef Matson's reports on his latest cases, the fatigue Randy had used the coffee to out run, caught up with him again. His shoulders began to slouch, his head drooping forward in increments as his mind began to fill with a fuzziness of pleasant images and emotions. Behind Matson's blond assistant, the form of Brett Parker, Randy's old partner, was attempting to congeal, trying very hard to make his presence known. His devotion and love for Randy still very much alive, Brett's spirit was helplessly drawn to his special lover, attempting to comfort Randy by trying to massage the blonde's shoulders, something Brett had done many times in his physical form. Randy could not feel the massage, yet powerful imagery from the past began to flood his mind, blocking out his physical surroundings. Pleasant images began to take shape around him, Randy was only minutely aware he was now resting his head on his office desk, then the desk vanished and his head was on a pillow, he reached out and pulled himself closer to Brett, who was lying with his back towards him. He pulled himself close to Brett, his nose nudging the back of Brett's neck. Brett felt so firm, yet soft, Randy could smell traces of the shaving cream Brett used. Randy felt so warm and secure, it was nice sleeping in again at Brett's old, small apartment…

There was a sudden bang from the office door followed by a jingling of keys and a loud click to the door lock. Randy lurched his head up from his desk, sitting up stiffly, trying to get his eyes to focus. The door opened revealing the very solid form of Beef Matson. "Randy," announced Beef loudly, "What are you doing here?" "Well, I kind of like work here," answered Randy, struggling to gather his wits about him, "If you were expecting John Barrowman, I realize that I could be a disappointment." "I mean…" continued Matson flashing a knowing smile, "That I specifically told you to take the day off." "I know, but with me working that undercover job during the day, things were really getting piled up here." "Randy, I know you've been coming in here at night while putting in an eight hour day at that office job downtown, so you've been putting in some fourteen hour days. There's no reason for that. I told you to hang loose until that assignment was finished, remember?" "But, there's still…" "Randy, there's no deadline involving our office work, there's no rush to get this stuff done, it's not like we have to file a report with a corporate office. Nobody's writing a mystery serial about what we do here."

"What are you doing here?"

"You sure?"
"Positive. As long as the clerical stuff gets done in a timely fashion, I'm good with it, especially when we're dealing with a heavy work load. I'm pretty sure I already pointed that out to you. So why couldn't you just stay in the sack this morning?"
"Well, it could be too that after working at that hell hole downtown for the past couple weeks I just wanted to come in this morning to hug my desk and kiss the floor of this office. Gawd Beef, that place sucked! I've never worked with such a bunch of dried up witches. It was like they all hated being alive."
"I think part of the deal there was that whole company is crumbling into the dust and employee morale suffers as a result. By the way, did you deposit the check we got from that company immediately, as I told you?"
"The day before yesterday."
"Good, wanted to make sure we got our payment before they decide to hit the bankruptcy courts."
"Still," complained Randy, "they went out of their way just to be vicious, nasty to me."
"They were just trying to set you up, the women involved in the pilferage, get everyone to dislike you to draw attention away from what they were doing."

"You seemed to know right from the start that it was the two boss ladies who were involved with computer thefts," commented Randy. "How did you know that?"
"Pretty simple," answered Matson, "In every other similar case involving company theft, usually somebody in management is involved. It's because management, especially upper management, has access to everything because they've got all the keys. Even though the management type will point to some low level type, like the Norbie Filkins you were playing, as the culprit; a low level employee wouldn't have the access to carry off a large scale pilferage like the kind that was going on. I placed you in the undercover position so as to allow the two boss ladies to have someone to accuse, so they could feel secure enough to continue their illegal activities and we could catch them in the act, which we did."
"How did you know that Sandra Elliot would just start spilling the beans about everything just by making it look like we were whispering about her. I mean, she is one tough cookie, the queen witch of the witches. People at that office may not have liked me, but they all hated her."
"Pretty simple too. Ms. Elliot's a lone wolf, tough exterior, insecure inside. Doesn't interact with people very well except to order others around. She doesn't like to be touched and she kept telling me how much she watches out for herself. That everything she got in her life she got by watching out for herself. Not a team player and doesn't trust anyone else at all. So I just played to her paranoia and it paid off."

"What cha do with John Barrowman?"

Matson unzipped his black jacket and began placing on the coat hanger next to the filing cabinet by the front door. "So," he asked Randy, "What cha do with John Barrowman?"
"Funny," replied Randy, "Say, I need to ask you something serious. Like you've really been going crazy by taking all kinds of cases of late. The last several weeks you've really gone heavy into the multitasking. Not to be critical, but you've been getting tons of assignments and still you're taking in more and more. I've gotten to think about it and I started wondering if, well…like is our office solvent? Should I be looking for another job?"
"Randall," Beef growled in a dismissive tone.
"Well, Lynn…" defended Randy in a somewhat whiney voice, "I usually don't know what's going on until after the fact when I read your case reports. And in my short life I've worked for way too many companies that suddenly folded under me. Besides, I've also been watching how stressed out you're getting, you've been putting in way too many hours and I think you're on the expressway to burn out. Beef, I really like you. I mean, really, really like you. You're one of the nicest, if not the nicest, guys I've ever met. It's amazing that I landed a job working for someone like you. So maybe I have a vested interest in keeping you healthy. I don't want to see anything bad happen to you. If everything's all right financially, then maybe a you might consider a little vacation…"
"Whoa…" cautioned Matson. "Gosh, Randy," he complained, "You can be such the den mother at times."
"Well, I didn't know what to think. You're taking on all this work, getting really stressed out…"
"Yeah, guess I've been a little a grumpy of late."
"Try a lot."
"Okay," Matson smiled and sat down on the corner of Randy's desk. "First off, financially we're doing super fine, so stop worrying about that. Next, I'll make a deal with you. I'll sit down with you this morning and go through all the cases with you so you know exactly what's going on with everything and I'll explain my motivation for taking in so much work. But then you have to promise me you'll take tomorrow off. By that I mean you sleep in late so that by this time tomorrow, you'll be turning over in your bed for the third or forth time and going back to sleep. Now, is that a deal?"
"Deal," responded Randy, looking very much relieved, an emotional weight dropped from his shoulders.

"The last I saw of him was his badonkadonk butt bouncing as he ran down the sidewalk."

"We got a nice surprise in this morning's mail," Randy began to undo the flaps of a large package on his desk that he had opened earlier. "Does the name Janice Davis ring a bell?" asked Randy, "You know, that woman whose mugging you interrupted a couple of weeks ago?"
"Oh yeah…" remembered Matson, "When we were meeting with that real estate broker at one of his properties."
"I don't remember exactly what she did for a living," continued Randy, "think she worked for a specialty foods company…anyway, she filled this boxed to the brim with packages of specialty coffee, herb teas I've never heard of and little packages and cans of all sorts of gourmet snack thingies. Here's the letter she included, we made quite the impression, she says that we're the best gay guys she's ever met, she's never going to let anybody talk down gays, and a mess of other glowing type stuff. She also says you restored her faith in humanity. You really earned your merit badge that day. I still find it amazing that those guys would try to jump her while we were standing just a few feet away."
"They probably didn't see us there," responded Beef. "It was twilight, we were standing in that alley next to that broker's Lexus. I saw that woman walking by but I didn't see those guys until I heard her scream. Then I looked up and saw that guy with the dirty blond hair starting to grab her."
"Good thing we happened to be there, you were on that guy in not much of a second."
"Well, you were right there after me," reminded Matson with a mild laugh, "going after that other low life dude."
"It was instinctive I guess," replied Randy, shrugging, "just ran after you. Except I was going to try to be more diplomatic, you know, try to talk the other guy into standing down. If that didn't work, I was going to briefcase him, you know, with that big briefcase you always have me carry when we meet a client."
"That briefcase makes us look more professional," advised the private investigator, "and, as you've realized, it might have other uses."
"I'll remember to put a brick or two inside of it next time," said Randy. "Anyway, when I faced the other bad guy, I didn't even have to do anything. He kept looking over to his buddy who was screaming because you were applying your blue-eyed thunder on him…"
"Blue-eyed thunder?" laughed Matson. "I'll have to remember that one. All I did was tell that guy to take his hands off the woman and he replies to me in a punk-ass tone of voice, 'Wha', you gonna try to stop me?' So I stopped him. He should have known better than to dare me like that."
"One does not say things like that to my boss and expect to walk away unscathed," observed Randy. "Anyway…" Matson's assistant continued, "The other guy suddenly had a look of sheer terror in his face and he turns to me and says, 'Don't you go trying anything, man.' Then he turns around and starts running down the street. The last I saw of him was his badonkadonk butt bouncing as he ran down the sidewalk."
"Well," commented Beef, "Everything worked out all right, nobody got hurt…"
"Except maybe for the mugger," reminded Randy, "When you were kind of like tenderizing his face…"
"That, Randy, is an occupational hazard for muggers whether they accept it or not. Plus, our dear Ms. Davis got a couple of well-placed kicks to his shins as well."
"Hmmm," commented Randy, "Like you said, everything worked out all right."
"Wow," said Beef, examining the contents of the parcel, "This will really add to our office larder, might even last up to Christmas. Intense aromas, this is all the premium quality stuff…nice."

"I'll make a file for him in the bald, fat ugly bastard section."

"On the downbeat…" continued Randy, "That broker we were meeting? He left a voice message, I forwarded it to your voice mail. He decided that we weren't…professional enough…and he decided will probably retain someone else."
"I expected as much," grumbled Matson, "from that rich, straight, bald, and fat ugly bastard."
"His mother might think he's cute…"
"If she's got bad eyes. You remember what that bald, fat ugly bastard did when we went after those muggers? He got back into his Lexus and locked the doors. Remember, he didn't get out until the cops showed up."
"Yeah, I remember. He looked a little shook up, kind of flush. His bald head was shiny, like he was sweating."
"Sweating like a fat, ugly bastard."
"Lynn…"
"Sorry, doesn't bother me that much really," assured Beef Matson. "Like I said, I expected as much. He wanted me to investigate pilferage at the building he was renovating into office condos. I did some casual observation of the site and watched the independent contractors he had working on the building. A bunch of young punks. Saw them openly buy street drugs on the two occasions I parked near the building. From their other behavior, like harassing street people and throwing debris onto the street from the windows, they appeared to be totally out of control probably using drugs on the job. I also saw the guys accept deliveries of building materials and then later load much of the material into their own trucks and haul it to somebody's home. The bottom line is, if I could observe all of that from a little casual observation, it should be way obvious to anyone what is going on, even to a fat, ugly bastard of a real estate broker. What I think is going on is that Mister broker is stealing from himself, using the materials on some other properties he owns and just wanted to pull an insurance scam, maybe hiring a private investigator to legitimatize a phony concern over theft.

I noticed a bit of concern in the broker guy's face after the incident with the muggers, when the cops mentioned I used to be on the police force. That bit of information seemed to distress him quite a bit for some reason. Not professional enough? I think the issue is that he's a bit worried that we're professional enough to catch on to whatever scam he's cooked up."
"Well, then…" said Randy, attempting to inject a bit sunshine into conversation, "I take it that our association with this client has ended."
"Yup," replied Matson tersely.
"I'll make a file for him in the bald, fat ugly bastard section."
A gentle smile came to Beef Matson's face.

There were some distractions and delays but Matson was true to his word and the morning conference Beef had promised Randy became a working lunch of sandwiches and soft drinks purchased from a local restaurant, with the pair in Beef's office, a scattering of files and papers on the floor and furniture. Matson was in a good mood, happily munching on a sandwich while lounging in his swivel chair behind his desk.
"Before we start on the case files, let me totally reassure you that the agency is on solid financial ground, I'm doing better financially than I ever have. Sorry to have given you the wrong impression by all the jobs I've been bringing in. Guess I can be a little single minded at times."
"Yup," muttered Randy, dividing his culinary attention between a roasted chicken sandwich and a little plastic container of mustard potato salad.
Matson finished chewing on another bite of his sandwich and spoke again. "The thing is, I guess it's that old adage of bringing in the hay while the sun's shining."
"Huh?"
"Well, things are going really well now and I wanted to make sure things stay that way by building up a little nest egg. I guess I've established a fairly good reputation because of all the referrals I'm getting. I also remember the bad days when I just started out, the rotten little places which I had to use for an office, including one place where I had a very annoying troll for a landlord. So our office, as humble as it might be is definitely a step up for me. The building owner called me a few weeks ago, she likes me as tenant, she was impressed by how you spiffed up the office so she's going to do some free upgrades to our office to insure that I stay on in the building."
"She probably also liked that investigative report we gave her on those properties she was going to invest in, plus the fact that the other building tenants like having you around because you're sort of like having a free security officer in the building," added Randy, "Also maybe your recent involvement in the Tawny Clover case, my boss is hobnobbing with celebrities."
"Anyway," continued Beef, "things are going well, and I'd like to keep things that way by, like I said, building up a nest egg by working these jobs that are coming in. That way, if things slow down in the future, we don't have to worry. I know I wouldn't like the idea of going back to work for someone else again, my own experiences, the stories you told me about the places you've worked at and then how the people were treating you at this latest undercover assignment when they thought you were a lowly temp employee, just confirmed the importance of maintaining the financial security of this agency. The idea of being tethered to a desk in some corporate office, yeah, that would be beige hell for me. When you started relating to me how you were having to deal with a bunch of anti-gay crap in that office hell you were working in the past couple of weeks it brought back less than fond memories of the on the job fag bashing I experienced…and man, who needs to deal with that crap? So I'm making hay while the sun shines just to make sure our future is secure."

"Well, okay then," said Randy, "but I'm still thinking that working to exhaustion is not the answer, maybe moderation is."
"Point taken."
"Maybe a little vacation for you? Nothing major, maybe a long weekend? Just getting away from it all for awhile? I know you've been spending your weekends in this office or doing surveillance."
"Don't really feel like a vacation, yet."
"Some place sunny and warm, pool, cute guys, party?"
"Actually, I think I'd like someplace snowy, quiet. Big lodge somewhere in a forest, big comfy bed…with a cute naked guy in it."
"Well then," said Randy, "Do that. Halloween is coming up soon, the weather will be getting colder in some of the mountain resort areas. Do a mental health holiday."
"Yeah," agreed Beef, "That sounds like a good idea. But first I need…"
"I knew you'd add a 'but first'," observed Randy.
"Den mother," retorted Beef.
"I have a vested interested in keeping you healthy, you're my employer, the person I depend upon for my livelihood," embellished Randy.
"Actually…I just accepted another job for an assignment out of state. That could be my vacation. You could come with me. It'll be fun."
"Seriously? When did this happen?"
"Got a call the other day. Should be one of my more fun jobs, finding a secret room in some old buildings. Maybe some long stashed gangster loot."
"Really? Cool. Where's the assignment?"
"Milwaukee."
"Milwaukee?" asked Randy dryly.
"Milwaukee. It's the largest city in Wisconsin."
"I know that, Beef. I mean, Milwaukee in October? That's not my idea of a vacation fun spot. I was thinking maybe of someplace like Palm Springs, Palm Beach, Key West…"
"Nope, assignment's in Milwaukee. It'll be fun. You can get us a nice hotel."
"Ummm…" Randy uttered discouragingly, "I grew up in that part of the country, and October's cold, damp and just not fun and Milwaukee's even further north than that. Plus, Milwaukee's a port on Lake Michigan, I'm thinking fog, and cold and damp."
"Just like here in San Francisco," added Beef cheerily.
"Well then, what's the point of me going all the way to Milwaukee when I can experience that right here at home?"

Matson began to describe the job in Milwaukee, attempting to sell Randy on the idea of coming along. A bearish type gay gay who lived in Milwaukee had been referred by friends to Matson. The gay guy and his relatives had just inherited a group of old factory buildings in the Milwaukee area from a great-uncle. The heirs had were anxious to have cash instead of the structures and had quickly put the real estate up for sale. However, recently, some papers were discovered in the great uncle's belongings indicating that one of the structures had a floor that was leased to Chicago area gangsters during a time period from the 1930s to the early 1950s. The uncle's papers indicated that the leased floor had a secret room from which the gangsters used to oversee their Milwaukee operations as well as entertain and receive visitors. A floor plan with the papers indicated that the room might have also included a safe room or vault. However, the papers neglected to state in which building the leased floor, with the secret room, was located. Since the sale of their properties was soon to be completed, the heirs wanted Matson to try and quickly find which of their buildings had the leased floor, if the secret room still existed and especially if the vault room still contained some mobster goodies.

Matson was stoked by the romanticism of finding a lost gangster vault, plus the pay for the assignment was reasonable and all expenses were paid. Still, he could not sell Randy on the idea of coming along, his assistant quipped that the adventure would probably end up being titled "Indiana Jones And The Discarded Beer Bottles". Randy feared that his boss was not yet cured of his bout of workaholism and the idea of spending a week with Beef running around old factory buildings was not in the least enticing. He also pointed out to his boss that working in another city was not a vacation. Finally, the private investigator gave up on selling the Milwaukee trip to Randy, letting him know that he would be leaving for the Beer City in a couple of days after he finished some assignments in the Bay area and that the Milwaukee assignment would probably last less than a week and he would be back in the office. Next, Beef began briefing Randy on the cases he had been working on, primarily the ones he had just wrapped up.

"S'pose I should start with the Tawny Clover case, you're probably most interested in that one, said Beef."
"Me and every tabloid in the world," agreed Randy. "By the way, that guy from one of the tabloids called again, says he'll up his offering price if you can furnish him with some photos of the death scene."
"Did you tell him what I told you to tell him?"
"Basically, but I cleaned up your language considerably. I was firm, but diplomatic. I was talking to Tony at Just Desserts this morning and he had the idea of making some phony photos by having me lie on a floor wearing a wig and then selling those photos to the tabloid guy for thousands of dollars. He was kidding of course."
"Tell Tony that he should stick to his pastries, they're a lot more tasteful than his lame ideas. Like Clover's music?"
"Not really, all her songs are just the same electronic boom-chuck, boom-chuck, boom-chuck. I don't think anyone thought her music was that great, I think it was all about her image of being the boy toy, slut celeb who was always getting into the news because of her latest outrageous escapade."
"Sadly, I agree with you. Her image is what did her in," added Matson. "Clearly the woman was out of control and no one around her bothered to intervene, she was surrounded by a bunch of parasites, her manager, her mother and other relatives, who all were trying to cash in on her notoriety. People told me that her inner circle actually seemed to encourage her more destructive behavior, the thinking was the more scandalous headlines, the more cash it would bring in for those who were hanging on her star."
"In the last couple of years her star status was beginning to slip," added Randy, "I mean, you've got to have something more going for yourself than constantly getting into trouble. So her star was beginning to fall from the public's eye."
"And no one was there to catch a falling star," commented Beef.

"There was speculation in the press that I was investigating her death as a possible murder. I wasn't. It was clear from the start that it was a suicide. From the evidence the police had, it was very evident that it was suicide from a drug overdose. The hotel she had died at just called me in to make sure that none of their employees had any involvement with the drug overdose. In spite of Tawny's history of drug abuse, she overdosed on drugs prescribed for her, no illegal stuff was found in her room. While I was at the hotel, I was contacted by a couple of old girl friends of hers, some friends she stayed close to since high school and I had a very discreet meeting with them at the hotel. Seems these two friends were the only people she felt she could confide in and when she called them a few days before her death, Tawny was hysterical. She told her friends they she had come to San Francisco and gone on one of her party girl binges, getting in touch with some of her drug contacts, dropping out of sight and partying, which in her case meant getting totally fried on street drugs.

Her girlfriends related that Tawny had told them that her drug contacts took her to some apartment building, where she partied for a few days, though she didn't remember much of what happened. Then she got a call from some guy who was the manager of the apartment building where she stayed and he wanted her to meet with him so he should show her some video he took of her."
"Uh-oh," commented Randy.
"The manager of the apartment building is a really sleazed out meth head and he had taken some very damaging video of Tawny's behavior while she was strung out. When he met with Tawny he showed her the tape, I guess telling her that he intended to sell the tape either to the tabloids or some Internet site, he intended to make big money from it and he also now considered that he and Tawny had a special relationship…more specifically, he told her she was his bitch. Tawny told her girlfriends that she had tried to buy the tape from the guy, but he wouldn't sell, wanting to use the tape to exact a special relationship from her. In Tawny's final conversations with her friends, she asked them that if anything happened to her, to recover the tape for her and have it destroyed so that her two kids would never see it. Tawny committed suicide a couple of days after that call."
"There must have been something horrible on that tape," commented Randy.
"Well, I didn't make any reference as to what was on the tape in the case file," related Matson, "That's black hole information, so…"
"I know," interrupted Randy, "Black hole stuff is stuff we keep quiet about until you write your memoirs, if even then."
"The tape mostly showed Tawny in an totally incoherent state of mind, however, most damaging, the manager had filmed her going to the bathroom in the apartment building hallways."
"Oy vey!," said Randy.
"Big oy vey," replied Beef. "Tawny's girlfriends wanted me to get the tape and destroy it. In the case file, I just mention the case involving recovering a piece of personal property, don't mention the tape at all. The girlfriends were able to give me the address of the apartment building. Long story short, I contacted the manager telling him I was from a tabloid and would be interested in forking out big bucks if he had any photos or videos of Tawny. He was very eager about the big bucks. I altered my appearance a bit so that when I met with him I'd look like what he probably thought a sleaze media mogul might look like."
"How'd you play it?" asked Randy.
"As Howard Stern with a little Gilbert Gottfried thrown in," was Matson's response.

"The sleaze bag played the tape for me, so I was able to see where he was keeping it. Told him how interested I was in the tape, that all I would have to do would be to go to my office to have a check written up from purchasing, or if he preferred, I could get him cash, so he wouldn't have to bother with cashing a check. He found me pretty convincing, probably he was just focused on how much crack or meth he could buy with the cash he thought he would get for the tape. I left, though just long enough to watch him leave his apartment to go down to the local convenience store where he did a little drug selling. Then I did a little cat burglary, I know, shame on me, and promptly removed the tape. I took the tape to Tawny's girlfriends and the three of us destroyed the tape. I also called some drug enforcement folks I know on the police force and let them know about the apartment building manager's extra curricular activities in drug dealing and they arranged to have an undercover officer buy drugs from him and then promptly arrest him. The building manager ended up having a very bad day."
"At least part of that story had part of a happy ending," added Randy.

"That he dressed like he was trying to revive the polyester fashion industry all by himself?"

"By the way," continued Randy, "Who is that idiot who keeps leaving threatening voice mails accusing you of trying to ruin the reputation of some big mucky-muck important guy somewhere because you worked on the Tawny Clover case and some other cases?"
"An idiot," stated Matson.
"More…?"
"Arrgh…" grumbled Beef. "Do you remember that guy who came in to talk with me, that guy you described as, and I might add, I'm eternally grateful to you that you waited until the guy was long out of ear shot before you voiced your comments about him…what was it? Oh yeah, that he dressed like he was trying to revive the polyester fashion industry all by himself?"
"Yeah, I remember, the guy in the government issue polyester suit."
"He was an FBI agent."
"Thought so!"
"Well, Mr. polyester was here to ask me what I knew about a wealthy banker and the owner of a large number of properties in the bay area. In the last few cases I worked on, the banker's name kept turning up. Remember the case I was working on for Berry Starr?"
"The lawyer?"
"Yes, the case where the gay residents of an apartment building were suddenly all getting very sick, and Berry had me investigate the property, to determine if the building was making the residents sick. Turned out it was the crazy lady manager, crazy and with a substance abuse problem. For years she had made extra money by grabbing and selling the personal property of tenants she had evicted or tenants that had died, like from AIDS or whatever and she made good money on the side doing that. Apparently, she was planning on retiring and decided she wanted to make some extra money before that and she needed a few extra tenants to kick the bucket so she could make that extra money through some estate sales of the deceased tenants. She decided that she was going to help the tenants become deceased by putting antifreeze and other goodies into the tenants food and she was only doing it to the gay tenants because she didn't think much of homos. Complete and total nutso sociopath.

Turned out that when I looked into who owned that building, along with a couple of others the lady manager used to manage, they were all owned by the same person, a wealthy banker named Harold Benedict."
"Never heard of him," said Randy, "We probably hang with different crowds."
"Sometimes the buildings were run by different management companies, but always the same owner. All the properties were mismanaged in the same manner, there was a strong drug abusing element, the places were overrun with vermin, meth users were deliberately infesting the places with bed bugs to drive out the better tenants and so on. When I looked into the owner of the apartment building in the Tawny Clover case, the same guy turned up again. Just for the heck of it, I recently did a quick survey of crime reports and found the buildings owned by this guy all had way above averages for things like drug activity and illegal aliens, way above similar properties in the same neighborhoods with other owners. That was just for my own curiosity, I wasn't investigating the guy and I didn't report my findings to anyone else. Right after that is when the FBI agent shows up. Apparently some analyst with some crime tracking agency was going through some statistics and found the same high crime stats for Benedict's properties and eventually the FBI started doing an investigation on him. Their investigation has been a lot more thorough than mine and has been going on a whole lot longer. My inquiries about the banker raised a flag with them, and the agent showed up here wanting to know why I was inquiring about Harold Benedict's properties and wanted to know what I had found out about him. The agent was a lot more forthcoming than they usually are, usually they're not very sharing at all. The FBI wanted me to cooperate with the agency by not denying that I was investigating the banker, basically not say anything at all, implying that maybe I was investigating the banker. The banker supposedly has no idea that the FBI is looking into his activities and the agency wants to keep it that way for awhile by making it look like I'm the one doing the investigating. While I'm worried about securing my financial future, Mr. banker is swimming in the bucks, yet the agent told me he's using his properties for a whole mess of extracurricular activities such as drug sales, human trafficking, money laundering and so on."
"Hobbies, maybe?" commented Randy.
"The agent said it was the new economy of tax free income from illegal activities," replied Matson in a cynical tone. "Large property owners like Mr. Benedict are realizing the huge profit potential of allowing their properties to be used for drug sales and human trafficking and that the income from that is tax free or can be laundered to make it appear to come from something else. The agent suggested that Mr. Benedict probably found using his properties to generate money through illegal activities irresistible. An INS raid on one of his properties netted forty illegal aliens hanging out in a laundry room waiting to be processed to some other part of the country. Each of those people had paid thousands of dollars to be smuggled into the United States. Plus, you can bring in a whole lot more money by selling crack or meth from an apartment than you can bring in from rent even if it's a dump. Mr. Benedict put absolutely no money into the maintenance of his properties, the buildings are falling apart and just about all of the building managers seem to have a substance abuse problem. I guess you wouldn't care about maintaining your properties if the primary income you're getting from those properties comes from something other than rent. The FBI wants more time to look into the guy, to see how closely he's connected to what's going on in his properties. This banker is a big contributor to conservative causes, supposedly above suspicion in areas such as drug trafficking and money laundering, so the feds want to accumulate a lot of evidence before they move in on the guy. Mr. Benedict also knows a number of very important people and has a lot of political clout so he's not an easy person to mess with and not somebody you'd want to cross, and he also very tight with the religious right."
"You always got to watch those quiet religious types," replied Matson's assistant. "You say this guy is a banker? Why in the hell then would he need money from drugs, human smuggling, etc.?"
"Greed knows no bounds," replied Matson with Randy shaking his head in a matter of fact response. "Anyway, the banker is aware that somebody's been looking into his dealings, though I guess he's not sure who, and the FBI would like it to appear that I'm the one doing the snooping. So…the idiot who's been calling us leaving threatening messages…he's some guy working for Harold Benedict, who wants me to stop looking into the background of the banker, even though I'm not investigating Mr. Benedict. By the way, the FBI agent told me that the people involved with the activities at the bankers properties are really nasty characters, so we might want to be aware of the people around us until their investigation is finished."
"Oh…that's cute", replied Randy, "I'll definitely put those bricks in the briefcase now."

Randy and his boss finished the briefing on the cases that the private investigator had finished working on and the few that were in progress. The two men then began picking up of the file folders and other materials that needed to be placed back in the files. Beef casually glanced over at his assistant who sorting through a pile of papers feeling extreme fondness for Randy. It was so very good to have this young man working for him. Everything seemed to be going well for Matson and Randy was a strong part of what made everything seem so right. Matson was very confident of Randy's ability to handle the office while he was in Milwaukee. His assistant was an extremely competent administrator, a take charge kind of guy who would often let Beef know of a potential problem after he had already solved it. Randy also seemed to have a radar, an intuitive sense which allowed him to anticipate situations, a quality Beef liked. His assistant's hardy optimism and occasional wry comments were like having an electronic mood freshener for the office, much appreciated during difficult times, offering a counterbalance to Matson's usually serious nature. Randy's fresh good looks, blond hair, and blue eyes were also very good on the eyes.

"Damn, Randy. You feel so good."

Matson brought a pad of paper over to Randy with sketches of what the office might look like after the possible remodeling of the office suite he had discussed with the building owner. He and Randy discussed the drawings with Randy making suggestions, until the blond assistant let out one mighty yawn. "Looks like it's getting awfully tired outside for somebody," remarked Matson.
"I'll be all right," replied Randy, "I just need to stretch my legs. Run out and get myself a serious size coffee while I'm at it." Randy stood up, turning towards the door headed out of Beef's office. Beef stood up too, pulling Randy back. "You really do need to get some sleep. A good crash will do you good. Look how fuzzy your eyes are."
"Now who's being a den mother?"
"I think I'd be more like a den daddy," said Beef. "Bet your neck and shoulders are all stiff from those two weeks you played undercover clerical worker."
"Yeah…they got a lot of work out of me."
"Here, let me give you a neck and shoulder massage. I'm pretty good at this." Randy did not resist and Matson began to carefully and firmly knead Randy's neck and shoulders. Matson's assistant began to go slightly limp. "Oh man, you are good at this." Matson pulled Randy back into him slightly as he continued. The blonde's hair smelled slightly sweet from shampoo and Matson could also smell the warm, sweet smell of Randy's body. Randy began to relax even more and leaned further into Beef. The detective continued to think how good it was to have Randy working for him, how good Randy was for him, and now, how good Randy felt. Matson bent his head forward to smell a spicy smell of shaving cream that radiated from his assistant's neck. The soft hair on the back of Randy's head caressed Matson's nose. Beef left his face rest against Randy's neck for a second or two then began to gently lick and chew the blonde's neck while continuing to knead the neck and shoulder muscles. Randy offered no complaint and instead muttered, "Oh…that good…so nice…real good."

Matson turned his assistant around to face him, continuing the massage of Randy's shoulders. He paused to stare into Randy's face, enjoying the tired, but beautiful blue eyes, the blond eyebrows, the handsome young face. Randy looked up into Lynn Gordon Matson's face. His boss was indeed handsome, the noble, masculine face framed by a head of healthy, raven hair. It felt right to be this close and stare right into Matson's deep blue eyes. Matson began again to explore Randy orally, beginning by licking his neck, and then Randy's cheeks and then using his tongue to explore one of Randy's ears. The only sound Randy let out was short, pleased grunts, holding on to his boss while squirming ever so slightly. The blond assistant began to pull himself into Matson and began to lightly lick the stubble on Matson's jaw.

Lowering his voice almost to a whisper, the detective began to speak to Randy while continuing his massage, gently, as if he were cupping a bouquet of flowers in his hands preparing to smell them. "Don't worry about anything, everything's fine. I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you do and how glad I am to have you working for me. You don't need to work so hard, you're doing things way above and beyond what I would ask anyone to do. You need to relax just a bit, I don't want you getting sick on me." Matson paused a moment, placed a hand on the back of Randy's neck, pushed the blonde's face into his own and spoke again in a loud whisper. "Damn, Randy. You feel so good."
Randy grunted slightly and pushed his face into Beef's. "So do you, you feel really good." Matson began to mouth Randy's cheek, using the tip of his tongue to draw little circles onto the soft flesh. The detective's mouth moved closer to Randy's, Matson's lips finally meeting the pink mounds of his assistant's lips. Randy's lips eagerly accepted this advance and Beef began to gently chew on Randy's bottom lip.

Behind Randy, from the outer office, there was a loud crack, followed by two more even louder cracks which proved impossible to ignore, followed still by a chorus of many small objects colliding with each other resulting in thunder of noise. The embrace was broken, with Randy turning to see what had caused the disturbance. "What the hell…!"
The top shelf of three anchored into the wall behind Randy's desk had picked that exact moment to become loose from the wall and it had fallen, knocking the contents of the shelf below it and the articles on Randy's desk onto the floor in one grand mess. Randy and Beef released their embrace with Matson's assistant rushing into the outer office. "How in the hell did this happen?" complained Randy, "Looks like something just pulled the anchors right out of the wall. Good thing I didn't have anything breakable on those shelves." Unseen by Randy and Beef, standing next to the shelving, was the spirit form of a very angry Brett Parker, who had just learned that strong emotions could transcend the two dimensions and allow him to affect objects in the more tangible world that his old lover lived in.

"Damn," called Randy from the outer office. "I'll have to get some heavy duty anchors and spackling paste from the hardware store. What a mess!" Matson paused momentarily to wistfully study his assistant as Randy surveyed the debris scattered over the outer office. "Perhaps this interruption was for the best…" he thought before going to help Randy clean up the mess.

********
"Oh, I'm not in any danger, I'm standing right under the porch light and plus there's light from the street light."

It was almost 2 am on an October morning as a young woman, slowly walking the short walkway from her car in the driveway to her front porch concentrating completely on the conversation she was having on her cell phone. Though the air was cool it was not chilling and the woman continued her leisurely stroll to the front porch and her front door. An energetic breeze stimulated the mostly bare tree branches and the shadows cast by the street lights on the lawn and house made it look like giants were doing some sort of harvest dance. The breeze made the remaining dried leaves remaining on the oak trees rustle and whisper. The woman continued her slow stroll, pausing occasionally, the blue light of her phone gently spotlighting her face. "I can't believe I'm just getting home," she spoke, "It was such a long day at work, then one of the girls said let's go for a pizza. We had a couple of drinks after the pizza, then we stopped at Margie's house to see how the remodeling job is going. Then I was sitting at her house watching some cable movie with her kids, and I caught the time. It was like omigawd, I have to get up for work tomorrow!"

The woman continued her slow stroll, the shadows of the tree branches dancing over her, shadowy hands grabbing at her coat. "It would be cool if you could come with me when I go down to the Loop in Chicago. I want to do my Christmas shopping for Matt early this year, instead of waiting until the last minute like last year. Oh God, I don't want to do that again. You know what, I mentioned at work that I was going to the Loop and that Cherly invited herself, can you believe that? I cannot stand her at work and I certainly don't want to have to put up with her on a day off. The nerve of that woman. I should just say no, you can't come. I hate you."

The young woman finally reached the stairs of the front porch and stepped up the three of them until she stood under the porch light. The shadows of the tree branches continued their wild dance of silhouettes against the house. "I think we've been talking since just after I left Margie's house. My mother says I have a cell phone addiction but then again, she always wants me to call her and chat. Matt says I need to have a car battery connected to my cell, because I use my phone so much. You know, like wheeling a car battery around with me, can you imagine what that would look like. I do need to cut back a little, especially after I got my last bill. I'm like totally avoiding texting for the time being. No, I'm still on my front porch. I'm a slow walker when I talk.

Oh, I'm not in any danger, I'm standing right under the porch light and plus there's light from the street light. Sometimes I chat forever on the porch before I pull out my door keys. Oh wait…" The young woman looked over to her neighbor's house to see the curtains pulled apart in a living room window with an older woman watching her. "It's my neighbor. She's getting a good look at me from her living room window. She always makes sure she gets a good look at me when I come home, so it's not like I don't have people watching me, so I think I'm pretty safe out here. Oh, she closed her curtain, she's seen enough."

The woman continued to chat on her phone ignoring the sinister dance of the tree branch shadows about her. However, one of the shadows was independent of the rhythm of the wind created shadow dance. A shadowy arm similar to those cast by the tree branches, yet different, moved steadily in one direction towards the woman. "Yeah, I suppose it is dumb just standing out here on the porch, it is kind of breezy and it is starting to get chilly. You sound like Matt. Matt says I just don't pay attention when I'm on my cell. Last week he was doing some work on my car for me and he asked for the oil cap. I was talking to Kathi at the time and I told him I couldn't find the cap. He says the cap has the word oil marked plainly on it. I told him the only cap I see is one that says seven hundred and ten. He tells me I'm looking at it upside down. I know, I felt like such a dizz." The shadowy arm became more distinct on the porch wall, shaped like a tree branch with jagged bark, forked at the end into smaller branches resembling a bony, spiked claw. The shadow continued its steady movement down the porch wall, now nearly almost touching the shadow cast by the young woman. "I probably need to get in now I've got some bug poking around my head. Say, let me know if you can get a sitter, then you can go to Chicago with me…"

The shadowy arm connected with the silhouette of the young woman. Then something powerfully and violently yanked the woman to a dark corner of the porch. The cell phone fell to the wooden floor of the porch, lying there for a brief second before being splattered with a spray of blood.

********

"Those perps really take us cops for a bunch of fools, don't they?"

The sun was fighting its way through clouds on a chilly Midwestern October morning sending shreds of bright light across a green lawn strewn with throw rugs of brown autumn leaves. Yellow police tape cordoned off much of the front yard with small groups of hastily dressed neighbors watching the display of television news trucks and police cars. An older senior police detective was conferring with another detective. The senior detective was thin, balding, a no nonsense demeanor and spoke with a bit of hoarse voice. The younger detective was explaining the peculiar particulars of the homicide which was disturbing the early morning peace of the small town neighborhood. "We sent the cousin of the victim home with her husband. She's been here since she discovered the body in the wee small hours of the morning and the whole thing is really taking a toll on her. She and her cousin have been best friends since they were kids."
"You said she made a call to 911?"
"Yes, she was talking to her cousin when the call was suddenly cut off and she kept trying to call her back but her cousin wouldn't answer, so she reported it to 911."
"And she came here herself and found the body?"
"I guess the dispatcher put the call on a low priority. The dispatcher thought it might have been just a dropped call or maybe the cousin just didn't want to answer her phone. The cousin said she tried for an half hour to forty-five minutes to get some response from the police and called back to 911 and was told it would take a while to get an officer to her cousin's house. So the cousin, I don't mean the victim obviously, drove here herself, she lives about a mile away. She called 911 again when she discovered the body on the porch and this time the dispatcher sent someone out immediately."
"Helen was dispatching last night, wasn't she."
"Yeah."
"I heard last week she's scheduled for another counseling session. Seems like every three months she has an attack of attitude and then we end up having a situation like this. Might solve the problem if she was just permanently transferred to another position. Anyway…"
"The cousin, was progressively becoming more distraught and what with being up all night, I thought it best to send her home."
"Good."
"The victim…it is all very, very strange. First off, we found the victim's cell phone on the porch, it's in perfect working condition, like it was knocked out of her hand. No theft, the victim still had her purse. The EMT's found no obvious injuries except for some puncture wounds and the victim was literally deflated, I mean, completely drained of blood. The techs told me they've seen just about all kinds of injuries, but they've never seen anything like this. The victim must have just been yanked to the corner of the porch and then…"

The senior detective raised his hand, silencing his colleague, "Before you start wasting a lot of time agonizing over the particulars of this case, let me save a whole lot of time by telling you a few things. I've seen it all and I've learned that if a case presents a set of circumstances that couldn't have possibly happened the way they are presented…things that are impossible…then they didn't happen that way. What you need to consider then are the simpler ways the things obviously did occur. No matter how mysterious a case may present itself, the solution to the case always has a simple answer. You're wasting too much time with these puzzle pieces rather than looking at the overall picture for the obvious solution. While you're focusing on these small pieces, I've pretty much got this case solved, except maybe for some little specifics. Listen up, I'll educate you.

You got a corpse lying in a corner of her own front porch, drained of all blood with no trace of blood anywhere except for a squirt on the floor of the porch. Let see, the human body contains about two or three gallons of blood and the EMTs tell us that removing all the blood like this would probably take a big machine and a while to do it. No sign of a struggle on the porch or any scratch marks from some machine being moved around. We've got a cousin of the victim who says she was talking with her on her cell phone when the attack occurred and then later came here and found the body in it's current and very unusual state. We have a neighbor who saw the victim talking on her cell phone on the porch shortly before the time when the attack is supposed to have occurred. We also have our medical technicians telling us that to produce a corpse such of the one that's on the porch, some elaborate and time consuming procedure would have to be done and not something that's done quickly on someone's front porch, at least not without attracting an audience. So we have an impossible homicide. No, we don't. And we don't have any vampires, demons or monsters from outer space. You'll find we don't have a case for the X-Files, the solution to this case will end up being a lot more mundane. When you have a homicide, the murderer is always a human, the cause of death is always a traditional one.

The homicide and blood draining couldn't have happened on the porch? Well then, it didn't happen on the porch. We'll find the murder was committed some place else through some conventional method of killing with the blood draining merely an attempt to throw us off the track, making the crime look like a satanic cult ritual. It's getting close to Halloween, so the perpetrators probably thought we would buy into that and we'd waste our time looking for a cult which doesn't exist. We'll find that the murder took place much earlier to allow the guilty parties to set up this scene. We'll find that no one saw the victim during the past few days and she hasn't shown up for work. The neighbor woman says she saw the victim using her cell phone tonight on the porch. The neighbor is either lying or saw someone dressed up as the victim. The cousin says she was talking to the victim when the attack happened? I say the cousin is lying and is more than likely the perpetrator, though there might be a possibility of more people being involved. The motive is probably one of the more common ones, a love triangle with somebody fooling around with someone else's boyfriend or hubby, or it could involve money, the victim had money that somebody else wanted or maybe the victim took somebody else's money. This case, as mysterious as it might seem right now, will break down to something very simple. Always does. When we get the coroner's report with the correct time of death and cause, the cell phone records of the victim and her cousin, and a report on the victim's whereabouts the past few days, you'll find it was a very conventional homicide which happened very much like the way I've described to you.

A blood drained corpse," the police detective muttered and then grunted, "Those perps really take us cops for a bunch of fools, don't they?"

********

"Leave me alone, let go of me!"

Located in an older neighborhood of a California town to the east of Oakland, the apartment was ground level and carved out of the back portion of an old house. A studio apartment, it had one large room with a bed, an attached kitchenette and a bath. One wall featured a set of windows with older venetian blinds which looked out at a back yard, a small flower garden and the alley beyond. Another wall held the doorway, a simple wooden door with window in the top half and an outer aluminum screen door, the entrance to the apartment. The apartment was small, very clean and spartan, being furnished with well preserved furniture from the 1950s. A ribbed cotton bedspread covered the single sized bed. The walls were bare except for a few small, framed posters with religious quotes.

The October night was warm, the interior valleys being warmer than the San Francisco Bay area. A young man dressed in a trench coat and a wool hat pulled low over his head, the resident of the apartment, glided along the sidewalk through the lattice of shadows cast by the tree branches. Preoccupied, the young man was unaware that as he walked through the backyard he was being carefully observed from the shadows by a figure camouflaged by darkness. Now, inside the apartment with the lights on and the darkness outside, the young man was unaware that the shadowy figure had stealthily approached his apartment and was standing just outside, watching the young man's movements with great interest through the cracks of the venetian blinds. The shadow watched as the young man brought out two boxes from his closet, placing them beside his bed. Then the young man opened a dresser drawer and pulled out a a mostly black scarf and tied it around his face until he looked somewhat like an Old West hold up man. The man then opened the boxes and began to lay out the contents on his bed. The youth pulled out two automatic weapons out of the first box and placed them on the bed. From the second box, he obtained three pistols and several boxes of shells, also placing them on the bed.

The young man's name was Joshua, he was not a problem youth, far from it; he was considered the ideal son, good-looking, intelligent, a high achiever, with a strong set of values and no one in his church had a stronger faith than he. Joshua's father was a strict conservative Christian and the son was a chip off the old block, though the chip Joshua inherited was the unforgiving judgmental moralist part of his father. The youth had been brought up in a household where the road to salvation was marked with very precise directional signs, the failure to obey any one of them would send you on a quick detour to fiery damnation. From the fundamentalist view of Joshua's father, leading a moral life meant following a precise regimentation of rules and behavior as if God were a master micromanaging auditor looking for any infraction of any minor rule so He could send you to hell.

Before Joshua reached high school, his father had his family join a mega-church, a very large congregation with many associations connected with it. A conservative and very market oriented church, its services in its huge auditorium like church, with surround sound, vast cinema screens, musicians, and multimedia presentations, coming across at times much like either a major marketing event, a rally for a professional sports team, or a big production in a Las Vegas casino. Joshua became much involved with the church, it really was the only thing that his father would allow him to be associated with, and the church activities allowed Joshua to get away from the fundamentalist boot camp that was his home life.

However, a problem arose. As Joshua grew older, he realized that he was gay. Homosexuals were simply not allowed in the church. Gays were virulently condemned and routinely made fun of. In a church the whose worship services were very much like Hollywood productions, only heterosexual relationships like those portrayed in 1950s era TV shows were thought to be normal. The church aggressively marketed its congregation as being composed entirely of happy, conforming people that fit that mold. Of course, things weren't exactly that way, but the church was mostly concerned with presentation. Joshua tried to conform, fit in with the marketing plan, tried to force his orientation out of his mind, but it refused to leave. Finally, he decided to keep his orientation secret and suppressed as best he could and much of his energy was spent doing just that. He knew that if anyone in the church, and especially his father, found out, there would be extreme consequences. However, the consequence of his denial, suppression and belonging to an anti-gay church was the formation of a growing tumor of self hatred within Joshua. And Joshua also wouldn't give himself a break, he was the one person he made accountable to his father's degree of fundamentalist perfection. That merely served to make his self hatred worse. His faith was strong and his church's condemnation of gays stirred a constant conflict within him. He kept questioning that if God hated homosexuals, why did God make him one, and why did the Almighty also place him in a life where he was surrounded by people who hated gays, and especially in a family with a father who hated homosexuals, although his father also had major disagreements with other groups, such as and especially Catholics, Jews, Mormons, and a host of other Protestant denominations, not to mention the many ethnic groups his father had also issues with.

There were other problems as well. Although Joshua expended much energy trying to be a good Christian, living according to the Bible as interpreted by his church and father, it became glaringly apparent that a number of church members thought their entry into heaven was guaranteed, especially those in the upper tier of church administration, and they seemed to be living by a different set of rules. Joshua also found that those church members who were wealthy or those thought of by the church as more marketable in terms of helping to promote the church, physically attractive individuals or those having an important position in government or industry, were held to different rules, as if they were reading a different Bible. Joshua found some of these people were engaged in the very behavior that the head church preachers would rail against in the pulpit.

Joshua's first exposure to this kind of hypocritical behavior was with an older woman named Gloria, who Joshua had encountered during a church retreat. The woman wanted Joshua to join her for a private Bible study, however, after a few short minutes it became clear that the woman had no interest in the Bible as Joshua fought off sexual advances from a woman old enough to be his grandmother. Furious about being rejected, the woman threatened to spread rumors about him and have him driven from his church. Poor, naive Joshua was shocked to find a an older woman of faith behaving this way. When he had reported the woman's behavi