As Miles finished up grading the last of his papers, he sighed. When was the last time he had a day off? It felt like forever ago. He longed for the summer when he could take his family to their cabin at Montauk. They always had such fun . . . a knock at the door jarred him back to reality.

“Honey, will you get the door?” yelled Debra from the kitchen. He got up to answer it and the person standing on the other side startled him.

“Melanie!” he cried. “How nice to see you.” Why was his ex-wife here to see him? She never stopped by.

“Who is it?” asked Debra, walking to the door.

“Oh, well you know me, just wanted to say hello.” Melanie said, batting her eyes.

It was so disappointing; Miles never looked at her the way he used to, ever since he dumped her for that Debra. “May I come in?” she asked.

“Oh, of course,” said Miles, moving aside. He gave his current wife an embarrassed look.

“I just came to see how you’re doing,” Melanie said sweetly. What was her deal, coming over here at 8:30 at night? As Miles lead the way into the kitchen he heard them following in his wake. When he reached the counter he felt someone’s presence right behind him. Cool hands gripped his neck. He couldn’t tell who it was, but the grip tightened. He heard a woman scream. Miles couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Finally when he couldn’t bear it any longer, he blacked out.


“Are you sure you put onions in this, Ruthie?” asked her father, Victor Protrovsky.

“Yes, Dad, I’m sure there’s onions,” replied Ruth. The soup tasted just fine to her, but her father had always been picky. Ruth’s cell phone rang in the kitchen.

“Hang on Dad,” said Ruth, getting up. “This might be important.” As she walked into the kitchen she couldn’t help but notice the ferocious wind outside. That’s unusual she thought normally it’s quiet this time of year. When she picked up her phone she wasn’t surprised by the familiar voice.

Richard Porter, her partner at the office, with brown hair and brown eyes. He may seem clever sometimes, but when it came to people’s feelings, he was as good as blind. She couldn’t blame him of course; his life was about as messed up as hers. His parents divorced at an early age, leaving him and his two sisters torn. His wife died in Iraq eight years ago, something he had never really gotten over. But Ruth didn’t hold that against him, she had lost a loved one too. She grew up as an only child in Portland, Maine. Her parents moved to Chicago after the ‘incident’. That’s what her parents called it; they were too ashamed to tell anyone what really happened. When she was 15, Ruth met a boy named Adam. He had kind eyes, and knew how to make her laugh. After about six months of dating he took her to a party. Little did she know that there was alcohol in the drinks. Nine months later she was a mother. How it exactly happened Ruth still couldn’t remember. But two months after her baby girl was born, Adam came to pick her up and he never brought her back. Ruth was devastated. She would never forget that day. Ruth thought about all that as she listened to what Richard was saying, “ . . . and so a man was found in his backyard dead. They want us to investigate. Ruth, are you listening to me?”

“Huh? Oh, yes, I heard. When should we meet tomorrow?”

Richard smiled. Even though Ruth acted dumb sometimes, she really was very smart. He was in the middle of cleaning up dinner when the chief called with the news. He really did like his job, even if sometimes it was pretty gruesome. He and Ruth were set to meet at the station at eight o’clock the next morning.

The next day Ruth got to work forty-five minutes early. She always liked to get a first look at the case before going out to the scene of the kill. Ruth had stopped at Starbucks to pick up coffee for her and Richard. When he finally arrived at the station, five minutes late, he took a paper out of his briefcase.

“This is the address where the victim lived. We should go there first.” he said.

“Alright. Just let me get my things.” replied Ruth.
Richard pulled the car up to the front door of the Parkinson’s home. High winds and pouring rain weren’t typical for Chicago this time of year. As he and Ruth walked to the front door he pulled his coat closer to his chest. The wind was deadly cold. Ruth rang the doorbell. Suddenly Richard took in what lay on the porch. About fifteen stuffed bears and cats sat on the floor around the door. The door opened and a tall thin woman stood in the doorway. She was wearing a pink floral dress and a yellow apron. Her brown hair was tied back into a tight bun. There were dark circles under her eyes, like she hadn’t been sleeping.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her voice brittle. Richard stepped forward and pulled out his police badge.

“I’m Detective Porter, and this is Ruth Protrovsky, my partner. We’re from the Chicago Police Department. We’ve come to ask you about your husband’s death.” She didn’t seem surprised or offended, but suddenly became very fidgety, as if trying to hide something. Ruth found her behavior very suspicious, but put the thought away for a moment.

“May we come in? We have a few questions to ask you.” She said. Ruth couldn’t get over how weird the stuffed animals were. It was like they were watching her every movement, beckoning her to accuse someone. The woman let them in and led them to a small, comfortable living area. There was an emerald green sofa, and two cherry red sitting chairs. But what disturbed Ruth the most were all the pictures. They weren’t pictures of family and friends, like you might find in a normal home. They were pictures of cats. And bears. All right, this was seriously starting to creep her out.

Ruth and Richard took the love seat and the lady sat down on one of the red chairs. Mrs. Parkinson could not sit still for the life of her. Always crossing and uncrossing her legs, picking at her apron, and glancing in the direction of a closed door.

“So, Mrs. Parkinson, we are deeply sorry for your loss. Could you tell us anything that was skeptical about Miles lately, did he recently have any arguments with anyone?” Richard questioned. She thought for a moment.

“Well, there was John someone from his work.” Yes, they were finally getting somewhere, Ruth thought.

“What happened?” she asked.

“The other day, Miles caught John stealing something from his desk.” Debra said nervously. “I don’t really know all the details.”

“Do you know where John lives?” asked Richard quizzically. Mrs. Parkinson twirled the ring on her finger.

“Um, yes. 775 Westerfield Court. It’s the big brown one.”


After Ruth and Richard had said their goodbyes Richard drove to the appointed address.

“This is it.” he said. They walked to the big oak double doors. Ruth knocked on the door and stepped back. A few seconds later a man with jet-black hair and piercing blue eyes opened the door.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m Inspector Protrovsky, and this is Officer Porter. We’re here to ask you about Miles Parkinson’s death.” Ruth answered. The man was wearing a sweater vest and black work pants. His eyes widened at the mention of his co-workers death.

“Oh, yes, that was very unexpected and tragic,” he said looking solemn. “But please to do come in. This weather has been awful strange lately, don’t you think?” He led them into a bright room with soft brown chairs. The air smelled of cinnamon and apples.
After they were seated, Richard questioned, “Debra Parkinson said something about you stealing something from Miles a few days ago. Can you tell us more about that?”
Mr. Bailes was much better at hiding his emotions than Mrs. Parkinson. “I didn’t steal anything, Miles was lying. He said I could borrow the keys to his car so I could go pick up some supplies for a lab.” He said.
“Was Miles angry with you after he caught you?” Ruth asked. Nothing seemed to be coming together at the moment. This whole murder wasn’t making any sense.
“Oh, yes, but I don’t know why. He said I could use his car.”
“Why didn’t you just use your own car?” exclaimed Richard. He didn’t believe anything this guy was saying. He learned the hard way not to trust anyone you hardly knew.
“My car was at the shop. My daughter busted the engine somehow.” Mr. Bailes replied. He seemed to have an answer for everything.
“Were you two still fighting when he died?” asked Ruth.
“Yes, he was still upset with me. And I him.”
“And were you angry enough to kill him?”
“Heavens no!” cried John, looking extraordinarily horrified. “I would never kill him.”


“I just don’t understand,” exclaimed Ruth. They had just gotten back to the station with no answers to any of their questions. “I thought we were on to something.” But one thing stopped them short; John couldn’t have killed Miles because he wasn’t at the house on the night of the killing. Wasn’t there another person there, besides Debra . . .? Suddenly Richard got up from his chair and walked over to the filing cabinet.

“Hang on,” he said, “Didn’t the papers mention something about a divorce? So that means he had a first wife. What ever happened to her?” Ruth thought about it for a moment.

“Yes, I remember seeing that. But I haven’t heard anything else about her since.”

“Do you think Miles’s second wife would have more information on her?” asked Richard, eyes wide.

“Let’s go see.” exclaimed Ruth.

When they arrived at the Parkinson’s, Debra was out front raking leaves. Richard pulled up and got out of the car. Ruth quickly followed.

“Mrs. Parkinson, may we have a quick look inside your house?” asked Ruth. Debra looked extremely agitated, but agreed to let them in. Ruth led the way. She stopped in the sitting room and walked over to the closed door in the corner. She had finally figured it out. Ruth opened the door and a large white bag that seemed to have a figure in it big enough to fit a body toppled out. Richard stepped forward.
Mrs. Parkinson stood in the doorway with her hands over her mouth. Her face was pure white. As he opened the bag it revealed a dead corpse. But it wasn’t Miles, no, it couldn’t have been anyway. He had been found dead last week buried in the backyard. Besides, this body didn’t look masculine enough, more like a female. It was a woman. Richard was shocked, but it all made sense now. Miles had been killed by his first wife, Melanie, and then out of anger Debra had lashed out and murdered Melanie. There was a clean slit on the woman’s throat. She then must have hid Melanie’s body in the closet and pretended it had never happened.
“She killed him,” whispered Debra, “ I was so outraged, I grabbed the first thing I could get my hands on and killed her. She took my husband!” she cried hysterically. Then Debra, out of pure shock and horror, passed out on the spot.

“Thank you for all of your help Detectives.” exclaimed the officer, who had come to pick up Debra and take her to the county jail where she would await trial.
“It was our pleasure,” replied Richard, smiling. He was allgrins now; the satisfaction of solving the case always left him in a state of giddiness.
“Actually Officer, I just have one question.” said Ruth. “Why did Mrs. Parkinson have all those strange stuffed animals out on the front porch?” The policeman thought about that.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. There was nothing on the front porch except for an old wooden stool.”