REVENGE OF THE TAXIDERMIST
Inspector Margaret Thatcher was having a bad day. Well, it was only nine o'clock, but so far all the signs were pointing in that direction. The headache that had begun at four a.m. was showing no intention of dissipating, either. Due to this and sheer lack of interest she had cancelled the Consulate's daily staff meeting. There wasn't any point, Meg thought to herself. Despite her best efforts at organization and direction, Turnbull would continue to aggravate everyone he came in contact with, and Fraser would continue to assist That Detective. The very same detective who was, Meg guessed, responsible for his current unexplained tardiness. Why should she waste her valuable time giving them directions that they wouldn't follow anyway? She sighed and took another couple aspirin. This was definitely the headache talking. Of course she could control her officers. But the pile of paperwork on her desk was one thing she apparently could not. The papers seemed to be reproducing--the pile was at least twice as large as it had been the day before. Meg refocused her efforts and diligently slogged through the mess. Before long, she heard a familiar "woof" and then a respectful knock on her office door. "Come in, Fraser," she called. He entered cautiously and stood before her in his usual stiff style. "Good morning, sir," he said. "Good morning, Constable. Are you reporting for duty?" He cracked his neck nervously. "Well, ah, yes Sir. I apologize for my late arrival but I assure you the delay was unavoidable." Meg sat back, waiting for the inevitable, 'A funny thing happened on my way to work this morning' story. She was not disappointed. "I was picked up in Detective Kowalski's vehicle to go get some breakfast. He asked if it would be too much of an inconvenience if we were to stop briefly at the veterinarian’s office on the way. He was concerned for his turtle, which apparently has not been behaving quite like itself lately. I did suggest that perhaps a turtle’s natural instinct to hibernation-like state, and not actual illness was responsible—“ “Fraser.” “Yes, sir. On the way, a man darted out from between the cars parked on the side of the street and was almost struck down by Detective Kowalski’s vehicle," Fraser explained, illustrating his point with hand gestures. "In a city the size of Chicago, jaywalking is a common occurrence, but I thought it wise to explain to the man the dangers of that kind of action..." He continued to talk, watching his superior officer fall into a kind glazed stupor. She tended to skim over his explanations like a reader skims over an article, extracting only the important parts and dismissing the rest. "...we realized he was actually running from someone, and his pursuer in his, well, pursuit, had also narrowly avoided being hit by a passing taxi. The taxi swerved, ending up on the side walk and knocking down..." Fraser noticed that the Inspector was not skimming, but dozing. There were dark smudges under her eyes. And, he thought, looking down at her folded hands, her fingernails were slightly dirty. Was that clay? "...pursuer behind me with a knife, and so nearly failed to block--" "Were you hurt at all, Constable?" her voice broke into the chain of his narrative. As professional as she was trying to be, she couldn't help the bit of concern that rang out in her voice. She blinked, daring him to say something about it. He didn't. "Er, no sir. I'm fine. Diefenbaker is also unharmed, and was successful in disarming my attacker. However, Detective Kowalski sustained minor injuries when the man swung at him with the parking meter in an effort to escape arrest." "Was he successful in the attempt?" Meg asked. "Unfortunately, yes. After pursuing him ten blocks, we lost his trail and returned to find the original man dead, apparently from the large knife protruding from his back. This is why I was late, and, with your permission sir, I would like to return to the precinct as a witness and--" "--Assist Detective Kowalski," she finished for him. "Very well. Dismissed." Fraser opened his mouth to say something, changed his mind, and gave her a small smile instead. "Thank you kindly, sir." Meg smiled back and returned to her paperwork. She heard Fraser close the door behind him with the utmost care.
"No, Ray. I asked permission and she granted it."
"What? The Ice Queen passed up a chance to freeze you out?"
Having apparently achieved the ideal hat angle, Fraser then started on his lanyard. "Her name, as you well know, is Inspector Thatcher, and she has never tried to 'Freeze me out,' as you put it."
But Ray was on a roll. "Y'know, she hasn't yelled at you for one thing since we got back from Canada, has she?"
"Well, actually, there was that incident involving Dief and a bag of her miniature chocolate bars..."
"But that was Dief, wasn't it? Not you."
Fraser looked thoughtful. "That's true. Gave Diefenbaker a dressing down he'll never forget. Serves you right," he directed towards the wolf. Dief yowled and trotted over to Ray.
"Watch your language!" Fraser exclaimed.
Ray Kowalski was grinning evilly as he climbed into the GTO. Fraser felt a small qualm.
"Do y'know what I think, Frase?" he asked, pulling away from the curb. "I think she's got a thing for ya. An' she figures, 'Well, if I stop bitchin' at him, maybe he'll stick around longer.' Or better yet-- 'Next time he goes searchin' for some dead guy's hand, he'll take me with him!'" He started chuckling. "Yep. I got it all figured out."
"That's just silly, Ray," his partner replied. All the same, he turned his face towards the window to hide the blush on his face. For a grown man, he thought disgustedly, he blushed far too easily. "The inspector is my superior officer, and a professional. We both know that nothing can happen..." Fraser broke off as he realized that Ray was parroting him.
"C'mon, Fraser. For once can't you vary that a little? Gets downright tedious."
"Hmm."
As he expected, the conversation ended there. If there was one thing he had learned in his years in Chicago, it was that Americans hated a 'hmm'. His father, or his father's ghost, anyway, had said it was because they had an inferiority complex when it came to Canadians, which was ridiculous. There was no way a grudge over the War of 1812 could be carried genetically.
Once inside the hustle and bustle of the 27th Precinct, Fraser allowed his mind to switch back to the problem at hand while Ray checked the messages on his desk. Most of them ended up in the trashcan.
“Mom...don’t know ‘em...don’t know ‘em...don’t want to talk to ‘em...oh, this guy owes me money...”
"Has anyone managed to apprehend the suspect?" Fraser asked.
Ray threw the rest of his messages back on his desk. "Nah. It's like the guy just disappeared into thin air, or somethin'."
"What about the victim?"
Ray ran a hand through his hair, making it even more experimental. "No ID yet. But it shouldn't be too much longer."
"His choice of clothing was rather distinctive," Fraser agreed.
"Yeah. I mean, I know it's almost Halloween and all that, but how many guys do you know will pass up a Frankenstein or vampire costume to be a monk?"
TBC...
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