DEAD WHITE WULFF - A Continuing Adventure of the Color-Blind Detective
By
Bill Capron

When someone says rods and cones, most people think of fishing and ice cream. For me rods and cones are the central focal point of my being, or more correctly, their lack thereof. In some ways it's like being black, it infuses everything I do, every place I go. When someone says they love the changing colors of the leaves, the green of the grass, the red of the cardinal, I am flooded with a sense of differentness, something that makes me abnormal in a normal colored world. Black, white and gray, all I need to function well in my world, or any world. From where I stand, color seems more like a defect of sight, clouding out the very purpose of the eye, to see what's going on.

Still, a person didn't need to be color-blind to see what was happening at streamside on that chilly June morning in southwest Washington. I was knee deep in Canyon Creek, stalking the rainbow trout, so named because its sides bore the layered grays of the rainbow. The season was just a few days old, and the stream was high with snow melt from Mt. St. Helens, and would be until mid-July. Although the stream had been stocked five miles up, those fish had not made their way to the lower stretch yet, so I was fishing last year's survivors and a small number of native fish that made their way up from Yale Reservoir to feed in the cold fast waters. It was nearing noon and I'd had a great morning, catching and releasing twenty trout, two over fifteen inches. I used a fly of my own invention, a white-gray elk-hair caddis with squared off sponge wings, visible in the whitest water, and it wouldn't sink. I like to be able to see the fish take the fly. The excitement is in the strike, the flash of the tail, the boil of the water, bringing the fish in is almost anticlimactic. Still, my friends would tell me it wasn't a dry caddis time of day or year, but I believe that trout are at the bottom of the food chain for a reason. So I use whatever fishing wiles I have to convince them that caddis is the fly de jour. I was fifteen the last time I was skunked on a stream with a caddis. I don't ever expect it to happen again.

When you're fishing in high water, you have to keep an eye out for debris in the current. I was once hit in the back of the legs by a log and thrown into a pool where all that money I'd saved on swimming lessons almost cost me my life. So I was on the look-out when I saw the shape roll through the stretch of white water above me. I moved myself out of the current and kept casting until it entered my field of vision. I splashed out hip deep and pulled the body to the shore. His waders were filled with water, but drowning wasn't the problem, it was the bullet hole in the head that'd done him in. There wasn't any blood, the water had washed the wound clean, leaving a gray slightly lighter than his skin. There were black grains stuck in his skin around the hole, so the gun hadn't been more than a foot away, and it must have been a jacketed slug since the exit wound hadn't taken the back of his head off.

I turned his body on its back, then touched the white winged royal wulff stuck in his lip. It was a poorly tied fly, not like some amateur, but intentionally bad workmanship, like some kind of affront to the dead fisherman. I used my handkerchief to pull the fly box out of his jacket, then popped it open. The fly in his lip didn't come from the box which contained the ultimate examples of a tier's art, an assortment of sizes and types arranged by shades of black, white and gray in showman fashion, almost too beautiful to spend on a fish.

There was a clap of thunder overhead, rain would not be far behind. I slogged against the current to find where he'd been killed before all the clues were washed away. It was only a half mile up, under the bridge on an easy stream access. He'd looked to be in his late sixties, not in the shape for the more strenuous accesses downstream. His rig was resting half in the water, a fine Winston rod with a hand-tooled Stratos reel. I pulled in the line, he was fishing with dark gray nymphs. There was a half eaten Hershey's Special Dark Chocolate bar in the rocks. His full-sized Dodge four wheel truck was parked with the doors locked. There were no other footprints in the muddy soil, but the tops of the rocks crossing the stream were marked with wet mud. I took the same route over the rushing water, then climbed a precariously steep path up to the road. The tire marks were more than a foot wide, from one of those jacked-up four-wheeling SUVs. There were two sets of foot prints, one from a man with sized twelve or larger felt bottomed boots, still substantially smaller than my sixteen, the other a woman in street shoes.

I made my way back to the body and looked for his wallet. It was in his fishing jacket, dry in a plastic baggy. I left it there, since that might be more tampering than the police would condone. Gripping the dark gray and white fly in his mouth, I pulled down on the dead man's lower lip, there was still black chocolate between his teeth. I scurried up the hill accompanied by thunder, but still no rain.
* * * *
I drove to the local store at the tee in the road, a last outpost in the middle of nowhere, or what used to be nowhere, but Clark County was growing and even nowhere was getting pretty crowded. Farms were being sold and grand homes raised in their stead. It was just the way it was, there were never fewer people, fewer homes, fewer cars, fewer fishermen. I didn't like it, but I'm not one of those people who think they should blockade the state once I'm in. Still, it's tough sharing sometimes, and a resource like Canyon Creek would soon become a recreational haven no longer extending its welcoming silence to fishermen.

With all the people came crime, and cops. I don't know how close the nearest county cop was, what with the new community policing, they might be as close as Amboy. I dialed 9-1-1 and told the dispatcher my story. She said two officers were out my way dealing with an accidental shooting in Yacolt and would be there in fifteen minutes.

I walked back into the gas station/store which over the last decade had grown in little leaps each year in response to the increasing traffic north to fishing, hunting and general recreation on the reservoirs of the North Fork Lewis, as well as increasing local traffic. It was one step up from convenience store and one giant leap short of a super market, but in its small community it was the prime gathering place for local teenagers. They sat outside with their cokes, a couple at the end smoking a joint, and inside six of them were gathered around a video game, their vulgar language a sharp contrast to my boyhood experience. The owner, a balding giant of a man, boomed aggressively, "Pipe it down back there," and there was silence. I bought a coffee and doughnut, then went outside, dropped the tailgate of my truck and sat to wait for the cops. A sign on the store said, "Logging dollars at work."

Tum Tum Mountain was off to my left, dominating the sky with its Weyerhaeuser delivered Mohawk haircut, a sign of man's greed to some, but a justifiable use of valuable renewable resources to me. This was logging country and over the last twenty years a lot of trees had been taken, ending a long drought from the Yacolt fire in 1906 that burned everything from Yacolt to twenty miles north in Cougar, long before Yale Reservoir became a man made fire break. Two extended cab trucks of loggers skidded to a stop in the dirt park and ride on the other side of the street. They tossed their saws and lunchboxes into their old trucks and cars, rednecks all, much more romantic from a distance than in real life, just like most of us. Their vehicles tore out of the lot leaving a dissipating memory of their presence in the dust, home to wives and children, some waiting in anticipation, some in fear, most not giving it any thought. I'd worked as a logger once, for twenty-two days while I was on summer break from college. The work was too hard to just be called tough, and I had to get out. Some of these men had done if for forty years. They'd earned my wonder if not my respect.

The siren cut through the countryside like the noise pollution it was and all heads turned. The store clerk came out as the black and white skidded to a stop behind my truck. Both officers were in light gray uniforms, and that was about as close as they got to sharing anything. He was driving, maybe thirty-five, pot belly, blotchy face with a big veined nose and thick dark gray lips, uniform wrinkled and dirty. Very unappealing. Now next to him was another story. She was in her late twenties or a little older, five-two, coal black hair with almost transparent gray eyes. Her nose turned up a bit, and her lips wore an enigmatic smile that seemed to be apologizing for her partner before he said anything.

The very first words out of his mouth, I kid you not, were, "I'm Sergeant Willis, and I'm in charge here."

I didn't blink but instead kept my eyes on the obvious brains of the outfit. She rolled her eyes, but held her tongue. I raised my hand and said, "Officer, I'm the one who phoned 9-1-1."

"So, what's your name." I gave it to him and he threw over his shoulder, "Jackson, check this guy in the computer." She sat down and started working.

I said, "Maybe we should get to the crime scene before it starts raining, officer?"

He gave me an official stare, "When I'm ready. When I'm ready." Without turning his head he asked, "Anything on this guy?"

Jackson yelled, "Yeah, he's a private detective, licensed in Oregon and Washington. I think he has a good idea. We should get to the scene right now."

The fat cop ignored her, "So what are you doing here, mister dee-tective?"

I got a little sarcastic, "I was fishing. What does it look like?" I spread my vest and shrugged my shoulders.

He started to move towards me. "Don't get snippy with me, jerk."

I got in his face, "I'm a witness, officer, so you watch your lip, or I'm not going to tell you a thing." I cut off his interruption with, "I'll get back on the phone and tell them I need a cop without an asshole for a mouth. You don't think so, you just push my buttons one more time, jerkwater and we'll wait for a real cop."

He was speechless, but what could he do? He'd offended a willing witness, then tried to brow beat him, all in one short minute, and now he had nowhere else to go. Jackson took the steam out of the moment. She told me, "Lead the way, we'll be right behind you."

Willis gave me a hard stare, then got behind the wheel. He backed up and gave me just enough room to pull out, then tailgated me the three miles to the stream. The half mile hike down the canyon left him huffing and puffing, and the dirty knees marked two falls on the slippery trail. I sat back while he examined the body. Jackson took notes as he spoke. He wouldn't condescend to ask me what I might think, deciding instead to interrogate me as a suspect.

I said, "Look, officer. You can question me at the station. Right now shouldn't you be finding out where he was killed?"

Even his irritability couldn't hide the ignorance, "What do you mean?"

I put on my third grade teacher hat, "Well, he was drifting downstream and I pulled him out. He's obviously old, so he'd need an easy access, probably upstream a half mile."

Jackson said, "How do we get there?"

"It's a little treacherous, but we can go along the stream."

"Let's go," was the sergeant's gruff reply.

Jackson interrupted, "What about a wallet?" She reached a gloved hand into the lower pocket on his fishing vest. She pulled the ziplock open and read. To no one in particular she asked, "Dan Cobin. Sounds familiar." She looked up at me. "Every heard of him?"

I said, "Yes, he's a pretty famous fly tier here abouts."

Willis turned on me, "So you know him!"

"No, I don't know him, I just know of him."

He cracked wise while Jackson covered the body with the navy gray tarp she'd carried down with her. Suddenly the skies opened up and the rain came down. I led them slowly across the rocks until we found Cobin's rod and truck. The footprints were washed off the rocks, as were mine to his truck, and for sure the tire tracks on the other side of the stream. I was at a decision point. Tell them I'd already been there, and what I'd learned. Put up with more threats from a cop I didn't like. I just kept it to myself.

A person can't know what it's like to waste time until they've spent it in a police station because they did the right thing. They ran me through my statement four times, with a half-hour or more cooling my heels between each. Twice I felt like a suspect when bad cop Willis lead the interrogation, the other two times like a witness with good cop Jackson. I stuck to my story, and by the end of the day, I thought they might actually have believed me.

Being in the station can be pretty informative and I learned just eavesdropping that the body had been taken to the morgue and that the wife had been located and had identified it as Dan Cobin. Also, she would be in the station at seven that night. When deputy Jackson said I could go, I told her I was hungry and asked if she wanted to have a bite to eat. She said okay, that she was through for the day.

"What, you don't get in on the interrogation of Mrs. Cobin?"

Her smile was wan, "Hey, I'm at the bottom of the list here. Willis will take all the credit, and if anything was forgotten, I'll take the blame. That's how it works, just part of putting in your time. Anyway, they needed me to butter you up, and when I didn't get that done, my services, such as they were, were over."

I laughed, "I trust you won't be like Sergeant Willis when you grow up." She shook her head. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, I thought you did a great job of buttering me up. Usually the good cop doesn't look so good."

Her face clouded, but the embarrassed smile was genuine, "I think you were the only bright spot in my day."

We walked a hundred yards to the Subway, ordered, then sat down with our turkey sandwiches. "Learn anything important about Cobin today?" I asked.

She shook her head. "Little hard to do, considering you were the only witness we spoke to. Took a while to find the wife." Then wistfully, "She's coming in tonight. I might go back and listen in. Willis won't like it, but what the hell." There was a slight tinge of bitterness, but she got by it. She focused her light eyes on mine, a knowing look, "So, did you tell us everything?"

I took a deep breath, then decided, "I told you all the news that's fit to print. If I learn anything else though, you'll be the first to know."

She warned, "You're on pretty thin ice without a client."

I shrugged. "My life is thin ice, officer. So what's the sergeant got against me."

Her laugh caught us both unexpectedly. "You'll never believe it." She looked around like she was conveying a well-kept secret. "He's a bait fisherman, and he thinks you fly guys look down at him."

I smiled, "We do." I liked her, a lot. "So, what do they call you outside of work?"

"You can call me Windy."

"Strange name?"

She explained, not for the first time, "Sixties generation hippie parents. It's short for Winsome, like somehow my name will affect my future."

"Not so strange. You're not a Bertha or Maude. I'd say Windy is winsome." She laughed but didn't say anything. I filled the void, "So how did Windy get into law enforcement?"

She leaned her elbows on the table and sipped her lemonade. "After getting de-hippy-ized, my dad became a cop, down in LA. He got caught up with some ethical problems and retired early. But he was a good cop and he pushed me, albeit willingly, in that direction. He instilled in me a sense of justice, something I need every day to sort of blank out what I'm learning from Willis."

"Can't get a different assignment?"

Her smile was crooked, knowing. "I could, but it'd be the end of any real career opportunities. Who's going to promote a cop who can't stand the heat of a bad partner. I think the brass knows I'm good. Willis is sort of a trial. Don't worry about me, I'm tougher than I look."

"I bet you are." I kept my eyes on hers and reached across the table to wipe the mustard from the corner of her mouth.

She fidgeted a little, then asked, "So much for why I'm in law enforcement. What about you?"

I leaned forward, steepled my fingers and set my chin at the point. "I'm in it to do good deeds." She laughed. "I know, it sounds corny, but that doesn't make it less real. I was in business for years, and pretty good at it, but something was missing. I'd see injustice all around me, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it, just rail at the television. So I quit that life and became a PI, the dedicated servant to justice."

"You found justice, Lone Ranger?" she asked through narrowed eyes.

I thought hard about whether what I found was justice, then nodded my head. "Yes, I've found justice, but too often it's not connected to the law." She frowned at that. "I make justice happen. No, that's not it. I let justice happen sometimes. I create situations where, if what I believe is true, justice finds her own way, exacts her own punishment."

The question was begged, "Ah, so justice is a woman?"

"Maybe, especially when vengeance is needed, then justice is a woman."

"Does this describe how you feel about women?" The look on her face was expectant.

"No, it's how I feel about justice. So, Windy, how do you feel about justice?"

She shook her head, the short black hair a half beat behind, "I'm not in the justice business. I've finally reconciled to that, but if I do my job right, the chances of justice happening, as you say, are much better."

She crumbled up her wrapper, and we stood. I said, "I'd like to get a chance to continue this conversation sometime, if you don't mind."

She said, "I think I'd like that, Lone Ranger." Then she was gone.
* * * *
I waited outside the police station. I figured Mrs. Cobin was still there because the license plate on the SUV outside was FLYTYER. At eight-thirty Willis showed her out of the station and walked with her to the vehicle, a wide smile on his face. What did she have that I didn't. Sure she was tall, handsome, less than half the age of her husband, but except for my age, so was I. Well, maybe not that handsome. She was a knockout, even from a hundred feet. The sad smile on her face looked a little too practiced for me. I held a finger up covering her lips, and it looked like her eyes were smiling. As the sergeant tapped her hood twice, I saw it wasn't her lips he was looking at.

She backed up, then waved before moving forward. The fat cop waved, his eyes following her as she drove away. I didn't start my engine until he was back in the station, then I broke the speed limit to catch her before she got onto 205 north. She left the highway in Woodland and drove to one of the new homes above the town on the south side of the Lewis River, only twenty minutes from where he died. As she neared the front door, she tossed her keys into the air and grabbed them in what could only be described as a joyful leap.

I pulled my stakeout kit from the back compartment of my truck and ate some jerky, washing it down with a diet coke. I used my cellphone to call a good friend who'd been involved with fishing organizations in Washington since he was a child in the second world war. He told me he'd known Cobin for more than forty years, and throughout that time they'd been on opposite sides of the logging issue. My friend, one of the first environmental wackos, was against logging, Cobin owned pieces in three logging companies and was all for it. For that reason he was a pariah to much of the fishing community, but there was no denying his artistry. Even people who hated him, coveted his fly collections, but for most common people the price was just too dear. So the flies were gobbled up by celebrity fisherman for prices totally separated from reality considering the use of the product. Four years earlier Cobin was diagnosed with Parkinson's, and though the rich and famous didn't know it, his flies were tied by a talented, he mentioned that she was sinfully young, girl who last year became his wife.

I waited only a half-hour before she came running out of the house, ample breasts jiggling loosely in an Earth in the Lurch tee-shirt. She pulled on a sweatshirt against the night chill. She backed out into the street and left a little rubber as she changed directions. She turned back towards the highway, but made the right hand turn for the road on the north side of the Lewis. She was in a rush and I tested the envelope of my top-heavy truck as she sped around the curvy road in her lower SUV. She made the right hand turn at Jack's, onto 503 south. Two miles later she turned into a long driveway, a lit up cabin was set well back in the woods.

It was dark, so I parked on the other side of the road and made my way carefully down the rutted driveway. There was a raised up Toyota pickup with super large tires parked at the front door. Mrs. Cobin had parked right up against it. The bumper sticker on the truck said, "Fly fishermen catch the best girls." With any luck, that might prove to be true for me. I noted the Earth First logo in the back window.

I edged closer to the window which was opened a crack. I heard the sounds of sex. No small talk pillow talk, just panting and moaning. Then it was over.

The female voice asked, "When do you have to leave?"

I could hear clothes being pulled on. "I'm going right now, Diane. I'll learn about the death tomorrow morning, and I'll be on an airplane back by noon. Kiss me good-bye?"

There was a smacking, then she asked, "Was it worth it, Jack?"

I could hear hatred in his voice, "Of course it was worth it. What were you going to do, go on making love to that old fart until he died. Anyway, we're rich, and the devil is dead." Another smack of lips, then he said, "No, Diane, I have to go now. Noooooo ... Okay."

Twenty minutes later he was out the door. A good-looking man of thirty or so, tall, lean, dark hair, large nose, but it matched a wide mouth. She wasn't more than ten minutes behind him. She locked the door behind her.

I waited ten minutes, just in case either of them forgot something and returned. I pushed open an unlocked window and entered the one room cabin. I turned on the light. In the center was a pot-bellied stove, still warm. The bed was against the windowless north wall, it still smelled of sex. There was a small dinette table in an efficient kitchen area. I opened the door to a fairly modern bathroom set on the northwest corner of the structure. The southwest corner, behind the picture window overlooking Merwyn Reservoir where the Lewis River entered it, was an elaborate fly tying table. In the vise was an incomplete, totally unusable, royal wulff. On the wall was a foam bar about three feet long with more royal wulff's, each with a date beneath it, each a little worse than the one before. Dan Cobin was using the wulffs to track the progress of his disease, to make real his failing functions. The fly from three months earlier had been removed from the foam. I knew where it was now. In a drawer was a Smith & Wessen .38, and the smell of cordite.

There was a picture of his new wife, Diane, pinned to the wall, and just below it a picture of the dead man with a pretty woman, both about forty at the time. A young boy stood between them, a young boy who believed fly fishermen catch the best women.
* * * *
I started the long ride home. As soon as I got into cellphone range, I called my fishing friend again. I had some more questions, and he knew the answers. Cobin hadn't talked with his son in ten years, or, more likely it was the other way around. They just never got along, and Cobin wasn't such an easy guy to get along with anyway, unfriendly, irascible, any word you wanted to describe it. But father and son parted on more than a general disagreement. Seems the boy, Jack, saw the light, environmentally that is. He was against cutting trees, his father made his fortune from it. He was against hunting and guns, his father, when he couldn't use a rod, used a rifle. About all they shared was a love for fishing. So, for about a year they fought, then Jack joined Earth First and the old man blew up. They hadn't talked since. Though my friend had known Cobin forty years, he didn't know about the cabin. My guess was no one else did either.

After I hung up, I dialed Windy Jackson's number. She picked up on the fourth ring, sleep clogged her voice. I told her it was me, and she asked why I was calling, not without some irritability of her own.

I said, "Look Windy, tomorrow you're going to find out that Cobin's son is flying in." She made a comment, and I answered, "I don't know where from. He's going to fly in and meet with your sergeant. When he leaves, you're going to follow him, on your own. Don't tell Willis, just take off. Call me on my cellphone." I read her my number. "I'll find a way to intercept you."

"Why should I do that?" she asked.

"Because you trust me," I heard a sharp intake of breath, "and because I don't want that ass Willis getting the collar."

"That's not right," she argued.

"Windy, I'm looking for justice, and you're just going to have to take it on my terms." I hung up.

I picked up the phone and said hello.

"Hi, it's me, Windy. The son got in at noon, and spent an hour with Willis, then the wife picked him up outside the station. I've been behind them ever since, and from here they seem a bit chummy. We're heading north on five. I'm at the fairgrounds."

"Chummy, Officer Jackson? What would they be doing if they were friendly?"

"You don't want to know," was all she said.

"I'm parked at the AM/PM in Woodland just right after the exit. She'll be getting off there. I'll be standing by the road. Just slow down. If she doesn't get off, call me again."

She pulled over in a little dark gray Miata and I shoe horned myself into the front seat. "You must only date short guys," I said.

She chuckled, "I usually let them drive. It's less intimidating."

"You don't seem to intimidate so easily."

An outright laugh, "I meant them, less intimidating to them."

I commented, "Doesn't look like she's taking him home." She gave me a confused look. "Home was the right turn, but we're going straight to the cabin."

"What cabin?"

So I caught her up-to-date as she kept Diane's SUV in sight. Her face made plain her feelings, and I could tell she wasn't all that grateful.

She blurted, "I should tell Willis."

"Why? So he can take credit for cracking the case." I touched her shoulder. "I broke the case, and I'm giving it to you, not Willis. That's justice, Officer Jackson."

"I won't take credit for someone else's work." There was a harsh note of finality.

I shrugged, "Then tell them you got it working with me, that I wouldn't work with Willis. It's even true, officer."

I motioned for her to park where I'd parked the day before. We worked our way around to the cabin on the windowless side. At the same slightly opened window I again heard the sounds of sex, a bit more vocal than the other night. Windy's face darkened, then she pulled me back to the road. Her cellphone could not make a connection, so we drove back to Jack's and she called in to the station. Willis was out and the officer at the desk did not know where. She was transferred to the Sheriff, and in the most concise language I've ever heard, told him everything. He said he'd be there in an hour with a search warrant. She told him how to get there and that she'd wait. She turned to me and said, "Let's go."

"Not me, Windy. You told him where you learned all this, but he doesn't know I'm here. I'll hitch a ride back into town to get my car." I pointed a finger at her. "You took it upon yourself, using whatever intuition you want to claim that I was telling the truth, and broke this. Me, I'm going to have some breakfast for supper. I'll call you later." I turned my back, I didn't want her changing her mind, or mine.

I got to talking with two fishermen at the next table. They were on the way back to Woodland and I cadged a ride. We turned out of the parking lot just as three police cars, lights and sirens silent, turned squealing tires up 503.
* * * *
It was big news, even making the networks for the evening broadcasts. World famous fly tier killed by his wife and son, both dedicated members of Earth First. It appeared they had plans to donate their inheritances to the mother organization, so it was a black eye for the dark force incarnate ... now there was icing on the cake of justice. Pictures of them being led away in cuffs showed them defiant, but by nightfall the realization of their futures would settle in, and killing for the cause would seem like less of a good idea.

On the morning local news, it was apparent Officer Jackson was a little shy about being the center of attention, but the Sheriff must have explained to her how some private dick in Portland wasn't going to get the credit. By the noon news she was a bit more used to the idea, and when she showed up on the network news, she was acting like a star. Nowhere did they name the senior officer she had bypassed to follow her instincts. Willis must be steaming, but then that was an added dollop of justice.

My cellphone rang, and I answered.

"Hi, it's Windy."

"Officer, I've been watching you all day on television. Justice has never looked prettier."

She was quiet for a moment, then, "I don't know how to say thanks."

"Well, after this has all died away and you're a normal person again, maybe we can have some supper together."

"You mean a date?"

"Yes, officer, I mean a date."

For the second time, "I'd like that." I think she meant it.

I said, "I didn't tell you, but I'm color-blind."

She laughed, "I know," and hung up. I guessed I'd have to get someone over to rematch my clothes.
* * * *
I've been accused of having a warped idea of justice, but I don't think so. I believe the bad guys should be punished in a manner fitting their crime. And our criminal justice system is set up to do that, it's just that in the actual working something has failed, the system functioned equally well with or without justice being done. I don't. I need justice to be done, and there is no amount of time I won't spend to make it happen. I don't need to be efficient, I don't even need to be paid. In fact, corny as it sounds, justice is its own reward. For me justice isn't blind, but she is color-blind, dealing in black and white, lies and truth, evil and good.

And I like cops, the Willis's aside. They are our knights tilting against windmills for a system that too often treats them like the offal we've hired them to clean up. And sometimes they go to the other side, or maybe they're pushed there. Whatever, I try to be understanding. Did I say, I like cops, and if they happen to be beautiful, it's okay too.

She flopped her limp arm onto my chest, then parted with a "mmmm" and opened her eyes. "You're awake." She ran a finger down the side of my face. "What are you thinking about?"

"Justice. I was right, justice is female." I pulled her to me and she nuzzled. "Would you call this chummy?" I asked.

She kissed my shoulder, "No, this is downright friendly."

Yes, I got the girl, and that too was justice.

the end


Bill Capron is a fifty-three year-old retired entrepreneur who now spends his time flyfishing, golfing and writing. He shares his time between his homes in Washington and Arizona. He has been writing for two years and has published three other short stories. Bill has a number of mystery manuscripts completed and making the rounds of the publishers. His email address is bill.capron@mindspring.com.