Happy New Year

As has been the case lately, I'm running behind on my next chapter.  However, I'm about halfway through.  So if the New Year's Faeries see fit to extend me good tidings, I'll have another chapter out in the next few days. 

Chapter 20 - A New Friend

Tannehill felt a dull thud in the back of his head and an acute awareness of his sinuses.  He stumbled forward momentarily but caught his balance before needing to grab his desk for support.

Rather than return home immediately, he'd decided to deposit Snell's items at his office but was beginning to think this was a bad idea.  The manila envelope was still secured in his hand as he turned around to see the instigator of his ambush.

A thin man, slightly shorter than himself with dark, wild hair and large, intense eyes stared at him rubbing his right hand.  Tannehill couldn't discern the look on his face - was it a leer?  A grin?  A feeble attempt at acting? A combination of all three?

"What gives, buddy?"  Tannehill responded as though someone on the bus had shoved him out of the way for a better position toward the door.

"I was trying to incapacitate you." The leer shifted further toward a grin.  His accent was thick and German.

"So I gathered.  While that didn't work out, you've certainly guaranteed that I'll have a nice lump on my head."

"Yes, well.  When I encountered your partner the other day, I may have been a bit, shall we say overzealous and I didn't want to make the same mistake twice?"

"Right.  Brass knuckles?"

The intruder's eyes widened even more, approaching the bounds of physical possibility.  Then they immediately narrowed.  "How did you know that?"

Tannehill pointed to the sign behind the intruder.  "I'm a detective.  I detect things."

The intruder considered this for a moment and then nodded, accepting this as a plausible explanation.  "Now, Mr. Tannehill, if you would be so kind as to sit on the chair behind you."  He stopped rubbing his knuckles and pulled a four-inch blade from his coat pocket and held it a foot in front of him.

Tannehill glanced down at the blade and back up at his intruder.  He raised his hands, manilla envelope still firmly affixed in the right one.  "Certainly.  But if you're going to pull a knife on me and call me by name, at least give me the courtesy of knowing yours."

The man didn't move.  "I am Otto."

"Yes, of course it would be something obvious," Tannehill muttered.  Though he didn't know if he being humored with a false name, Tannehill suspected this was, in fact, the intruder's name.  Normally, this would be disconcerting, as an armed attacker providing real identification usually meant nefarious consequences for the other party in the room.  However, the complete lack of intelligence in Otto's face kept Tannehill at ease.

"Are you armed?"  Otto gestured toward the envelope with his knife.

Tannehill turned the envelope in profile, showing no indication of anything deadly contained within.

Otto gestured curtly with the knife toward the chair.  Tannehill nodded in compliance and, while keeping his eyes fixed on his assailant, hooked a chair leg with his foot and swung it around so it faced the office door rather than the desk.  He sat down dramatically and gripped opposite sides of the seat of the chair with each hand.  He stared back at Otto.

Otto straightened slightly and began walking toward Tannehill, knife still grasped firmly but now at his side.  "Very good.  So I'd like to ask you a few questions..."

When Otto was in range, Tannehill lifted his right foot with as much force as he could muster and planted it between his attacker's legs, carrying Otto about two inches off the floor.  Otto landed on his feet with a slightly quizzical look before dropping the knife and falling to the floor in a fetal position with both hands holding his crotch.  His face collapsed into a grimace and he began to howl.

Tannehill quickly stood up, stomped on the knife and slid it behind his desk as reached into his bottom drawer, removing his revolver.  He pointed it at Otto.

"You told me you weren't armed!" Otto yelped, face still curled in pain.

"I wasn't." Tannehill shrugged.  "I am now."  He re-centered the revolver on his target.  "I'm not going to make you sit in the chair to answer my questions, but I'll ask that you not make any sudden movements during our little chat."

Otto remained in a fetal position, moaning.  Tannehill took that as an acknowledgment of the terms.

"How did you know I was going to be here?"

"I don't understand why you kicked me!  That was very unsportsmanlike!"

Tannehill's voice remained measured.  "Granted, but you're the one who ambushed me by punching me in the back of the head, so I'm not sure I have a firm grasp of the rules.  I'd like to ask again - how did you know I was going to be here?"

"I didn't," Otto continued wincing, "I knew you'd come here eventually, so I just waited."

It sounded too mundane to be a lie and Tannehill was rapidly deducing that Otto wasn't likely to think out a clear strategy for his movements.  "Why me?"

"What?"

"Why are you coming after me?"

"May I sit up?" Otto asked quietly.

"Yes, but no sudden moves."  Otto sat on the floor, legs splayed in front of him towards Tannehill and hands extended behind him on the floor for support.  Tannehill repeated his question.  "Why are you coming after me?"

"You're Snell's partner, yes?"

"According to the lettering on the door, I would assume so."

"Well, then you must have the information we seek that he didn't provide."  Tannehill was amazed by such a naive leap in logic that two business partners would share so much information - specifically suspected illicit information - so prodigiously.  However, he didn't betray this amazement to Otto.

"By 'we' you mean...?"

"Ms. Brunner.  She is my associate, yes.  I believe you've deduced that much already."

"Who else?  Beederman?"

"Who?  Oh, the large man.  Yes.  Mr. Beedlebaum."

"Ok," Tannehill exhaled, weighing his options briefly.  "You're right.  Snell and I did chat a bit before he died about that 'information' you're curious to get a hold of, but I don't know all of the details directly.  He wrote them down and put them in a secure location.  I'll need a day to access them."

Otto objected, "it's very easy really.  I don't understand why it requires so much time for one simple question."

"As I said, I don't actually know the information you're seeking, only how to access it.  I'll let you know when I'm in possession."

"How do we get in contact with you?"

"Stand up." Otto lurched forward and Tannehill backed a step away taking aim at Otto.  "Slowly!  I want you to stand up slowly and write a number where I can contact you on this manila envelope.  I'll call you in 24 hours with further instructions."

Otto grabbed a pen from the desk blotter and scribbled a number on the envelope.  "This is Miss Brunner's flat.  We'll be waiting for you to call."  He dropped his arms to his sides and stared at Tannehill unaware of what to do next.

Tannehill motioned toward the door with the revolver, "ok, then, Otto.  Have a pleasant evening.  We'll be chatting again soon."

Otto slowly made his way to the door and exited.  Tannehill sunk into the chair behind his desk and sighed exaggeratedly.  He had no idea what information Snell possessed or even how to start looking for that information.  But, for the first time in the case, he had some temporary leverage.

He looked down at the unloaded revolver in his hand and opened the bottom drawer again to grab some ammunition.  Stupid or not, Otto wasn't someone he wanted to encounter again without being fully prepared.

[Author's Note: Merry Christmas (or Happy Holidays)!.  Today's edition is 1282 words for a running total of 21207 words.  I've been waiting to write this chapter for a while.  As has been happening with the rest of the story, it turned out to be longer than expected, so some of the exposition I planned here will occur in a future chapter. I hope to have another chapter ready for consumption in the next couple of days since I'm unencumbered by such things as work this week.]

Chapter 19 ...`Til It's Over Over There

Tannehill alighted from the transport ship in Liverpool and immediately made his way to the barracks after a week wallowing in his own - and everyone else's - filth.  After a hot shower and a few hours' leave to sample the local variant of fish and chips the isolation that had encapsulated him below deck began to melt away.

He'd heard murmurs of the brutality of trench warfare on the trip over and actual stories from some of the British soldiers who viewed the fruits of its labor first hand.  The lucky wounded missed various extremities or retained most of their discarded limbs.  The unlucky ones suffered from massive burns or had been strategically cut in half by a well-placed mortar shell.  The damned showed no signs of outward injury but spoke in far off voices about incoherent topics.  When asked about their experiences at the front, they'd turn to the speaker, vacant-eyed, smile weakly and then laugh maniacally.  With luck, a friend would usher them away in a calm voice and stroke their hair gently as they left.

As a member of the infantry, he knew a similar fate could befall him and he prepared for a life vastly different in the future from the one he just left if he returned home at all.  The new "tanks" and a surge of American optimism (and troops) were helping reshape the war in favor of the Entente Powers but there was still a lot to accomplish and any day at war means another day of lost life.

After a few days docked in Liverpool staring west toward the Irish coast, Tannehill and his unit were moved to France and installed on the front in the Argonne Forest.  The weather had turned noticeably cooler and Tannehill tapped into his Chicago childhood survival instincts to keep warm against the elements.

The stories of his legendary sea-sickness on the transport ship over had followed him and left him as a pariah among not only his unit but everyone, American or not, who came in close proximity to him due to some irrational fear that he'd erupt in spontaneous vomit even on dry land.  Rather than frustrate him, he relished the solitude.  He didn't want to form attachments with men who, with regular certainty, could be here one day and not the next.  He used the extra time that other soldiers spent communing learning French and sketching the war-scarred countryside.

The days crept into late October 1918 and his unit saw little action due to their inexperience.  Though the pop of distant gunfire was ever-present, it never approached near enough to the unit's position to cause anything more than a low-level existential threat to each soldier.

Eventually, due to boredom or curiosity or a mixture of the two, soldiers began approaching Tannehill to ask about his experiences on the boat ride over to Europe.  Most would delicately approach the issue by starting with their stories of the trip over before not-so-subtly asking about Tannehill's unique perspective.  However, one day, a tall, slender blond-haired boy whom Tannehill who appeared surprisingly young - even among the vast mass of other teenage soldiers - approached Tannehill and simply broached the subject without pretense.

"So, why'd you throw up so much on the boat?"

"I'm not from a seafaring area, so my stomach never needed to adjust to the motion of water."

"I understand.  If only we could get rid of the moon, no one would ever suffer motion sickness again.  That, and we'd rid ourselves of those pesky werewolves."

Tannehill stared at the boy in mild admiration.  Rather than receive the expected retort of "who even uses a word like 'seafaring' anyway?" the boy had retorted with a solid understanding of Newtonian physics and lycanthropy while demonstrating a sympathy Tannehill hadn't expected to at all in Europe.

The boy grinned and extended a hand, "Sams."

Tannehill extended his own, "Tannehill."

Sams and Tannehill recognized an immediate camaraderie in the other and took the opportunity to launch immediately into topics of mutual interest.  They'd use each other to practice French poorly and laugh about their misuses or discuss books they'd loved as children.  Where Tannehill was intent on honing an underdeveloped drawing skill while in France, Sams refined his rudimentary skills at poetry.

A week into their budding friendship, Tannehill realized that neither knew the other by anything except a sole moniker.

"By the way," Tannehill spoke up, eager to fill in this gap in their relationship, "what's your full name?"

A slight whistle hovered on the wind in the distance.  Sams smiled at Tannehill with the same broad grin he'd given during their introduction.  "It's..."

The whistle grew louder before a loud bang and white flash clouded Tannehill's senses.

When he regained his bearings Tannehill could no longer find Sams. Instead, there was a smoking crater directly in front of him surrounded by a large mound of earth.

He was vaguely aware of someone screaming "Fuck!" over and over again as the ringing in his ears subsided.  Tannehill realized it was him.  As for Sams, half of him had been blown backward from his original position.  Tannehill was wearing the other half.

Another shell burst in the tree line above him and Tannehill instinctively dove into the crater, slicing open his arm on fresh shrapnel as he did so.  He covered his ears with his hands and continued screaming until the barrage ended a minute (or a month - he couldn't be sure) later.

A few minutes later, two other infantrymen found Tannehill supine on the crater embarkment wide-eyed, silent, and caked in drying gore.  They pulled him out, stood him up, and quietly marched him to the nearest field hospital.

Afterward, Tannehill returned to Capital City.  The department, eager to cash in on the patriotic fervor surrounding the war's successful conclusion, decided to publicize their war hero's accomplishments in the Argonne Forest.  What to Tannehill was a string of desperate and terrifying moments alone in the wilderness became a stoic survival of enemy fire as the sole survivor of his defensive position in the eyes of the city elders.

He walked in the city's victory parade surrounded by streamers, bunting and an adoring family shipped in from Chicago.  As the shouts of the enthusiastic crowd swelled, he looked around vacantly and smiled weakly, laughing enthusiastically at any joke or comment a passer-by tossed his way.

[Author's Note - Today's edition is 1064 words for a total of 19925 words.  I should be back on track for my regular publishing schedule for the foreseeable future.]

A Quick Note on the Novel

As I was out of town last week and catching up on a few things this weekend, the next installment of the story will be delayed a few days.  I've written the majority of the chapter but need to finish it and edit.  I hope to have the next edition available in the middle of the week.

Chapter 18 - Thump!

Thump!

[Author's Note: This chapter weighs in at 1 word for a running total of 18861 words.  I was out of town earlier this week and therefore unable to publish it mid-week as I had hoped.]

Chapter 17 - The Lover's Quarrel

After his meeting at the precinct, Tannehill wandered over to the Happy Hour Diner.  Though he hadn't done much with his day other than sit in a cramped room and battle with two oversized municipal employees, he felt famished.  He slumped into the nearest booth and waited.

A matronly woman with a puffy face and even puffier hair-do approached him.  She wore an all-white outfit pining for better days and brighter moments.  She held a cigarette with a one-inch ash attached to it in her left hand and an order pad gripped precariously in her right.

"Where's Vera?"

"She works a split shift most of the time," she responded while adding to the length of the ash.  "Six to ten in the morning and six to ten again at night.  But I'm here to do your bidding during the midday, m'lord, so what'll it be?"  The last phrase ran together so fluidly it sounded like one word - "sowhuddelibee".

"Come again?"

"What would you like to order?"

"Ham and eggs."  Tannehill thought for a minute and realized that his diet of late had lacked proper nutrition, "...and a side of creamed spinach."

"Okee-doke."  Puffier hair turned back toward the counter.  Her ash remained in stasis for a brief second before dropping to the floor behind her.

Tannehill finished his meal - leaving half the creamed spinach on his plate - and paid his bill.  As he left the restaurant, he couldn't be sure, but he thought he caught the waitress curtsying in his direction as he walked through the door.  Two nights with no sleep imbued the world with a surreal tinge that made him double-check his judgment.

His best option, he decided, was to catch up on a few hours of sleep before reviewing the details of the case with a fresh eye.  He knew he still needed to track down the doorman and find a way to chat with Emily Brunner in a manner that wouldn't put her on the defensive.  So far in this game, Tannehill was the individual holding the flimsiest hand.  The police weren't too far ahead, but they weren't as interested in winning as they were in taking the house's cut and simply closing out the case, facts be damned.

Tannehill walked through the door of his apartment, removed his coat and placed it carefully on the back of the chair next to his bed.  He placed his fedora on the seat and loosened his tie.  He glanced at the alarm clock which ticked steadily away from 12:47.  Without pulling the bedclothes back, he lay down on the bed, arms folded across his chest, and closed his eyes.

He suddenly became aware of a dull banging and opened his eyes.  Riiiiing.  Riiiing.  He looked at the alarm clock again which ticked steadily away from 4:02.  The lighting in his apartment refused to tell him if he'd been asleep for three hours or 15.  He reached clumsily across the table, knocking a notepad and pencil from their perch onto the floor and haltingly answered "Hello?" with an overwhelming thickness in his voice.

"Did I catch you during a siesta?" Murphy's voice buzzed thinly from the other end of the line.  Three hours Tannehill thought.  I was only asleep for three hours.

"You could say that.  Why...why are you calling again?  Do you need decorating advice for the office?"

"No, I've already got plenty of suggestions there.  I need you to come back in.  There's been a break in the case."

"Hmm.  I'm not that break am I?"

"No," Murphy responded flatly, "when can you get here?"

"I need to freshen up a bit but can come straight over after that.  About 30 minutes?"

"Perfect."  Murphy hung up.

Tannehill swung his legs off the bed, sighed heavily, and rubbed his face with both hands.  He splashed cold water on his face, brushed his teeth free of any remaining egg and gathered his jacket before heading for the door.

---

"We're not going to have to do this again, are we Shorty?"

Shorty glared down at Tannehill with a mix of contempt and defeat.  "Go on back," he waved his hand impatiently toward the door, "but don't touch nothin'."

Tannehill opened the door to the precinct backroom.  "It's not a department store, Shorty.  It's not like I'm going to swipe a few pairs of handcuffs and make off downtown for an exotic evening." By the time Shorty had responded with a string of clipped, guttural phrases, the door was closed and Tannehill was striding toward Murphy's office.

When he reached the office, the door was shut, but he was able to see through the windows that surrounded the office on three sides.  Tannehill saw someone in the chair he previously occupied facing toward the wall with two patrolmen flanking him on either side.  The occupant looked beefy with short dark hair thinning aggressively at the crown.  The fern drooped cheerfully in greeting.

Murphy greeted him in front of the door.  "Care to make a wager on that lover angle?"

Tannehill shrugged.  "Why?"

Murphy held up a halting finger and walked into the office.  He walked out with the two patrolmen who settled nearby.  "Step over to this side of the window."

Tannehill did as he was asked and glanced at the occupant - now in profile and evidently handcuffed to the chair.  He couldn't suppress an audible gasp of surprise.  "That's the uncle!"

Murphy nodded, "uh-huh."  He straightened up and continued.  "He walked in about an hour and a half ago and confessed to Snell's murder.  Said he and Snell had been vying equally for Miss Brunner's affection and jealousy got the better of him.  Originally, he went to your office just to scare Snell away, but Snell wouldn't back down, so push - literally - came to shove and ended in the artwork you saw when you returned for the evening.  His name's Beederman.  Harry Beederman."

"You're serious?"

Murphy shrugged.

"Nothing about this story makes sense.  You said yourself the violence was methodical.  We both agreed that it took more than one person to subdue Snell.  And," Tannehill raised a finger of his own, "you shot my theory about Brunner's involvement down because we were in the same place far away from where Snell was getting offed."  Tannehill jabbed his raised finger at the suspect, who glanced at him sideways with something Tannehill couldn't place - fear, hope, satisfaction? - "He," Tannehill paused for emphasis, "was also there, so he has the same alibi.  I have photos, remember?"

"He had access to a car.  He'd be able to work over Snell and make it back downtown in the time it took you to ride the bus."

Tannehill gaped at Murphy with incredulity.

Murphy shrugged again.  "He confessed.  From my standpoint, that's as good as an early Christmas present as I'm going to get."

Tannehill inhaled sharply and considered his options.  He could start a lengthy tirade about how the entire case was too conveniently gift-wrapped and the department was too lazy to do its own investigative work when they could just up their clearance rate with someone who wasn't going to put up much of a challenge, even if he were innocent.  If he did so, Murphy would probably march him out the door with orders to Shorty to bar the doors of the precinct to him indefinitely.

He shrugged.  "Hope it sticks."

Murphy smiled broadly.  "Oh, before I forget," he walked back into the office and returned with a bulky manilla packet.  "Snell's personal items.  He doesn't have any known next of kin, so they're yours to do with as you see fit."

Tannehill opened the packet and slid out the contents - keys, wallet, and monogrammed cigarette case.  "That's odd."

"What?"

"Snell didn't smoke.  Why does he have a cigarette case?"

Murphy smiled again and shrugged in response.

[Author's Note: This week's edition is 1306 words.  The running total is 18860.  As a holiday bonus, I'll be releasing a second chapter in the middle of this week.]

Chapter 16 - We Have Ways of Making You Talk

"I'm assuming you're not going to tell me he died of old age?" Tannehill leaned forward toward Murphy.

"That would be a correct assumption."

"And he probably didn't fall down the precinct stairs?"

"That would also be correct."

"So, I've exhausted all possible modes of death aware to me and am all ears."

"Remember when we were chatting at the diner a few days back and you surmised it wasn't a jilted lover because the violence was swift and impersonal?"

"Yes."

"Well, while undressing Snell once he made it to the morgue, we found he had massive bruising around his torso.  Both sides.  Somebody worked him over pretty good.  Whatever happened wasn't swift and it's entirely possible he could have died from internal bleeding."

"But other than the blood spatter that resulted from the bullet wound, his shirt and coat didn't look particularly worse for wear.  If he received that much punishment, his clothes would be at least partially tattered."

"His undershirt had quite a few snags in it.  We're thinking brass knuckles or something similar based on the bruising patterns."

"Why would someone take off his coat and shirt - or allow him to take off his coat and shirt - before beating him?"

Murphy shrugged.  "We haven't figured out that piece yet."

Tannehill stared silently at the ceiling for a brief moment.  "Are you looking at this from the jealous lover angle based on these developments?"

"It seems plausible."

"I'm not so sure."

"What makes you think different?"

"Well, like you said, the violence wasn't swift but I still think it's impersonal."

Murphy stared at his dead fern and frowned in a bid for sympathy.  He turned back to Tannehill.  "You don't think that getting beaten to death or nearly beaten to death isn't personal?"

"No, not in this case."  Tannehill folded his hands on Murphy's desk and leaned in a bit more.  "If this were an act of passion, he'd have a lot more bruising around his face.  A jealous lover is going to swing for the first thing he sees.  Or he's going to swing for the cause of his jealousy in the first place.  And one of those targets is definitely the face.  I'm assuming that when you undressed him that you found him, uh, intact?"

"What do you...oh, yeah.  His family jewels were still in place."

"There are a couple of possibilities.  The first is that this was someone who wasn't simply angry with Snell but so enraged that he decided to plan brutal revenge and took his time doing so.  If that's the case, then some of these details fit - the massive bruising around the torso, the meticulous removal of Snell's clothing - for whatever reason - beforehand and, of course, the coup de grâce.  But someone planning this type of revenge for this type of reason would've left a calling card.  Something to humiliate an illicit lover and show ultimate victory.  In this case, though, his nuts were still there and he was killed with a gunshot after being severely knocked around.  If someone were going to take the time to work out their anger on Snell like this, they wouldn't finish the job with something so cold and distant as a gunshot.

"So, if you don't think this was revenge, then what was it?"

"An interrogation."

Murphy and the fern frowned skeptically.  "An interrogation?"

"Yes, the details fit.  Or fit better than the jealous lover."

"In what way?"

"It's calculated.  You don't beat someone in such a methodical and unusual way if you're angry with them.  In an interrogation, you find ways to exact pain that will make them think it can end if they simply volunteer the appropriate information."

"You seem to know a lot about forceful interrogation methods."  The two men locked eyes briefly before Murphy remembered where, exactly, he was making this statement and to whom.   He broke Tannehill's gaze and glanced at the fern to come to his aid.  The fern, being dead, didn't respond.

Tannehill continued.  "And, after extracting the information, his assailants shot him either because he was expendable or a further liability.  The gunshot was an afterthought.  Whatever they're after, it's important enough that murder is a secondary concern."

"They?"

"Most people don't voluntarily sit in a chair and absorb blow after blow from brass knuckles.  There had to be at least two of them in order to secure him to the chair."

"And why bother replacing his clothes after they finished the job if this was a matter-of-fact beating and homicide?"

"Why bother coming up with some fantastical story about tripping down the stairs if an interview with a suspect doesn't go well?  There was some motive to do so, well thought out or not."  Tannehill chewed on his lip, "Still the order of events is a bit confusing."

"In what way?"  Murphy was growing increasingly frustrated that Tannehill and the fern were threading together a coherent timeline before he'd had time to come up with a theory.

"Like I said, the blood spatter on Snell's suit was pretty minimal.  If they dressed him after the fact, there would have been a lot more mess - y'know with a gaping fatal head wound and all."

"Maybe they cleaned it up?"  The fern wilted in further disappointment to Murphy's response.

"Why bother?  They didn't make much effort to clean his brain off my back wall.  What's the point of a bit more housekeeping in this case."

"So, let me see if I follow your theory," Murphy began counting points on his fingers.  "Snell knows his assailant - or assailants - and expects to meet them.  He sends you on an errand because he doesn't want you to know what he's up to."

"I forgot about that.  That makes the jilted lover angle less likely too because the whole thing points to premeditation on both parts."

"You leave.  His assailants come in, tie him to a chair, strip him to his undershirt and begin to beat him."

"So far, we're on the same page."

"After beating him and extracting the information they need, they dress him."

"Correct.  It sounds ridiculous, but that's the likely scenario."

"Then they shoot him in the head."

"Yup."

Murphy shrugged.  "I'm not certain it makes less sense than the lover theory, but there are certainly some oddities, as you say." 

Tannehill shrugged in return.  "Isn't every investigation filled with oddities until you have the context?"

"Well then, any idea on who the assailants are?"

"I'm betting on the Brunner broad.  She wasn't shy about tipping her hand that she knew me and her timing in all of this would be too coincidental."

"There's just one problem with that."

"Yeah?"

"You and she were in the same spot while your partner was getting his head blown off,"  The fern let a frond fall to the floor in acknowledgment of its officemate's first astute observation of the morning.

[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1157 words for a running total of 17554 words.  Ferns are among the world's oldest plants and pre-date dinosaurs by about 120 million years.]

Chapter 15 - We Won't Come Back...

Shortly after their conversation in the diner both Spinoza and Tannehill were drafted.  Spinoza's college education placed him in a staff position for a battalion commander in the army and he shipped out immediately.  Tannehill was assigned to the infantry and followed Spinoza a few months later.

Both had similar experiences on the way over.  After a stultifying 3000-mile railway trip from coast-to-coast, they were stuffed in the bowels of cargo liners in New York and shipped across the North Atlantic.

Every knock or creak in the night as they swung precariously in their hammocks below deck signaled imminent danger from a u-boat's torpedo or another angry iceberg intent on making a name for itself after its sibling wrecked RMS Titanic a few years prior.

Spinoza, who grew up on the shores of Lake Michigan with easy access to sailing equipment, was able to adjust to the sawblade movement of the ocean even when he was stuffed below the waterline with no access to an outside view.

Tannehill, who grew up near the stockyards with easy access to cattle and swine, had a tougher time.  Originally assigned a top hammock, his bunkmates shortly grew frustrated with his un-seaworthy stomach and the consequences that his bottom bunkmate faced as a result. Subsequently, he was often relegated to sleeping on the floor.  He spent his first few nights in his new quarters avoiding the sloshing detritus from other soldiers who hadn't found their sea legs either but quickly succumbed to exhaustion and simply took every opportunity he could to shower, regardless of water temperature to remove the day's vomit.

After a brief stint docking in Liverpool, Spinoza was ushered across Britain and landed in France in March 1918.  As a member of the battalion staff, he was stashed safely behind the front and was rarely exposed to the Triple Entente's trenches.  The horrors of No Man's Land were a distant threat to him.

However, he was not assured of escaping from the horrors that funneled back from the front and No Man's Land.  The battalion staff tent abutted the evacuation route back to the medical facilities.  During his first month, as weary medics deposited their cargo next to the tent for a brief respite, Spinoza honed the rudimentary French he picked up in school to soothe and entertain the wounded troops even if it was only for their final few moments of existence.  He used his natural talents for mimicry to keep the British and American troops morale up by imitating their regional accents.

But, after the first month, the stream of wounded and dead proved too overwhelming to sustain his self-imposed humanitarian mission and he concentrated on the mundane tasks at hand to drown out the moaning and screaming around him.  What seemed like a relatively safe two-mile buffer from the trenches soon became a time-delayed harbinger of dread as the swirling planes and distant staccato booms indicated a fresh delivery of medical monstrosities would be passing by shortly.

By the end of the summer, Spinoza was beginning to worry that his enforced apathy was draining the humanity out of him.  To counteract this void in his soul, during lulls in his work, he'd chat with the wounded as he did before. 

In September he encountered a soldier who, despite his literary background and broad vocabulary, Spinoza could only describe - optimistically - as a quarter of a human being.  The man, knowing that he had at most an hour or two left before dying, asked Spinoza for a cigarette as a small mercy.  Spinoza obliged and lit a cigarette for the soldier.  The new flora of the Continent had caused his hay fever to reach its peak, though, and he didn't pick up on the faint odor of gasoline emanating from the soldier's clothes. 

As Spinoza walked back toward the tent, content that he could give a dying man some succor however small, the soldier burst into flames, writhing in even more pain than he'd been in moments before.  Spinoza rushed back, panicking and searching for some method to smother the flames. 

A nearby officer spotted his anguish, walked over, unholstered his sidearm and shot the dying man in the head.   He reholstered his weapon and silently placed a hand on Spinoza's shoulder before walking away.

Spinoza sobbed for an hour at his desk afterward and then returned to charting maps for the battalion.  He didn't speak to another wounded soldier until Armistice Day.

Once Armistice Day arrived, Spinoza prepared to head back to the States with the other soldiers and to put his time in the tent behind him.  A day before he was due to embark he received a telegram.  Its brevity briefly made him gape in disbelief, but a reconfirmation of the source - a close family friend - unmasked the shock of his original reading:

ALL SIBLINGS DEAD OF INFLUENZA.
FATHER SUFFERED HEART ATTACK IN GRIEF.  DEAD.
MOTHER INCONSOLABLE BUT ALIVE.

Upon receiving this news, Spinoza decided to alter his plans and responded with a telegram of his own to his mother:

COME TO NICE.  ITS NICE.
WILL BE IN FRANCE INDEFINITELY.

A month later she met him in Nice.  They stayed for a year enjoying the creamy combination of cheese and eggs in Niçoise toasts before moving north to Paris.  They both remained in Paris until 1921 as two members of two lost generations until his mother passed away from a chronic broken heart.  Spinoza remained in France for another two years before heading back to Capital City and resuming his career as a crime beat reporter covering the Shining City That Shows Prohibition Works.

[Author's Note: Today's edition is 940 words for a total of 16397.  I had to do some research on American troop arrival dates in WWI.  Unlike WWII, where American engagement lasted for years, total time in Europe during the First World War was only about a year and combat didn't really start until about six months before the end of the war.]

Chapter 14 - It's Good To Be King

"Who?"

*Sigh*,"Murph."

"Murph?"

"You know who I'm talking about, Shorty.  Lt. Murphy." Tannehill glared at the desk sergeant, who, with an additional foot of height provided by the desk pedestal, was able to glare back down at Tannehill with a height advantage of about two feet.

"Oh! Lt. Murphy.  It can get confusing here sometimes," Shorty rolled his wrist vaguely a few times in the direction of the precinct.  "We recruit heavily from families of Irish descent and Murphy is a common surname."

"I'm aware," Tannehill paused.  "I'm not the one who scheduled this appointment, so if you want to keep Lew-ten-ent Murph-ee waiting, I've got all day."

"You sure it's Lt. Murphy you want and not Sgt. Murphy," Shorty continued undaunted, "they're both detectives and civilians often get them confused."  Lt. Murphy's sudden appearance through the precinct door prevented the desk sergeant from continuing to stake out his bureaucratic territory.

"Let's head back to my office, CH," Murphy glanced sideways at Shorty and nodded while holding the door open for Tannehill.  "Can I get you anything?  Need a coffee?"

"I'm fine, thanks," Tannehill walked past Shorty and caught the desk sergeant smiling in triumphant defiance.  Once the door closed, he continued.  "Good thing you've got him up front.  Nothing's gonna get past him be it wild-eyed criminal or long-held grudge."

"He's just doing his job."

"Making me list every possible Murphy in the department?"

"Ensuring the precinct operates in an efficient and orderly manner without any unwanted trespassers."

"Gee, thanks."

"You know what I meant."

"I'm flattered that he still holds a special glee in keeping me frustrated."  They continued walking past a short row of desks.

Tannehill whistled, "nice digs," as the two men arrived at an office with Detective Lt. D. Murphy stenciled on the open door.  Cramped into the tiny space was a small wooden desk fraying at the edges with a large dent near the center, a swivel chair behind it rivaling Tannehill's for comfort, two squat industrial chairs in front - one with a hole exposing its internal padding - and a three-shelf bookcase off to the side crowned with a dead fern.

"It's hard to avoid the trappings of luxury when you're as important as I am.  Please.  Have a seat."

Tannehill chose the industrial chair with the exposed padding.  "Certainly an upgrade from my office. With the exception of the overwhelming smell of bleach that adds that nostalgic touch of home, of course."

Murphy grunted.  "So, what have you heard?"

"What have I heard?"  Tannehill was confused.  "Aren't you the detective investigating the case?  Don't you have anything to tell me?"

"We'll get to that.  I assume you haven't been sitting idly by."

"You assume correctly."

"Well?"

"Do you remember the other night at the diner when you asked if I thought the case I was working earlier in the day was connected to the job on Snell?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah.  Well.  I was non-committal at the time, but I'm less non-committal now."

"Please.  Do explain."  Murphy pulled a note pad and pencil from his coat pocket.

"I was able to get that name you wanted for follow up.  It's Bruner.  Emily Bruner.  I canvassed her apartment building for a while yesterday and, as fortune decided to favor me, I was able to discover her identity."

"Ok," Murphy jotted the name down, "it's a name.  Why do you think she has any connection to this noise?"

"Well, as fortune continued to favor me, I encountered her at a jazz club and we had a chance to chat."

"Oh, I see," Murphy paused and chuckled. "Was this one of your regular jazz clubs or a new one you were trying out?  Did you have a chance to sit in on a set or two and play piano?"

"Knock it off, wise guy.  Do you want to hear what I have to say or not?"

"Ok, ok.  So, somehow, you inexplicably (a) went to a jazz club and (b) encountered this dame at the same jazz club?"

"Yup."

"And immediately upon meeting you she copped to your partner's murder and threw herself at your mercy?"

"Yup.  She also informed me that it was she, not Leopold and Loeb, who murdered little Bobby Franks.  You get her for this and that and they just might promote you to mayor."

"Alright, alright, point taken.  I'll stop.  Go on."

"Well, after chatting with her, she wished me a fond farewell by name."

"That's not all that unusual.  It's what people normally do in social circumstances."

"Except I didn't tell her my name."

"You sure?"

"I'm a pretty astute observer of determining when my own name passes by my own lips."

"So, based on this evidence, you're ready to send her to the hangman?  That she knows your name?"

"I said it made me less non-committal about her involvement.  Rather than egging me on, why don't you take a step back and look at the angles for a second?  Is it possible that she may have heard my name somewhere else?  Certainly.  For all I know she's had a secret crush on me and picked just the right time to stoke my interest."

"But, this is also the same woman I was casing at the same time my partner was getting offed.  Coincidence?" Tannehill shrugged exaggeratedly.  "Sure, why not, but that's a lot of coincidence.  Like I said, I don't know what her involvement is here.  For all I know, Snell fed her a description of me and the two planned an elaborate joke to act like she knew me if I ever met her.  Hell, she may not even know Snell's dead and thinks he'll get a kick out of the joke when they see each other again."

"Still, unless coincidence really does come into play here, whatever her involvement, her impromptu introduction ties her in with Snell somehow."

Murphy was chewing on his pencil, "you've got a point."

"Yes, I've got a point," Tannehill snorted.

"Hey," Murphy put up his hands in defense, "don't get bent out of shape.  I didn't say the dots you're connecting don't make sense.  But I can't just go up to her and arrest her because she knows your name.  I need to figure out how to play this."

"Play this?  You're a detective lieutenant for god's sake.  Far be it for me to tell you how to do your job, but I do have a few suggestions based on previous experience.  Why don't you look her up and ask her about the night in question?  We know she has an alibi because it's the same as mine, but maybe something shakes loose during your chat that piques your interest."

"We could do that."

"You could do that?" Tannehill leaned back heavily in his chair, "Murph, you're a good cop.  I've worked with you for a long time.  I recommended you for promotion.  But are you going to let department apathy settle in and drop a promising lead because you need to find a way to 'play this'?  Why not just state what you really think and declare the case closed so that your dinner plans aren't interrupted?  It's what everyone else around here does."

Murphy's voice dropped ominously.  "Watch it CH.  You're not exactly playing in friendly territory right now," he growled.  "I promise you, we'll follow up on this, but it has to be in a time and a manner of my choosing so I don't randomly bully citizens simply for knowing someone's name."

"Fine." The two men stared at each other for an eternity.  "That's all I have at the moment.  You said you have something to share with me?"

Murphy's voice loosened and he started gnawing on his pencil again.  "Well, now.  This is where things get interesting.  We're not certain that Snell died of a gunshot wound."

[Author's note: This edition breaks records at 1309 words for a running total of 15457.  I was originally going to discuss Murphy's finding in this chapter, but it looks like that'll fit nicely in a chapter of its own.  When I first wrote Shorty, I made his nickname literal.  I decided to make it ironic to show that Tannehill isn't afraid (or lacks the common sense to avoid) to battle someone who's significantly taller than he is.]

Chapter 13 - When Wooing a Girl, Make Sure to Tip Her Well

The phone rang mercifully later than it could have the following morning, but not mercifully enough to give Tannehill a full night's sleep.

Tannehill sat upright and blinked, a stubborn cowlick covering one eye.  His suit coat was crumpled in a ball next to him.

"Hello?" His voice was still thick with syncopation.

"Hey, CH, how've you been sleeping?" Lt. Murphy's voice blared from the other end of the line.

"Surprisingly well until very recently." Tannehill coughed and cleared the thickness from his voice.

"Great.  Do you think you'll have time to meet me at the precinct later?  We've got a couple of things to give you a heads up on and a few questions to ask you."

"At the precinct?" He could feel his brain begin to shift into a useful gear.  At least this excursion wouldn't require another commute downtown.

"Yup."

"Is this a formal request for my time?"

"Not at all.  Like I said, it'll be a bit of show and tell on our end and yours."

Tannehill exhaled trying to blow the cowlick back into place.  "OK. What time?"

"Can you make it here by 10 AM?"

"What time is it now?"

"7:45"

"Sure.  It'll give me a chance to grab some breakfast and practice various alibis."  Tannehill thought he heard Murph smile or grimace on the other end of the line.  The two men said their farewells and hung-up.

Tannehill stood, walked to the washbasin and doused his face with soap and cold water.  He pulled a fresh shirt and tie from his closet and shook his coat free of its largest wrinkles.  He glanced around the room for his fedora and found it hiding in the corner by his kitchenette.  He picked it up, gave it a casual dusting, put it on and left.

A few minutes later he was sitting in the Happy Hour Diner.

"Morning. How's my favorite ray of sunshine?"

Tannehill looked at Vera.  "I didn't realize you were serious about that outfit in powder blue."

"Yup.  I have one in a very bright yellow as well."  Vera smiled, "it's one of the many perks of the job."  Tannehill noticed the hairpin she'd worn the night before was still in place.

"How are you this animated on so little sleep?"

"I've got fewer miles on me than you do, gumshoe.  Also, my paycheck demands it, and he's a tough guy to say no to."

"Huh."

"Huh, indeed.  What's your palate in the mood for today?"

"Bacon.  Scrambled eggs.  Toast."

"...and coffee?"

"Yes, coffee!  Definitely, coffee."

Vera headed back to the counter, placed his order and returned with a pot.  Pouring, she winked, "this is on me.  I mean, what else can I do for a man who treats me to the most elegant bus ride I've ever known?"

Tannehill grunted, "Thanks."

"I understand.  You're saving your best material for after 9 AM and for the waitress at the next stop on your diner tour."

"Sorry," Tannehill gulped down half the cup, "the lack of sleep is starting to catch up to me."

"Once it's caught up, what's on your docket for today, then?"

"I'm heading to the police precinct in a couple of hours."

"Ooh," Vera sat down in the booth across from Tannehill, placed her chin in her hands and cooed.  "What for?"

"I'm not certain.  The police aren't typically forthcoming with their information."

"I didn't think PIs were supposed to be either, but that coffee's already working its magic.  I'm surprised you even told me you're going to chat with the police."

"You've helped me out in a couple of spots, so fair's fair.  Besides, I don't see you as the type who talks too much in your sewing circle."

"No, we're too busy drinking to talk.  Good thing I always wear my thimble, otherwise those drunken needle pricks would be painful."

Tannehill stared at Vera and took a measured sip.

"Any further thoughts about our European friend and her knowledge of your identity?"

"Other than she's got some involvement in my partner's death and it's not something she feels she needs to hide?  No."

"Say, what was your partner's name anyway?  I don't think you told me last night. I feel like the three of us are getting cozy, and I don't want to refer to him by something so formal as 'partner'"

"Snell.  Er, Dick Snell."

"About yay tall," she stretched a hand above her head, "dapper, thin mustache, not afraid of the pomade."

"That's him.  Do you - did you know him?"

"Yeah," she lowered her voice in concert with her eyelids, "we were lovers."

Tannehill spit a mouthful of coffee on the table between them.

"Relax, flat foot, I'm joking.  He used to come in here and undertip me while overcomplimenting me.  It wasn't a winning combination for courtship."

Tannehill wiped the coffee dribbling from his chin, "yeah, that's definitely him."

"So," she used a rag in her apron to wipe up the coffee on the table, "you have no idea why the cops want to talk to you?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure I'm not under suspicion.  That means they either want to catch up for old time's sake or ask me some procedural questions.  Maybe they think I can help them identify a suspect."

"Do you think you can help them?"

Tannehill took another sip.  "If I don't, I'm sure they'll find a suspect soon.  That suspect may never have laid eyes on Snell, but..." he shrugged.

A voice from the kitchen boomed out into the seating area, "Vera, we've got customers!  Quit yapping and go serve them!"

"Indeed!" Vera retorted.  She stood up and smoothed her powder blue uniform.  She leaned close to Tannehill and lowered her voice in breathless excitement, "keep me posted, would ya'?"  She turned to grab the order ready for pick up on the counter.

Tannehill glanced into his coffee cup and muttered. "Indeed."  He drained his remaining coffee and started toward the counter waiting for his breakfast.

[Author's Note - This chapter is 999 words.  The running total is 14148 for the story.  I wasn't sure if most homes had telephones installed in the 1930s.  During the 1920s, most new homes were wired for phone service, but that stopped with the onset of the Great Depression, so the likelihood is a little ambiguous.  As a result, I decided to give Tannehill a phone to further my plot without having to rewrite me scene and determine how and when he'd pick up his messages.]

Chapter 12 - Keep the Hun Out!

Tannehill's rate of ascension in the CCPD was commendable.  His ability to keep his mouth buttoned about internal police affairs and to solve crimes attributed to actual perpetrators were skills the department could proudly display.  Now they had an officer the public could place their trust in - someone who wouldn't scapegoat the poor of the city in order to beef up a case clearance rate and someone who wouldn't rat out the other officers who'd scapegoat the poor of the city in order to beef up a case clearance rate.  Murmurs echoed throughout precinct hallways that he'd make detective, or even skip to detective sergeant, before his fifth anniversary.  In a system rife with patronage that kept even well-connected individuals from significant promotions for a decade, this was an impressive accomplishment.

This, however, did not prevent the occasional tedious check-in from his superiors on his progress, as occurred one day in 1917:

"Tannehill, have you been talking to army recruiters?"

"I had to interview one in relation to the soldier who knifed that socialite to death a couple of weeks back. So, yes sir."

"Did you talk to him about joining the military?"

"During a lull in the conversation, I asked him about the situation in Europe and what our government's current position is, specifically since we've just instituted a draft.  But, no sir, I did not express a desire to join the military."

[Some gnawing on a cigar and grunting.] "Good."

"If I may be so bold as to indulge my curiosity, sir, why are you asking?"

[More gnawing on a cigar and continued grunting.] "It's department policy that until our government takes an official position, we remain neutral in our outlook toward the conflict in Europe.  We're a cosmopolitan city with a diverse population and we need to respect the views of all of our citizens without the appearance of bias."

Strange, Tannehill thought, considering that murder of two German-Americans in the previous month - for the slimmest of reasons related to the war that affronted everyone's personal views in Capital City - was effectively closed.  As was the investigation into the arsonist who'd torched one-quarter of Chinatown the previous December.  Stranger still that the department heads of the CCPD had contributed funds for arms to support the Easter Rebellion in Ireland the year before - an act most people would consider overtly political and singular in its respective view.

"I understand, sir.  I have no interest in forwarding the perception of bias within the department or futhering a misguided opinion that we don't protect and serve all people of the city."

"Good.  We know the Germans have committed some atrocities, but those are no less heinous than the acts taken on behalf of the British.  It would be wrong to choose sides without weighing all the facts."

"Yes, sir.  The Irish neighborhood I grew up in always prided itself on being a pillar of the surrounding community and contributing to the city's welfare as a whole."

[Final grunting.] "I think we understand each other, Tannehill, and, more importantly, what's best for the department."

"Yes, sir.  I believe we do."

---

"Funny, I had a similar conversation with my employer.  Except without the ham-handed attempt at  propaganda."  Spinoza stabbed at his scrambled eggs and salted them a bit more before shoveling in another fork full.

Tannehill hill looked dolefully up from his egg sandwich.  "Is there something wrong with wanting to represent all people of the city in an equitable and compassionate fashion?"

"That reminds me. How's the investigation into the Chinatown arsonist going?  Is the department any closer to determining it was an accident due to multiple malfunctioning fireworks that exploded simultaneously throughout the quarter as part of a tragic Chinese New Year mishap?"  Small bits of scrambled egg plastered the table between them as Spinoza spoke.

"Chinese New Year is in February."

"Ohhhh.  Well then, obviously CCPD wouldn't miss a historical detail like that when filing away an investigation.  It's probably just the Chinese celebrating our New Year a few weeks early.  Or maybe Santa's sleigh malfunctioned during a test run."

Tannehill sighed and let the rebuttal pass without further comment.  "My desire to join the army or not may be a moot point now since Washington's instituted a draft."

"You're a public servant vital to the city's interest in law and order.  That probably knocks you down lower in the draft order."

"That only means that we're in Class II of the draft."

"And you don't think the brass of your department is going to take care of their Golden Boy?"

"The department may be understaffed and perpetually starved for good publicity, but I'm not that important.  If I go under, I'm sure they'll be able to make an equal case for any distinguished member of our canine unit in a pinch.  Anyway, you said that you had a similar conversation?"

"I'm not going."

"That's not much of a conversation.  Why?"

"Russia isn't exactly a friend to the Jewish people.  British policy doesn't align well with our interests either."

"My employers made a case along similar lines, even if the reasoning was a bit more veiled than your take."

"I'm assuming not for the same reasons as mine."

"Your assumption is likely correct."

"So," Spinoza for all of his intellectual ability, had the vicious habit of talking with his mouth full, "what happens if you're drafted?"

Tannehill shrugged, "I go and pray I don't get stuck in a trench.  What about you?"

"If you can't fight city hall, then you certainly can't fight the city hall of city halls.  I don't think Washington's going to give a damn about my views, and I don't know that I have the fortitude to register as a conscientious objector."

"Look at us, a couple of coffee house ideologues caught up in patriotic fervor.  How can we not be future war heroes?"

Spinoza finished his last bite of scrambled egg in agreement and signaled for the check.

[Author's Note: This week's edition was 994 words for a running total of 13149 words in the story.  I actually had to throw out the first half of my work this week after doing research on American sentiment for WWI.  No department run by staunch Irish nationalists would support entering a war on the side of Britain without strong justification or influence.  I did learn quite a bit about American points of view leading up to WWI.  Much of the populace was actually against the war for a variety of - generally thoughtful - causes.  It was simply the political will of Woodrow Wilson that eventually aligned the country's interests to support the war.]

Chapter 11 - The Devil's Note

Tannehill and Vera arrived reached The Tritone at the very jazz-reasonable hour of midnight.  They descended to the entrance ten steps below street level in an alley dotted with numerous broken cobblestones.  Tannehill wore the same suit he'd been wearing for the last two days.  Vera's pencil was replaced with a modest hairpin.  She wore short-heeled monk straps with a slender black dress.  The shoes were mildly scuffed and there was no noticeable wear on the heels, while the dress had been rehemmed.  In the darkness of a jazz club, though, neither would draw attention.  The puffiness under her eyes disappeared with the excitement of a new adventure and her eyes shone radiantly even in the late evening, further pulling potential gazes away from her second-hand ensemble.

The pair were simultaneously assaulted by flat notes from the brass section and a waitress slinging gin-heavy martinis upon arrival.  They accepted the waitress's proposal and sat shoulder to shoulder with other patrons at a table for two identical to every other set up in the room.

15 minutes after their arrival, mumble, mumble "...we're going to take a short break."  The crowd clapped enthusiastically with a few loud, high-pitched whistles scattered among the room.  In front of the stage, a solitary figure stood up, clapping enthusiastically, her eyes following the band off stage.

Vera nudged Tannehill in the ribs "silhouette look familiar?"  Tannehill nodded.  The klieg lights at the front of the stage illuminated enough of the figure that both of them could make out a statuesque blonde with shoulder-length hair curling gently at the ends.  She was dressed in a form-fitting emerald taffeta dress and her head continued to follow the arc of the band as they headed for the bar.  Once they alighted, she headed stage right along with numerous other women in the room.

"I'm going to powder my nose."  Vera followed the woman into the ladies' room. 

She jostled her way to a sink adjacent to the blonde and began poking at the remnants of the puffiness under her eyes.  "Some set, huh?"

The blonde responded.  "Yes, certainly.  I like the group quite a bit.  I'm happy they're playing more extravagant parts for a guitar than just a simple four-to-the-beat rhythm progression."  Her accent had a clipped pronunciation Vera couldn't place.

"Have you heard of Django Reinhardt?  What he can do with a guitar is simply amazing."

"I've actually seen Django play in Paris." She smiled warmly, "he's not bad for a two-fingered gypsy."  She winked at this last phrase and extended a hand.  "Most of the people I meet around here are casual fans out for a fun evening, but you seem to be a bit more involved, Miss...?"

"Oh,Vera.  You can just call me Vera" Vera returned a hand and the two shook.  "It's no mystery.  I had access to a piano when I was younger and I loved working through ragtime pieces.  I've been hooked ever since."

"Yes, the music and the people who make it have such a..." the blonde paused for a searching second, "...passion.  Don't you think?"

"Certainly.  The history of the music is amazing too.  It helps color the backstory of the pieces."

"Yes," the blonde winked again, "color.  Exactly."  Vera was beginning to wonder if her counterpart had a facial twitch.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name and I don't want to let an opportunity to make the acquaintance of a fellow aficionado pass by."

The blonde put a hand to her breast.  "No, I'm sorry, the fault is all mine.  Where are my manners?  I'm Emily.  Emily Brunner."

"Nice to meet you.  Hope to see you again soon" Vera turned to walk away.

Emily placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, "if you don't mind me asking, where are you sitting?"

"At the back with a friend of mine who has no clue about anything going on here."

"I'd be delighted if you and your friend would sit upfront with me.  I'm by myself and can easily find another chair for a third."

Vera shrugged nonchalantly, keenly aware that her plans for the evening had gone from soaking her feet in Epsom salts to sitting stage-side at one of the most popular clubs in the city.  "Certainly.  We'll meet you in a few minutes." 

She walked back to a waiting Tannehill.  "I'm pretty sure the dame in the ladies' is your girl.  What's her name?"

"Emi--"

"It's her.  She invited us up to her table for the rest of the show."  She extended the crook of her elbow. "Shall we?"  Tannehill threaded his arm through hers and pushed his way into the crowd.  Two minutes later they were facing a seated, smiling Emily Brunner.  Tannehill noticed her eyes widen a bit when his face appeared in the klieg lights.

"Welcome, Vera and friend."  She patted the seated nearest to her and motioned for Vera to sit.  Tannehill followed after and sat next to Vera.

"So, I hear from Vera that you don't know much about modern music?"

"Modern, ancient, I don't know much about either genre."

"Well then, this will be a treat to guide you through.  Jazz is quite a complex form."

"Huh," Tannehill leaned back a bit.  He gazed at her quizzically.  "You're not originally from Capital City, are you?"

"Quite perceptive even in this," she circled a bored hand around the room, "commotion.  But, no, I'm not.  My mother is English and my father is German.  I've spent significant time in both locations before settling in the US."

English and German.  Emily and Brunner.  It fit.  "Well, pleasure to meet such an eclectic world traveler.  I look forward to learning a bit more about at least one mode of music."  At this Vera patted his arm playfully and shushed him as the musicians took the stage again.

For the next hour, Emily graciously and enthusiastically explained the broader points of jazz - the use of syncopation, the role each of the players in the ensemble had, the spirit of innovation that captured the genre.  At 1:30 AM, with the band still showing no sign of slowing down, Vera leaned between the two of them.

"My apologies, but I need to work an early shift in the morning and it's a loooong way back home."

Tannehill leaned in to respond, "I suppose it would be impolite of me to allow the lady to travel home unaccompanied."

"Certainly.  I understand.  Thank you both for being gracious guests at my table.  If it's not too forward, please accept cab fare from me for keeping you past your appointed hour."

"Thanks very much," Vera extended her hand to receive the gift, "it will make the ride home much easier."

"Well, then, I certainly do hope to see you both again soon.  Goodnight Vera.  Goodnight CH."  Emily turned toward the band again, smiled, and nodded in time to the music.

Vera grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him through the still-packed room, annoyed at his glances back toward Emily that impeded their egress.  "What?"

"I never told her my name."

[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1182 words for a running total of 12155.  I laid off some of the finer points of jazz in order to overwhelm the reader too much.  And if you're interested in how I had any idea about what type of footwear Vera would be likely to don, check out this article.  I originally wanted her to wear flats, but, at least according to article, that would be anachronistic.]

Chapter 10 - Of Seagulls and Smut

Tannehill sat on a bench next to the inner bay throwing someone else's discarded stale to the gathering crowd of seagulls.  They squawked in protest of their breakfast offering, demanding both more and better.

His gaze focused loosely on the suburbs across the bay and he felt the acid of the orange juice begin to settle uncomfortably in his chest.

"Why bother?  Why not let the police do their job -or not- and move on?  He wasn't worth a damn as a partner - sloppy in his methods, sloppy in his choice of clients, spending more time convincing me why he deserved a 55/45 split of any proceeds because he was the 'face of the business.'"

"He wasn't worth much as a human being, either.  How many marriages had he ruined either in pursuit of his own amorous needs or the desire for a quick buck?  How many crimes - petty or otherwise - had he committed?  Tannehill coughed up some of the orange juice while a seagull next to him shat in protest at breakfast's early closing time."

Human, though.  He was human.  I let this one go, then it's just another voice silenced without any reason.  Then I'm no less sloppy than he was, abandoning a case because it wasn't convenient to see through to the end.  Whatever the guy's moral composition, he was a man and deserves some dignity in death even if he didn't choose to pursue it in life.

Tannehill sighed, stretched, brushed the bread crumbs from his jacket and looked at his watch.  10:37.  Nearly another two and a half hours before his photos would be processed.

---

Tannehill spent the next two hours wandering downtown admiring the mix of new art deco buildings and tenements while listening to the echo of traumatized seagulls who were quickly wasting away to nothing throughout the city.

He appeared at the main entrance of The Daily Courier promptly at 1 PM where Spinoza was waiting for him with a sealed manila packet.

"You weren't lying about those photos,"  Spinoza handed the packet to Tannehill.

"Nope."

"That broad would be some looker even with all of her clothes on."

"Yup."

"Gee, you're chatty this afternoon."

"You eat lunch yet?"

"Nope," now it was Spinoza's turn for verbal tennis.

"C'mon, I know this place around the corner with the world's best egg sandwich.  My treat."

"You're just killing time until I get off and can drive you back home rather than take the jigsaw puzzle that is our municipal bus system."

Tannehill shrugged.  "At least you get a free lunch out of it."

"Curious turn of phrase, don't you think?  By the way, when are you getting your car back?"

Tannehill shrugged again.  "Hard to say.  When a car goes into the bay, it can take a while to repair it.  Good thing it didn't go into the ocean.  The added salt would've been killer on the paint job."

"You got any leads on this thing?" Spinoza pointed to the packet.

Shrug.  "Your sexy socialite's name and a very surly doorman."

"From terse to cryptic in one fell swoop.  I assume you're going to explain these things to me?"

"Sure, if you come with me to get that egg sandwich.  I'd also recommend the orange juice."

"OK," Spinoza sighed, "but I'm not leaving the office until 4 PM.  And that's assuming I don't get called to a crime scene."

Tannehill crossed his finger of his heart, "I promise that no crime will occur in Capital City until you've safely deposited me back home."

---

Spinoza dropped Tannehill off in front of his office and then sped away to brood silently at a neighborhood bar or moonlight as a cabaret singer - two options Tannehill always assumed were equally likely.

Tannehill opened the door to his office and was instantly confronted with the overpowering smell of bleach.  Less than 24 hours after the violent death of his associate, the CCPD had inspected the crime scene, removed the body and cleaned every potential shred of material evidence at the scene.  Whatever else citizens assumed about the CCPD, the department was efficient.  If they bothered to solve this particular crime, they'd likely have a suspect caught within the next 24 hours and executed another 24 hours after that.

He swapped his chair for Snell's and sat at his desk, digging through his bottom drawer for his rye.  He took the final pull from the bottle before acknowledging the realization that the smell of bleach wouldn't do much to facilitate his concentration, so he got up and left.

He found his way to The Happy Hour Diner and sat in the previous night's booth, unwrapping the cord on the photo envelope and flipping through the pictures.

The waitress from the previous night appeared behind him.  "Is that why you drink so much coffee?  So that you can look at smut all night?"

He didn't alter his gaze.  "I produce it too.  These are my original creations."

She peered over his shoulder and squinted, "never imagined we had an artist in the neighborhood."  She whistled low, "that's some dame.  Looks and acrobatics all in one package."

Tannehill turned to face her.  She was taller than the average woman but attractive.  Her light brown hair was pulled back and fastened with a pencil.  The escaping wisps messily framing her face.  Faint freckles spreading from the bridge of her nose complimented her green eyes.  The eyes had some puffiness, which he assumed was due to long, late shifts at The Happy Hour.  Her even greener dress was complimented with faint grease stains spreading across her breast.  Tannehill guessed her to be in her late teens or early twenties.

"None of this scares you off?"

"I've been around long enough to know what men are capable of and this isn't a capital offense.  Besides, you don't strike me as a trenchcoat and smile type of guy, if you catch my drift."  She sat down in the booth across from Tannehill.

Tannehill looked around the diner to see who she might be neglecting but only spotted a blue-collar at the end of the counter nursing a meatloaf and staring ahead.  "I do.  I'm a PI.  This is a job I'm working on."

"Ooh, exciting," she opened and closed her palm rapidly, "hand them over.  What are you trying to solve, whether or not she or her paramour is bustier?"

"No, the death of my partner."

She stopped browsing and looked at him, "I'm sorry."

Tannehill shrugged, "we weren't close."

"What are you looking for in these photos?"

"Any clue that connects my partner to either of the two people in the photo."

"I don't know about any clue, but she's got good taste in music."

Tannehill cocked an eyebrow, remembering Mrs. Sugarbaker's comment earlier about jazz.  "How do you figure?"

The waitress pointed to a poster on the wall behind the lovers.  "That's The Tritone.  It's an old-speakeasy that's a jazz club for local musicians now.  It's on Lafayette.  Never been, but I've heard a lot of good things."

Lafayette was a couple of blocks west of Highwater street downtown, so likely close to Emily Brunner's apartment.  If she liked jazz, had a poster of a jazz club on her wall, and lived near it, she was likely to be a frequent patron.  It'd be easier to approach her at a jazz club rather than stalking her outside of her apartment or finding one dumb excuse after another to get past the doorman.

"Do you want to go?"

"Are you asking me out on a date?"

"Er, uh," Tannehill colored, "no.  I just thought if I'd go, I'd better take someone who appreciates jazz and you said you've never been..."

"When?"

"Tonight."

She whistled again, "you're a fast operator."  She paused and turned her head in thought.  "I get off at 10.  I'm Vera by the way."  She extended her hand.

Tannehill took it.  "Charles.  Everyone calls me CH, though."

"Alright.  I'm in.  How could I not trust someone claiming to be a PI while looking at pornography in a diner.   And don't worry, I'll change.  I've got this exact same outfit except in a lovely powdered blue." She stood up from the booth, smirked and curtseyed.  "I'm assuming you want something to eat?"

"A cheeseburger with fries, please.  You don't happen to have access to a car do you?"

"My, you really know how to butter a girl up.  No, sorry, but I can probably show some leg and get us the front seat of the bus."  She turned and headed back toward the counter.

Tannehill looked down at the pictures again, muttering.  "The things we do for love."  He took comfort in the fact that his new aviary friends would likely approve of his dinner choice for the evening.

[Author's Note: This week's edition is 1469 words.  The running total is 10973.  I didn't originally intend for Vera to be so quick-witted (only that she'd make the connection to the jazz club) but realized that if she doesn't mind a diner patron looking at porn, she'd need to have a personality to match Tannehill's.]

Chapter 9 - Vaudeville Comes to Capital City

Phil Spinoza followed Tannehill to Capital City during the same year as the latter's migration - 1913 - and from the same originating city - Chicago.  Spinoza's family had settled in the Uptown neighborhood of the city a few years prior to his birth after emigrating from Europe. The family's original name was Landau, but Phil's father changed their family name to Spinoza to honor the philosopher who espoused the Jewish roots and Enlightenment ideals his father held so dear.

Unlike Tannehill, Spinoza came to Capital City with an express purpose of joining the burgeoning journalism community of the exploding city.  Armed with a freshly minted English degree from Northwestern and a recommendation from a cousin in the publishing industry, Spinoza breezed easily through his interview at The Daily Courier and accepted a position as a cub reporter and photographer on the crime beat.

Though he received no small amount of newsroom abuse for his pedigree - Spinoza was amazed that reporters who could wax poetic with 2000 word deadlines looming couldn't come up with a better nickname for him than "College Boy" - the environment at the Courier couldn't be more different than the environment Tannehill faced at the CCPD.  Reporters were commended for upholding constant barrages of questions and pursuing lines of inquiry that seemed to have little in common with the matter at hand but resulted in an amusing factoid nonetheless.  This was in stark contrast to the police department's taciturn and direct culture.

Though Spinoza could've nominally applied for the CCPD, he would've been rejected for his inability to speak Gaelic proficiently.  When confronted with this fact, he would've pointed out that he had a good grasp of both Yiddish and Polish, the latter of which would've proven valuable in a police force that was nearly 40% Catholic and Eastern European.  Upon pointing out this fact, CCPD commanders would've have pointed out, per The Professor's scientific research, that Yiddish could easily be confused with other languages of Eastern and Central Europe causing confusion during periods of intense stress.  This fact was often used to discouraged men of Jewish descent from applying to the CCPD, for fear that, when confused or under pressure, they would speak unintelligibly in Yiddish, risking the lives of other officers.  However, when faced with this fact, Spinoza would've pointed out that this was of little concern as he was fluent in English because (a) he was a native-born citizen of the United States and (b) had an English degree from a well-known university in those same United States.

When confronted with this fact, the CCPD brass likely would've discovered another flaw that made Spinoza unsuitable for police work - he did tend to be a bit nasal, which could cause confusion during periods of intense stress among officers for those who didn't understand his speech patterns.  Spinoza would've responded that the French - a nation known and celebrated for their nasal language - did not face national security risks or crime prevention problems based on their accent.  Luckily for both Spinoza and the CCPD, he didn't apply to the police force.

Unluckily for the CCPD, Spinoza used this back-and-forth style in his interaction with officers and CCPD superiors at a crime scene or press conference to deconstruct their often poorly constructed theories or press releases leading to more than one embarrassing political scandal for a city and department that prized political perception above all else.

Spinoza met Tannehill early in their careers while Tannehill was guarding the crime scene of a garden variety homicide Spinoza had been dispatched to report on and photograph.  The air was cool and permeated with the mildest of drizzles.  While other people around them pulled their lapels around their throats and huddled against the misery of the night, both Spinoza and Tannehill stood proud-chested observing the scene around them - a telling indicator for spotting someone else who'd survived more than one Midwestern winter.  Seeing each other set in relief against weather others found unbearable, it was merely a matter of moments before the two men began chatting and discovered that they were, in fact, from the same city.

With this common bond in place and a shared passion for intellectual pursuits, the two soon became familiar with one another an aware of the other's intent on serving the public from their own perspective.

Though he would provide Spinoza the occasional direct tip when he could be assured that his anonymity would remain intact, more often Tannehill would deliver (the often absurd) official statements doled out by his superiors to Spinoza and the other members of the press corps.  These statements would often address the precarious nature of the conditions suspects faced in various in precincts around the city.

Spinoza would challenge the official account, fully expecting Tannehill to respond to the challenge in pseudo-defense of the police department's policies.  To an outside observer, the interaction would've been indistinguishable from a Vaudeville act.  Both participants knew the broad underlying truth, but the point of this particular discourse was to determine who could reach the point of absurdity without crossing into it, for what else was there to do when the parts they played were predetermined than to improvise on the mode of delivery.  The exchanges often took place along lines similar to ones that follow:

Tannehill: Unfortunately, the suspect passed away before he was able to be brought to justice.  We've notified his next of kin.

Spinoza: How did he die?

Tannehill: The coroner is still finishing his investigation, but it appears to be due to massive internal injuries caused by blunt force trauma.

Spinoza: How did the blunt force trauma occur?

Tannehill: As you may have been aware, the suspect tended to be clumsy and fell down a flight of stairs.

Spinoza: Is that your official investigative opinion?  That he was clumsy?

Tannehill: You're right.  I shouldn't speculate.  The fact, however, remains that he fell down a flight of stairs and expired shortly thereafter.

Spinoza: Quite a solid fact.  Any comment on the fact that this is the third suspect to meet the same untimely end in a police precinct in the last year?

Tannehill: Unfortunately, many of our precincts are antiquated and moving around them can be precarious.

Spinoza: Then why is it always suspects, not officers who face these problems?

Tannehill: Officers of the CCPD have more experience in their home precincts than do the suspects we apprehend.  We're more likely to know the tricky spots.

Spinoza: Fair response.  My sources in the coroner's office indicated that this particular suspect had a bullet wound to his chest.  Any comment on that?

Tannehill: It's a police station.  Many people are armed.  It's not unlikely that a new officer may have panicked at the thought of a suspected violent criminal coming toward him quickly down a flight of stairs and discharged his revolver in defense while the suspect was falling.

Spinoza: So, not necessarily blunt trauma?

Tannehill: It's also possible the suspect fell on a bullet while tumbling down the stairs.  As I said, it's a police station, there are weapons everywhere.

...and so on.  The cat and mouse game always headed in a direction in which Spinoza made clear he wasn't going to back down, while Tannehill made clear that Spinoza's line of thought was correct, but did so without violating the code of silence the department held so dear.  Through these types of interactions and the implicit shared understanding between the two participants, the two developed a mutual respect that served them well in their respective, if contrary, roles.

[Author's Note: 1256 words for this round for a grand total of 9504 - almost to the first 5 figure mark (and 20%) to the 50000 words I promised.]

Chapter 8 - In Lieu of Flowers

In the early days of modern detecting at the CCPD, Tannehill often had to rely on the press to assist in an investigation. 

Sometimes it was through quid pro quo - (a) Give a reporter an exclusive insight into one case. (b) Wait a sufficient amount of time as etiquette dictated. (c) Drop by a spot that both the detective and reporter frequent. (d) Notice that the reporter has accidentally left information on a confidential source in the open. (e) Verify its the reporter's information by examining it.  (f) Promptly return the information to the reporter. 

Sometimes it was through subterfuge - (a) Leak erroneous information about a case during a press conference or via a confidential tip. (b) Allow the press to publish the information. (c)  See which helpful citizen comes forward to correct the misinformation that only a suspect would know.

And sometimes it was just through (a) plain begging.

Tannehill stood now in front of the Capital City Daily Courier just shy of the city's habitual 9 AM start time and just blocks from the newly minted Emily Brunner's apartment flat. A tall, thin man with salt and pepper hair and an aquiline nose approached him.  He wore no coat and his light brown button-down shirt was a size too big for his already gaunt frame.  The thinness of his face matched his frame, but his dark brown eyes illuminated a deep intelligence that contrasted his otherwise harried and disorganized appearance.

"Hello, Phil."

"Hello, Tannehill.  Surprised to see you downtown so early on this fine morning." Whisps of the morning's fog and a ten-second rain shower responded to Phil's greeting in agreement.

"Yup," Tannehill tilted his eyes toward the sky and scratched his chin, "my schedule's been a little off-kilter the last couple of days."

"You expecting the usual?"

"I am," Tannehill handed the previous day's roll of film over to Phil.  "These photos are ones that you and I generally agree go in the 'sensitive' category."

Phil looked down at the roll, "another one of Snell's errands?"

"Uh-huh."

"OK, it'll probably be a couple of days. I've got a backlog and the glee with which people seem to be assaulting their fellow brethren these days will likely add to it."

"Yeah, about that.  Can you rush it for later this afternoon?"

"Why," Phil looked up, "what's your angle?"

"You haven't heard?"

"No," now it was Phil's turn to rub his chin, "I don't suppose I have."

"Snell's dead."

Phil cocked an eyebrow wide in surprise.  Even Phil's 20 years of experience as a crime beat reporter in one of the most corrupt and violent cities in America couldn't contain his reaction to Tannehill's flat demeanor in announcing the death of his partner.

"Yeah, someone got to him at my office last night?"

Phil knew that condolences for Tannehill's recently deceased partner were unnecessary.  "So, homicide? Not some sexy party game gone awry?"

Tannehill chuckled."You know, er, knew him too well.  But, yeah, homicide."

"And this is on the record? I can use you for a source when chatting with CCPD?"

Tannehill thought for a minute.  "Yeah, no use in hiding where it's coming from.  Everyone's gonna assume I know my partner's dead.  But, do me a favor - get that film processed before following up on the story."

"Why, what's a roll of smut have to do with Snell?"

Tannehill smirked and Phil smirked back in realization at his own rhetorical question.  "I have no basis for it, but I think the photos there may be linked to Snell's death. I'd like to see if I can get a jump on something before anyone gets too wise."

"Alright, I can have the photos done by 1 pm.  Stop by then."

"Thanks, Phil." Tannehill turned to leave.

"Oh, and CH," Tannehill turned back, "no charge for this roll."  Tannehill nodded and walked away.  If Phil wasn't going to offer condolences or send flowers, he could do something to stave off his complete loss of humanity a bit longer.

---

Tannehill landed back at the World's Best Egg Sandwich Diner and sat down at the counter.  He ordered a coffee, and OJ, and a bowl of oatmeal with a side of bacon. 

He started reviewing the case.  "What do I know?"  Snell's dead.  A simple fact, but a fact nonetheless.  Given Snell's eagerness to get him out of the office the day before, could he infer that the apartment had something to do with his death? Or was the address just simply far enough away from the office to buy time for Snell and his moonlighting business? 

But to reach the apartment at just the right moment to catch two people having sex?  That certainly seemed like a Snellian touch.  And most people drew their blinds during amorous moments - especially high-end professionals - if that's what the lovely Miss Brunner was - who had reputations (and arrest records) to keep intact.  But, unless the two lovers were world-class marathoners with the self-control of saints, it would seem unreasonable that they'd been making love during Tannehill's entire sojourn downtown.  Besides, the Uncle looked like he'd be short of breath scurrying to the store around the corner for another pack of cigarettes much less partaking in extended bedroom session.

If that were the case, then it meant they had to be tipped off to Tannehill's arrival, which meant someone had to tip them off.  Snell would have no way to determine how long it would take for Tannehill to arrive, since traffic from the office to downtown was invariably predictable, which meant...?  The Doorman.  Tannehill smiled slightly at the thought of another round with his new nemesis.

His breakfast arrived.  The coffee was a bit colder than he'd like, the oatmeal lumpy, and the bacon limp.  The orange juice, however, was delicious.

"That'll be 80 cents."

Tannehill sighed and dug into his pocket for a dollar bill.  He could afford a bit more extravagance today since Phil decided to pick up the photo processing pro bono.  "Keep the change," he replied to the surprised server, "it's worth every penny for your egg sandwiches.  They're my favorite."

[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1020 words for a total of 8248 words in the story (Hey, it's like an official short story now!).  I've got at least a couple of more chapters of exposition and one of history, so it looks like we've got at least another month together before writer's block threatens to strike.  I've been happy with the way the story's taken shape so far.  Some of the character development - and some of the future character development based on what I've written so far - is taking on a life of its own that I hadn't originally anticipated.]

Chapter 7 - Silence and the Model Employee

Tannehill met the rigorous requirements for employment as expressed by the Capital City Police Department - he was Irish and he was silent.  Though his high level of education - he'd graduated from high school two years prior and had apprenticed briefly in law and architecture - set him apart as a risky candidate, CCPD department heads had invested in the idea of a new Model Community Officer prototype that didn't rely solely on brawn for policework duties and believed Tannehill could fit that mold.

After his intensive two-week CCPD training period, Tannehill's first opportunity to display the new MCO methods occurred when he joined his fellow officers to break up a large bar fight that threatened to spill over into the quiet areas of downtown.  Using these new modern methods, he was able to reason with and subdue rowdy bar patrons by knocking out four teeth from four separate individuals and splitting a fifth's forehead so wide the patron's skull gleamed white.

When this particular patron consistently fretted immediately after the engagement how he was mere seconds from death due to the blood loss, Tannehill calmly took him aside and explained that forehead wounds could easily be repaired with a cauterized needle and thread and tended to look much worse than they actually were.  Tannehill also mentioned that there may be some residual scarring if the operation was carried out by a non-medical professional.  The patron, who's nose was broken in two places and had a few missing teeth of his own (not due to Tannehill's modern policing) shrugged off the cosmetic concern but thanked Tannehill for the advice.  Thus was born Tannehill's first fruitful venture into community policing as both a newly minted officer - and newly minted citizen - of Capital City.  From the standpoint of his employers, their investment in him looked as though it would pay strong dividends.

What Tannehill didn't relay to his employers prior during the interview process is that he'd had every intention of matriculating into one of the university engineering programs in downstate Illinois after high school.  However, an ill-timed fire interceded and destroyed his family home just prior to his expected enrollment.  Rather than leave his family without living arrangements, he used his meager savings to rebuild the family estate.  Given the opportunity to continue working in a city with the perpetual stink of offal and recoup his savings or start afresh, he chose the latter.  He bid the beef of Chicago and the cows of Urbana farewell and moved west for new scenery.  Upon arriving in Capital City he didn't feel the need to the police department as part of an ethnic enclave or as a noble calling.  He just needed a job.

After joining the force and completing his formal training for the CCPD, Tannehill spent his off-hours visiting libraries to further augment the courses thrown at him during his time at the police academy.  Luckily, Capital City had grown large enough to be considered the preeminent metropolis of the West and, as such, was now center to several highly regarded academic institutions.

Though the university libraries often barred non-students from entry, a uniformed CCPD officer accessing a library could usually flout protocol with little resistance from the student or administrative staff.  For the same reason, Tannehill was able to borrow books from the library without a student account, always being careful to return his borrowed volumes at the agreed-upon date. 

And, though the libraries did provide information on legal codes throughout the city and state, much of the language within the formal literature proved to be overwhelming even for someone in possession of natural curiosity.  Instead, he leveraged his ties with district and defense attorneys alike to compose a more practical view of the law.

For further target practice, he'd find farms south of the city to hone his craft with both revolver and rifle, befriending the farmers whose lands he used by assisting with manual labor and odd jobs.

He even learned some rudimentary Polish and Gaelic.

Though he enjoyed indulging his intellectual curiosities, he knew that his peers and employers would look on someone like him with suspicion and he had enough insight into his place and era to know that Lady Justice occasionally peeked out from under her blindfold.  Bribes were the order of the day, even for beat cops.  He knew enough to stay away from "can't miss" opportunities with high-level figureheads in case his "can't miss" opportunity involved an introduction to a very large, deep body of water in the area should rough edges need to be hewn. 

The bribes he did receive would either go to an orphanage, the bank, or a steak dinner, depending on his mood.  When called on for the department's traditional enforcement duties, he didn't shy away from his use of a truncheon but made sure his application of its usage was judicious. 

Above all, though they may have disqualified him from the force had they learned about his academic ambitions, his employers' trust in his silence was rewarded.  When he rode along for brothel raids, while his fellow officers tested the viability of the business before arresting prostitutes and johns, Tannehill stood silently in the parlor room while his co-workers accompanied new-found friends upstairs.  Afterward, when asked, he'd be hard-pressed to remember what other officers were along for the raid, much less who'd done something inadvisable.

When fellow officers fortuitously found a four-inch blade on the dying person of a violent criminal representative of the city's minority population, Tannehill would be far enough away from the scuffle scouting for other evidence.

As a result of his detached demeanor coupled with his silence, he reached an unsaid agreement with the other officers in the department - "I won't partake in your shenanigans, but I won't rat you out either.  I won't get greedy and demand my cut, nor will I be too righteous and demand real justice for yourself or others.  Therefore, there's no reason to shoot me in the back and decorate me after the fact as a fallen hero of the department." 

It was this agreement that allowed Tannehill to build a solid, if unspectacular career, in his time at the CCPD.

[Author's Note: It looks like I'm back on track with my publishing schedule.  Today's edition is 1031 words for a total so far of 7228.]