Sometimes being acting Chief of Police is not a good thing. Or maybe that's all the time.
I was sleeping when the phone rang. Sleep is something I never get enough of, and the job steals enough of this precious commodity from me. I picked up the phone and answered, "Wright here."
The voice on the other end belonged to Sergeant Boddy -- stout, fifty-something, approaching retirement age. The stereotypical doughnut munching cop. Anyway, turns out that while he stepped away from the reception desk, someone snuck in and dropped off an envelope. The envelope wasn't signed, nor were the contents, but contained a message, fifteen words spelled out in letters torn from magazines or newspapers: "Ask her therapist who she slept with. or ask him who she *didn't* sleep with".
Sgt. Boddy said he though it could have something to do with the homecoming queen's death. I concurred, so I threw on some clothes, took my Glock with me and walked over to the station. If only the city would give us more money, we could get our broken camera's replaced, and we'd know who dropped this off. I took a look at the message, took a photograph, then walked it down to the lab, left a message for them to check the letter and envelope for prints and hair-and-fibers. Then I sent an e-mail to the agent from the FBI. Later, called him up and passed on the info.
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