Torque by Glenn Muller

we're
busy.”
    Frank Bloomfield chuckled. “She's already
heard it. In fact, she said one more budget cut and ‘We’re busy’
would become our automated message for 9-1-1 calls.”
    Lareault closed the case file he’d been
working on.
    “Fresh or stale?”
    “Pretty fresh, though the body is a few days
stale. Rowan had managed to get the immediates together, just
before his re-assignment to ‘other duties’. Pictures, statements,
Coroner's call. They're all in the file there. Plus a few bits on
the mainframe you can download.”
    Bloomfield hitched up his belt again.
Lareault figured Arlene must have him back on the diet. “This one’s
got a bit of everything; sex, drugs, maybe even rock & roll,”
the sergeant added.
    “You make it hard to say no, Frank. Give me
the highlights.”
    The sergeant propped himself carefully
against the cubicle wall. “Martin Wayne Durrell. Twenty-eight. Died
from an injected overdose after, or maybe during, intercourse.
Discovered naked in his bed by the ex-wife.”
    “Ex. Is she a suspect?”
    “They were still friendly, apparently. And,
no: pubic hair ruled her out.”
    “Wrong colour?”
    Bloomfield appeared to have found something
fascinating on the ceiling. “More like, she had some and the crime
scene didn’t.”
    “Positively?”
    “Absolutely. Of the female variety, anyway.
They did find one long strand of red hair but it probably won’t
help us much.”
    “Why is that?”
    “Synthetic. From a wig—although if it does
figure in, it could be evidence of a premeditated act. A disguise
and all that.”
    “Accomplices?”
    “Doesn’t look like it, but Rowan may have had
other things on his mind and missed something.”
    Lareault had a respect for the big sergeant
that was shared by the entire department. A bullet from a Saturday
Night Special had ended Bloomfield’s detective days, but it was
retirement that began to drain the life from him. His part-time
posting as staff sergeant was a good deal all round.
    “Which way does it lean, Frank?”
    “Forensics vacuumed everything, and the
ex-wife affirmed the victim wasn’t interested in little girls, so
we’re looking for a woman who is intimate with her Gillette.”
    “The victim overdosed. A junkie?”
    “There was but a single needle mark, below
the left shoulder blade, and Durrell was no contortionist. The
coroner thinks he was either jabbed from behind or, more likely,
the couple were sitting conjoined, facing each other on the bed.
The perp could then reach around the victim and stick him in the
back. After that, Collier said, she likely got one hell of a
ride.”
    Lareault took the lid off the file box and
peered inside. For a copper it was like opening a treasure chest
because the contents always unveiled a mystery. It was sort of a
consolation prize for being lumbered with someone else’s case.
    “Feel like some overtime?”
    “Arlene'll shrink my undershorts, but okay.”
Frank rubbed his nose. “What do you need?”
    “Harrowport & Dynes. The funeral home
volunteered their services for the two street kids but there could
be more to it.”
    “What’s the scoop on the kids?”
    “Two separate incidents. Collier said one was
high and wandered in front of a car. The other one was an allergic
reaction. Tongue swelled up and he suffocated.”
    Bloomfield grimaced. “Not nice but not
unusual. Was there something more?”
    “They both had patches on their arms.
Butterflies.”
    “Butterflies? What sort of gang is that—The
Monarchs?” Bloomfield’s limp-wristed gesture made Lareault
laugh.
    “Not gang patches. These are like what
smokers use when they want to quit, except the active ingredients
are different.”
    “And you think the funeral home is tied
in?”
    Lareault shrugged. “The home is already on
the radar for pilfering and fraud. Who knows what we’ll find once
we start turning over headstones. We already have an undercover
officer working the case but I could use an extra pair of