[b][i]Monday morning, fifteen minutes earlier ABI BREAK ROOM[/i][/b] “How’s your case going, Kimo?” A grunt was all Tom got in response, but he’d known better than to expect much from his three-hundred-pound, wrong side of fifty-five Hawaiian friend. A former Navy man, the guy kept secrets better than the dead did and wasn’t much of a talker to begin with. It was exactly why Tom, who loved the sound of his own voice and took no shame in the fact, had made it a daily habit to talk to the guy. There was nothing quite like shitty coffee and a free therapy session to start the day off right. “Well, no news is good news,” replied Tom with a confident smile, the very same that had reduced sweet, god-fearing women to goo in his early twenties. At thirty-five, his brown hair was equal amounts salt and pepper, and what used to be a six-pack was a few notches short of a dad belly. Despite all this, he maintained a mischievous quality in his green eyes, and when he spoke, some of his famous Midwesterner charm came through. Tom took the man’s predictable silence as an invitation to slide into the chair next to his, then set his coffee mug and cellphone on the table and leaned back in his seat. “Wish I could say the same, but I’ve had one hell of a week, and—” “What do you want?” Asked Kimo dryly as he laid the daily paper out on the table and leafed all the way to the horoscope section. “What I always want: your expert advice,” stated Tom, undeterred by his buddy’s frigid act. “My new partner is a nutcase. Yesterday she had a meltdown because I made a comment about the Patriots. How was I supposed to know she’s from freaking Massachusetts, or that she cares about that stuff? Have you ever met a woman that even likes football?” Kimo had met plenty. He was also pretty sure the offending conversation hadn’t been sports related, but Tom was like a train when he was fixated on something, and there was no point trying to squeeze a word in. Besides, it required less effort to ride out the one-sided venting session and let him talk about his feelings. Kimo looked up from his newspaper and studied his sensitive companion, wondering—as he did most mornings—how Tom had made it so far in life. “And that got me thinking last night. She’s from Massachusetts.” “What’s that got to do with anything?” Kimo said with a shrug. Stirring his coffee with one hand, he flipped through the newspaper until he got to the comics with the other. “Maybe Salem didn’t get [i]all[/i] the witches.” Tom stared and waited for his theory to sink in. The response he got came in the form of a tired sigh. It was the sound Kimo subconsciously made every time he’d had enough of Tom’s shit. ----- [i][b]Present ABI CONFERENCE ROOM[/b][/i] It was some kind of bullshit, alright. Tom couldn’t even get McCann to approve a one-week leave for him to join Kimo on his yearly family vacations to Honolulu, but he was willing to send one of his best detectives—along with one greener than a tennis ball—on an almost-two-month-long work trip. Worst of all, they weren’t going anywhere far away or exotic. Or warm, for that matter. Tom groaned loudly—but whether it was in response to the shitty assignment, or Costello showing up, was unclear. He avoided eye contact with his new partner by feigning interest in the folder closest to him. He flipped it open, looked through some low-res crime scene photos with a mildly skeptical expression, then shut and tossed it back on the table after a couple of seconds. “Sir, with all due respect, you want to send us to the [i]Fox Islands[/i] because of some animal attacks?” Try as he might, he couldn't hide his annoyance. “Seems to me a simple call to Animal Control would be a better use of our time, not to mention the money the department would save on our per diem, along with the man hours.” “First of all, Duke, just be glad I’m not sending you to the Rat Islands. Secondly, you let me worry about all that.” Just when Tom thought he was going to get away with one of McCann’s more diplomatic answers, the captain shut the door to the conference room, then continued. “[i]Your[/i] job is to take the case you’re given and figure out the fuck whodunnit, not to waste my time by arguing or giving unsolicited advice.” McCann made it a point to look at both his detectives, daring either of them to argue. Tom didn’t have anything to say and glanced at Costello, hoping the newbie had a death wish. Unfortunately, the captain cut their talking window short. “Starting from around this time last year, there have been sixteen unsolved murders and twenty-nine missing persons reports filed in the city of Unalaska alone. This morning, I got a call from the mayor herself, telling me that the very same sheriff I was in contact with a week ago went missing on Friday, along with the granddaughter of a prominent member in The Aleut Corporation.” McCann took two folders from the table, opened them, and slid them closer to the detectives. The one in front of Tom was for a Sheriff Jimmy Faraday, an early-50s mixed Caucasian man with hazel eyes, cropped bottle-brown hair, and a thick gray mustache. To Tom, Jimmy gave off sort of a military veteran grandpa vibe. The second was for a Junior Deputy Kamiti Samuel, known by friends and family as Kami, a petite female in her early twenties with black hair, light brown eyes, horn-rimmed glasses, and a big smile. If not for the DOB, Tom would’ve aged her at about seventeen. “Damn,” was all Tom could say. It wasn't that uncommon for small population areas to have missing people and the occasional homicide, but the Fox Islands wasn't the kind of place you arrived at or left without anyone knowing. He was sure some of the disappearances could've been caused by accidents, and the supposed murders a result of some animal altercations, but nearly fifty incidents in a year? He didn't want to admit it, but he could see why people were upset and why the situation justified an investigation. “Damn is right,” McCann said. “I wish I had more intel for you, but with their sheriff missing and them being down a deputy, their office is undermanned and overworked, and we’ll be waiting weeks for those files to come in. Needless to say, we don’t have weeks, and that big storm rolling in before the weekend means the ferry company is closing shop early. I need you both on the boat by Wednesday morning. Any questions before I continue?” Besides his growing frustration about the lack of prep time and info they were being given, what Tom really wanted to know was why McCann was sending in two homicide detectives to investigate a couple of disappearances. He settled for, “And we know they didn’t just get lost in the woods somewhere?” “When you get there, the acting sheriff Senior Deputy Stillwell supposedly has some dash cam footage I’m told you’ll want to see. There’s also a Russian scientist, an ethologist, that saw something. We don’t know what that is because they’re refusing to work with authorities. How about you, Costello? Questions?”