I

She's not from around here, Garris thought when he noticed the woman approach his desk at Homicide, Precinct 20. I'd guess New England, maybe Canada. Rich, inbred, used to giving orders. Please, please don't come for me...

On this very hot summer afternoon, Garris had placed two electric fans to run next to his office PC. On the computer screen he had opened several files on the unsolved Sanford Bay case.

He really did not want to be bothered, so he pretended not to look in her direction. But she spotted the name sign on his desk. When she spoke, her drawling accent placed her as a Southerner. "Lieutenant detective Garris? Did you get my mail? The one I sent you last week?"

He looked up from the screen. She was blonde, in her thirties, thin with a long face, tanned skin and narrow-set eyes. In the hot summer weather, she wore a light white jacket and dress; the other officers in the room ogled her from their desks.

"Ah yes... Ms. Tina Worles, was it?"

"That's right. Have you made any progress on my inquiry?"

Garris made an effort not to look annoyed. "Ms. Worles, we appreciate help from the public, in fact we encourage it. I receive scores of anonymous tips every week - yours is one of many. But please understand... we need more than a mere suspicion to go on. Do you have anything substantial to report?"

"Like I wrote, I reckon foul play is going on around old Ransall MacMeb. I think he's dead."

She repeated her story from the e-mail Garris had received: Tina Worles was an assistant stockbroker working on Bayliss Street, and the girlfriend of Roger MacMeb. The MacMebs were the richest and oldest residents of the 20th Precinct. Roger's uncle, Ransall MacMeb, controlled a fortune dating back to the British slave trade in the 18th century.

Garris listened halfheartedly; his gaze wandered from Worles to his screen and the work at hand. His sweat-soaked shirt clung to his skin. Perhaps he should pretend his mobile phone was vibrating in his pocket, so he could get an excuse to leave.

And then she told Garris what she had seen, a few days earlier.

"Old man Ransall is a recluse. He hates visitors and he even yelled at me once when I tried to knock on his door. He gets out on trips with his wife now and then, though. That old bitch clings to him like a leech, whispers in his ear, tells him what to say, translates his incessant mumbling.

"The chauffeur drives them in this big old Mercedes. I happen to be around with Roger MacMeb, my boyfriend, when the Mercedes returns.

"The family stood ready with his wheelchair and opened the car door... and then there was some distraction, so they didn't catch him when he fell out of the car."

"So? Was he hurt?"

"He didn't make a noise. He hit the ground but his face and limbs were stiff like a puppet... he didn't gasp or make a noise. Lucy, his wife, sat next to him in the backseat and reached out to help him up; she glanced at me and I saw the terrified look on her face... as if I had seen something I shouldn't have."

"You mean they abused him?"

She shook her head. "The family flocked around and lifted him into the wheelchair; it looked like he waved his arm at them, but I couldn't quite see. I wanted to get closer, but Roger stopped me and acted quite strangely... he was scared. He told me not to ask any more questions about his grandpa, because the old man was... an embarrassment to his family, as he put it."

"Do you have a recent photo of the MacMebs?"

"They don't like being photographed. Roger says they desire to stay out of the media."

Worles took out a small, crimson cellular phone from her purse and showed it to him. Its shell was beset with diamonds.

Garris wanted to gag: Do you think that impresses me?

"Roger gave me this. Don't ask me what it cost. He said it was just a present, but I know the real reason: he wanted me to get rid of my old phone which had a camera, so I can't take snapshots when I visit their residence."

"So, no photo?"

"I found this." From her purse, Worles produced a large color photograph, showing the MacMeb clan, dressed in black at an outdoors funeral. "This was taken by a private detective I hired; I got it only yesterday, that's why I'm here now."

Garris studied the photo, even as Worles held onto it.

Ransall, seated on his wheelchair with his hands in his lap, was wearing a hat and sunglasses, coat and gloves, and a scarf. His full beard was brown, but it must have been dyed; deep wrinkles ran through his pale, ruddy skin. Next to him stood his wife - a small, frail old woman with a beehive hairdo. She was leaning her hand against his sunken shoulder, as if to comfort him - or prop him up.

In the periphery of the group stood Worles herself, holding the arm of a man who must have been Roger MacMeb: a tall, skinny figure with a freckled complexion and beady eyes.

"See?" said Worles, shaking the photo as if that would help Garris see. "The old man's dead. They're carting around his corpse!"

Garris had to suppress a smile. "Have you seen Weekend at Bernie's? One of my favorite movies. Two teenagers haul around this dead guy and hold a party in his home, and the guests never suspect he's a stiff..."

Worles raised her voice in anger: "I'm not joking. He's dead!"

Now Garris couldn't keep himself from smiling. He met many cranks in his work, but at least this one amused him.

"There are ways of telling whether he's dead. Did you check his breath with a mirror?"

"No."

"In winter, does vapor come out of his mouth and nose?"

"He hates cold. They never take him out in winter or in the morning or at night."

"Does he have a pulse?"

"I ain't sure... I only shook hands with him once, and he wore gloves. I never met him more than two, three times."

"Does his chest move to indicate that he's breathing?"

"Uh... maybe."

"Have you noticed worms or maggots on his clothes? Flies circling his head?"

"Of course not!"

"Is there a smell? Embalming fluid, spoiled meat perhaps?"

"He uses a very strong cologne."

"Have you tried pricking him with a needle or shouting 'Boo'?"

"No! That would be rude!"

"Just to be safe, we could ask Ransall's physician for his patient journal."

Tina Worles tossed the funeral photo onto the desk. "And I have! It's Roger, my fiancé." The smile on Garris's face died. "He's the old man's doctor; he writes the journal and he claims Ransall is just old and decrepit."

"I admit that's odd." But not odd enough to make him believe Ransall had died.

"It ain't normal, that's a fact. What are you going to do about it?"

Garris sighed and lifted his coffee mug; it was empty. "Ms. Worles, may I ask why you're so concerned about the MacMebs?"

"I was going to marry Roger, but I'm having second thoughts. The more I get to know him and his clan, the more they shut me out. I ask and beg him to set a precise wedding date, but he keeps stalling..."

She fought back tears and wiped her eyes. "My private detective refuses to take more photos; he said the MacMebs are too powerful and could put him out of business. I will break up with Roger, but I've got to know. I've got to know."

And, Garris realized, he had to know. Even though she seemed hysterical. He stood up and shook her hand. "Thank you for coming, Ms. Worles. I promise I'll look into it. Just promise me this: Don't ask the MacMebs more questions or do anything to make them suspicious. In fact, it would be safer if you leave town for a week, while I investigate."

She smiled and nodded. "You're very kind."

"I'm not."

When she had left, Garris went over to the coffee pot table and poured himself a mug. Sergeant Bolland had just filled the pots with the specially made rich, strong blend of coffee beans which never failed to pep up the staff.

Bolland came over. "Who was the lady, sir?"

Garris took a sip. "Have you seen Weekend at Bernie's?"

***

II

First, Garris had to figure out how to get close to Ransall MacMeb without causing an embarrassment. Tina Worles was absolutely correct about one thing: the MacMebs had the power that came with old money. And they could cause Garris considerable grief if he tried to examine Ransall and the old man turned out to be alive and offended.

He tossed a few suggestions at Bolland until they found one that they could agree on.

***

An hour later, Garris and Bolland stood outside the large door to the MacMeb family "mansion": a ten-story brownstone house at the corner where Red Chief Street met Chippewa Alley.

The memory of their last walk down the narrow Red Chief Street still made him uneasy. He rang the doorbell and looked at the security camera above the big door.

A male voice replied through the wall speaker: "Yes?"

"Good evening. My name's Garris, lieutenant detective Garris, Precinct 20. Could we please have a word with Ransall MacMeb?"

The speaker voice paused. "What's the matter?"

"We'd like to have a quick chat with him. If it's not the wrong time."

"Wait..." A few moments later, the voice said: "Dad's asleep. Please come back in an hour."

"Thank you. We will."

They retreated to the car and Bolland drove them north around the block, casually checking the street. "Sometimes I miss being a patrolman," he said, out of the blue.

Garris raised his eyebrows; Bolland never used to talk about the days before he was shot and seriously injured on duty. Bolland paused, and said: "I've got a bunch of old photo albums from Europe. Inherited them from my grandparents. Some of the photos are over a hundred years old."

Garris asked him to stop by a coffee shop, and he bought two large mugs of latte and donuts. While they ate in the car, Bolland continued.

"My kids found the albums and leafed through them, and they asked me why the people in those photos look so stiff and almost never smile. I explained, and this is true, that some of the people in those pictures were actually dead. In the old country, the custom was to photograph relatives who had just passed away, as if they were still living. Alone, or together with living family members."

Garris frowned. "I've seen photos like that before. Never understood why they did it."

"Tradition, sir."

"For the poor, maybe - not for rich families like the MacMebs."

Garris knew from what he had observed in life that the richer people got the less they cared about customs, and more about their personal convenience. He jotted down a few notes on what questions he was going to ask.

***

After one hour, he rang the doorbell again. The door opened.

Inside stood a middle-aged, serious man; Garris recognized George MacMeb from Trina Worles's funeral photo.

The man barred the way with his arm and refused the hand that Garris offered. "You the cop?" Garris nodded and tried to smile. "I'm George, Ransall's son. That crazy bitch Tina send you?"

Garris feigned ignorance. "No one sent us. There was some trouble with the construction work beneath Red Chief Trail, and I'm wrapping up the matter. If you father has five minutes, I'd just like to ask him if he'd observed or heard anything in connection with the worksite down the alley. I assure you that's all. We don't intend to upset him."

George's eyes narrowed. But he let them in. "He's very old and has trouble speaking and hearing. Mother has to be with him."

"Sure, no problem."

"Come with me. And don't touch anything."

***

They walked through hallways and large rooms with high ceilings and yellowed unlit chandeliers; on many walls hung paintings of what might be clan members. Garris couldn't see any furniture that seemed modern, nor a single computer.

"You know," he said, "I expected a butler was going to open the door."

"We don't hire help anymore," George said.

"How come?"

"They steal."

They came to an oak door. George MacMeb leaned close to it and spoke into a brass horn that hung next to the doorframe. Then he listened to the voice that answered from the other side, and waited for the door to be unlocked.

Putting one hand on the door handle, he told Garris: "Only one of you may enter. Do not move too close to him, do not cough in his direction, do not make sudden movements; he has a fear of germs. Put your questions to my mother."

Gently, he opened the door and shuffled inside; Garris followed while Bolland waited in the corridor.

***

Heavy curtains were drawn across the windows; only two wall lamps spread a dim light across the room. Garris saw an open doorway lead to another spacious room, and he thought the house seemed much bigger on the inside.

In one corner stood a massive 30-inch television set inside an oak cabinet, and it showed old black-and-white programming.

The set sang: It's Howdy Doody Time...

A few feet from the screen, on his wheelchair, sat the limp figure of Sandall MacMeb. Next to him on a padded armchair sat his wife, with one hand tucked in underneath his elbow. Ransall appeared to be squinting through his thick, tinted eyeglasses, and wore a cap on his head. His hands were hidden beneath the blanket that covered his legs.

The room reeked with cologne.

Garris strained his eyes... and he could see the man's chest expand and contract beneath the smoking-jacket. Ransall's head turned slowly toward Garris and George. The old man's small jaw moved; there came a mumbling sound and Ransall's wife bent forward to listen.

She nodded and said with a grave look: "Officer, he is ready to take your questions. But please be brief. He's very tired."

"Of course. Thank you very much for inviting me."

George pointed him to a heavy armchair, placed six feet from Ransall's wheelchair, and stood behind it. When Garris tried to nudge the armchair closer, it completely refused to move.

He wondered: Had the armchair actually been bolted to the floor?

***

Mrs. MacMeb repeated every question into her husband's ear, listened to the mumble that followed, and then told Garris what had been said.

He asked the questions he had memorized and took notes, but focused on the two persons themselves: their movements, their smells, their noises.

He thought he could hear a faint wheezing noise when Ransall's chest moved; twice during the questioning, Ransall's legs and arms shifted slightly under the blanket.

But the old man's eyes, hidden beneath heavy eyelids and the tinted glasses, seemed unfocused.

When Garris rose from his seat and made to leave, he attempted one last ruse: he abruptly held out his hand to Ransall and offered a handshake. The wife started; George breathed in sharply.

She whispered in Ransall's ear, and he shook his head and muttered.

"He thanks you and asks you to leave."

"I apologize if -"

"Now," said George firmly but softly and stepped in between them, facing Garris.

***

Only when they were outside the room and the door had been locked from inside, George raised his voice. "How dare you treat my father so rudely? I told you about his fear of germs."

"I'm very sorry," Garris lied. "Just a reflex of... courtesy."

"If you don't have any more questions, please leave."

Garris thanked him and left without making a scene of it.

***

"Was he dead, sir?" asked Bolland when they got into the car.

"For a supposed stiff, he did move a little bit. And I saw his jaw move. Didn't get a chance to check his pulse and breath, and they did act suspiciously around him. I could file a request for his medical records, but it would get us in trouble." He thought about it for a few seconds. "I need a middleman. Let's ask Dr. Schmidt for a favor."

He called up the pathologist and asked him.

***

III

Eight days later, Schmidt's favor arrived in a brown envelope.

Garris opened it, and took out the photocopies of Ransall's medical records which Schmidt had requested as part of his "university research."

Large parts of the text on the pages had been blacked out, such as the sections "Known Family" and "Known Diseases," with a handwritten note in the margin about "patient confidentiality."

The censorship meant that there was something to hide: most likely infidelities and VD.

From the documents, he learned that the old man was 79 years old, had been a heavy smoker most of his life, had married twice, and was born in the house where he now lived.

According to the uncensored part of the records, Ransall had been operated for an ingrown toenail twenty years ago, and nothing more serious after that. His current blood pressure was listed as "very low," and his physician - Roger MacMeb - recommended that his grandfather should avoid exertion, smoking and fatty foods.

The only featured photograph of the patient had been taken 21 years ago.

Garris felt torn. So a rich old man looked and sounded decrepit, and was probably dependent on his wife and family - so what? His health record was obviously suspect. No serious surgery in twenty years for a doddering old man in a wheelchair? That had to mean malpractice, at the very least.

But even so.

The MacMebs could afford hired help, but they didn't hire. Everything was kept in the family, a sure sign they had something to hide. The wife had clung very closely to Ransall; she reminded Garris of a ventriloquist. Using her husband as the dummy...

"Forget it," he told himself and shook his head. If he demanded an examination to confirm whether Ransall was dead or alive, people with influence were going to ask for him to be fired. He had seen politics intrude on police work before.

Wake up and smell the coffee, he thought. The laws for ordinary working schmucks are not the laws for rich stiffs.

But even so...

He felt the bile rise in his throat; there had to be some way of collecting the necessary evidence without risking his job. And he had to keep Bolland out of the loop now; if this informal investigation blew up in Garris's face - and he had a glum foreboding it might - Bolland shouldn't have to suffer for it.

It took Garris another few days to realize he was stuck: he couldn't dismiss the suspicions and he couldn't quite confirm them. Then he went to visit Ms. Worles. He left a note in his computer files that he had gone out to examine the old crime scene of the Sanford Bay case.

On his way to Worles, he pondered how he had gotten into the habit of not reporting everywhere he went and every person he interviewed, unless he had enough facts to make a case. It also ensured that McKinnick, the new head of Homicide, wouldn't hassle him again.

In a way, McKinnick had encouraged him; she had told him to bury the investigation of the sewer incident on Red Chief Street, and he took a lesson from that.

The downside to this method was that his secrecy limited the amount of police resources he could use - and it also made him seem lazy and inefficient to his superiors.

It nagged his conscience, too, that he behaved like some sort of private crusader instead of as the employed public servant he was supposed to be. His career had taken a wrong turn and he knew it. At some point Garris would have to face the review board, or Internal Affairs, and he was certain of the outcome.

All he could pray for now was a little more time to catch a few more killers, make the precinct a little safer... and then get sacked.

***

Worles had just returned from her vacation, and had a deep tan.

"Officer Garris!" She was in a radiant mood. "Finland was great. I brought you a souvenir..." She blushed. "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm not supposed to bribe you."

"That's right, but I appreciate the gesture. Ms. Worles..."

"Call me Tina."

She giggled. With a sinking feeling in his chest, he knew her flirting wasn't going to help him at all.

"Please listen. I need your help. Can you think of any future occasions where Ransall MacMeb is expected to make an appearance, or do things like eat, drink or speak, or be captured on video? By the way, what did he do during the funeral? Did anyone videotape him there?"

She sat down to think, and her mood visibly shifted from giddy to concerned.

"Do? Why, he didn't do a thing. His wife and Roger drove him home as soon as the coffin had been lowered into the ground. He didn't stay around for dinner, but I did; the relatives insisted I ought to stay. I didn't see video cameras; I think I heard the MacMebs had issued a request to all the guests against using them."

"Has anyone else told you anything about his behavior... or lack of it?" Frowning, Tina shook her head. "Does Ransall have a mistress?" Garris probed. "An ex? Someone who was once intimate with him?"

"How should I know?" Then she tilted her head and made a knowing face. "Well, I've heard the gossip about his womanizing days. But that stuff happened long before I met Roger and his family."

"If MacMeb was dead, his whole family would have to be in on the secret. One of them is bound to talk sooner or later. Who has the loosest tongue?"

"Oh, that's easy: Ransall's other grandson, George's half-brother Danny. He and George don't get along, and Danny got drunk at the dinner after the funeral. They got into an argument, I heard it."

Finally, Garris thought, an opening.

"I'm a cop; I'm not allowed to buy the people I question drinks." He gave her a nod. "But you are. Take Danny out to dinner, get him a bit drunk, flirt a bit... make him gossip. He's got to have something to say about inheriting the family fortune... or whether the clan is waiting for old man Randall to die."

She seemed disappointed, but said: "If it'll help the investigation, I'll do it."

"But promise me you won't take any unnecessary risks. Is Danny violent?"

"I'm not sure."

"Don't follow him home, then."

She scoffed. "As if I would. He has a face like a pig, and the breath to match!"

***

IV

Days went by. McKinnick and Franklin had him help out with other investigations and actions.

Everyone at the precinct talked about the hot weather; colleagues and citizens discussed how the rising temperature made people short-tempered and stupid.

At one occasion Garris joined in the precinct's largest armed response of that summer: a man held up and seriously injured a truck driver in Ratboro, and stole the truck and trailer. When five police cars surrounded and trapped the truck, he opened fire with a shotgun and the officers gunned him down. Garris did not fire a single shot.

The injured driver testified in hospital, that he had found the man sitting inside the refrigerated trailer, shotgun in hand, eating ice-cream. Perhaps he only wanted the trailer for staying cool in the heat.

Then, twelve days after Garris last saw her, Tina Worles contacted him. She sent a handwritten express letter, not an e-mail, as Garris had requested. It read:

Dear Mr. Garris,

Danny told me to get lost. So did Roger. The MacMebs have warned me that unless I leave them alone, they'll prosecute me for stalking and harassment. I can't pursue this matter any longer without risking my career. Regardless, I'm convinced that I saw what I saw. The truth will out sooner or later.

Regards,
Tina Worles.

P.S.: The MacMebs will attend a service for a departed business colleague at the local chapel, this Sunday. I heard this from a friend.

Garris put the letter in the document shredder. How tempted he felt to pretend Tina Worles had never served up that insane story. She had clearly testified that when Ransall fell out of the car, he resembled a lifeless, stiff puppet. But she hadn't said it was a puppet. If it were the corpse, how had they preserved it? And for how long? Or had she seen a replica, a perfect copy of the body?

That was at least remotely possible, and the MacMebs could certainly afford it. There had to be some way of getting close enough to check whether the old man was breathing, whether his skin was lifeless and cold...

He slapped his forehead. "Of course!" At once, he called up Dr. Schmidt.

"Hi, it's me again. I need to borrow some equipment from the university..."

***

On a rainy Sunday morning, Garris saw the Mercedes leave its garage and cruise around the block toward Chippewa Alley.

He drove his car up next to it. Dr Schmidt, in the backseat behind him, pointed the double-camera setup at the Mercedes and pressed the Play buttons on both video recorders.

Garris asked: "How many passengers do you read?"

Schmidt watched the tiny screen on the IR camera. "Exactly three people - two in the front seats, one in the back seat."

"You're sure? No other heat sources?"

"The car engine and the tires."

"All right. Keep the video running while I follow. Be ready with both cameras when they stop."

The Mercedes rolled smoothly along Chippewa Alley and parked by the Catholic chapel. Garris slowed down and parked on the other side of the street.

Two middle-aged men, Danny and George MacMeb, exited the front seats, walked around and opened the trunk. They lifted out a folded-up wheelchair, folded it out, and rolled it to the left-hand backseat door. Old Mrs. MacMeb stepped out of the backseat, so that George could reach inside from the other side, while Danny opened the door on the left.

Together, they lifted the limp form of Ransall MacMeb into his wheelchair, while the wife leaned over him and talked into his ear. The old man wore wraparound Ray-Bans, a scarf and a hat; his fingers showed in his lap, and he seemed to shift in his chair when George pushed the wheelchair up the ramp, into the chapel. The other two followed inside.

"Did you get that?" Garris asked.

Schmidt fidgeted and fiddled with the equipment, and finally said: "Got it."

"Great! Let's move."

"The body in that wheelchair shows up cold on the infrared camera, Garris. It's a dummy. There's no life in it."

"I wanted to make sure."

"So what do you intend to do with this evidence?"

"I still haven't proved a murder."

"But if that isn't Ransall's corpse, where is it?"

"Don't worry about that. Your work is done."

***

Patricia McKinnick met him at the Snake & Cross. They sat down in a booth in the pub's darkest corner. It was near closing time.

"What's that?" he asked, indicating the white packet McKinnick put on the table before her.

"Nicotine gum." She started chewing. "Every time I have a talk with you I get this urge to smoke, and it's not doing me any good."

"I know I'm a health hazard. It says so on the label." He held open his jacket so the label showed. McKinnick grinned.

"Seems I bring out the joker in you."

"Thanks."

Garris gazed at the many colors of her long hair, the shape of her lips, and suddenly remembered why he had asked to meet her. He handed McKinnick an envelope. Inside was a CD containing still photos of the fake Ransall MacMeb from the Sunday service, and CD-ROM discs with the video footage - all in both natural and infrared colors.

"This is the proof that Tina Worles was right," he said. "And I don't want anything more to do with it. Let someone else handle this. You can, if you want to."

"I will, and I'm not going to ask why. I've got you figured out. You're still trying to make amends for that big screw-up you made once. And you know what? I'm not going to offer you one itty-bitty shred of pity. As long as you get the job done and don't screw up again, I'm pleased."

He pinched his lips together and looked away from her bold, flat gaze.

When he refused to answer, she nodded. "Don't worry about those rich bastards trying to get back at us for revealing their dirty secrets. I'll copy this material and give it anonymously to the media."

Garris relaxed. "It's the right move, politically speaking. Could you send it to Rob Ferment at the National Surveillor first? I owe him a few ones."

"Sure." She hid the evidence in her shoulder-bag and chewed gum in silence for a while. Garris was torn between the desire to look at her and the embarrassment that he, a grown man who should know better, was having a crush on her.

She sighed and looked down at Garris's hands on the table.

"Someone is always secretly in love with someone else," she said and he got too baffled to think.

"What?"

"Nothing. Go home, Garris. You helped me nail a whole family of crooks. You did well."

He stood up and swayed, hesitating. Then, feeling utterly foolish, he said: "Goodnight."

She nodded, smiling faintly. "Goodnight."

***

Later, in his apartment, Garris couldn't fall asleep. He got out of bed and dug out the old family albums, from the shoebox in the cupboard underneath his bookshelf. The oldest photos, from the old country, were dated around the time of the Great Potato Blight.

He studied the most faded one. In that picture stood and sat ancestors whose names he had never learned. They stared with stony, pinched gaunt faces at the unseen camera lens, wearing their ill-fitting dark suits and dresses. In their midst sat an old woman, her head propped up by a big pillow and a man's hand resting on her shoulder. Her eyes were shut, and her jaw had a slackened quality.

Garris found a magnifying glass and examined the old woman's features for the better part of an hour. And yet he couldn't determine whether she had been alive when the photo was taken.

Had his ancestors photographed their dead this way to deny the fact, out of fear of death? Or had they acted out of insecurity, because they didn't know for sure when death had occurred... or whether the dead might come back? Did the photographed dead serve as a kind of family totem, or vessel for a restless spirit?

Garris considered every possibility: he might have been mistaken about the MacMebs. They might have acted not out of greed alone, but also superstitious fear.

His phone rang. Feeling tense, he picked it up. A muttering voice spoke over the line, and Garris strained to hear the words.

"Speak up!"

The muttering voice raised its volume, then died away and the signal broke up. In his sleepy, tired state Garris thought he heard a few legible words - a muttering old man's voice, speaking with a subtle Irish accent.

"...have released me..."

He stared at the phone for a few moments, before he shut it off. Then he went and opened a bottle of liquor, brought it with him to bed, and drank slowly until he fell asleep.




"Family Photo" (c)A.R.Yngve 2007. All rights reserved. May not be reproduced without permission.