William Bennett

""Ms. Freckle, I swear to --" Detective Monday hisses under his breath, slapping the file folder shut between his hands. He leans forward in his desk chair, wheels catching carpet, and all but backhands the conference phone from its receiver with a plastic clatter.

Two long office walls beyond the filing closet, Ms. Freckle fumbles her nail file into her coffee as Monday's distress honks in from the desk phone intercom.

"There is NO --" Monday's voice trotts off, receiver dropped when something like a shin or ankle makes fast acquaintance with a brick-heavy box of paper. "sUCH THING -- as -- as as as,"

Ms. Freckle rolls her eyes, tucks her heels down from her desktop to sit forward and answer the line. "I don't argue on behalf of the client claims, Detective, I only write them down."

"Yeah but, Reapers?" Monday rasps, with all the scorn of a man now determined to debunk something. "As in, Grim harbingers of Death? Who even profits from something like that?"

Ms. Freckle wags coffee from her nail file. "Nothing in the way of black market organ trade, victims left whole. Same suspect description at every scene, though; if anything all we've got on our hands is a garden-variety creep."

Monday exhales, cheeks deflating. "Then who's footing the bill for the chase?"

Freckle consults her rolodex, long fingers walking through the cards for dates and names. "Well you're going to hate this," she says, sliding a pitch black business card from its tabbed pocket."