Jack Harper studied the scene outside. Jack liked to do that, study scenes; he was a cop, and it was his living to stand in the middle of a room, hands shoved into pockets, and drink in the criminal details. He'd fix his jaw and slowly twirl around the room, getting a lay of the land. Sometimes, if the lay were particularly precarious, he'd get on his hands and knees.

There wasn't much to admire out that window: Two cruisers, an intersection, coupla ugly trees. One of Jack's officers, probably Sam Brown, had thrown a rancid taco in the parking lot. Jack had considered picking it up, but he left it there to see how many fleas it attracted in the morning.

A dead night, although Jack was only studying it to get himself in mode. He had a helluva situation to sort out, and about an hour in which to do it before Tom Buchanan came storming into the precinct and hell came with him.

Trent Buchanan was in the white room next door, writing a statement, confirming he'd raped Sidney Ashford. This was a helluva thing - Trent, a prominent jock in a prominent family, raping some girl when half the town, Jack included, would have given him a blow job for free. Trent wasn't sad, or scared, and only slightly remorseful. He said he did it, and he wasn't proud of it, but if somebody asked, he'd tell the truth.

Jack had Sam Brown and Ben Mewald on the initial interrogation; Jack sat out round one, needing to get a read on the boy in that room. Sam and Ben were normally a solid good cop/bad cop team; Ben would work them over with a tire iron while Sam blew cigarette smoke in their face. Truth be told, they'd only done that to Coon Dog, the local drifter who made his money taking duck hunting parties upriver. And they'd only done it to Coon Dog once, after he had been out peeing on the cruisers. Most of the time, Sam and Ben just finished each other sentences.

Jack needed a corned beef sandwich to tide his growling stomach, but all he had were a bunch of black licorice twists packed by his secret, married lover, Rick Reed. Rick was the county prosecutor; everybody in town already knew Jack and Rick were in bed together, they just didn't know to what extent. For cover, Jack had a naked woman fisting herself as his computer screensaver; he liked talking about Penelope Cruz and Halle Berry in particularly lewd ways, as well.

"Boss," a voice said behind him, footsteps hurried into the room.

It was Sam, the little guy, stinky, starting to get a gut. He always dressed like he'd shoplifted mismatched clothes from the men's store. Sam was the leader. Ben, the galoot, leaned behind Sam against the wall in his pea green suit. They didn't look hopeful.

"The verdict, gentlemen?" Jack said.

"We can't crack him," Sam said.

"Completely wadded up," Ben said, interlocking his hands.

"He won't say why," Sam said. "He keeps saying he had to, he had no choice. Obligated, compelled. All these words."

Jack didn't like it. Not a bit. When Jack got frustrated, he slipped out of his suit -- on this day a very tasteful tweed jacket -- and loosened his tie. He would have rolled up his sleeves, but that would have ruined the purpose of cufflinks. Jack stuffed a black licorice twist in his mouth; it tasted like a rotten piece of gum.

"We're at a stalemate," Ben said.

"A stalemate's no good," Jack said, chewing. "I need a motive."

 "There is no motive," Sam said.

"There's always a motive," Jack said, pointing at the table. "Drugs. Money. Politics. Secrets of the heart. Even insanity is a motive. 'Hey, I was crazy, so I killed a guy.'" Or raped a girl, as the case may be."

"Well, there's none of that here," Ben said.

"It's almost like he's been possessed, somehow," Sam said. "Spiritually."

"Spiritual?" Jack said. "Well, then we'd better get Chief Yellow Red Tail on the horn."

"He's a fuckin hypocrite," Sam said. "He's like an apple -- red on the outside, white on the inside."

"No spiritual insight whatsoever," Ben said.

"Then call the Shaman," Jack said.

"He'd dead," Sam said. "Curse."

"Besides, it's not really a religious force, it's just…a force," Ben said. "You can't describe it."

"It's got this internal aura, like a coal fire is burning inside of this kid," Sam said. "Like it was waiting to fuel a kind of drastic event."

"Isn’t there a demon or a ghoul that matches up with that description?" Jack asked.

"Not that we could find," Sam said.

"This Sidney Ashford," Jack said. "Is she good-lookin?"

"Oh God no," Sam said.

"Looks like a dolphin," Ben said.

"Pasty skin, big fat ugly lips, body's all out of proportion," Sam said.

Jack snorted. "So. It's not the girl, it's not God, it's not netherworld, underworld, otherworld or of this world. So, basically, we're looking for the big brain in "A Wrinkle In Time." Is that it? We'll have to bend the string to get to our motive."