Gator Bait

ONE

Like most South Florida golf courses, the greens fees at Four Palms Country Club plummeted after the first of May, the much anticipated, unofficial end of tourist season. Carting off for an in-season round at one of the more prestigious courses could easily cost everyday hackers well over a hundred bucks. Not surprisingly, Florida residents, resilient if not overly patient as each new hurricane season approaches, tend to squeeze in most of their golf between late May and early October, before the annual snowbird migration begins in earnest.

Dr. Jim Allenwood was no exception to the rule, and even though he could easily afford the winter-time rates, he couldn't bring himself to pay usurious amounts for six hours on courses overflowing with elderly legionnaires decked out in gaudy plaid polyesters and oversized baseball caps, painstakingly meandering toward the flagstick at forty yards a whack, using every club from driver to flop wedge along the way. So Jim and his buddies bided their time during the winter, playing selectively at medical conventions and fundraisers before kicking off their regular off-season weekly sessions. Of all the pristine patches of South Florida real estate dedicated to links play, Jim's group enjoyed the Four Palms Club in Pembroke Pines because it was well maintained and offered the same amenities of upscale private clubs without the pretense—or expense.

For the past month, his foursome had been eagerly awaiting this first Monday in May. Last evening's shimmering orange sky foretold perfect weather, seasonably sublime at eighty-two degrees with scant humidity, scattered clouds hugging the western horizon. Gentle Atlantic breezes stirred the scent of purple and white lilacs lining the brick walkway from the parking lot to the pro shop. It was the kind of day Floridians speak of reverently, conveniently forgetful of the previous month's torrential rains and oppressive pall of summer looming ahead.

For Jim though, this fine May morning had deteriorated from unabashed hope and optimism to agonizing hell over just a few short hours. For years he'd played with the same friends, all physicians. Jim and his partner, Elliot Zimmer, were obstetricians whose offices encompassed an entire floor of a large two-story glassed building on the western edge of town, along with Joe Cornish, a general practitioner in Plantation, and Rob Radley, a retired oncologist, who enjoyed the luxury of playing three times a week.

The twosomes played head on, low score on each hole, with the Cornish/Radley team usually finishing on top. Zimmer, a youthful thirty-nine year old who sported a deep year-round tan, had played golf since his early teens and was an eight handicapper. But his partner, a burly hulk at six-five and two hundred forty pounds, simply couldn't control his powerful swing. Jim was an imposing figure standing over a golf ball. Everything about him seemed oversized, from his large square head to his size fifteen Foot Joys. His mammoth, mitt-like hands were poorly suited to the finer subtleties of striking a small white ball with a big stick. With a hearty flick of his wrists, he could wallop a ball astounding distances off the tee, the ferocity and crack of titanium smacking dimpled vinyl few could match, but rarely did his shots recognize the fairway. On particularly unsatisfactory days, like today, actually finding his ball among the brambles, bushes, and other outlying hazards was often a feat unto itself. Of course, on the driving range it was a different story. Jim would happily swat ball after ball nearly three hundred yards, guided missiles with target-like precision, and promptly pronounce himself cured. Then without fail, he'd step onto the course, little demons in his head chattering away, and he'd systematically drill most every tee shot through the woods, ponds, and occasional passing roadways. By autumn's merciful arrival, Jim was a pathetic golf zombie, absently wandering through eighteen holes fraught with accidents and ineptitude. But such is the life of a golf junkie, and with each new spring, hopes of redemption and opportunity lured him back for more.

The anticipated Monday morning finally arrived, and by the time Jim lumbered up to number fifteen, he wanted to bury himself right under the tee box. Three months of lessons, endless buckets of balls at the range, and a brand new driver called the Terminator—the latest in lightweight, high-impact technology with graphite shaft, grapefruit-sized multi-metal fusion head, and price tag only slightly less than a mid-size family sedan—had done nothing to improve his game or disposition. Though his tee shots showed promise on initial trajectory, they invariably sliced hard right, drawn into the woods by a mysterious magnetism, magic forces existing only when he was in play.

He stepped between the blue pylons at the fifteenth tee, cast his eyes skyward and mouthed a little prayer before shakily setting his Titleist, with the yellow Sunquest logo, atop the tee. The contest was over; Radley and Cornish had the match in hand, their opponents merely hoping to salvage a sliver of respectability over the final four holes.

Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, he whispered to himself, struggling for calm.

He rested the Terminator on his thigh, wiped his damp palms across his blue nylon pants and gazed woefully toward the pin, a left-hand dogleg some four hundred and twenty yards off in the distance. With a deep breath, he brought the club head back slowly, just like he'd been instructed, kept his left arm locked and straight, bent his knees just a tad, and let his upper body sway naturally without overturning. He kept his head fixed on the target and struck the ball cleanly, the crack of metal ringing his ears, finishing in fine form with back arched and the club head fully extended behind him. Anxiously, Jim watched the tiny white sphere rise into the air and rocket down the left side of the fairway, a beautiful sight, before swerving perversely to the right and disappearing into a thick grove of Australian pines. As it ricocheted among the trees, an egret lifted majestically from the ground, letting forth a screech that sounded suspiciously like laughter. In turn, Jim rambled through a string of creatively vile profanities, and in one swift motion, raised the Terminator up with both hands and snapped the graphite shaft across his knee. Stifling laughter, his companions headed toward the carts while Jim retrieved what had been, until recently, his most prized possession.

Driving off toward Jim's ball, Elliot finally dared to speak. Look, Jim, it's no big deal. Even though you're not hitting the ball, your form is good. A tweak here and there is all you need. Really.

Jim just grunted and shook his head, mind racing. Cutting across the wide fairway, Elliot dropped him off with a couple of clubs near the edge of the pine grove before moving off in search of his own wayward ball.

Jim trudged into the brush, swatting the undergrowth between the pines, halfheartedly searching out another casualty as he cupped the extra ball stowed in his right pants pocket, anticipating this moment.

Any luck? Elliot called across the fairway.

Jim pointed toward the ground with a club so his partner could see. Yeah, lucky Sunquest, got it right here.

A week prior, Jim had a dozen Titleists embossed with a special Sunquest logo, a fictional company and design solely for days like this. He was now on his tenth Sunquest ball of the day and hoped he'd be able to finish up the round.

He nonchalantly swatted the new ball in the general direction of the fairway, hoping for a halfway decent lie. Right in a hole. That certainly wouldn't do, and these friggin' trees were damn near impossible to shoot through. He gave a quick sideways glance over his shoulder and kicked the ball about three feet to the left, nearer a small clearing. Meanwhile, the egret had returned to roost on the tree a few branches above, and chose the moment for another corrosive squeal. Jim nearly jumped out of his spikes.

Fuckin' crazy bird, get the hell out of here.

He found a rock and heaved it upward, but the egret just squawked and hopped over to another branch.

Problem? Rob called.

No, no, just this damn bird.

The past ten minutes felt like they'd lasted half the day. Jim took a few steps back to analyze his next shot. There were a few scattered pines to shoot through, and he'd need to keep the ball down to avoid some low-lying branches about eight feet off the ground. He wiped the perspiration from his brow with a small towel, surveying the many obstacles lying between his ball and the flagstick far off in the distance. He crouched down, hand shielding his eyes, gauging a fat sand trap on the left, short of the green, and a tiny creek traversing the fairway just up ahead. A lot to overcome. Hell, no sense playing it safe at this point.

Setting his alignment, Jim took another two steps backward into some knee-deep brush skirting a low ravine, feeling the spikes on his right heel sink into a soft mound. He took a short, quick hop-step to his left, but the clump was still there and it felt like his shoe was dragging something. Absently reaching to remove the snag, he glanced downward, eyes bulging in horror. Jim's spikes were embedded in the discolored palm of a human hand. Terrified, he recoiled impulsively, tripped and fell backward toward the fairway, landing hard on his right side. Peering down between his legs, he saw that the hand was attached to an arm, a woman's arm, which extended through the brush and down a small embankment.

Jim wanted to scream, chest heaving, but nothing escaped except a sharp wheezing sound, like air being released from a balloon deep inside his lungs. He shook his right foot sideways, but the hand and arm just shook along with it. Finally, he jerked his leg back hard in one sharp motion, and the appendage detached, lying strange and lifeless before him. He rose up onto all fours and cautiously crawled back toward the ravine. No blood sprung from the spike punctures, the arm appearing more mannequin than human, completely surreal in the midst of the dense, green foliage.

Flopping backward, Jim grabbed his chest and screamed again. Elliot! This time sound, but in a voice raspy and unfamiliar. He tried again. Elliot, Rob, Joe, get over here!

He heard movement off to his left, slowly at first, then quicker and louder. Sliding slowly in the tall grass, Jim's panic subsided, and his first thought was of medical school and the laboratory cadavers he'd been forced to dissect and analyze as a young student. Although he'd witnessed more stillborn and deformed children during his career than he cared to recall, this was his first exposure to a dead adult since his internship days many years ago.

Rob was the first to arrive, bringing the cart to a skidding halt near the fairway's edge. He ducked down under the pines in time to see Jim shuffling backwards on his rear end like a crab.

What the hell...

Jim said nothing, but pointed toward the brush, and Rob immediately saw the arm jutting through a clump of patchy thorns and sawgrass. He grabbed his friend under the left arm and helped hoist him to his feet as Elliot made his way toward them from the direction of the green. Cornish was still across the fairway, preparing to swing, when Rob waved for him to join them.

I stepped on it...the hand. Shit, it was stuck on my spikes and wouldn't come off.

Rob took a step closer as Elliot pulled up behind them, and peered into the thicket of grass, thorns, and weeds. The arm was attached to a young woman, no more than twenty-two or twenty-three he guessed, body twisted awkwardly on her left side, with her right arm, the one Jim had stepped on, twisted grotesquely across her backside. Rob saw the spike marks in her palm and took a few steps closer to get a better look, his legs entangling in a bevy of thorns ripping at his ankles and shins.

Aaagh...Goddammit. He fell forward, breaking his fall with both hands, and found himself straddling the corpse perpendicularly, his arms and legs scratched and bleeding.

Aaaah...aaah, holy shiii...get me outta here! he wheezed. Jim and Elliot grabbed his belt, pulling him upright as the thorns tore at his clothes and skin, but his feet gave way and he fell face down through the brush, landing flat atop the young woman.

Her body was surprisingly warm, and for an instant was certain he felt movement, but then realized it was just his own weight jostling the soft form beneath him. Rob carefully glanced to his right, figuring how to best extricate himself from the tangled mess, hearing Jim and Elliot edge in behind him. His head was pressed against the woman's abdomen, and looking down he saw a pair of long, sleek legs, both badly scraped but tanned and well-toned. Without seeing her face, he imagined she had probably been quite attractive.

Rob could only raise his head about a foot above her body before the razor-sharp thorns dug into the back of his neck. He suppressed a howl, tried to control his breathing, and focused instead on the inert body beneath him. His head rested on a spot just above her vaginal area, which was clean-shaven and appeared almost as tan as her legs. Feeling nauseous, repulsed, and deeply saddened all at the same time, he quickly shook his head, fighting to recompose. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and reached down to brace himself against one of her legs while Jim worked his way around the ravine to tackle the problem from the far side. Applying pressure to her leg, Rob lifted his head slightly, but his hand slipped between her thighs into a gorge of dried blood and torn flesh that looked decidedly unlike anything he'd ever encountered in med school, or anywhere else for that matter. Hundreds of maggots scurried along the bloodied ground and then quickly up Rob's hand and forearm. Before he could utter a single sound, he gagged convulsively, grabbing his mouth with his free hand as the vomit spewed between his fingers onto the lifeless body below.

TWO

Get the hell away from there! Detective Parker Reese shouted, barely out the passenger side door of the black Dodge Charger.

Nancy Albright, investigative reporter for WWQT, Channel 9 was already moving into the woods off of Jacaranda Road with her cameraman in tow. Reese and his partner, Marty Tanner, both with the Detective Bureau of the Broward County Sheriff's Office, scrambled across the road to catch up with the reporter, who appeared to be paying them no mind.

Jesus, Nance, you know better than this. We're not even sure what we've got here yet, Parker called, skidding down the sandy embankment. He jogged a few steps into the foliage and grabbed her by the shoulder from behind.

She spun around to face him, jerking her arm from his grasp. I'll tell you what you've got. A dead woman over by the golf course. And from what I hear, she's just like the others.

News travels fast, Marty said quietly, still a few paces behind. You probably got her ID'd already.

Nancy reddened slightly, though her stare remained firmly planted on Parker. She pushed her heavily sprayed blonde hair up away from her face. Gimme some time. I'll have it for the six o'clock tonight, though. She said it casually, but with an underlying determination Parker had heard many times before.

This is a crime scene, Nance. You know the drill. Nobody in until everything is processed and wrapped up. In other words, until I say so. Let us do our job for crissake, he said, plodding past her through tall grass and weeds. You'll get your goddamned story.

He nodded to the obese cameraman standing beside her, Jerry Steiner, peering out from behind the marshy brush wearing a matching set of tan safari fatigues with assorted pieces of camera gear bulging from the outfit's innumerable pockets. Jerry had a cigarette dangling between his lips and lugged a large black plastic-shell suitcase in each hand. He carefully set the cases down to wipe the sweat from his bright red face with his sleeve, clearly not relishing the idea of traipsing through the jungles of Pembroke Pines with the feisty reporter.

Talk some sense into her will you, Jerry?

With that, Parker turned and started off into the thick growth, pushing his way through the dense, slick terrain, knee-high sawgrass, and tangled roots traversing the ground in all directions. Marty jogged a few steps into the woods to catch up.

No way, Parker, I'm coming with you, Nancy called after him.

He stopped again and turned back toward her, hands on his hips, a half smile across his face. What, things didn't work out, so you're going to bust my balls for the rest of my life?

Nancy rolled her eyes and practically spat. Oh, please, don't flatter yourself, Parker. This is business and you know it.

Parker glanced down at her feet for a moment. Heels. Probably expensive. Well, I don't think you're coming with us. Let's go, Marty.

They cut through the first forty yards of thick grass, then picked up the pace as they came upon groves of wild sea grape, palm shrub, and pools of stagnant water oozing from the muddy ground. Over his shoulder, Parker heard Nancy yell out Dammit, as she tried to negotiate the thick, wet terrain in her Enzos.

Pain in the ass, Parker mumbled. He continued forging his way through a muddy bog of dense grass and trees. Always was.

That's what makes her so good, Marty said, swatting bugs and working hard to keep pace with his partner. She even figured out the quickest way to the scene.

The detectives came upon a small creek, hopped over with mud-caked shoes, and stopped for a moment to gather their bearings. Nancy was a good fifty yards behind, and Steiner was lumbering even further back, his new trousers damp and covered with dirt below the knees. He was staggering about, breathing in gasps, with the look of a dazed asylum escapee. Parker steadied himself, catching his own faltering breath as he scanned the forest in several directions. Jogging through the slippery muck had made every step seem like two, and he could feel his heart pounding beneath his navy linen blazer. He unconsciously swatted at the prickly burrs covering his blue jeans as he looked about.

There, Marty said from behind, pointing in a southwesterly direction toward a group of large pines. Parker didn't see anything, but they headed that way, eventually spying a group of five or six cops, uniforms, clustered in a semi-circle near a heavily-wooded ravine. Off in the distance, they could see a lone police cruiser on the edge of the golf course with blue lights flashing. Even in mid-day, the lights were bright and stark against the wooded backdrop. Breaking through the line of trees, the officer closest to them turned and reached for his radio. The detectives quickly pulled badges from their sport coats and announced themselves before finally reaching the clearing, feet soaking wet.

Who's all here? Marty asked.

The young cop, a guy named Buchanan, said, Right now it's all Pines police down here. We heard you were coming. Fort Lauderdale is up at the clubhouse and I hear some other task force guys are on the way. We're just roping off the area, leaving it for you folks. Sorry, it's kinda hectic. That's all I know. He gave a little shrug, embarrassed, like there was something more to the story he wasn't authorized to discuss. Sergeant Fisher is the senior officer. He's talking to that guy in the white shirt over there.

Listen, Parker said, surveying the fairway, eventually recognizing it as number fifteen on the course he'd played just a week before, there's a reporter coming through those woods behind us. Nancy Albright. You'll recognize her from TV. Do us a favor and keep her and her cameraman, and anyone else who shows up, away from here. Where's the body?

Over there. The young cop pointed to his left about twenty feet back toward the tee box. On this side of the ditch. Careful, there's pricker bushes all over the place.

Parker and Marty headed down toward Sergeant Fisher, who was in a heated discussion with a man identified by his Four Palms name tag as Chip - General Manager. Chip was in his mid-thirties, evenly tanned and dressed in a crisp, white polo shirt with navy trim and khakis, frantically waving his arms in front of the sergeant's face.

He was in mid-sentence when they arrived. "...of course we want to cooperate, but you have to understand, this is a business. I can't just turn everyone away. In thirty minutes, I've got a pharmaceutical sales tournament starting up. Over a hundred golfers. What am I supposed to tell them?"

Fisher opened his mouth but before he could respond, Parker chimed in. "No problem, Chipper, just tell 'em you've got a dead woman lying out here on fifteen. We'll even move the body out on the fairway so they can get a better view. Maybe over next to the sand trap there. They can either treat her as a hazard and get a free drop...or they can come back and play another day. Let me go out on a limb here and tell you what I think they're going to want to do."

The perspiration on Chip's brow appeared to increase perceptibly.

Damn, Park, Marty said, pointing up the hill, there's Nancy Albright from Channel 9. I knew I shoulda worn a tie today. He quickly buttoned up his sport jacket.

You do what you think is best, Parker continued, absently eyeing the growing crowd. And we'll do our best to keep any blood from dripping on your nice green grass.

The general manager stood there, lips pursed, running his fingers through his short black hair, hurriedly weighing his options.

I don't know...

Trust me, they'll get over it, Parker said. This can't be the toughest decision you've ever had to make.

It was a subtle challenge to his authority, between important men who understood these sorts of things, like cops and golf course general managers, and it seemed to do the trick.

Well, I guess we could...reschedule? I mean, considering the circumstances and all. We wouldn't want this to get in the press... His left hand was shielding his eyes, searching for a glimpse of Nancy back along the tree line. Satisfied, he gave a quick nod as if to convince himself. Of course. Four Palms is yours, gentlemen. At your service, so to speak. Whatever you need, just let me know and I'll personally see to it.

He wiped his palms across his nice white shirt and pulled a cell phone from his pants pocket before retreating to a nearby cart and speeding off in the direction of the clubhouse.

Jesus, Fisher chuckled, I hope you guys are cops.

Marty and Parker introduced themselves. Body's right over there, Fisher said, pointing. Golfers found her while one guy was looking for his ball in the crud. They're all up in the clubhouse, telling their story to some other cops and an FBI lady. Anyway, from what I saw, it looks the same as the others. Least from what I've heard. She was strangled, partly naked, and there's no ID on her. Probably dragged through those woods. I'm no expert, but it doesn't look like the body's been there that long. The coroner's office was contacted; they're sending someone out.

Anyone move her? Marty asked.

No one I know of, unless the golfers did. Most of my guys don't want to get too close. It's not pretty.

They strolled toward the ravine where two uniforms were standing, looking everywhere but down. Marty stepped past the spot where Allenwood's ball had lain, climbed through the sloping thicket and saw her there, on her back, twisted among the stodgy undergrowth. The area appeared to be severely disturbed with matted shrub and long thorny branches sticking up at odd angles. Parker followed closely behind, deliberate in his movements, contemplating the scene for himself. He paused momentarily, glanced at Marty, then over at the two cops standing just a few feet away.

Sooo, he said, squinting through the midday sun, who puked all over the body?

The older of the two spoke up. It was one of the golfers, sir.

Marty looked at his partner. "Right on the body?" he said, almost to himself.

It's...a long story, sir, the other cop said, smiling slightly. Somehow, one of the golfers kind of got...tangled up in there with her.

Uh huh. A golfer loses his ball, so naturally he climbs into the shrubs and gets tangled with a dead woman, Parker deadpanned. Man, this job gets goofier every day. He looked back at the two cops. Either of you have a knife?

The older one pulled a leatherman tool from his belt and passed it over. Parker unfolded the blade and carefully cut through the thick, thorny branches, while Marty pulled them away and lightly stomped them into the moist ground. With great caution and delicacy, they cleared an area around the body just wide enough for one person to squat on each side. The woman was naked from the waist down, her bare legs scratched and raw with traces of blood around the ankles, as if she had been dragged across some pretty rough terrain. She wore a soft yellow and white checked button-down shirt, with the top two buttons undone, and no bra. Her face was bronze and freckled and her hair was blonde all the way to the root. Marty had difficulty guessing her exact age, though unquestionably she was young.

He studied her face intently, thinking of his oldest daughter, Rebecca, who was a college sophomore at Florida State University and bore a slight resemblance to the woman lying before him. He wondered where she was from. Maybe in law school or a recent graduate who worked as a nurse, or dental hygienist, or paralegal, or simply enjoyed her days as a lifeguard at the beach in Hollywood. The unbroken tan line on her ring finger meant she was probably single. Like the others, she was quite attractive, in a wholesome, cheerleader sort of way. Marty could picture her childhood bedroom, as he did his daughter's, painted lavender with posters of the latest pop stars whose names he could never remember, stereo speakers in the corners and pom-poms hanging from the bedposts. And her parents keeping it just that way, frozen in time, as if today had never happened.

Damn, Marty muttered, she can't be a hell of a lot older than Becky.

He gently brushed back her shoulder-length hair to reveal deep ligature marks beneath her chin. Her entire neck was swollen, bruised and grotesquely purpled. Other than the abraded neck and legs and a few minor scrapes on her cheeks, she lay nearly unblemished. Her mouth was cupped in a slight smile and her blue eyes peered skyward from behind half-closed lids. Absent the present circumstances, she might have appeared alluring, even seductive in this pose.

Parker gently lifted the bottom of her shirt to inspect the area between her legs. It was puffy and red, slightly bruised. He'd witnessed this signature several times before, on different girls, and for a brief moment was overcome with nausea. He stood up to clear his head, turning back from the streaks of bright sun poking through the tall pines overhead. He could hear a police siren rising above the tall trees, somewhere off in the distance.

Fisher was right, the girl hadn't been here that long. Two or three days at most. Rigor mortis was in its latter stages. Parker looked out toward the fairway and tried to imagine the killer dragging her along the wood line to this spot. No, too dangerous. You never knew who you'd see on a golf course, even at night. Had to come through the woods from the road. After dark. Probably dragged her through the marsh and trees and then just dumped her. Hell, at night he might not have even known he was on a golf course. But what path did he take? Parker slowly scanned the foliage, back and forth, until his eye caught a snapped pine sapling about ten yards to the north. He took a step in that direction.

Look here, Marty said. He held a two-inch piece of yellow fiber atop his index finger. I found it under her collar.

Lab folks will want that. Anything else?

No. She's got a cut or a bite on her leg, but it looks like it may have been from an animal. Ground is crawling with maggots underneath her. We better leave it for the crime scene folks.

He pulled a small cellophane bag from his jacket pocket and placed the thread inside. Then he sealed the bag, pulled a ballpoint pen from his breast pocket, and dated and initialed the outside, along with a notation that said, Back of shirt collar, and laid it across her abdomen.

I think I see where he might have come from. Down from Jacaranda and along that row of trees. Parker pointed.

Just then, the first members of the evidence team arrived. They quickly reviewed the scene and secured the area, stringing yellow evidence tape through the branches in a wide circle around the victim. Two photographers began breaking out their equipment to film the body and surrounding area from various angles.

One of the evidence technicians, a native Irishman named O'Malley, asked Marty if any other evidence had been uncovered.

Just a gold thread. It's in a sealed bag with the body. You guys are in charge. Parker and I are heading back up toward Jacaranda to see if we can figure out how he got her here. I'll call out if we find anything.

Before they could leave, one of the uniforms came running toward them from a small stand of shrub. He glanced around at the growing mass of people but kept his eyes averted from the dead woman in the ravine. Detective Reese? he called.

Parker signaled him over.

Sorry, Detective, but there's a woman, a newswoman, back in the woods, and she demands to speak to you. I threatened to arrest her, but she doesn't seem to care. I'm sorry to bother you with this.

I believe that would be Nancy Albright, Officer, Parker said. Cute, strawberry-blonde dynamo with nice legs and a rather spirited disposition?

The uniform blushed. Yes, sir. Very spirited.

You can say it. She's a pain in the ass. He gave a last look around the vicinity. All right, I'll deal with her. Lead on, McDuff.

Who?

That would be you, my friend.

My name's Crawford, Detective.

Uh huh.

Parker motioned to his partner and they plodded back across the damp grass, toward a clearing where Nancy, shoes caked with mud nearly to the ankles, stood fuming while Steiner lay sprawled across the pine-needled carpeting like a contented walrus snoozing in the afternoon sun.

Dammit, Parker, this isn't fair. I've been standing here for twenty minutes getting lip service from a couple of kiddie cops who couldn't change their own diapers without help from momma.

Both cops glared at the reporter but neither spoke.

Parker motioned her closer. Yeah, yeah, what do you need?

What have you got?

"You were right, one female dead, probably