She sobbed uncontrollably. Brookman and the Chief looked on with profound interest. The sobbing continued.

"More plot exposition!" shouted Brookman, "Less character development."

The Chief concurred. "Really. No one wants to hear all this bitterness. Give me some action!"

The sobbing continued, unfazed by the criticism. Finally she flung her head back and wailed, "Four murders in one day! It’s really too much to be borne!"

The screen closed in on her face. The organ music made a quick crescendo and then, just as quickly fell away as the screen faded to black.

"Mom, why is it so hard being a woman? When I get a yeast infection, I can’t wait seven days for relief. It’s just…"

Brookman, ever handy with the remote, quickly flipped the television off. He briefly considered turning it back on, to another channel of course. While he knew that the Chief had not made the 500-foot trek from the stationhouse to his office to watch TV, Brookman dreaded the true purpose of this meeting. The less-than-palatable sensation washed over him that this might be his last opportunity to watch TV for some time. Actually, it wasn’t the not watching of TV that really bothered him – it was more the doing of other stuff that weighed down his heart.

"Say what you will," the Chief started, "but I still believe that Susan Lucci is the most talented performed daytime television has seen in the past 30 years."

"An otherwise-talented supporting cast masks her very limited abilities. Which is why you won’t see Ms. Hall as the spokesmodel for a Big 3 automaker."

"Perhaps," replied Brookman, considering the merits of such an argument. "But I’m not sure your wife would agree."

"Son, the last time Mrs. Bouknight and I agreed on anything was five years ago when she suggested that she might be gaining a little weight. That fool woman wouldn’t know acting talent if it came up and bit her on her ass."

And what an ass it was, thought Brookman. In fact, the thought was so powerful and repulsive that it made him actually desire to fulfill his elected and duly sworn duties.

"OK," he said, shaking his head to clear his mind, "what do you have so far?"

"Four bodies. The first, as you know, was Hyacinth Stowers, found yesterday morning in her Daddy’s Wal-Mart. We’re guessing that she died around…" The Chief furrowed his brow – he was a man of many talents – he was strong, willful, a natural leader, and even clever in his own way – but he was not a man of details. "Damon! Will you please tell – now where in the hell is Damon? Damon, get your lily white ass in here!"

"I believe he’s in the annex playing bridge with my interns," offered Brookman.

"I don’t care if he’s sodomizing Raquel Welch, I want him in – DAMON!"

A tall and very young looking deputy quickly shuffled into the office. He looked attentively at his boss and awaited further instructions. The Chief continued, "That’s better – could you please inform the District Attorney when – Hey, is your name Damon?"

"No, sir. But I was dummy this hand," stated the deputy matter-of-factly.

The Chief sighed, half in relief since he had not been completely sure whether this was Damon or not. As a result of the most recent Clinton Crime Bill and an influential Congressman, Chief Bouknight had had nine new deputies foisted upon him in the past six months. The fact that for the most part they were highly underqualified and dimwitted was mostly mitigated by their having very little to do. That is, very little to do before now, the Chief reflected. Damon and Morris had proved the exception and the Chief had taken to having them always within yelling distance in case he needed help with the facts of a particular case. This was one of those times.

Upon request, Morris recounted what the police had learned about Hyacinth’s death. "Coroner preliminarily places time of death between 11:00 p.m. and 3:00 a.m. The store closes at midnight, but Doris Patterson, the night manager, reports that she didn’t leave any earlier than 12:45. A security guard is supposed to drive by the store every hour on the half-hour to check for mischief. Morton Harvey was on duty two nights ago and claims to have faithfully discharged his duties with nothing to report – however, he is unreliable as a source of information, as he was visibly intoxicated when we interviewed him that morning and we found an empty liter of Old Crow in his automobile.

"Cause of death appears to be asphyxiation, which would be consistent with the pair of pantyhose tied around her neck –"

Brookman interrupted, "Were they her pantyhose?"

Morris shook his head. "That would appear to be a negative, sir. While the victim was not wearing stockings when her body was discovered, the offending pantyhose did not appear to be her size."

"In other words," the Chief explained. "These hose were for a girl with an ass five times her size. You see, they got this brand called ‘Just my Size’ – it’s a euphemism, like when Lee jeans advertise ‘Jeans that fit’ when they really mean ‘Jeans that fit your enormous ass.’ I know for a fact that this ‘Just my Size’ is the only brand Mrs. Bouknight purchases."

Brookman smiled. "And where was Mrs. Bouknight Tuesday morning between 12:45 and 3:00? And have you checked her undergarments drawer lately?"

"No, and I do not intend to. And I certainly wouldn't notice anything missing if I were to - the only reason I know what she wears in the first place is that when I run up to the Pig for a six-pack, she'll occasionally ask me to bring her a pair of pantyhose or some equally embarrassing product. So if the hose that killed Hyacinth Stowers came from my house, I sure as hell wouldn't know."

"Actually sir," broke in Morris, "the hose did not appear to have been used - or worn that is. Furthermore, we found discarded packaging for that brand and style of hose in a trash can near 'Home Gardening.'"

"So you're saying the killer opened a pair of fat woman's pantyhose and strangled Hyacinth after luring her to her father's Wal-Mart?" Brookman asked.

"Wearing her high school Snowball Queen dress, yes sir, that's one theory."

"What, are you thinking one of her plumper high school rivals?"

Morris shrugged. "We do have deputies talking to former members of the flagline and FHA."

The Chief threw down his hat in frustration. "Hell, we got deputies talking the entire fucking county. These new boys wouldn't know a lead if one walked up and grabbed their dicks. Present company excluded, of course. The fact of the matter is Hyacinth Stowers left her house last Monday at 8 p.m. and ain't nobody claims to have seen her alive again."

"Does anybody know where she was supposed to be heading to?" Brookman inquired.

Morris nodded, "She was supposed to meet David Stiers for dinner at the Roasting Hog, but she never showed. Two witnesses confirm seeing him sitting alone, anxiously. Word is he got up twice to use the phone, had an appetizer of huh puppies, then left around 8:45. We pulled the records on the pay phone in the lobby; it revealed two phone calls to Hyacinth's apartment on Green Street. Her roommate Anne confirms these calls and says she told him both times that she had seen her leave right before 8 and hadn't been back since."

Brookman furrowed his brown and twirled his pen. He had been hoping that the case would be easier - that they would find some slobbering lunatic in the town square, with 'Hyacinth 4ever' tattooed on his chest, wearing a pair of her underwear. Then again, if they never arrested anyone, he wouldn't have to prosecute.

"So, this David character wasn't worried. He didn't call the police or even her parents?"

Morris shrugged again. "Apparently, being stood up by Hyacinth Stowers was not a newsworthy or even unexpected event. Mr. Stiers asserts that they had had six dates before this one, and she only bothered to attend four."

"And the roommate? Was that okay?"

"As far as we can tell," replied the deputy. "No reported problems, at least nothing serious. She says she just stayed home that night, but from 12:30 to 2:00 a.m. she was on the phone with a Warren Couswell in Missouri. The phone records concur with that statement. In case you were wondering, sir, she's a size 2."

Brookman squinted. "What - is that good?"

"It doesn't put her in Just My Size territory, for what that's worth."

Brookman nodded, tapping his pen on the desk. "Well, that's just great. What about the other three murders?"

Morris shook his head and sighed, "Not much there as of yet. The two funeral home secretaries were found near their desks, each shot once in the face with a .45 caliber weapon. The director found them when he went by to lock up around 5 that Tuesday. Time of death probably between 3 and 4 that afternoon. Around 6, after the police had arrived, the director realized that the crematorium was operative - they pulled a third - unscheduled body out of there which had also been shot with a .45. Besides that, all we have been able to determine is that the victim was a grown male. Due to the destruction of the corpse, subsequent test will probably not leave us with much more."

Brookman nodded again. "Anything else?"

Morris and the Chief looked at each other. Neither appeared to have anything to offer.

"Okay then," said Brookman, jumping up and obviously pleased to be finished. "Glad to end on a positive note. I'll walk y'all out - I've got a Rotary meeting to get to."

On the way out, the Chief pulled him aside. "By the way, don't you think you ought to give your girl some time off? I'm not here to tell you how to do your job, but considering…"

"Oh, I offered her two weeks paid - she just shook her head and muttering something about taking control. I figured whatever works for her - maybe it takes her mind off what happened."

The Chief went to collect Damon, who by this point was more tan ready to leave. In the event of Morris' absence, he had been forced to corral the unoccupied Debbie to partner with him and his fortunes had certainly turned for the worse. Losing had made Debbie more bitter than usual, and Alice and Dennis, the interns, who didn't get along with Debbie in the first place, shifted uncomfortably in their seats as they collected another rubber.