Andy Simpson had been planning his score for almost fifteen years now. He saw it each and every night before he went to work on "Hard Copy" and "Entertainment Tonight" and again each morning at Kroger in the "National Enquirer" and the "Globe."

The way he had it figured, every fucking podunk county in the nation had had its Jonbenet Ramsey or Susan Smith, except his. And when his did - he was going to be the one to sell the story. In a way, he just couldn't believe it was finally here.

Andy smiled at J.J. as he walked past him on his way out. J.J. just lifted an eyebrow. He was deep in thought. In his own estimation, he had tried only two murder cases in his 10 years as D.A. Both were domestic disputes. This sort of wacko serial killing spree just didn't happen to guys like him. Because that's how he saw it - as happening to him.

This wasn't fucking Twin Peaks. J.J. talked out to his tan Chrysler parked in the first spot outside the door. That was what J.J. worked for - a parking space right outside the door - not the opportunity to prosecute mass murderers. But as he pressed the button on his key chain deactivating his alarm and unlocking his doors, prosecuting a serial killer was the thought foremost on his mind.

Anne Mitchell was not shocked when she had been told that her roommate Hyacinth had been murdered. When police had come to her door two mornings ago, the first thought that came to her head was one of panic. But she steeled herself to the encounter, figuring if she and Hyacinth had been ratted out, there wasn't a lot she could do. She assumed this was how their friendship would end - with one of them ending up dead. In fact, when the police told Anne that Hyacinth was dead, Anne automatically thought she had killed herself.

Waking up at six in the evening was not rare for Anne, and today she actually felt vaguely sober upon awakening for the first time in weeks. Of course, since this feeling was anathema, she headed straight for the fridge and grabbed a Miller Lite. She had barely twisted the top when she heard a sharp knock on the door.

After leaving the D.A.'s office, the Chief had asked his two young deputies Damon and Morris to pay Ms. Mitchell a visit. So far they had been unable to dig up any leads on the funeral home murders - Debbie Simmons didn't appear to have any enemies, while no one seemed to know anything about the other secretary, Jean Sinclair. In addition to that souring development, it didn't look like they'd ever get a positive ID on the cremated victim. Thus the Chief wanted to attack the Hyacinth angle and see if anything turned up. He felt certain something would.

"Ms. Mitchell? May we come in and ask you a few questions? I'm Deputy Damon and this here is Deputy Morris." Damon said trying to avert his eyes from the barely fastened bathrobe Anne had thrown on when the knocking on the door had registered with her.

"Sure. Make yourselves at home. Excuse me for a minute while I throw some clothes on, will you?" Anne smiled and showed the young cops to the couch. "Oh, and Evan and Victor, don't think I don't remember you guys from high school. You don't look that different in these uniforms than you did on the football field."

Damon and Morris exchanged a nervous glance. While Hyacinth had been the Snowball Queen and all that, Anne had never been far from her side, the brunette complementing the blonde. And although Anne was strikingly beautiful in her own right, if she and Hyacinth had been sisters, it would've been said the Hyacinth got the looks and Anne got the brains.

When Anne reemerged from the bedroom, she took a seat across from the young cops. She had, wisely, she thought, emptied her apartment of drugs immediately after Hyacinth's death, anticipating a thorough search of the premises. She seemed to remember that happening the day after the murder, but in her groggy state, it could've been a dream. "So what can I do for you two tonight?" she asked, flashing a winsome smile.

"Well, Ms. Mitchell," Damon started when Anne cut him off.

"Anne, please, we're all friends here. Remember that I probably want to find out who murdered Hyacinth even more than you do. Hey, can I get you guys a beer or something? I must've forgotten my manners earlier, sorry." Anne flashed that smile again.

"Well, Anne, that's okay. We can't drink while we're on duty," Morris said politely.

As Anne handed them each their glass, Morris took out his notebook and asked, "Anne, when was the last time you saw Hyacinth alive?"