Coffee and Conspiracy

Collinsport. As the night’s storms have past, their aftermath is slowly being discovered. Damage to trees and property are but the visible signs of the storms passing – but there are others. Of darker and more sinister import and Isabella Collins has seen the violence carefully hidden amidst that nocturnal tempest. What the storm had conspired to hide out along the Old Jerusalem Lot Road. Two more murders. But rather than being drained of blood, these were decapitated. And so Isabella Collins knows that that for these two riders on the storm, there’s another killer on the road.

The secretive sky gave way no hints of the heavy rains it had lashed upon the coast the night before. Not that it was a cloudless, early October sky, but a bight azure that makes one seek out sunglasses rather than stop for a moment and look up and enjoy the sky. Out along the ancient pier the choppy whitecaps roll endlessly to wash against the wooden pylons – as the sea seems to be the only hold out, the only one still willing to give evidence now to the violence of the weather from the previous evening.

Isabella Collins had had little rest. She had gotten home around 4 am and though she had tried to lie down and get a little sleep, she had found it to be all rather frustrating as she kept turning over to look at the clock, unable to truly fall sleep, so that she was more aware of the passage of time, than anything else – for she was just too eager to get to work. To introduce herself to the two new corpses now resting in her morgue, having been carefully (she hoped) transported from the horror of the rest area out on Old Jerusalem Lot Road. Of course, her first inclination had been to just toss the covers back and get up and go in to the morgue and start work – but experience told her she needed a fresh start. An objective eye – and so she needed to clear her thoughts of any erroneous conclusions or speculations she may have been infected by whatever inane conclusions the officers had carelessly tossed about, the spurious bits of data that might be still lurking about somewhere in the back of her sub-conscious, like an some pernicious meme, and so, she knew she had to lie there and let the passage of time let their idle speculation go fallow, thus she had headed home to get what little rest she knew she would not find.

Out along the ancient pier that had been renovated into a rather predictable retail, souvenir, arts and crafts tourist trap, Detective Frid smiles and takes his coffee from the young girl behind the counter, and with his copy of the Collinsport Star in hand, he moves over to take a seat at the table nearest the door.

He checks his watch.

She should be along now any moment . . .

Not unlike Sherman’s March to the Sea, Isabella Collins, her purse in one hand and the ever present parasol in the other, strides purposefully, head slightly tilted down to watch her feet step outward from beneath the long hem of the red satin, sleeveless dress she wore, as she marches along the wooden planks of the pier toward the coffee shop: Sippin’ On The Dock of The Bay. Whether or not it was supposed to have been an actually play upon the Otis Reading Song that the owner had found herself humming, as she had sat at the bank signing the seemingly endless dotted lines on the page after page of forms that the bank manager had continued to place down before her, one atop the other, as she purchased the small craft store she intended to turn into a coffee shop, the allusion of the store’s name was totally missed by Isabella Collins . . . no matter how many times she stopped for coffee – which was every morning. Almost ritually – seeing as Sippin’ On The Dock of the Bay had far fewer customers that the new Starbucks only three blocks over on North East Main. And one thing Isabella Collins disliked was a crowd – there were too many distractions.

The parasol adroitly collapsing now as she entered – she moves with a well practiced fluidly as she navigates her way through the threshold with the dainty umbrella.

Detective Frid turns at the sound of the opening door as he looks up from the Collinsport Star that he has splayed out upon his table, and smiles in a feint of mock surprise as the lovely Collinsport Medical Examiner enters the coffee shop.

“Miss Collins, a beautiful day isn’t it?” He says – being that he was well aware she would be stopping here on her way to work. He has after all studied her routine.

Isabella stops for a moment and she looks at the detective, “Ummm . . . detective. . . Hello.”

Detective Frid perfunctory closes up his newspaper and folding it into quarters, places it over to one side of the table; “We never did have a chance to get that drink—how about a cup of coffee, on me?”

And she returns his smile more out of reflex.

“Please, a coffee for the young lady,” he says turning now to look at the young woman, who is leaning on the counter, mildly bleary-eyed at the hour, silently wondering why in god’s name she was the one chosen to run her mother’s coffee shop . . . when she didn’t even like coffee.

Marilyn Ross nods and asks, “Is that Decaf or regular?”

“Care to have a seat?” He asked, eyeing the parasol as he motions to his table.

“Sir, is that decaf or regular?” Marilyn Ross asks again with her early morning deadpan expression – thinking to herself what an odd hour it was to being trying to pick someone up. Especially someone one carrying – what is that a parasol? They even still made those things?

And if so—why?

“Oh, regular, the dark roast, please.” He says.

“A drink?” Isabella remarks now distractedly, her thoughts on the bodies awaiting her at the morgue, but, then she has never been one to turn down a free . . . well, anything actually. She smiles a little brighter, “That sounds great, thank you.”

“Two, please make that two coffees”

Isabella places her parasol by a chair at his table and smoothing her skirt takes a seat at the table, “With milk . . . no sugar thank you”

Marilyn sighs making the drinks and then walking around the counter, she plunks them on the table. “Cream and sugar is self service,” she tells the attractive, pale brunette as she indicates the containers on the self-service table. “You know, like the Starbucks up the street.”

Detective Frid glances up at her then back to the at the very attractive Miss Collins. Andrea was always much better at doing this than he – recruiting was not his strong suit – not at all, as he seemed to never be able to accurately covey the serious intent of what they do vs. the inane sound of it all. It always sounded like a crazy madmen talking Internet conspiracy theories – why did they ever paint their dammed helicopters black.

She takes the cup in her long pale fingers and brings it inches from her lips, testing the heat, as the steam rolls from the cup teasing her with the aroma of fresh strong coffee – she longs now to savor that first taste.

As he watches her about to take her first drink, he decides to continue with his decided course of action – the reason he had arrived this morning to meet her. He pushes aside the paper and leans forward slightly, “I understand you had a rather eventful night. Two murder victims?”

He watches now as Miss Collins glares across the table at him from behind the steam rising from her cup of coffee, but she says nothing – although, she had quickly surmised that he was there to speak to her about something other than just an a passing interest in morning coffee.

He picks up his own cup and begins: “I know that these latest victims, the ones from the rest stop out on Old Jerusalem Lot Road, don’t fit the particular pattern of the escapee, the so called Vampire Killer—am I correct?”

Isabella Collins places her coffee down and smiles politely at the man across the table: he knows more than he is telling – precisely what that is, she has yet to determine, “No—they do not.”

She watches as he leans a little further forward.

He is handsome she will grant him that, but those looks alone will not charm her. A loose piece of hair now falls across her face for a moment, almost as if upon cue, so that she can slowly push it back, countering his own seduction move, as she tries to determine just what she should or should not reveal to this detective from Providence – whom she suspects is more than just a Detective from Providence – but than again, her eyes happen to glance at the copy of the Collinsport Star, where all the details are bound to end up sooner or later, knowing the tenacity of its publisher, Tobias Tillinghast.

“Miss Collins, I want to be candid with you; I told you I was with the Providence Police department.”

“And you are not?” She asks with a very straight face.

“No—No I am a member of the PPD. It is just that although I am a member of the Providence Police Department, I also represent another agency, “ He pauses for a moment, and she feels of course he is doing so for the effect, “A federal one.”

“A federal one . . . ah, well that’s special.” She says and picks up her coffee and takes a sip.

Marilyn, behind the counter, glances back over at the pair sitting all sort of huddled up together, as if they were discussing world shaking evens, or perhaps who was sleeping with whom back at their office, and so bored as always, she is desperate to eavesdrop – and well, she can’t help letting her imagination run free, as she always did, in this boring business, and so no doubt owing to too much television, she begins to suspect that the man, he, well he looks like some kind of government agent, maybe with the F.B.I. or even worse, maybe the C.I.A. Homeland Security! And perhaps someone might enter the coffee shop at any moment with automatic weapons drawn. They might even be talking about various mind control experiments, or the Black Helicopters she has heard about having been seen in and around Chesuncook, their might even be . . . cattle mutilations!

She took a step closer to their end of the counter.

“Setting aside your family’s, shall we say history, I am aware that you have an open mind when it comes to certain aspects of the unexplained, the uncanny, or what, for want of a better term: some people call the paranormal or the Supernatural.” He tells her, and then lowers his voice, “Have you heard of Innsmouth?”

Innsmouth? She sat for a moment, there was a brief recollection, she had heard the name, more than once since being in Collinsport, but it was a small town not in Maine, yes, it was on the coast in Massachusetts and from what she remembers of it, all the connotations to the town had to do with fact that something happened there and it has a rather horrible reputation. Not only for its criminal elements – but of course, for what he called the Paranormal. She had thought it odd that during the commercial real estate insanity that had lead up to the Great Recession, land all up and down the Eastern Seaboard had been grabbed up and quickly converted into real estate investments– but as she remembered it, Innsmouth was untouched – in fact it was rather shunned. “. . .mmm, No I haven’t . . ..” She says hoping to lead him to wherever it was that he was going this morning.

“Well, in between 1927 and 1928, you see, some very unusual things were reported in and about the city of Innsmouth. Especially out near Devils’ Reef. And so, a group of U.S. Treasury agents were sent to investigate, and based upon their report, the Secret Service conducted a special Eyes Only presentation of their facts to President Coolidge. Now, as Coolidge, having had some experience in rounding up ‘Reds’ when he was Governor of Massachusetts, had little hesitation in signed off on a top secret finding that authorized a government raid on Innsmouth – which used the Volstead Act as its cover. It was called Project COVENAT.”

Isabella sips her coffee and remains silent, letting the detective continue. She had read some vague things about COVENAT on the Internet.

“Because of the nature of the report, the unusual threat, it was the Department of the Navy – in the form of the Office of Naval Intelligence, the U.S, Marines, and the U. S. Coast Guard – that provided the man-and-fire power for COVENAT.”

“Fire power?”

He nods, “They dropped depth charges out along the outer reef.”

“Depth Charges?” She says with a look of skepticism

“After the raid, the President, Coolidge was presented with overwhelming evidence of that had been going on secretly within that community, for years. Interbreeding with a species of – well, things not human.”

She sits back now and says nothing.

“In Innsmouth it was discovered . . . that certain creatures that should not have survived from earth’s dim past, had, and they had brought with them a conspiracy against all of mankind.”

She frowns, “All of mankind?”

He looks at her, “I know this sounds fantastic but it is true.”

She cocks an eyebrow and sips her coffee.

“And so, he signed a presidential order which established a division within the Office of Naval Intelligence to investigate certain bizarre and inexplicable phenomena, particularly anything that might link to these creatures. This Division was initially called P4. It stood for Parapsychology, Paranormal, and Psychic Phenomena. The main thrust of the division was the continued investigation into the phenomena, which had occurred here on the coast at Innsmouth. So, a lot of the work was done in tracing that outbreak back to remote areas in the South Pacific. Some places in South America. Indochina. But, then came World War Two, and it was discovered that the Germans – who had their own beliefs in the paranormal – had set their own group, very similar to P4. It was known as Sonderkommando H or Special Unit H of the Archive Department of the Richssicherheitshautamt. Initially conceived by Himmler, it was set up under the umbrella of the SS. And eventually it became known as The Karatechia.”

She leans forward and says in a low voice, “So, you’re saying all of this is because of a small town in Massachusetts?”

Detective Frid narrows his eyes and sighs, “Miss Collins, there is a whole world out there that very few people have any concept of – one that is a threat, daily, to the very existence of mankind.”

“And the Nazis are behind it.” She whispers.

He takes a deep breath – wishing Agent Andrea where here but he does not have the luxury nor the time nor was she in any condition to help and so he decides to just press on, the best he could: “Thus, during the War, P4 was reassigned to the OSS. Since then, this agency has been used to look into—“

“The Uncanny . . . the supernatural. Your everyday X-files.” She fills in for him.

“It is called Delta Green.”

“Doesn’t sound naval, sounds more like the Army.” She tells him matter-of-factly.

“Since World War Two, Delta Green has been it’s own department and we have rather quietly investigated and stopped various incidents that rarely see the light of day. These incidents, we call The Mythos, as they pertain to creatures that once lived on this earth long before man, and left behind traces, some of which has been referred to as magic, but in actually is just an very odd, alien kind of science.”

Isabella Collins masks her expression, for even though she has appeared rather skeptical of everything the detective has told her, she really wasn’t surprised at all, for she in fact did believe in the existence of certifiable “supernatural” events, she had seen them in her capacity as Medical examiner, and if she had seen it – then it stood to reason that some part of the government must have too. It was logical that that there would have been a call for just such an agency specially assigned to deal with them.

“That being said, in all candor,” he takes a sip of coffee, “There was a tragic event took place in Cambodia in 1968. Let’s just say some good men did some things they felt had to be done in order to stop a far greater evil, and so, Delta Green committed some acts which later oversight and review considered to have been evil in and of themselves and so, DG was officially decommissioned. But, having been on the front lines of the unexplained for so long, knowing that this Mythos was very real, and that there were those more than willing to use the ancient science, the powerful artifacts that remained, to horrendous consequences, several dedicated members of Delta Green refused to give up the conflict and so they continued to operate. Unsanctioned. And in order to do so, they had to unofficially enlist members of Law Enforcement, members of the F.B.I. Those that were friendly to the cause . . . police officers . . . ”

“Medical Examiners.”

He nodded, “Yes.”

“So, what you are saying is that all of Delta Green’s operations are now totally covert.” Isabella replied.

He looked past her to the woman at the counter, who quickly looked away as she became aware of his stare, “For a time. Yes. That was true. But that time has passed . . . and although I can not tell you precisely what occurred, other than something that took place in the mountains of Afghanistan, where we adverted a catastrophic event from occurring – and so, under the current administration’s review of the agency, we have been given official status once again.” He did not feel the need at the moment to elaborate any further about, or go into, the status of MJ-12.

For a brief moment Isabella allowed a slight glint of interest tinged with a mere hint of confusion to escape her normally cold stare.

Detective Frid looks at her trying to see if she believes anything of what he has told her, and if so, which way she is leaning as to acceptance, “There are things, things men once called gods, but were really alien creatures that lived here on the earth millions of years before man. These creatures, they want to return and they want to take their home back—away from us. And they use ambitious, evil men and women to help advance their cause. I know—I know this sounds crazy, but – I had to tell you this because, well, part of being able to combat these nefarious would be sorcerers and worse, we need the assistance of those who have seen traces of The Mythos – who believe.”

“And you are thinking that might be me?”

He nodded: “For example, we both know that the recent murders of these young women – was not the work of some demented, ex-medical examiner who had gone mad – not the work of someone who merely thought they were a vampire. You know it – you have seen the evidence. It’s not conjecture, it is fact. Theywere killed by a vampire.”

She looks at her coffee and regains her cold, emotionless glare. She looks up, “Which you are saying is really some creature from earth’s dim past? ”

“Vampires are an infection – an intelligent virus . . . they were a servitor race that was called down from the stars to kill humans.”

“Like what? Terminators?”

He looks at her and tries to hid his frustrations by saying nothing.

And she thought Silva was way, way out there with his loony s**t.

She lifts her cup and takes a long drink.

“What a lot of people call the supernatural is just another form of science we don’t understand and call magic, or the supernatural.”

Isabella Collins puts her cup down before her with calm precision, “I can promise you the hairs I found at the scene where not Alien nor were they from some ancient dinosaur from Venus or Pluto, or where have you.” She looks at him with a raised eyebrow, “Vampires are human’s that are resurrected from the dead to become an incredibly evil and efficient predator—“

“You mean like a terminator?” He asks with a brief smile

She glares at him.

“And they are resurrect to become these predators because? What, a black cat jumped over their grave, or they committed suicide, or they were buried in unconsecrated ground, or their pallbearers did not properly carry them out of the funeral home or house, or, maybe they were just really very sinful when they were alive . . . but they died, and yet there is no atrophy of muscle tissue or any effect upon the brain—“

“I have not been able to precisely determine how it is—“

“Possible? It is possible because they never died. They are undead. Not dead, nor never were. It’s why they are called undead. It is what is inside of that human, what infected them, which begins the transformation, a vicious, intelligent virus called down from the stars . . . that thrives within a human host, within which they can create a symbonic relationship. “

“Brought here –“

“To kill humans. We are talking about a high efficient killing machine, Miss Collins that knows how to kill human—because it was once human to being with. Ingenious!”

Isabella Collins looked down at the half emptied cup before her with a smile now tattooed across her face as her bright purple eyes glowed with amusement, “They were . . . are something. “ She sits for a long moment in silence looking at him, “So, sitting here telling me this rather fanciful bit of history this morning detective — what precisely is it you think you want me to do about it . . . gather up garlic and wooden stakes and crucifixes and chase gypsy wagons against the setting of the sun? I specialize in dissection . . . not guessing – not making up historical conjecture. And besides, these latest murder victims were butchered by a human – not a vampire. Not even one that thinks he might be one.”

“Precisely. I am here in Collinsport Miss Collins because one of our agents – she isn’t available at the moment and so and I am filling in for her – felt something very odd was just beginning here in Collinsport. That was before these so called Vampire Killer murders . . . and now at the moment, my concerns are this new set of murders.”

Isabella Collins cocks and eyebrow now with a sly look of interest, “One might say, too bad for the agent but . . . then lucky me”

“So, if you have a moment, I would like you to meet someone.” he reaches into his suit jacket pocket and removes his iPhone, “May I? Or, have I told you enough to make you think I am insane?”

She waves her hand at him as if to continue with his call, “Oddly detective, insanity is a hobby of mine so don’t worry yourself about it all that much.”

He nods and presses in contact number, and he looks at her as he speaks, “She’s agreed to see you. Yes. Now. Thanks.”

He sets his phone down and takes another sip of coffee.

Isabella Collins giggles, “Secret Service? My Detective Frid, you are far too serious – you’ve either seen to many X-files episodes or you really have seen too many Jason Bourne movies.”

The door of the coffee shop opens and a rather weary looking man, his face lined with deep crags from having possibly seen far too many things most people should never have to see, including things that have happen to his family and friends. His hair has gone salt-and-pepper siding more toward white than grey. He walks slowly over to the table with a brief nod to the Detective and then turns to smile at Miss Collins. “Miss Collins, my name is Frank Black.”

His voice is deep and low, almost mesmerizing.

She it had been a really long time since she had felt such a growing sense of being “light” and “giddy” with someone else, as normally this was a side of herself she reserved for the four walls of her apartment watching cartoons, and so had let herself enjoy the give-and-take with Frid – but all of that instantly began to go away the moment she heard Frank Black’s voice.

“So, Mister Black, are you too concerned with ex-Nazis and aliens.”

“Miss Collins, I used to be with the FBI, the BSU in fact,” he tells her removing his hands from the pockets of his peacoat. He pulls a chair back and sits down, his face showing no emotion. “I was a profiler.”

“Frank was one of the best.” Frid adds.

Black does not look at him – his weary eyes are only for Miss Collins. “I am a contractor now for Detective Frid and Agent Andrea’s agency.”

“The BSU?” Isabella’s mood once more reverts to her cold, detached work persona.

This man was not a conspiracy theorist. She could see in his eyes he had tracked some very evil men.

Detective Frid cuts a quick look at him, “We are not discussing Agent Andrea.”

Isabella Collins sits up in her chair straight and flattens to smooth out her skirt, very interested in this Agent Andrea of whom they should not discuss.

Black slowly turns his tired eyes upon him, “Detective, it was Agent Andrea who first called me in on this case – and so, I don’t work for you, I work for her. She is after all “A” Cell.”

“Nor are we discussing ‘A’ Cell.”

She looks at the weary man,

Isabella Collins files away ‘A’ cell with Andrea for later: “As I asked, do you hunt aliens too”

“No ma’am, I hunt evil.” He tells her, his voice unemotional, “Evil my dear exists. It is tangible – it has shape, and it is ever present.”

“Frank—Frank as I said is a specialist, Miss Collins . . .”

“I told Andrea that there was a far grander design behind all of the events that have been transpiring here in Collinsport. This of course was before she was . . . “

“Frank, we are not going to talk about her.” Detective Frid says trying to steer him away from further discussion of this mysterious Agent Andrea – which has piqued Isabella’s curiosity now for certain. “Frank – Frank, well he has special talents. He is able to see things, patterns, in things most people do not. He once worked with a group that tried to fill in during the time we were decommissioned—the Millennium Group.”

Her ears perk up at the sound of the group’s name and she quick tries to hide it, it was something she was very familiar with, but, something she wanted to keep to herself.

Black turned his cold eyes back on Isabella Collins, “I am sorry Miss Collins, but this design, this threat, it is linked to your family.”

Isabella Collins finds herself a bit anxious at the mention of her family and so she picks up her coffee cup only to find it empty.

“I don’t have family . . . “ Isabella tells him softly, “Only a family name”

Frank Black smiles for the first time and there is nothing amusing in it, “The name, makes you family. Of that there is no escape.”

“Really—I am not . . . “

“Whether you wish it or not, you are linked by name.” He tells her, and then sits back, “These murders, the ones that took place last night, out at the old rest area . . . did you happen to find something, to be specific, did you find a pentagram near one of the bodies?”

She glares at him still not willing to completely trust these people despite their having piqued her interest – very deeply. She wishes her cup were not empty.
“Perhaps . . . “ She says to Black, “There MIGHT have been something.”

He nods and leans forward, “These murders are very calculated. You will find they are not at all done with the deep emotional or sexual frustration or release one normally finds associated with crimes of this nature. These are deliberate – as if part of something, but not purely ritualistic, perhaps more as part of some formula.”

She looks at him now with real interest, “Part of a formula?”

“You will find they are very similar to a series of murders that took place in a small community not far from Collinsport, some twenty, twenty-five miles north of here. In a small town called New Bedford. They were at the time in fact labeled as the New Bedford Atrocities. They took place in 1803. A handyman, a day laborer, by the name of Otis Greene, was taken into custody and was charged with the crime. Under interrogation, he admitted to having committed four murders – each of his victims seemingly chosen at random. There was no pattern in their selection. The only thing that each of them shared in common was that they were all decapitated. Their heads never found.”

She looks at Frank Black, and then at the detective, “Have you discussed this with the detective in charge of the double homicide?”

“Currently Miss Collins we are only disposed to discuss this with you.” Frid told her, “Let’s say we don’t think those currently in charge would be at all receptive to our theory of the crime.”

Isabella Collins bit the bottom of her lip mulling over her thoughts.

“Now Greene, who was most cooperative with the New Bedford Sheriff, indicated that he that he had no true recollection of the crimes. He was completely unaware of the act of committing them – only their aftermaths. He said he had been compelled to murder . . . by some entity he could not quite comprehend. Although, at one point, he did indicate that these overwhelming compulsions began after he discovered an oddly preserved human head his father had kept in a curio cabinet.”

“A head?” She asked.

“Yes, a human head, that of a man, perfectly preserved in a glass jar.”

“Where did he say his father got it?”

“It seems members of the Greene family were once public executioners for New Bedford as well as for Collinsport.” Black leans slightly forward, “Now, the most controversial execution that the Greene’s were involved with occurred in the winter of 1692. It was the execution of a convicted warlock, a man by the name of Judah Zackary. Zackery was first hung; and then he was later decapitated – his head purposefully taken away and kept hidden, separate from his body. At his execution, it is reported that Zachery cursed the name of Collins and the Collins Family.”

She curled her lips back in a smile, “Wouldn’t be the first person . . . and it won’t be the last”

“His dying declaration was that he would come back and exact revenge on ALL of those with the name of Collins. It is my belief that Zackary tried to get Otis Greene to perform some necromantic formula that would restore him to life and that in order for this to be successful, he needed Greene to decapitate five people. Only Greene was stopped upon his fourth.” He looks at Isabella Collins in all seriousness, “If I am right, then there will be three more beheadings, and rather soon.”

She sighed, “And so. . . “

Detective Frid looks at her, “All we are asking is for you to let us know of your findings and to keep us informed of the investigation. Be our eyes and our ears in the CPD – and let us know if they find a lead to the murder.”

“Or more importantly to who has the head of Judah Zachery.” Black told her.

Isabella Collins glared angrily at the detective, “I took an oath, you know. What your asking is for me to surrender my lively hood, my bread and butter and my very existence, my career on some alien wild goose chase.”

“Miss Collins, I know you have not been actively a part of your family,” The detective says now in a slightly more threatening tone of voice, “But I can assure you that there is a large file cabinet regarding them, and I would not like to see you become part of some collateral damage in all of this.”

She narrows her eyes and turns her shoulder to him slightly.

“But—what I am asking is not for you to just pass along information Miss Collins. What I am offering is to make you a special consultant to Delta Green. You would be a part of Homeland Security and so, your job would be secure.”

Frank Black glances over to Frid, “I am not at all certain, detective, that either Miss Collins or Agent Andrea would be all that confortable with such an arrangement – at the moment.

Isabella Collins looks at them both, “As I have said before, to others who also don’t seem to listen, I don’t work for anyone other than the State of Maine.”

Detective Frid sighs and then takes a deep breath.

“Miss Collins – we need access to your findings, and more importantly your assistance in this investigation – I am certain you are aware of the current predisposition of the current management of CPD toward matters of, shall we say, alternative theories to the crime.” Black says evenly. “I can assure you nothing you may pass along to us shall appear in any official memorandum, such that it would be traceable back to you.”

“That does not concern me,” she told him, “What does is the attitude that I answer to or work for anyone other than those to whom I have been hired.”

“Certainly,” Black tires to smile, but it appears more as a grimace. He rises from the table and shoves his hands into his pockets, looking down at her: “But I must warn you Miss Collins, there will be three more murders. Three more people beheaded. And for what reason?” He cuts a glance to Frid, “I’ll let you be the judge.” And he turns and walks out of the coffee shop.

Isabella Collins idly lifts her empty coffee cup, “I have work to prepare for . . if you’ll excuse me. . . thank you for the coffee, detective”

She rises from the table and picks up her parasol preparing to leave the coffee shop.

Detective Frid looks up at her, “At least, think about what I have said. Please. If not for me, for your own sake. You are, after all, a Collins.”

She glances back ever slightly as the door closes behind her.

Cue Music End of Episode