DISCLAIMER: The Sentinel and its characters are the property of Paramount Studios and Pet Fly Productions. These stories are offered for the enjoyment of the fans. No money has exchanged hands.


Blank Page
by
Linda S. Maclaren (Mackie)

.

Act I

She looked at herself in the large mirrored door of her bedroom closet. Five feet, seven inches and one hundred thirty pounds. She figured she needed to lose ten pounds to fit into the size six she envisioned would make her perfect. Then again, she was realist enough to admit the weight loss would just make her shift her attention to some other perceived flaw in her physical appearance. Her nose, maybe. It could probably use some work.

Her legs were fine, though. The short, figure-hugging red silk sheath exposed a lot of leg before molding to her flat belly and firm swell of breasts. Perhaps a little work there, as well; good cleavage, but some implants would give her figure -- not to mention her self-image -- a boost.

Nevertheless, she knew she looked good. Cropped blond hair shone like spun honey, and her expertly applied makeup concealed the flaws she imagined drew the male eye to her too-broad nose.

The final impression, the one she'd been hoping to achieve, was of a woman ready for companionship without blatantly advertising herself as if she were a common hooker.

Satisfied, she picked up her car keys and headed into a Friday night filled with promise. Perhaps tonight would be the night she found her true love.

Her lips drew into a wry smile. Right. And he'd be riding a white charger, too.


There were some crime scenes that could sear an image forever into Jim Ellison's memory. This time, it was his first glimpse of the body: a slender, well-shaped foot covered by sheer nylon hose but missing the shoe. The delicate ankle, the graceful arch, the long, straight toes curled slightly in death: these were the first things he noticed.

With Blair beside him, he ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and ventured the short distance into the rubbish-strewn alley. An overflowing dumpster and a knot of police personnel blocked their view until they walked closer.

The woman was lying on her left hip, body twisted awkwardly in death, legs and arms akimbo. Her short, red dress was hiked up to reveal red thong panties and a lacy red garter belt. One spaghetti strap on the minuscule dress was broken, and the silky bodice had slipped to expose one small breast still covered by the delicate lace of a matching bra.

All the red of her clothing was insignificant next to the deep sheen of blood that had spurted from the multiple wounds in her neck. The dumpster, rear wall of the nightclub, and alley pavement had been spattered with blood as her frantic heart pumped its last.

Blair tensed but didn't flinch from an examination of the body and the surrounding scene. "Any ID yet?"

The Assistant M.E. beside the body looked up. "Not that we could find. I don't think they've found a purse or anything here in the alley."

Although Jim could see the forensics team making a thorough record of the crime scene -- photographs, measurements, sketches, and copious notes -- he pulled out his notebook, opened it to a fresh page, and made a rough drawing of the scene. He noted the most significant details: the angle of the blood spatter and items in the alley that the crime scene team had seen fit to circle with their bright yellow chalk. There were actually quite a few circles drawn on the pavement, but he suspected the odd bits and pieces of trash would ultimately prove useless in solving the crime. He sought out the photographer. "You got all the shots you need of the body?"

The cameraman nodded. "Yeah, she's all yours."

Jim snapped on some latex gloves and crouched down. Gently but impersonally, he lifted the stiffening body enough to search beneath it for any evidence, then examined the body itself for anything the M.E. might have missed in his initial exam.

Paling slightly, Blair shifted his gaze toward the M.E. "What about time of death?"

"As you can see, rigor is well underway. Lividity is fixed. That puts time of death roughly somewhere between midnight and 2 a.m."

Jim glanced at his watch. "Six to eight hours." It was just 8 a.m. on a day that promised to be sunny for a few hours once the early morning cloud cover burned off. Rain was forecast for later in the afternoon, but it would be a clear, glorious Saturday morning that this young woman should have lived to see. He straightened from his examination. "Any indication of rape?"

"She'd had sex sometime prior to death, but I couldn't see any signs of forced penetration. Despite the disarray of her dress, her bra and underpants are still in place. Both are made from one of those form-hugging, stretchy fabrics. A killer would have had a hard time dressing her after death."

"Besides," Blair said quietly, "why bother? The blood pattern indicates she was killed here, right?"

Jim nodded agreement. He glanced at the heaping pile of trash spilling from the dumpster. The search team would have to go through it if they didn't find the murder weapon somewhere else in the alley. He didn't envy them the chore.

A patrolman waved to him from the other side of the yellow tape. Tapping Blair on the shoulder, Jim headed in that direction with his partner right behind him. A sleepy, rumpled man huddled in a lightweight jacket stood beside the patrolman.

"One of you cops called me to say you found a body," the man said, his words soft with sleep. He sounded faintly put out. "He told me to come down here. I had to take a cab."

Jim turned to a new, blank page in his notebook. "And you are --?"

"Oh, sorry. Ed Fuller. I'm the bartender -- night manager really -- who closes up the club every night."

"What time is that?"

"We close the door at 2:00; tabulating the take and general tidying up takes about forty-five minutes. We were out of here by 2:45, three o'clock at the latest. I didn't check the clock. The cleaning crew comes in around 2:30, but we don't wait around for them to finish. I don't know what time they left."

"Who's 'we'?"

"Sandy and Clair, my waitstaff. And there's Charlie, who handles the live talent on weekends, but he left around midnight."

"I'll need full names and addresses."

"Sure, no problem." Fuller kept his hands in his pockets but gestured with his chin toward the alley. He was inadequately dressed for the chilly morning and bounced vigorously in either nervousness or an attempt to warm up. "Any idea who it is?"

"We're hoping you can tell us."

The man grimaced. "I love watching how you guys work on TV -- you know, Cops, New Detectives, all those shows on The Learning Channel and Discovery. But I've never seen a real dead body before. You don't want me to look... to take a look at it, do you?"

"That might not be necessary. She's about 5'7", short blond hair, good figure. She had on a red dress."

The night manager paled. "That sounds like Sherry. She's a regular here most weekends."

"Do you know her full name?"

"No, I don't. Just Sherry. I call her Ms. Singapore Sling. It's all she ever drinks."

"Did she get drunk?"

"Not so you'd notice. I mean, she likes a good time, and she'll get a little tipsy, you know? But never sloppy with it. Never loud or obnoxious. D'ya think it's her?"

"I don't know. Are you up to taking a look?"

Fuller paled even further. "I'd puke, I know I would. Can't you get someone else?"

Jim could sympathize with the man's reluctance. An ID of Sherry No-Last-Name might have helped in the short term, but the bartender's ID wouldn't satisfy the M.E.'s office. For that, they'd need to find close friends or relatives if at all possible.

"Okay, but it might be necessary later."

"Thanks. I mean, I only know her as Sherry. She comes in every Friday night and flirts with a lot of the guys. But she never talks much about herself, you know? Beyond the fact that she said she was single, I don't know anything else about her."

Blair glanced at his own notes. "Do you remember what time she came in?"

Fuller closed his eyes briefly. "Usual time for her was early, say around six. I didn't notice the exact time."

"And you didn't get the impression she was any earlier or later last night?"

"No."

"What time did she leave?"

"That's a little tougher to pinpoint." Fuller frowned as he tried to recollect. "It would depend on how much fun she was having and how soon she latched on to a guy."

"Okay, when was the last time you remember seeing her?"

"Oh, that's pretty easy. She was on the dance floor not long before the band packed up for the night, so that woulda been close to midnight."

Blair glanced at Jim, who nodded for him to continue.

"Did she leave with anyone last night?"

Fuller scowled with distaste. "She left with someone every Friday night. Never the same guy twice."

"And last night?"

"I didn't notice the guy, but if she was true to form, she left with someone. Maybe one of the girls noticed."

"We'll check with them." Blair turned to the officer. "Get names and addresses from Mr. Fuller, please."

"Yes, sir."

Unconsciously, Blair bounced a bit on his toes. Jim smiled; his partner had learned to keep his facial expressions under control most of the time, but he hadn't yet mastered the body language. Being called "sir" must have given him a little thrill; he was finally being taken seriously as an investigator and accepted by the rank-and-file as a detective.

They ducked back under the tape and turned right to walk out through the empty side parking lot of the club. It wasn't a large area, a rectangle extending the length of the building, with one and a half rows of parking spaces defined by white lines. On a busy night, it would be a chore to navigate. The half row of spaces abutted a decorative tree line in need of a heavy pruning; several branches hung so low that the parking spots beneath them were almost unusable.

They reached the front of the club, where there was another, smaller parking lot facing the street. Three cars sat in the lot, all of which appeared to have been left there for a while. The vehicles of the crime scene team were parked in a haphazard line along the curb. Morning traffic had to pass with care, and drivers craned their necks in an effort to see what was going on. A crime scene investigation had been mistaken for a movie shoot on more than one occasion.

Blair relaxed once they were away from the actual crime scene. Jim often reacted the same way. Viewing a corpse always brought out the sense of tragedy that surrounded a homicide. Thoughts strayed toward sympathy for the victim, and empathy with the family and friends who would be affected by the senseless violence. Away from the body, he was able to bring his thoughts into focus on the investigation itself, the various puzzle pieces that would be assembled to lead them to the killer.

Blair was good at puzzles. It was why he made such a good detective despite his relative inexperience with the nuts-and-bolts details of police work. True to form, he said, "There's moisture on the windows of those cars. Looks like they've been here all night."

They went to the nearest car, a Toyota Camry, and Jim peered through the driver's side window. "Locked, but the keys are in the ignition. Maybe someone just locked themselves out."

"Jim." Blair was looking through the side passenger window. "Take a look."

He looked, and saw two red high heels on the front carpet. "Okay, let's pop the door on your side."

It took just a few seconds once they'd borrowed a jimmy. Jim crouched by the passenger side door, donned gloves again and, touching as little as possible, opened the glove compartment. Inside he found a car registration and proof of insurance. "Sherilyn Carpenter," he read, and slipped the items into an evidence bag Blair held open for him. "We have a possible name and address for our victim. I don't see a purse."

They turned the car over to the forensics people for examination and headed for the truck.

The first part of the drive to the address they had for Sherry Carpenter went by in silence. Finally, Blair said, "A different man every Friday night. Do you think she was a hooker?"

"It's possible," Jim agreed. "Maybe she worked a different club every night of the week."

"Or a string of clubs --" Blair stopped, then corrected himself. "No, she was there for several hours every time she visited."

They pulled up to the curb in front of an old but well-maintained apartment building in a mid-priced area of the city. The gated entry was locked, but Jim had the keys he'd taken from the Camry. The second one opened the gate, and they walked through into an attractively landscaped courtyard surrounding a patio and pool. The courtyard was a haven of quiet. A cat lazed in the sun at the edge of the patio, and birds chattered in the trees.

Sherilyn Carpenter lived on the second floor. Jim and Blair climbed the exterior stairs and walked to the appropriate door. All the doors opened directly to the outside; there were no indoor corridors or elevators.

Jim knocked. Although he suspected Sherry was indeed their murder victim, it was possible she had a roommate. His knocks went unanswered, so he found the correct key to let them inside.

The door opened into a large living room, with a small dining room and kitchen counter visible beyond it. Presumably, the counter bordered a kitchen, although that room was hidden by a wall of the living room. To the left, a short hallway branched to a bathroom and a bedroom. An identical hallway to the right revealed a second bath and what might have been a second bedroom.

They paused just inside the doorway to absorb their first impressions. The living room was tastefully if inexpensively furnished with a large, comfortable sofa and chair. Big, soft pillows and chenille throws added homey touches to the decor. The entertainment center had been a major investment: solid oak cabinetry housed high-quality stereo components and a 43-inch widescreen television.

Against another wall stood a massive oak-and-glass curio cabinet. It was filled with sparkling cut-glass decanters, glasses, vases, and pitchers in many shapes and sizes. Morning sunlight filtering through the lace sheers of a nearby window was captured by the multitude of facets, creating glorious rainbows in the glass.

Blair gave a low whistle. "That collection cost her a bundle."

Jim tore his eyes away from the brilliant light show and nodded toward his right. "You check in there, I'll take the other side."

"Okay."

Jim started his search in the bedroom. His plan was to work from the farthest corner back toward the living room. She was neat to a fault. There wasn't a wrinkle to be seen in the carefully made-up bed. Matching nightstands held cut-crystal lamps, a telephone, and a paperback book with a bookmark sticking out of it. He checked the title. It was one of the hundreds of formula romances churned out for a voracious readership. She'd been on page 63. The bookmark had a painting of a willowy young woman lifting the hem of her white gossamer gown to daintily dip her toe into the tiny ripples of a shimmering lake.

Her taste in art was much the same: romantic images of unicorns and delicate women dressed in flowing white gowns. A closer search through her personal effects revealed a blank notepad, pen, and telephone book in the nightstand drawer beneath the phone. The other nightstand held several popular women's magazines and a half-dozen romance novels. The dresser drawers held the usual assortment of lingerie, sweaters, and tops. They were remarkable for several reasons. There were more than a dozen slinky nightgowns in lacy nylon or shimmering silk. Sherry's underwear drawer was testimony to her fondness for Victoria's Secret: matching panties, bras, and garter belts. The drawers themselves were organized to almost painful perfection.

When he'd finished a search of the bedroom, leaving it somewhat more rumpled than when he'd gone in, he moved on to the bathroom. It contained the usual assortment of pain remedies, cleaning supplies, and toiletries, although the latter were in a profusion of scents. The wide rim of a large, expensive bathtub held a variety of bubble baths, oils, cleansing gels, and soaps, all neatly arranged. Candles filled the remaining empty space around the tub.

A small vanity held a wide assortment of makeup supplies. Despite the volume of items, everything was stashed carefully out of casual view and perfectly organized.

He met his partner back in the living room. "This woman was even more compulsive than me."

Blair grimaced. "No kidding. She used the second bedroom as an office. There's not a paperclip out of place. Her pencils are all sharpened and perfectly aligned in the drawer. Her unpaid bills are clipped together so the corners match perfectly. Same with the paid bills." He shook his head in answer to Jim's unspoken question. "Nothing interesting in the bills. All routine stuff. Same with her checkbook, although she had a fondness for hair salons and spas."

"Did you find anything useful?"

"Oh, sure." He held up a plastic evidence bag with a bunch of papers inside. "I found her bank statements, her credit card statements, her last paycheck stub, her address book, and her business card file. There aren't many names inside, mostly businesses and a few first names. One of the business cards looks like it could be her therapist." He sighed. "I hope it is, Jim, because this woman was seriously ill."

Jim glanced at the crystal sparkling in the curio cabinet. Not a speck of dust anywhere. He walked into the kitchen. It was spotless as well, the surfaces uncluttered, the appliances all big brand names and color-coordinated. There was a small but well-stocked wine rack in one of the lower cupboards, and the refrigerator held an assortment of gourmet tidbits and diet soda. "She must have eaten out most of the time. There's nothing here that would make a substantial meal."

"Yeah, lots of restaurants on her credit card statements." Blair leaned against the counter and made a gesture that encompassed the apartment. "She created this perfect little world for herself, but there's no sign she ever brought anyone here."

Jim's eyebrows rose. "You're right. I found her birth control pills in the bathroom, but there weren't any condoms or anything else to suggest she ever entertained a man here."

"So, if she was trolling for men, they either went back to his place or did it in the car." Blair chuffed. "That Camry has a small back seat, but I suppose two determined people could get it on back there. But it doesn't fit the image I have of Sherry, not when you look at this place."

Jim nodded in agreement. "Yeah. There are romance novels by her bed." He worried at the inconsistencies for a minute. "Maybe sex for her was just as compulsive as everything else about her, but it didn't fit the perfection of the world she'd created here for herself. So she didn't sully the place by bringing the man home."

Blair shoulders slumped. "You know what you're saying?"

Again, Jim nodded. "She has all the symptoms of someone who suffered childhood sexual abuse." He walked out of the kitchen. "Unfortunately, there's not much we can do with that, except that it might help explain her behavior. Maybe her co-workers can help, or her therapist." He turned back to face his partner. "But the most important thing we have to learn is who she left the club with last night. Whatever we find out about her childhood traumas probably isn't going to help us do that."

"I know, Jim," Blair said, following his partner out the door. "I guess it's just the anthropologist in me. It's not enough for me to know who killed her; I also want to know who she was."

Jim felt a twinge of guilt because he now found himself inexplicably just as curious as his partner about the dead woman. Sherry Carpenter had touched something deep inside in a way he didn't want to explore. But he just smiled slightly. "Understanding one often leads to the other, so you don't have to make excuses for the way you feel. Just don't let empathy cloud your focus." Good advice. For both of us, he warned himself.

"That's what I have you for," Blair answered lightly, trotting after him down the stairs.


They grabbed lunch at a family restaurant that offered quick, sit-down service. Jim selected a hot pastrami sandwich, while his partner went with a veggie and feta pita. "So, what didn't we find at the apartment?"

Blair sipped his iced herbal tea. "No personal photos of friends or family, no photo album, although I didn't boot up her computer to see if she keeps anything on disk. I can go back and do that later if we need to."

Jim was drinking regular iced tea. He swirled the ice and gazed into its sparkling amber depths. The glinting ice reminded him of the cut crystal Sherry had collected so ardently. "No new messages on her answering machine, and the last one I played back was a week-old reminder from her dentist about an appointment."

"Sounds like she had a lonely life." Blair thumbed through the address book he'd taken from Sherry's apartment. "I lost a bet with myself."

"What's that?"

"I expected Sherry to list her mother under 'C' for Carpenter."

Jim smiled slightly. "'M' for Mom?"

"Yeah. There's no name, but the address and phone number are for Albany. In fact, there are several Albany addresses and phone numbers for Mom in Albany, but they're crossed out, like maybe she moved a couple of times. The one that isn't crossed out has 'DeSalvo' in parentheses. Maybe her mother remarried." He thumbed quickly through the rest of the pages. "There are several businesses with the Albany area code, but they're crossed out, too. Do you think maybe Sherry moved here from back east?"

"If she did, she moved a long way from home."

Blair sighed and closed the book. "About as far as she could get."

"At least we don't have to make the family notification. We'll contact the Albany PD and leave that particular task to them." Notifying a family about the death of a loved one was the worst part of the job.

"But you'll ask them to go see her, right? Not just phone the poor woman?"

"I'll ask." Jim shrugged. "Some police departments aren't very compassionate about these things, especially when the crime happened outside their jurisdiction."

"That's crappy. And the mother will have to fly in to ID the body, too, unless we can find someone here willing to do it."

"Let's check out Sherry's workplace. If nothing pans out there, we'll have to do a door-to-door at her apartment building to see if anyone remembers Sherry doing or saying anything unusual over the past few days. Tracking down club regulars will be more difficult. We'll have to get last night's credit card receipts from the manager. If worse comes to worst, we may have to go back there next Friday night." He didn't sound hopeful. Crimes that didn't break in the first forty-eight hours generally went cold quickly.

Blair finished his sandwich. "Your bet is still on the unknown man she left the club with last night." It wasn't a question. "Mine, too. Maybe the M.E. or forensics will come up with something for us."

Outside, the morning sunshine was losing ground to a low bank of clouds carrying the afternoon's promised rain.


Sherilyn Carpenter had worked for a small manufacturing company specializing in high-grade papers. Its brand of stationery graced the desks of executives around the world.

The front office was open on Saturday, but the manufacturing area in the rear was silent. Normally, it was busy with technicians creating custom-dyed and watermarked papers. Next door, also a part of the business, was a print shop that completed the work with the addition of company mastheads.

Jim introduced himself and his partner to a rather plain, sullen-faced girl sitting at a small desk just inside the door. Behind her was a long counter where customers would go for service. Two women were stacking orders at a long table. "We'd like to speak to the manager, please."

She perked up a bit as she examined his badge and looked both men carefully up and down. "Mrs. Burns doesn't come in weekends."

"What about the rest of the staff?"

The woman gestured toward her two companions behind the counter. "The plant's closed, but Rose and Vivia work the counter handling sales and pickups. I'm normally the shipping clerk, but on Saturdays I'm the receptionist."

"Then we'd like to talk to the three of you, if that's all right."

Rose and Vivia, one a tall African-American girl and the other a stout, matronly Caucasian, paused in their work to come around the counter and join them.

"Is there a problem, Detective?" the matronly woman asked after carefully examining their badges.

Jim hazarded a guess based on experience. "You're Rose?"

"That's right. Rose Evanston. Mrs."

He jotted the name on a blank page in his notebook, then looked at the girl. "Vivia --?"

"Kester." She was more guarded than her companions, but again Jim thought that was fairly normal. Unfortunate, but normal.

Blair sat on the edge of the desk and smiled at the sullen receptionist, who all but purred under the attention. "And that just leaves you as the mystery girl."

"Sally Bartkowski."

Jim's pen wavered uncertainly, so she helped out by spelling it for him. When he'd finished writing, he waited until he was certain he had everyone's full attention. "I'd like to talk to you about Sherilyn Carpenter."

He wasn't quick enough to see the initial reactions of all three women, but Sally's little 'humph' told him what he needed to know there. Vivia frowned.

Only Rose looked concerned. "Has something happened to her?"

Jim avoided answering. "Does she work here full time?"

Rose nodded. "Monday through Friday, 8 to 5. She's our receptionist."

"How is she as a co-worker?"

The women exchanged glances. Sally started to say something, but a stern glance from Rose cut her off. Again, the older woman took the lead. "She's an excellent receptionist. She's well groomed and intelligent, and it certainly doesn't hurt that she's also very attractive. However, Mary Burns, our boss, didn't hire her for her good looks. Sherry is a whiz at keeping things organized, and she remembers every customer by name and their product orders."

"Do you all get along?"

Again, there was a pause as Rose and Sally vied for control of the conversation. As expected, Rose won out. "She's a very private person who keeps to herself. We didn't socialize much."

Sally punctuated the assessment with another wordless noise, and Jim turned toward her. "What do you think, Sally?"

The girl's mouth turned down with distaste. "She's a slut," she said softly looking at Blair as if to make certain he saw her moral outrage. Then she glared at Rose as if daring her to contradict. "We went out just once, the four of us girls, I mean. It was after work one Friday night. It was supposed to be just the four of us, unwinding after a hard week, you know?"

Jim glanced at his partner, who smoothly took over the questioning. "But Sherry didn't go along with your plans?"

Sally gave him a look that spoke volumes about jealousy and spite. "That's right. Oh, she went with us, all right, then spent the night prowling for men. It was embarrassing watching her survey the room, like a lioness zeroing in on the weakest animal. She hardly knew we were all at the same table."

Jim looked at Rose. "When did this happen?"

The woman didn't look pleased with her co-worker, but she answered readily enough. "It happened over six months ago, at least. When we realized she wasn't interested in the idea of a girl's night out, we didn't ask her again."

"That night, did she leave with someone?"

Sally snorted; the girl had a remarkable non-verbal vocabulary. "Yeah, she cut some poor dazed-looking executive out of the herd and strutted out with him without so much as a goodbye."

"So she didn't bother to introduce him to you?"

"No way. She had her trophy boy, and she planned to hang onto him."

This time, Rose didn't settle for a stern look. "Shut up, Sally." Her gaze shifted between the two detectives. "Something's happened to Sherry, hasn't it?"

Jim couldn't put it off any longer. "Yes, I'm afraid it has."

The woman seemed afraid to ask. "Is she -- hurt?"

Jim shook his head. "She's dead."

Only Rose seemed truly pained by the news. Sally's face reflected both revulsion and an atavistic smugness, while Vivia didn't look surprised to hear the news.

"We'll need to get in touch with Mrs. Burns, and I'd like to see Sherry's personnel file, especially in regard to emergency contacts. If any of you can think of anyone else we might talk to about her, we'd appreciate the help."

"I don't think you'll find anyone was close to her. We worked with her for almost two years, and she never became friendly with any of us." Rose sighed. "I'll have to telephone Mary Burns for permission to let you see the personnel file." She gestured for them to accompany her into a private office.

Sherry's employment records revealed as little information as everything else they'd found, although they did confirm she had moved to Cascade three years ago from Albany. The emergency contact was the owner/manager, Mary Burns. They got names and addresses for all the employees of the company, made an appointment to see the manager later in the afternoon, then headed back to the truck.

"What now?" Blair asked.

Jim flexed his shoulders as he climbed behind the wheel. "Now, we head back, brief Simon, make some phone calls to get Albany PD over to see Sherry's mother, and start organizing what little we know about the life and death of Sherilyn Carpenter." It was a sad fact of police work, but the seemingly never-ending documentation of a case frequently took longer than the time devoted to actual investigation. Then again, organizing hastily scrawled notes and preparing reports often gelled the facts and led to finding the criminal.

His cell phone rang at that moment, and he answered it with his usual brusqueness. "Ellison."

He listened a minute, a scowl darkening his face. "Is it related to the Carpenter killing?" A moment later, he protested, "Aren't Rafe and Brown next in the rotation?"

Blair eyed him worriedly as he ended the call a minute later. "What's up?"

Jim started the engine. "We have another body. I hope you weren't planning on seeing your bed anytime soon."

Continue on to Act II...


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