"Did you watch CSI last night? Man it was crazy..." Hank's partner, Jack Trainer went on about some stupid show. Some fictional account about some stupid whore that got chopped up.
Hank didn't understand how Trainer could be so obsessed about fictional murder when they had plenty of real-life murder to solve. "Can you believe that, eh Henry? He dumped her in a dumpster. A dumpster? How retarded is that?" Trainer trailed on.
Hank passed a broken down car on the side of the road and thought briefly about plowing straight through it, in the hopes that his partner would finally shut the hell up.
"We're almost there," Hank finally said. "Will you please shut the hell up?"
That got Trainer excited. He loved driving Hank insane. "Oh, am I distracting you? Losing your focus, are you? Awww. Bite me, Henry."
With that, Hank spent the rest of the ride looking for other obstacles that he might run into, to stop Trainer's incessant babbling.
By the time they arrived at the Dairy Queen, Hank was fighting his urge to beat the living shit out of his partner. Hank parked their car, and both detectives walked into the Dairy Queen.
Hank walked up to the counter and asked the girl at the register if he could speak with her manager.
"Oh sure," she said. "Should I tell him what it's regarding?"
"No," Said Hank. He flashed his badge and the girl went to get her manager.
To the other girl at the counter, Trainer asked "Hey, can I get a twist cone?"
"No," Said Hank.
"I'm not asking you, asshole," Trainer said. He waited for the girl's response.
"Dipped in chocolate?" she asked.
"What do I look like?" Trainer asked her, referring to his fat gut. "Of course I want it dipped in chocolate," he said with a chuckle.
The manager finally came around the counter and introduced himself to the detectives. "Mark Glass," he said. "What can I do ya for?" He was in his late thirties, big and country. If Dairy Queen would have let him wear a cowboy hat at work, he'd be wearing one.
"Can we use one of your tables?" hank asked Mr. Glass.
"Oh, sure sure. Over here," said Mr. Glass as he motioned for the detectives to follow him to one of the tables in the dining room.
"You guys go ahead," said Trainer. "I'm still waiting on my ice cream."
Mr. Glass and Hank sat down at the table, and Hank pulled out the picture of the Dairy Queen wrapper to show the manager.
"Oh yea, that's probably one of ours," said the manager.
"How do you know?" asked Hank.
"Oh, well there's really no way to know for sure, I guess. I mean, they're all the same, ya know," Mr. Glass said, as he looked over the picture of the wrapper on the ground, next to some tracks in the mud. "Where's it from?"
"Up at Frog Lake. Homicide scene up there, from a week ago," explained Hank.
"Oh, I thought that maybe this was from that thing up at Mirror," the manager guessed.
"What thing at Mirror?" asked Hank.
"Didn't ya see the news? Here..." The manager left the table to grab a paper from the counter. "Front page of the paper this morning. Well, front page in the lifestyles section, anyway," he said as he handed the paper over to Hank.
"This says these kids drowned in their raft. Why would we come here for that?" asked Hank, in all seriousness.
"Oh, that there is bullshit," explained the manager. "I know people were up there, friend of mine saw the whole thing. Paper says the raft got some hole from a stick or something, which made the raft sink, but that there is total bullshit from what I hear."
"What do you mean?" asked Hank.
"Both them kids had bullet wounds. Friend of mine saw the whole thing, like I said. Brad, he said there were bullet holes in the raft, and bullet wounds in them kids. Was no accident, that's for sure."
"What's no accident?" asked Trainer as he joined them. He couldn't fit at the table, so he just grabbed a chair and sat at the end.
"Apparently, some kids got shot, up at Mirror Lake," explained Hank.
"So?" asked Trainer.
"So?" Hank repeated. "We have three cases here. Don't you think that's a bit convenient?"
"What do you mean, 'convenient'?" Trainer asked. It was like he wasn't even a detective. More like a slightly trained monkey.
"They're probably connected, Jack. Jesus, be a detective, for once in your life," Hank said, exasperated.
"That's what I've got you for, Henry," Trainer said, with a stupid grin.
Hank sat back, and looked at the big, confused manager. "So, wait..." Mr. Glass started. "You're saying one of our wrappers was found up at Mirror too? Wow, what are the odds..."
Hank put his head in his hands. He wondered why he always had to be surrounded by retards. "Not that I'm aware," Hank said, looking up at the manager. "We never received that file, if there is one. This paper says it just happened yesterday. Even if there was a homicide investigation from Clackamas County, we probably wouldn't receive the file for another week or more." Hank said, as he perused the newspaper for more details.
"So, you think we have some kind of serial killer?" Trainer finally concluded. His ice cream cone was melting around his hand, as he was deep in thought for once in his life.
"Maybe. We won't know for sure, until we get more details from the other crime scene," Hank replied.
"So, what about that guy that was dragged up 26?" Asked Trainer, referring to a case he read about before they left the station that morning.
"Well, we have no reason to believe that had anything to do with these other two cases," reasoned Hank.
"What guy?" asked the manager, suddenly interested.
"Nothing," replied Hank.
"Some guy got dragged up 26, and turned into hamburger on the pavement. Pretty sick, if you ask me," Trainer went on.
"Nobody asked you," Hank stated planly.
"When did that happen?" the manager asked, fascinated.
"About a week ago," replied Trainer, just to piss off Hank.
It worked. "Will you shut the fuck up already?" Hank nearly screamed at Trainer. "It's none of his business."
"Pardon me," the manager interrupted. "But, there were two girls stranded here, about a week ago. Said their daddy been abducted."
"Say what?" asked Trainer.
"Yea, some customer found them huddling in the cold, in the back seat of their car, scared to death," the manager explained.
"What's this have to do with..." Hank started.
"I mean, I dunno if it's the same guy yer after, but them girls said their daddy was took by some crazy man in a big white truck," said Mr. Glass.
"Did the police get some kind of description of the guy, from those girls?" asked Hank.
"Oh, well... Didn't really report it, as such," said the manager. "Their daddy was a local tweaker, ya know. Meth head, I guess. Figured he just ran off like he usually did. I just called the girls' Mom, who lives in Sandy, just down the highway. She come, pick em up. That was that."
"That wasn't the smartest thing to do," Hank said. Even Trainer could tell it was a little bit insulting to the country bumpkin manager.
"Nice one Hank," Trainer said. "Could you be more of an asshole?"
"Well, what I supposed to do, mister?" asked the manager, a bit flustered. "Go out and look for the dumb tweaker myself?"
"Could have just called the cops," said Hank. "Then we'd have a description. Then we wouldn't have to make yet another trip, down to Sandy, to get a description for ourselves."
"Oh right," said the manager, finally understanding. "So, you want me to go down to Sandy and get that description for ya?" He asked, in all seriousness.
Hank put his head in his hands again. Breathed deep. "No..." he said under his breath. He looked back up at the manager. "Did you ever see the Dad in here, after that?"
"Oh, I don't know. Probably. See lots of folks come through here," said the manager.
"What do you mean, you don't know?" asked Trainer, a bit irritated that the manager was so dumb.
"What about your surveillance footage?" asked Hank.
"The what, now?" asked the manager.
"The camera, up on that wall. You have video tape of this guy, don't you?" Asked Hank, with as much patience as he could muster.
"Oh, that camera? See, that hasn't worked in ages. Just keep it up there to scare away some criminals, ya know," the manager explained.
"Shit," said Trainer.
"Is it possible that someone else, maybe an employee of yours took a photo with their phone?" asked Hank.
"Sure is possible," Mr. Glass said. "I could ask around, if you like."
"That'd be great," said Hank. "I'd like to see any pictures or video that any of your employees took of any of your patrons. Our killer was probably in here at some point."
"And that other guy," continued Trainer. "Those girls' dad. Probably that guy who got dragged up 26. They may have pics of that guy too." Trainer was finally adding to the investigation.
"Right, him too," confirmed Hank. "Also, could we get the phone number to the girls' mother? We need to contact her, drive down there and see if we can get a description from the girls."
The fat, country boy manager digged his phone from his front pocket and scrolled through his past calls. "Here it is," he said as he handed his phone to Hank.
Hank looked up at the manager. "Did you get her name?"
"Miss Darcy, fine lookin woman, that one," said Mr. Glass.
Hank dialed the number, with the manager's phone.
"Big titties?" asked Trainer, putting his hands out in front of his chest to suggest how huge them titties must be.
The phone continued to ring, as Hank listened to his slobbering partner.
"Oh hell yea," said the manager. "Out to here." And Mr. Glass put his hands in front of his chest as well, to display to Trainer the massive girth of the titties in question.
Someone finally picked up on the other end of the phone. "Mark? Hello?" came the voice of Miss Darcy.
"Oh, yes. Hello, Miss Darcy. This is Detective Hank Miller, from the Oregon State Police homicide division. My partner and I have some questions for you and your daughters. Mr. Glass, here at the Dairy Queen, has told us about your girls being stranded here last week," Hank explained.
"Right. Yes, that was horrible. Mark was such a help. Thank him for me, will you?" Miss Darcy said.
"Of course. Have you seen your husband, since the incident?" asked Hank.
"Oh, he's not my husband. We're divorced. But, no. Haven't seen him. Nor do I want to," she said.
"I see," Hank said.
"Ask her about her titties," Trainer interrupted with a whisper.
Hank put his hand over the phone. "Shut up," he whispered back to Trainer.
"So, my partner and I would like to come over to talk to you and your girls. Would that be possible?" Hank asked.
"Oh, yes. Of course. When would be a good time?" she asked.
"Could we meet up in about an hour? We'd really like to see if your girls can give us any kind of description of the man they say took off with their father, " Hank said.
"I don't know how much help they will be with that, but yes. An hour would be fine," and she gave Hank her address.
After thanking the woman on the phone, Hank hung up and handed it back to the manager. "She said to thank you."
"Oh, yea. Nice woman, that one. Cool. So, you're off to Sandy then?" the manager asked.
"Yes. Make sure to ask around to your employees, if any of them have pictures or video of your patrons," Hank said as he got up from the table.
"Titties!" exclaimed Trainer, as he got up from his chair and licked the remainder of his ice cream from his fingers.
"Hey! Don't you go touchin' them titties, now," the manager said with an evil grin. "Thems my titties," he said with a laugh.
"Sure they are," said trainer as he laughed along with the manager.
Hank held his breath as he tried not to say "Go fuck yourself." Because, he really wanted to say it to both fat guys. Just go fuck yourself and die in a big fat hole, he thought to himself.
"Come on fatty," Hank said to Trainer. Both fat guys followed Hank out the door of the restaurant.
"Not you," Hank said to the manager. "Just Jack McFatty here. Lets go," Hank said, gesturing to Trainer.
"Alright, alright," Trainer said as he followed along.
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DISCLAIMER: This is fiction, you fucking idiots. It's just a goddamn story.
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