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  Maybe he’d get his shit together in the process.

  “This is my only option,” Amanda finally said. “Milo will figure it all out and he’ll see I have good intentions.”

  “He might just quit,” Joy said. “I’m sure he won’t appreciate being manipulated like this.”

  “It’s for his own good.”

  “Just remember, I warned you.”

  ***

  Milo sat in the filthy chair across from Captain Cunt, hands in his lap, expression intentionally disdainful. She hated when he looked down his nose at her. Probably because she knew he knew she hadn’t earned the title of captain.

  The previous captain, Lou MacDonald, had been a shitty captain too, but Lou never pretended to be better than the rest of them and he treated Milo like a friend. Captain Maines made it her mission to belittle every person under her. No wonder she was single.

  Lou had been married, but found it impossible to remain faithful. He slept with every pretty girl he could get his hands on. Age didn’t matter either. Cleanliness was optional. Sometimes he couldn’t even look at Lou, because he knew the man must be full of STDs. Eventually, they’d have killed him, but his wife got the job done first.

  Lou’s wife, Benita, finally had enough of his philandering when she found out about the hookers he spent their vacation money on, and she left him. Lou might have got through that, because he never really loved Benita, but she took his dog with her. Lou loved that wretched little beast more than he loved anything and she knew it. Milo was willing to bet Benita never cared for the animal. It was her way of breaking Lou’s heart the way he’d broken hers. When Lou heard the dog got hit by a car, he snapped. Benita left it alone in the yard, a sin Lou would never have committed, and it dug under the fence. Why were people always surprised when a dog digs up anything? That’s what they do. Shit and dig.

  He came into work the following morning to offer his condolences, although he didn’t empathize at all with what the Captain was feeling, and learned that there’d been an incident at Lou’s ex-wife’s house. He didn’t know Benita well, so he was only mildly concerned to learn she’d been shot in the face. He was truly saddened to learn her shooter, Lou, shot himself after taking care of his absent-minded wife. His grief was short-lived, though. Captain Cunt took over in a matter of days and made him her prime target by the end of her first week on the job.

  Everything that made Milo a stellar detective seemed to be a black mark in her book. He was too clean, too fastidious, to callous, too cold. He was rude, arrogant, and unsociable. His notebooks bothered her. He knew she thought he wrote about her, but as he’d informed her numerous times, Captain Cunt wasn’t important enough to him to make it into his notes. Not often anyway.

  “Detective Smalls,” she began after straightening the files on her desk, probably his employee files. “You were told yesterday to take a break.”

  “No,” he said. “You said if I don’t learn to play nicely with the fucktards I work with, you’d have to suspend me.”

  She frowned. “And then I said it’s time you used some of your sick days.”

  “I thought that was optional, since I just had a week off.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “I don’t need a sick day.”

  “You stabbed Smith with his pencil. I think that indicates you need to take a break.”

  He allowed a quick smile. “He keeps pestering me to use a pencil. I told him about the unreliability of pencils. I calmly stated, on more than one occasion, that I had a pen, a perfectly fine pen that makes solid, reliable lines on paper, and that doesn’t break off, dull, or fade as I use it, and I didn’t need his pencil. Just so you know, pencil fades over time. So you can write a report, and it seems well and good initially, but years later, when someone digs out said report to reopen the case or to help prosecute the suspect, whatever was written is gone. It just disappears, because that’s what pencil does. It’s not permanent.”

  “That’s why we type our reports, Milo.”

  “And computers blow up, so there’s that.”

  “I don’t see how this warrants stabbing Smith.”

  “He insinuated I was afraid of pencils. I’m not afraid of them. They’re simply an inferior writing implement.”

  “Again, no need to assault him over that.”

  He disagreed. “I didn’t assault him for suggesting the pencil. He made a scene, asking me quite loudly what my problem with pencils was. If you ask me, I would say he’s the one with the problem, because he clearly loves pencils way more than the average person, but anyway, I calmly told him, for the millionth time, I don’t have to use a pencil if I don’t want to, and he told me I was a freak. He waved his pencil, covered in his nasty teeth marks, by the way, in my face, and I told him to piss off.”

  “Still, we don’t attack coworkers, Milo. As a representative of the law, you shouldn’t attack anyone who isn’t holding a weapon.”

  “He was holding a weapon. Do you have any idea how many bacteria were lurking in those teeth marks? His mouth is disgusting. I don’t think the fucker’s ever seen a dentist, and he clearly has an aversion to flossing. Bits of God-knows-what in his teeth all the time, and that black tooth is just unsettling.” He shuddered. “I warned him what would happen if he waved the pencil near me again.”

  “So he said.”

  “And he still put it in my face,” Milo said. “Practically up my nose, in fact. I gave him one last warning and he dared me to follow through. So I did as I told him I would, and I grabbed it from his fat fingers, and then I stabbed him in the neck with it. As it is an inferior instrument, the lead broke off and it was barely a flesh wound. I don’t know what the big deal is.”

  Captain Cunt stared for a moment. Then she smoothed the paper in front of her. “The fact remains, you stabbed him. Before that, let’s not forget how you poured bleach over your partner. He says he’s having flashbacks and his skin is still raw.”

  “First,” he explained. “Jones is a whiny little shithead and I told you I’ve always worked alone. And second, he’s filthy. Smells of old cheese and popcorn farts.”

  “You can’t pour bleach on people, Detective Smalls.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Have you apologized yet?”

  “Restraining order means stay away.”

  “You could email him.”

  “I’m not apologizing because I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “You poured bleach over his head.”

  “How many times are you going to say that? Jesus, I know what I did.”

  “But you don’t seem to grasp the seriousness of your actions.”

  “You said I should do what I have to do to make the partnership work. I could not spend hours a day confined in a car with that mess and do as you asked. I told him to have a fucking shower. He told me to fuck off and dared me to do something about it. So I did.”

  “Not cool.”

  “You’re not cool. Also, no one says that anymore. What’s the point of this meeting?”

  She took a breath. He imagined she was barely hanging on to her temper, which was as fiery as her ugly hair. Never trust a ginger, he always said. They were shifty and their skin unnaturally pale. Pale skinned people bothered him. One shouldn’t be able to see a person’s veins through their skin. Captain Cunt had one vein on her forehead that pulsated when she was about to blow her top. It did so now. Made his skin itch just looking at it.

  “You’re taking a leave of absence,” she said.

  “I just caught a case.”

  “No, you tried to steal a case. The pet shop burglary is assigned to Jones.”

  “Burglary?” He snorted. “It’s a homicide, Captain, and you know it. I’ve given you my notes on the other three. There’s too many coincidences and similarities involved.”

  “Name five.”

  “All of them are nutters, and I don’t mean everyday crazy like yourself,” he said, enjoying the flush of pink in her cheeks at hi
s dig. “They have serious psychiatric issues, involving extreme compulsions and debilitating fears. Second, they all look like suicides, but there are tiny clues that suggest otherwise. Pyro-Pete, for example, looks like he doused himself in gasoline and struck the match, but the coroner found what appears to be rope fibers in the charred flesh on his wrists, and his jaw was broken. And let’s not forget how the body was moved. Sex-fiend Sally—”

  “Who?”

  “The girl who you want me to believe killed herself with the snake in her ass.”

  “Oh.”

  “She had a compulsion that made her try all kinds of risky, and let’s just say it, fucking monumentally weird sex acts, but the snake bit her before it was inserted all the way inside. The coroner found several bites in and around her asshole, which suggests the venom incapacitated or even killed her long before she could have forced that fucker up in there. And do you have any idea how hard it would be for someone to force a snake in their own ass? I’m telling you, it’d take considerable effort, not to mention a rather large amount of flexibility. Snakes aren’t rigid, for one thing, not naturally anyway, and I imagine it fought like a son of a bitch to avoid insertion. Hell, even if she could’ve jammed it up there, it would’ve slithered out before it died. I think the murderer let it bite Sally, and then killed it before putting it in her ass, because otherwise, it just doesn’t seem plausible. I guess it could be done, but one would have to—”

  Captain Cunt lifted a hand. “Okay. Enough.”

  “You asked me to name five.”

  “I shouldn’t have.”

  “So, I’m saying I think there’s someone targeting these head cases.”

  “There’s not enough evidence for the kind of investigation you’re hoping for. Besides, one might argue you’re a head case, so you might be manufacturing evidence to suit your messed up theories.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s time to take a break. I’ve enrolled you in a treatment program.”

  “The fuck is this about? We agreed I don’t need anger management.”

  “No, you said you didn’t need it, and I said you needed something a little broader than just anger management. This program treats a variety of mental disorders.”

  He was offended she even said those words out loud. “I’m not crazy.”

  She smiled. “You’re not sane, either. Listen, if you complete the program, and take the required thirty days off work—”

  “Thirty days? You’ve lost your damn mind, woman.”

  “Thirty days. It’s not negotiable, so don’t start with me. Once you’re through that, you can come back to work. I’ll have the doctor’s recommendations and we can proceed from there.”

  “I’m not going to a shrink. You can have my badge.”

  Again, the smile. “I don’t want your badge, but if you don’t do this, you’ll force me to take it.”

  “I can tell it really hurts you right here.” He punched his chest.

  “You’re a gifted detective, which is the only reason this department puts up with your shit. Get it together, and you can come back. You keep falling apart, and we’ll have to take steps.”

  He knew when he’d pushed too far. She wasn’t going to cave on this one. He wasn’t going to cave either, not without a little insurance. “I want it in writing.”

  “What?”

  “This deal you’re offering; I want it in writing. I do this bullshit program, see this bullshit doctor, and you let me come back after thirty days. Also, you won’t be up my ass about my methods once I’ve done what you’re asking, and there is never—and I mean NEVER—any discussion about a partner again.”

  She tapped her pencil. He counted the taps. One… two… three… four… “Fine.”

  His hands itched to take the pencil and tap it two more times. Four was a bad number. Two pairs. Twos are deadly. Fours are suspicious. He hated it. Hated anything that wasn’t in threes. He stopped his rambling thoughts. Okay, maybe she had a point. He considered that maybe he might be a little bit quirky. “When does this shit show start?”

  “Today. You have an appointment to see Dr. Middleton at noon. She has a group therapy session tonight, and would like to have your intake completed so you can attend those sessions immediately.”

  “If I say no?”

  “You’ll be fired and we will undertake legal actions for the assaults on Smith and Jones.”

  “Assaults… pfft. They’re a couple of drama queens.”

  “Smith required two stitches.”

  “My grandma would’ve fucked his two stitches.”

  “End of discussion, Milo.”

  “You’re a cunt, you know that?”

  She stood. “Captain Cunt to you. Now get the fuck out of my office.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Milo sat in his car staring at Doctor Middleton’s “clinic.” More of a farmhouse, really. The old steel roof had several patches of rust, and the bars on the windows—why did they put bars on the windows? He didn’t like that at all. He didn’t like the unkempt yard either. It screamed, “Come on in so we can hack you to bits, make sausages out of your intestines, fill them with your ass meat, and then bury your remains in the creek after we fuck you in your dead mouth.”

  What kind of legitimate doctor operated out of a shit hole like that? Crazies should be kept in secure facilities, where banjos weren’t played and security guards were present just in case one of them did get their hands on a banjo. According to the brochures the captain gave him, the crazies Middleton treated didn’t even stay at the clinic. They all lived “normal lives,” whatever that meant, outside the program.

  And why was he even going along with this bullshit? The Captain was probably hoping this quack would send him over the deep end, and then she wouldn’t have to deal with him making her look like an asshole anymore.

  Well, fuck her. He would prove to them all he was not mentally unstable. He didn’t need thirty days to do it either.

  He took the keys out of the ignition and then opened the car door. Patting his coat pocket to be sure his alcohol wipes were there, the inside of the place was probably as filthy as the outside, he got out of the car. He stretched, taking another look at the property around the house as he did so. He noticed a couple of cats lounging by the old barn. His heart faltered a little, but he forced the anxiety down. The cats were all the way across the property. Even if they ran, he’d be at the door before they could rub their furry, germ-ridden bodies on his pant legs... or gouge his eyes out with their claws.

  He started toward the house at a brisk pace, just in case he underestimated the fuckers. As he neared the steps, he checked one last time, and was relieved to see the cats didn’t seem to give a shit about his presence. He hated all things furry. It wasn’t just cats, but they ranked at the top of his list. Animals were loud, stupid, and unpredictable. Plus, when you petted them, their hair got all over your clothes and hands. When he let the fear take over, he almost believed it was the animals’ way of tagging their humans for future attack. However, he rarely let that irrational side take over. They were animals. Nothing more.

  Before he could consider knocking, the old screen door swung open, and a tall, dark haired woman emerged. While she was clearly older than Milo—the lines on her face reminded him of old leather—he could tell she’d been attractive enough in her heyday. He quickly assessed her overall appearance. Chunky, sensible shoes. Black. Ugly, in his opinion. She cared more about comfort than style. Pencil skirt that fell just above her knees. Pencil skirts weren’t made for women with thick legs, and anyone with knees like sandpaper should give up and wear pants. While the short-sleeved blouse thing she wore was pretty, he decided her ridiculously sculpted biceps were troubling.

  “Milo Smalls?” The woman smiled.

  “You must be Doctor Middleton,” he said.

  “I am, but call me Rochelle. We’re informal here.”

  “No surprise there,” he muttered.

  “Come in.” Roc
helle stepped back against the door and waved to the dark interior of the house. “I was just about to make coffee.”

  He was relieved she didn’t offer her hand. Too many people had to touch by way of greeting these days. What was wrong with just saying hello and leaving your sloughed off skin cells to yourself? Not a fucking thing wrong with that in his opinion.

  As he entered the house, he was pleased to find it clean; almost sterile. White walls, polished wood floors, and pristine blue furnishings, most protected by plastic covers. Interesting.

  “Just have a seat on the sofa,” Rochelle said from behind him. “I’ll get the coffee and then we can begin.”

  He walked into the large, high-ceilinged living room. It was nice, but had few personal touches. On a narrow shelf above an empty fireplace, he counted at least a dozen cat figurines, and above those, hanging on the wall, was a large painting depicting a cat family. Each cat was dressed according to its role. Father cat wore a suit. It looked rather embarrassed. The mother cat wore a frilly dress. The brother cat wore a baseball cap, and baby cat—it was unclear if it was a boy or girl—wore a frilly bonnet and a diaper. They sat at a table, prepared for dinner with an ugly dead fish on a platter in the center. He stared at the painting. God, it was ugly. And the cats, every fucking one of them, stared back at him as though they knew he found them ugly. He shuddered and turned to the sofa.

  The rest of the room was a little too impersonal. A coffee table, a bookcase with various medical journals on the shelves, a flat screen television on the wall. No family pictures. No sweater hung over the back of a chair. Not even an old afghan thrown over the sofa for cozy nights with the television or a good book.