August Brooks was listening to his favorite jazz station as he drove to work. It was 
typical Monday morning traffic, and he had already exchanged a few choice words with his 
fellow drivers that were not heard outside of his car. But he had since managed to calm 
himself as the traffic on the freeway began to pick up and move steadily. But that 
relaxation was soon disturbed when a large fuel tanker passed him on the left. He paid 
it no attention at first. Only when he realized the back end was on fire did he do a 
double-take and take notice.
	"What the hell?" he exclaimed. "So much for a relaxing Monday morning commute." He 
punched the gas and gained on the tanker, pulling up alongside. With the top folded down, 
he was able to see the driver. He began waving. "Hey! Hey, hey!" The driver didn't see 
him. He pounded the horn with his fist. "Hey, hey!"
	After the next horn blast, the trucker took notice. He rolled down the window to 
hear. "What's your problem, buddy!?"
	August shouted, "Your truck is on fire!"
	"Screw you, man!"
	"No, no! Listen to me! Your truck is on fire!"
	"What?"
	"Your truck is on fire!" He jabbed his finger hard at the rear of the vehicle.
	"I can't hear you."
	"Your truck is--hey, hey!"
	The driver just waved him off and rolled his window back up. August threw his hand 
up. "Ah, this is just great. Damn truckers think they're the Gods of the road, what am I 
thinking he'll listen to me."
	He hit the horn several more times, but the guy just ignored him. "Come on, man! 
Roll down your damn window!"
	The trucker replied by picking up speed and pulling ahead. August did the same thing. 
"What am I doing, trying to save some jerk like this?" he asked, but found himself trying 
again. "Hey! HEY!"
	Finally fed up, the guy rolled down his window and pointed at August. "This, buddy. 
I don't know what your problem is, but I got a gun in here, and if I--"
	"Shut the hell up! Your truck is on fire!"
	That time, the guy through he heard something about his truck. He turned his head 
slightly. "What?"
	"Your truck is on fire!" Again, August pointed to the rear.
	The guy took a look in his mirror, and his eyes widened. "Oh my God!" he shouted, 
then looked at August. "My truck is on fire! My truck is on fire!"
	"Stop the truck and get out!"
	The man nodded. "Right!"
	The truck began to slow. August hit his breaks and swerved his car sideways, blocking 
the two middle lanes. Oncoming traffic was not happy. He climbed out and flashed his badge 
and them, yelling for them to stop. When they saw he was a cop, they did as they were told. 
One man in a suit stepped out of his SUV. "What's going on?"
	August was starting back toward the truck. "Just keep back! Everybody stay back!" He 
turned and ran for the truck several yards away. The trucker climbed out and ran back. 
"Are you loaded?" August shouted, pointing at the truck.
	"Yeah! A hundred percent!"
	August said nothing, just grabbed the guy by the sleeve and ran. They were almost 
back to the line to stopped traffic when the entire tanker exploded into a huge fireball. 
Giant flames and twisted medal shot into the sky. August and the trucker were thrown 
forward by the blast and rolled over to look. Great flames of fire and phumes of smoke 
reached skyward.
	August looked at the trucker next to him. "Do you have insurance?"
	"Yeah. And this is my first day."
	August nodded understandingly. "That's okay. On your first day of work, it's common 
for things to not go quite well at first."
	"Ah."

That day in May had long since past, that fateful confrontation with drug lord Bobby 
Cole that ended in a showdown on a Los Angeles pier. A bullet had dropped Cole, and 
two had dropped Chase McDonald. The story was featured on every local news station and 
some national ones as well, headlined by such titles as "Notorious Drug Lord Killed" 
and "The Teflon Crime Lord Meets His End." But three months later, Chase McDonald had 
healed from his wounds.
	And as he pulled into the parking lot of the station, he saw his partner, August 
Brooks, waiting outside. He parked in an empty spot and climbed out, meeting his partner 
halfway. 
	"Hey, man!" August said as Chase walked up and embraced. "Great to have you back." 
	"Good to be back," Chase said as they walked toward the station. 
	"Yeah, well, the rest of the department won't think so," August said with a laugh. 
"It's been nice and quite around here with you gone." 
	"Really?" They stepped up onto the curb outside the station and stopped. 
	August nodded. "Well, except for that car chase a couple of weeks ago that only 
lasted a minute and didn't having any cars flying through the air, it's pretty much been 
the Cone of Silence around here." 
	Chase smiled, put a hand on his shoulder. "That's all gonna change now," he said. 
	Laughing, he and August turned and walked up to the station. 
	"So how was the hopsital food?" August asked. 
	"Oh, please. Don't remind me." 



The elevator doors opened, and Chase and August exited and walked down the hall. 
	"So, did you talk to her?" 
	"Well, she's a nurse, August. She was real busy. But look at this." He tooke a slip 
of paper from his coat pocket and showed it to him. "I did get her phone number." 
	August smiled, shaking his head. "That's Chase McDonald for you. Not even a bullet 
wound to the abdomen can keep you down." 
	As they rounded the corner and came into the main area, Chase heard a thunder of 
welcomes. The room was full of detectives and police officers, gathered to welcome him 
back to the force. He spotted Det. Sam Richardson, who walked over with a smile. "Take it 
easy for awhile, Chase," he said. "The motorpool's low on cars." That got a laugh from 
the crowd. 
	Chase smiled and shook hands with people he hadn't seen in months. Richardson stood 
next to August. "Looks like he's doing all right," he commented. 
	"I think he's fine physically," August said, his voice low. "But after what he went 
through three months ago, I don't know how he's doing on the inside." 
	They watched Chase as he mingled with the crowd, laughing and smiling, glad to be 
back. 
	"How'd he take it at Nicole's funeral?" 
	"Not good," August said. "I think that's the first time I've seen Mac cry." 
	The crowd began to disperse, and Chase walked back to August with a smile. "Well," 
he said. "They look happy to see me." 
	"Yeah. They look happy." 
	"What's that supposed to mean?" 
	"I'll catch you later, guys," Richardson said, then walked over. 
	"Well, look who's back." 
	They turned to see Captain Jensen outside his office. He walked up to them. 
	"Hi, Captain," Chase said. 
	"Good to have you back, Chase," he said. "Hope you don't have any plans, 'cause I got 
something for you two?" 
	"What is it, Captain?" August asked. 
	Jensen said, "We just got a call. Homicide. Looks like the Cat Man has struck again." 
	Chase looked confused. "The Cat Man?" Chase asked August. 
	"I'll explain on the way. Where at, Captain?" 
	"Oakwood Apartments, over on Atwood. Apartment 10D." 
	August looked at Chase. "Let's go." 
	As they headed back towards the elevator, Jensen said, "And Chase? Take it easy out 
there." 
	Chase turned and walked backwards, saying, "Always do, Captain." 
	As they rounded the corner, Jensen stepped back to his office, mumbling, "Then how 
come there's always so many wrecked cars when you go out?" The door shut behind him. 



August drove. "Haven't you been keeping up with events? Watching the news? Reading the 
paper?" 
	Chase shooked his head. "Nope," he said. "Too dishonest for me." 
	"Well, this guy's killed four people in the past month. Always leaves a small 
porcelain cat at the scene of each murder, so the media dubbed him the Cat Man." 
	"No connection between the victims?" 
	"None we've been able to determine yet." 
	They rode in silence for a moment. "I still can't believe she's gone," Chase said. 
	"I know, Mac," August said. "I know." 
	"I mean, one minute we were a nice, romantic, fireside dinner on the beach, and the 
next she was . . . " He let his voice trail off. 
	"You two would've been perfect together," August said, comforting his friend. He 
glanced at him. "You gonna be okay, Mac?" 
	"I don't know, August," he said, then looked at him. "I don't know." 
	Moments later, their car pulled up in front of the Oakwood Apartments complex. 
They climbed out and walked up the main path as uniformed officers moved about. They 
climbed the steps and walked down the walkway to Apartment 10D. As they entered, an 
officer came up to them. "Victims name is Chris Miller," he said. "Not married, no kids. 
No girlfriend, as far as we can tell." 
	Chase walked over and knealed to inspect the body. "Cause of death?" 
	"Was stabbed," the detective said, showing August notes scribbled on his pad. 
"Five times in the stomach." 
	"Okay. Thanks," August said. The detective left as August walked to Chase. "Check 
it out." He pointed over to the tabletop. 
	Chase looked up and saw a small porcelain cat sitting on the table. "Who is this 
guy? Some Catwoman fan?" 
	August laughed, bending over to look at the statuette close up. "Guy's carefull, 
that's for sure. All the statues from the other murders have been completely clean. No 
fingerprints, smudges, nothing." 
	Chase stood and looked around the room. "Any sign of forced entry?" 
	"No," August said. "No broken windows, door wasn't kicked in. Looks like the victim 
let him in." 
	"Now why would he do that?" 
	"Maybe it was someone he knew," August said, walking back over. "Maybe he was 
disguised. I don't know." 
	Two coroners came in with a gurney and body bag. "You guy's done here?" the one 
asked. 
	"Yeah," Chase said, "go ahead and take him." They returned out onto the walkway 
that ran the length of the floor. "Where do we go from here?" 
	"Let's check with Cragmeyer," August said, walking down the steps. "There's got to 
be some kind of clues on those other statues." 
	"Right." 
	They were halfway down when Chase said, "August, look." It was a girl, no older 
than twenty, standing back around the corner of the bottom floor of the complex, near the 
office. She appeared to be nervous. 
	"What do you think? Witness?" 
	"Could be." As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Chase said, "Excuse me. 
Police, we'd like to ask you a few questions." 
	The girl watched them approach for a moment, then turned and took off. "Ah, jeez," 
August said. "Why do they do that?" And him and Chase gave pursuit. 
	Chase was in the lead as the girl ran down an alley behind the apartments. She kept 
up her speed good, throwing occasional glances back as she ran. August was right behind 
Chase. As she cut across a back street, a car slammed on its brakes and blew the horn. She 
flew right by in front of it, and Chase and August split and ran around either end. Chase 
was amazed by the girl's agility as she dodged around dumpsters and other junk that turned 
the alley into an obstacle course. She reached the end of the alley and turned left, 
running up the sidewalk. Chase and August came out right behind her. Pedestrians scattered 
out of the way as they ran by the tables of outdoor cafes. A waiter came out with a tray 
of drinks, and the girl ran right into him. They both fell to the ground, but the girl 
quickly got back on her feet and resumed running. 
	She ran across the next crosswalk against a red light, dodging a car as it blew it's 
horn and slammed on the brakes. Chase had to jump and slide across the hood. August was 
right behind him. Up on the next sidewalk, they weaved their way through the crowd of 
tourists and customers of surf shops and music stores. Outside a surf store, there was a 
rolling rack, on which hung different colored wetsuits. The girl grabbed it as she ran by 
and pulled it out into the sidewalk, right in front of Chase. He crashed through it and 
well to the ground, tearing suits from their hangers. August stopped to help his partner. 
	"You okay?" 
	"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine." 
	They were back to running in no time. The girl looked over her shoulder and saw that 
they were still on her. She turned back just as a large truck was pulling out of an alley. 
She put her hands out and skidded to a stop. She turned and saw it was useless. They were 
too close. As they slowed down, she put her hands up. 
	Chase came up to her, out of breath. "You know, all we wanted to do was ask you a 
couple questions." 
	The girl looked at them, then shrugged her soulders. "Sorry?" 
	Chase took the girl by the arm and lead her away.



The girl, Samantha Garris, sat behind the table in the interrogation room. Chase and August 
sat opposite her. "Wanna tell us why you ran?" Chase asked. 
	She looked nervous, as if she wasn't sure she wanted to say. "I was afraid he'd see 
me," she said. 
	"Who?" August asked. 
	"My . . . my dad. I ran away from home two weeks ago." 
	"Why'd you do that?" 
	"He can be really mean," she said. "And when he gets mad, he takes it out on me." 
	Chase glanced at August, who nodded knowingly. Chase leaned forward. "You were afraid 
we'd take you back to him?" She nodded. "Well, if you had just waited to answer our 
questions, we wouldn't have known anything." 
	"I was afraid that, if you questioned me, I might end up on the news and he'd see 
where I was." 
	"Why would you think that, Samantha?" August asked. 
	"You've seen it before. When witnesses are interviewed on the news? I was worried 
that would happen and he'd find out where I had run away to." 
	"Samantha," Chase said, "I promise you, you won't end up on TV. We just wanna ask 
you a couple questions. That's all." 
	"Promise?" 
	"You have my word. Now. You live in the Oakwood Apartments, right?" 
	"Yeah." 
	"Did you see anyting unusual there last night? Hear anything odd?" 
	She nodded. "I saw him." 
	"Who?" August asked. "The killer?" 
	"Yeah. I saw him go up into the man's apartment." 
	"Did you hear anything?" 
	She shook her head. "No. But he was in there for about ten minutes or so, no longer 
than fifteen. Then he came out and left." 
	"Do you think you could give us a description of him?" 
	"Yeah. I saw his face pretty good." 
	Chase looked at August. "I'll go get a sketch artist." 
	As August left the room, Samantha put her hand on top of Chase's. "Thank you, 
detective," she said. 
	He smiled. "Don't mention it."



"Name's Larry Franklin," Cragmeyer said, handing the file over to August. They stood in 
the forensics lab, the usual smell of chemicals filling the air. 
	August opened the file and begin flipping through it. "Larry Franklin. Paroled 
after serving a six year sentence for armed bank robbery. A couple charges of petty theft, 
and was in and out of jail most of his life. No murder charges, though. Up until the bank 
robbery, just the usual teenager stuff." 
	"Not exactly your typical serial killer material, hu?" Chase said. 
	"These days," Cragmeyer said, "nothing typical. Kid grows up his whole life watching 
Sesame Street and playing with blocks. One day he snaps for no apparent reason. Strange 
world we live in." 
	"Strange indeed," August said, still reading through the file. "Here's his address." 
	"Let's get going. Thanks, Cragmeyer." They head for the door. 
	"See ya, guys."

As they climbed the steps of the apartment, Chase glanced about. "Look at this place, 
August. Can you imagine having to live here?" 
	"Thank God I make enough." 
	"Paint's peeling off the wall, I can hear water dripping, the floorboards crack--"
	A large rat ran by on one of the steps even with August's eye-level. They both 
stopped and stared. "And rats the size of Volkswagons," August added. 
	They reached the top of the steps and walked down the hall. "3C, 3C," August 
mumbled to himself, looking at the numbers on the doors. "Here we go." The door to the 
apartment was in serious need of a paint job, the number plate on the door rusted badly. 
August knocked. 
	"Who is it?" a voice said from within. 
	"Police, Mr. Franklin," August said. "We'd like to ask you a few--" 
	They heard the shattering of glass and looked at each other. "We got a runner," 
Chase said, and ran back for the stairs. 
	August threw his hands up. "Ah, not again." Then he turned and followed Chase back 
down the hall. 
	Chase and August exited the complex with guns drawn, looking up and down the 
sidewalk. "See anything?" Chase yelled. 
	"No." 
	Without warning, a car came barreling down the driveway from the parking lot in the 
rear of the apartments, narrowly missing August, who leaped back. They started to open 
fire, but the car was already down the street. 
	"Come on!" Chase shouted, and they ran back to their car. He fired up the engine as 
August turned on the siren. Tires squealing, the car hung a sharp turn and took off after 
Franklin. 
	August quickly pulled his seatbelt on as Chase floored the pedal, racing to catch up. 
"You know, August. I've been wondering something for awhile." 
	"Yeah? What's that?" 
	"Why do people always think they can outrun the police? Don't they watch those 
Wildest Police Tapes or whatever they're called?" 
	"I guess not." 
	"They should know that you try to outrun the police, you end up either seriously 
injured or dead." 
	"Or upside-down," August said, and glanced at Chase. 
	"What's that supposed to mean?" 
	Franklin cut right through an intersection, swerving wide. A car locked it's brakes, 
and was rear-ended by another car. Chase came through the intersection next, right on 
Franklin's tail. Franklin looked over his shoulder. "Ah, come on, guys. Just give up." 
	The cars raced down the street. Chase was less than three cars back from Franklin. 
"I'm gonna try to pull up alongside him," Chase said. 
	August spotted something Chase didn't. "Wait, wait!"
	A truck was stalled in the middle of the road. The driver ran like hell as Franklin 
slammed right into the back of it. The truck was shoved forward, and the front of the car 
was crunched in. Chase hit the brakes and swerved to a stop. They climbed out and hurried 
forward, guns drawn. People on the sidewalks stood back and watched.
	Chase covered August. "You got him?"
	August looked in through the driver's-side door. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I got him." 
He opened the door and pulled Franklin out, leaning him back against the car. They both 
holstered their guns, and August handcuffed him, then lead him away.



"Thanks," Chase said to the landlord, who left as they stepped into Franklin's apartment. 
August sorted through some papers on a desktop, while Chase opened the compact closet. He 
spread the clothes apart and spotted something in the back. "August." 
	"Yeah." 
	"Found something." 
	August walked over and looked in. At the back of the closet, set into the wall, where 
three small shelves. A revolver sat on one. "Think it's the murder weapon?" 
	Chase nodded. "Probably." 
	August grabbed a pen from one of the shelves and lifted the gun with it, dropping it 
into a plastic bag that Chase took from his coat pocket. "Let's run it by Cragmeyer."



Franklin sat in the interrogation room, across from Chase. August leaned against the wall. 
"Why did you kill them?" Chase asked.
	Franklin sat perfectly, straight up and with his right hand over his left on the 
tabletop. "I was told to," he said.
	"Told to?"
	"No. Ordered to," he corrected himself. "By God."
	"Why did God tell you to kill them, Larry?" August asked.
	Franklin looked at him. "Because," he said. "They were evil. They had done too much. 
Too themselves and others. It was time for them to pay.""
	"And what about Chris Miller?" Chase said. "What did he do?"
	"Nothing. I didn't kill him," Franklin said.
	August walked over and leaned forward, hands on the edge of the table. "Don't lie 
to us, Mr. Franklin," he said. "We have a witness who says she saw you going into and 
coming out of Miller's apartment."
	"I was there," he said. "I admit that. I did visit him. But I didn't kill him. Miller 
was a friend of mine. I was simply visiting for a few moments before I moved on."
	"Moved on?" Chase asked.
	Franklin nodded. "The person I was ordered to remove from this world next lives in 
another city," he explained. "After I finished with them, as I was to sacrifice myself for 
God."
	August stood. "So Chris Miller was just a friend," he said.
	"Yes. That's the truth. I didn't kill him."
	Chase leaned back in his chair and glanced at August, then back at Franklin.



"Well, it wasn't the gun used in the most recent killing," Cragmeyer said, sitting at his 
computer in the forensics lab. Chase and August stood on the other side, leaning forward 
against the railing. 
	"What do you mean?" Chase said. 
	"I mean, it wasn't the gun used in the most recent killing," he repeated. "The 
bullets pulled from Chris Miller? Nine millimeter. The gun you guys found was a fourty-
five. However, the gun does connect Franklin to the first four killings. All four victims 
had fourty-five slugs in them."
	"Yeah," August said. "He already confessed to killing them."
	"Also," Cragmeyer said, "I managed to lift one of Franklin's fingerprints from the 
gun, and it matched only a couple we found in Miller's apartment." 
	"Only a couple?" Chase asked.
	"We found one them on the door handle, and the other on a glass of orange juice next 
to the TV," Cragmeyer said. "But Miller was killed in the kitchen, right?"
	Chase nodded. "Uh-hu."
	"Well, we didn't find any prints other than Miller's own in the kitchen."
	"Maybe he cleaned up a little," August suggested.
	Cragmeyer shook his head. "No. This guy's a professional, and professional always 
clean up 100% of their fingerprints. There's no way he would leave those two."
	"He claimed he knew Chris Miller," Chase said. "Is that true?"
	"Yeah." Cragmeyer reached for a folder and opened it. "Larry Franklin and Chris 
Miller belonged to the same church group. According to this they've known each other for 
the past ten months."
	"Okay, so let me get this straight," Chase said. "Larry was in the apartment, but, 
as far as you can tell, only in the living room. But Miller was killed in the kitchen, 
and there's no evidence at all that Larry was in there. So you're saying that someone 
else might of killed Miller?"
	Cragmeyer nodded. "That's what it looks like." 
	"Great," August said, then looked at his partner. "We got ourselves a copycat."



Night.
	The neighborhood was quiet, a slight breeze rustling the trees. A single-story 
house halfway down the block appeared completely dark inside, but through the front 
window was a blue glow. The source of the glow was the television set in the living room, 
tuned to some late night talk show. Sitting on the couch in front of it was Fred and 
Vicki Kendall, both in their mid-40s. They were asleep, Fred sitting up and Vicki leaning 
against him.
	The shadow on the wall behind them went unnoticed. A man dressed in dark clothes 
stepped between them and the television, and raised a pistol at them. "Mr. and Mrs. 
Kendall?" the man said quietly. "You're retired."
	Fred awoke just as the man fired the gun, killing Vicki. "You?" Fred yelled. 
	"The one and only, you back-stabbing son of a bitch." 
	Fred jumped forward from the couch and collided with the man. They fought for 
possession of the gun. During the struggle, Fred pulled the man's left glove from his 
hand. The killer shoved his hand into Fred's face, throwing him back onto the couch, 
and shot him in the chest. He was dead instantly. The man grabbed his glove from the 
floor, then stood and looked at the couple. "Have a nice day," he said, then hurried away.

The next morning, Chase and August stood before the couch, looking at the bodies of the 
Kendalls. "Both took a single bullet to chest," Chase said. "Looks like they were killed 
in their sleep."
	"I don't know," August said, gesturing at Fred Kendall. "Do you often fall asleep 
in a position like that and with one arm hanging back over the couch?"
	"Think there was a struggle?"
	"I'd bet my Lakers tickets on it. I bet they were both asleep. Fred woke up just 
as she was being killed and jumped up to fight the shooter. They struggled, Fred was 
thrown back onto the couch, and . . . bang. Killer shot him and left."
	"Look at the glasses," Chase said, leaning to inspect them. They sat crooked across 
his nose. He looked closely. "August, check this out."
	"What?" He leaned it to see.
	Chase pointed at the left lense. "Look at that."
	"Looks like . . . like a fingerprint," he said.
	Chase held his left hand over the glasses, and his thumb was above the print. "Looks 
like our guy might have shoved Fred back onto the couch."
	"Let's get these over to the lab right away," August said. He stood and stripped off 
his gloves. "This might be the break we've been waiting for."



Chase was at his desk, filling out a sheet of paper, when Captain Jensen came out of his 
office and walked over. "How's it going on the Cat Man case, McDonald?"
	"Pretty good, Captain," Chase said. "We found a print one of the victim's glasses. 
We think it might belong to our guy."
	"Really? That's great."
	"Annie's checking it out right now. We should have the results soon."
	"Okay. Keep me posted." He headed back toward his office.
	Chase was just about to turn back to his papers when he looked down the hall. 
Samantha was slowly walking into the main area, looking around. He got up and walked over 
to her. "Samantha," he said. "What're you doing here?"
	She looked like she'd been crying. "He found me," she said.
	"Who, you're dad?"
	She nodded. "Yeah. He . . . he found me this afternoon, and he . . . " She started 
to cry.
	"Hey, hey. It's okay."
	She put her arms around him, put her head against his chest. "I'm afraid to go out 
again."
	Chase comforted her. Moments later, they were sitting over at one of the tables. 
Chase had gotten her a soda from the vending machine. He sat close to her. "How did he 
find you?" he asked quietly.
	"He was driving around in his car," she said. Her eyes stayed on the soda can, which 
she continuously turned around in her hands. "He was driving, and he came down by the 
apartments, and he saw me."
	"What did he do?"
	"He jumped out and ran over," she said, trying to keep from crying. "He grabbed me 
by the arm and threw me back in the car, and then drove off. We got about halfway down the 
street. He stopped at a stop sign, and I jumped out of the car. I ran as fast as I could, 
and he chased me with his car."
	That struck something inside Chase. It registered in the way he suddenly sat up 
straight. Mistreating a child, no matter how old, was something he never liked. He reached 
out and put a hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry," he said. "Everything will be okay. I 
promise."
	She looked at him and smiled. "Thank you."
	"If you don't feel safe going back to the apartments you can stay here, okay?"
	She nodded. "Okay."
	Chase turned in his chair. "Richardson," he shouted, and waved him over. "Richardson, 
this is Samantha. Find her a place here to stay for tonight, okay?"
	Richardson nodded. "Sure. No problem."
	"It's okay," Chase told her. "Everything will be fine."
	She stood. "Thanks," she said, then walked away with Richardson.
	Chase watched them go, then turned back in his chair. He leaned forward, elbows on 
the table, thinking . . . thinking exactly what he'd like to do if he ever got the chance 
to meet her father.
	"Hey," August said, coming up to the table. "What's going on?"
	"Oh, it's Samantha."
	"What did she want?"
	"Her father found her."
	"What? How?"
	"He was driving around in his car looking for her," he said. "Found her and tried 
to drive off with her. She ran, and he chased her with his car."
	"What the hell?" August said in surprise. "Is she okay?"
	Chase nodded. "Yeah, she got away. Richardson's gonna find her a place to stay for 
tonight. She doesn't want to go back to the apartments. I just can't believe some people, 
August. I mean, she's your daughter--your own flesh and blood--and you to run her down 
with a car? That's plain sick."
	"World's full of psychos, my man," August said. "Listen, Annie just called me on 
that print. Said she's got something."
	Chase got up from the table. "Let's go."



"Hey, Annie," August said as they walked into the forensics lad.
	Annie Mason rolled over in her chair. "Morning, guys." 
	"What you got for us?"
	"Fred Kendall was wearing his reading glasses, and, we don't know how, but there was 
a fingerprint on one of the lenses." 
	"Yeah?" Chase said. 
	"Well, I ran it, and it doesn't match him or his wife." 
	"Do we know whose it is?" August asked. 
	She grabbed a file from the adjacent desktop and handed it to him. "Guy's name is 
Harold Maynard," she explained. The detectives went through the file. "No previous 
criminal recond. Used to work at an electronics store." 
	"Used to?" Chase asked. 
	"He quit about a month back. But that's nothing compaired to what else I found 
out." 
	"What's that?" August closed the file, and he and Chase pulled up some chairs. 
	"I found a really good connection between Chris Miller and the Kendalls. All three 
of them worked at the same computer firm that Maynard's wife, Clarissa, was president 
of." 
	"So?" Chase said. 
	"Well, a month ago, Clarissa was found murdered under mysterious circumstances. 
Just one week before she died, she had signed an exclusive deal at the firm. According to 
the contract, all her stock holdings in the company and control of the company itself 
would be split up among her top four executives: Miller, the Kendalls, and a man named 
Steve Webster. I'm thinking the four of them may have plotted to kill Clarissa Maynard in 
order to gain control of the company and reap the profits." 
	"Well, that would certainly establish a pretty good motive," Chase said. 
	"Guy's wife is killed by colleagues to gain fortune? That'd be enough for me to do 
it." 
	"Hey, guys," a voice said from behind. They turned to see Cragmeyer coming in with 
a sheet of paper. 
	"Cragmeyer," Chase said as he sat down next to Annie. "What's up?" 
	"Address just came in on Harold Maynard," he said, handing Chase the paper. "Thought 
you guys would like to know." 
	Chase looked at the address. "August. Check this out." He showed August the paper. 
	"That's just a block down from my place. The guy's been in my neighborhood the whole 
time?" 
	"Come on." Chase and August got up. "Thanks, Annie," Chase said as they left. 
	Cragmeyer looked at Annie as the door shut behind the detectives. "We make a great 
team, don't we?" 
	"We certainly do," Annie said with a smile, stacking some papers on the desk in front 
of them. 
	Cragmeyer acted like he was stretching his arms to show off for her. "What do you say 
we see how well a team we make over dinner tonight?" 
	She looked at him with a wry smile. "Don't flatter yourself," she said, then got up 
and walked off. 
	Cragmeyer sat there for a moment, then said to himself, "She wants me."



As they exited the police station, Chase said, "Call Richardson and have him check out 
Webster's house."
	"Right." August took out his cell-phone and started dialing as they climbed in.
	Chase fired up the car and back out, then hurried across the lot.



The front door of Maynard's home slammed open. Chase and August hurried in, guns drawn. 
They moved through the living room and into the back of the house. The place was empty. 
Chase searched a desk in the room next to the kitchen. In one drawer he found a notepad 
with three names: Miller, Kendall, and Webster, each one followed by their address. And 
all three names had a line drawn through them. In the kitchen, August found a bowl of soup 
sitting on the counter. He touched the side.
	Chase came back and joined August at the door to the kitchen. "There's a bowl of 
soup in the kitchen, still warm," August said. "He hasn't been gone long." 
	"Check this out." Chase showed him the notepad. "Looks like he's going after Steve 
Webster next." 
	"Let's go." 
	They exited the house and ran for their car. As Chase fired up the engine and drove 
off, August grabbed the radio mike. "1-Baker-7, this is 1-William-13. Come in." 
	"1-Baker-7 here," the voice crackled back. 
	"Richardson, we think the killer's coming for Webster next. Keep your eyes open. 
We're on our way." 
	"Nothing so far," Richardson's voice said. "I don't--" 
	The line went silent. "Richardson?" August said. "Richardson?" No answer. August 
looked at Chase. "Better hurry, Mac." 
	Chase pressed the pedal until it met the floor, and they raced down the street.

Samantha quietly stepped into the doorway of Captain Jensen's office and knocked on the 
open door. Jensen, sitting before a mess of papers spread out across the desktop, raised 
his head. "Yes?"
	"I'm sorry to bother you," she said quietly, "but Det. McDonald said I could stay 
here in the station for the night."
	"Oh, yes." He got up and moved around the desk. "Samantha, right?"
	She nodded. "Yes. Um, I hate to ask, but I'm kind of a thirsty and I don't have 
any money for the machine . . . "
	Jensen shook his head. "No, no. That's not a problem. Come on."
	Down the hall, they stood in front of the machine. "What'll you have?" he asked.
	Samantha looked at her choices. "Um . . . Seven-Up," she decided.
	Jensen nodded with a smile, reaching into his pocket for some change. "Good choice," 
he said. He dropped the change in and pressed the button, then handed the can to her 
before dropping some more money in to get one for himself. Finished, they turned and 
slowly walked back down the hall. "Chase told me a little bit about you. I feel sorry for 
what you're going through. I've seen it before."
	"Thanks," she said quietly.
	"You know, there's some pamphlets on special abuse programs we can look over in my 
office," he offered.
	She shook her head. "Nah," he said. "I think I'm just gonna go lie back down. 
Thanks for the soda."
	Jensen stopped and watched her go as she walked away, then stepped back into his 
office shaking his head. "Poor kid," he mumbled to himself.



Chase turned the corner and gunned the car down the street. As they approached Webster's 
house, he spotted Richardson's car parked across from it. "There's Richardson," he said. 
He pulled up in front of the house and ran across the street. Richardson was slumped 
against the wheel. Chase felt for a pulse and found one. He breathed a sigh of relief. 
He was only knocked out. 
	Chase reached over and grabbed the radio mike. "Dispatch, this is 1-William-13. 
Officer down at 1152 Vermont Street. Send paramedics." 
	"Roger, 1-William-13," the dispatch voice responded, but Chase didn't wait around 
to hear it. He was already running back across the street. 
	He and August drew their guns and hurried toward the house. As they approached, 
they saw the front door had been kicked in. They enterted cautiously and split up, Chase 
going to the back of the house. August looked into the kitchen. Food and soda was spilled 
on the floor. It was evident a struggle had taken place there. 
	Chase looked around in the living room, but saw nothing. A glass sliding door 
opened onto a small deck, but the backyard appeared empty. 
	August eased open the door to the garage. He stopped instantly and lowered his gun. 
Lying on the floor was Steve Webster, his shirt soaked with blood. August knealt and 
checked for a pulse. There was none. August was standing up, just about to yell for Chase, 
when a chair slammed into his back, throwing him to the floor. His gun flew from his hand. 
	"August!" Chase yelled. 
	Hearing that, Maynard dropped the chair and ran out of the garage. Chase came down 
the hall just in time to see Maynard escaping out the front door. He opened the garage 
door further and went in. August was struggling to get to his feet, shaking his head. 
"You alright?" Chase asked. 
	"I'm fine, I'm fine," August assured him. "Go. Get him." 
	Chase came back out into the hallway and ran out the front door. Maynard was just 
pulling out of the driveway, and raced off down the street. Chase ran to their car and 
started to get in, but saw that both passenger-side tires were flat. He kicked the front 
tire. "Damn!" 
	Then he turned and saw Richardson's car. He ran across the street, holstering his 
gun. He opened the door and grabbed hold of Richardson. "Sorry about this, Sam," he 
apologized. He pulled the unconscious detective from the car and dragged him around to 
the sidewalk, lying him on the ground. 
	At that time, a woman came out onto the front porch of her house. "What's all the 
noise going on out here?" she shouted. 
	Chase stood and pointed at Richardson. "I'm a cop. Call 911 and tell them there's 
an officer down and there's another officer inside the house directly across the street." 
	The woman nodded and hurried back inside as Chase ran around the car. He jumped in, 
started the engine, and peeled off down the street. 
	Maynard turned, leaving the neighborhood behind and heading toward the busier 
streets. Moments later, he heard the sound of police sirens. Behind him, Chase swerved 
around the corner of Vermont Street and fell into pursuit behind him. 
	"Here we go," Maynard said to himself, and punched the gas. 
	Both cars raced through an intersection, running a red light. A pedestrian car hit 
the breaks and spun sideways. As both car sped on, a second vehicle, unable to brake in 
time, hit the first car and sailed over the top, partially tearing the roof from the 
other car. 
	Maynard navigated the streets as best he could, whipping the wheel left and right. 
He looked into the mirror and saw that Chase was still on his tail. 
	Chase gripped the wheel hard, pedal pressed to the floor, engine howling as he 
raced behind Maynard. They cut through another intersection, spinning the corner tight 
and turning onto a new street. Chase slowly began to close the distance between the two 
cars, and got to within just a couple yards of Maynard. They turned onto another street 
and drove side-by-side. 
	"Give it up, Maynard!" Chase shouted. 
	Maynard looked at him. "They killed my wife!" he yelled back. "They had to pay!" 
	"Stop the car, Maynard! Pull over!" 
	A semi-truck hauling a large trailer pulled through the intersection up ahead, 
unnoticed by the two. 
	"Pull over!" Chase continued shouting. 
	"I can't!" 
	Both of them looked back at the same time. The semi was right there. They both hit 
their brakes and screamed, but it was too late. Simultaneously, they collided with the 
truck. Maynard plowed through the trailer, tearing through the thin metal walls and 
spinning endlessly side-over-side. Chase tried to swerve, but missed and clipped the 
front left fender of the truck cab. His car lifted up off the ground slightly and landed 
upside down, sliding down the street. Maynard's car sailed through the air and the 
crashed onto the street the same time Chase did. Both slide to a stop. 
	Slowly, Chase pulled himself out and stood. The other car was several yards away. 
He drew his gun and walked over. He opened the driver's door and saw that Maynard was 
in no condition to offer resistance, so he holstered his gun. He pulled him from the 
wreck as he heard police sirens approaching. Maynard leaned back against the car, blood 
trickling from his nose and the corner of his mouth. 
	He looked at Chase. "They killed my wife," he said, on the verge of tears. "They 
. . . they killed her. To get control of . . . of the . . ." 
	"I know, Harold," he said. "I know."
	Two police units arrived, and a third with August pulled up seconds later. Two 
uniformed officers approached and took Maynard by the arms, leading him away. 
	August walked up. "You alright, partner?" he asked. 
	"Yeah, I'm fine." 
	August watched the cops put Maynard into the back of a cruiser. "He's gonna do 
some heavy time. It's hard not to sympathize, though. I can understand why he'd do it." 
	"Yeah." Chase leaned back against the inverted car, rubbing his shoulder. 
	August spotted the other car across the street, upside-down. "You know, Richardson 
is not gonna like what you did to his car." 
	Chase turned slightly and looked, then smiled. "He's gonna hate me for this." 
	August tossed his hands up and turned, looking around. "Well, I knew it." 
	"Knew what?" 
	"That it wouldn't be long after you got back that cars would be flying through the 
air like Blue Angels." August laughed. "Come on. Let's get you checked out." 
	He put an arm around his friend and helped him walk back to the police cruisers.



Back at the station, August was standing in Jensen's office. "So you see, Maynard wanted 
revenge for what had happened, so he killed Miller, the Kendalls and Webster. But he hid 
the killings, so to speak, in the M.O. of Larry Franklin. He figured we'd just assume the 
people he killed were more victims of the real Cat Man. But what he didn't know was that 
he was using the wrong gun. And he left a fingerprint on Fred Kendall's reading glasses." 
	"Pretty clever, hu?" Jensen said. 
	"Yeah, well, like I told Mac, I can't say what he did was right, but I could 
understand why he did it." 
	Jensen nodded. 
	"How's Richardson?" August asked. 
	"He's doing fine, just a little bonk on the head. He'll be to work in the morning. 
I don't think he'll be happy about what happened to his car, though," he added with 
smile. 
	August laughed. 
	"Where is Chase, by the way?" 
	The smile faded from August's mouth. "He, uh . . . he had something personal he had 
to go do," he said quietly. 
	"Oh, yeah," Jensen said, nodding. He knew what it was.
	August was shutting the door behind him when he heard a voice say, "Excuse me." He 
turned to see a man walking towards him, looking rather in a hurry.
	"Can I help you?"
	"Yeah, I'm looking for my daughter," the guy explained. "Where do I go to fill out 
a missing persons report?"
	"Has she been missing more than 24 hours?"
	The man nodded. "Yeah."
	"Okay. Hold on right here and I'll go get someone for you to talk to."
	"Thank you."
	August walked away, passing his desk. Down another hall, he opened a door. 
"Samantha? Come here a second."
	She stepped out of the room. "Yeah?"
	He put a hand on her arm and lead her back slowly. "Don't be afraid," he said, "but 
I think you're father's here?"
	"What? How?" She tried to stop.
	August looked at her. "Don't worry," he said. "Look, we can arrest him. Do you want 
that?"
	She looked at him for a long moment, considering. August could tell it was a hard 
and painful decision. Eventually, she made up her mind. "Yeah," she said, sounding as if 
she were about to cry. "Yeah, I want him arrested. I can't go through it anymore."
	"Okay, come here." They walked until they were almost near August desk. "Is that 
him?"
	Samantha looked down the hall and saw him standing near Jensen's office. "That's 
him," she said.
	"Okay. Go back to the room."
	As she walked away, August called over to Richardson. "Sam, give me a hand here." 
The other detective joined him as August walked back toward the man. "Mr. Garris? You're 
under arrest."
	"What the hell for?"
	People in the station stopped what they were doing to watch. August turned him 
around and put him up against the wall. "You're under arrest for child abuse," he said 
as he searched him.
	"Child abuse! What the hell you talking about?"
	August found an ankle hoslter on the guy. "Wow. Walk into a police station with 
concealed weapon?" He undid the Velcro and handed the gun to Richardson. "You have the 
right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of 
law . . ."
	The office door opened, and Jensen stepped out. "What's going on out here, Brooks?"
	"This guy's under arrest," August said, taking out his handcuffs. "Child abuse. 
He's Samantha's father." He cuffed the man's wrists.
	The guy just shook his head, still acting as if he was innocent. "I'm telling you, 
I don't know what he's talking about," he told the captain.
	Jensen got in his face. "Well, I do," he said. "You're daughter's been staying 
here at the station. She's terrified to go home because of you, you sick freak." August 
and Richardson stood side by side, watching their captain in amazement. So was everyone 
else. "I've seen the bruises on her face. We've got pictures of them, and more on her 
arms and back. We've got the evidence to put you away for a pretty long time. Get this 
S.O.B. out of my sight."
	Richardson took the man by the arm and lead him away. August smiled. "Captain, I 
am impressed."
	"Really?"
	"Yeah. I am really impressed. You know, you should take part in our interrogations 
more often."
	"Really?"
	August laughed and gave him a pat on the shoulder as he walked off. Jensen stood 
there for a moment, smiling, thinking to himself. "I was impressive," he said, then 
walked back into his office.



Chase stood quietly, holding a bouquet of multi-colored flowers. He knealed and placed 
the flowers in a metal jar set into the ground. Then he looked up at the marble 
headstone before him:

			     Det. Nicole Stockmam 
			March 13, 1964 - May 19, 1999 
			  Killed in the line of duty 

	He put the palm of his hand against the cool surface of the headstone. The look on 
his face showed how much pain he was going through. A tear rolled down one cheek, and he 
lowered his head as he began to cry.