The pulsated bass of Peter Frampton's "Show Me The Way" reverberated through the headset on rookie Mark Ballister's ears. He reached up to turn the volume control knob down on the Sennheisers and snatched them off his head. Entering the squad room where officers gathered for morning roll call and daily assignments, Ballister drummed a rhythm with his forefingers on top of the desk where his partner perused a report.

Detective John Dutton glanced up and carped a trivial criticism, "Your cow-licked hair's too long. A crew cut would suffice."

"I'll put get a haircut on my To Do list for today," Ballister replied. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other like a barefooted scamp chided by his father figure.

Dutton mumbled a distinct, "Here's a better idea. Why don't we put a bowl over your golden curls and whatever sticks out comes off?"

Ballister reacted with a flinch, "No thank you. I'll have my beautician make me look all pretty. Will that make you happier?"

Dutton munched on a dust-covered doughnut he washed down with a half-filled Styrofoam cup of lukewarm Maxwell House joe.

Ballister observed the unusual treat and bemoaned, "What's that?"

"It's called a mofo gasy, and it happens to be Madagascar's most famous treat. One of these will shiver your timbers to the core. What do you think about that, matey?" Dutton pirated back. He held the remnants of the rice-floured delicacy up and offered, "Want a bite?"

Ballister hesitated, then responded, "Uh-uh. Gotta watch the diet."

"Just because you're on a paleothetic diet doesn't mean you can't read the menu, caveman," Dutton opined.

Ballister scraped a chair away from the table. A high pitch squealed across the linoleum floor. He plopped down with a thud and inquired, "Made any progress on the Alma Bichara case yet?"

Dutton articulated, "You mean Twenty, as we prefer to call the little widget around here."

Ballister recapitulated the sensational murder and expressed, "Arthur Douglas writes the most picturesque scenes I've ever read in a newspaper."

Dutton turned his attention back to his report and griped, "When are you going to learn, Whippersnapper? News reporters always slant stories to sell the most copies whether they report fake news or not. All you gotta do is take a gander at Yahoo to see what I mean."

Ballister balked and Dutton recited the words Douglas had penned verbatim as if he waxed poetic, "In the dew-dropped morning hours of July 13, thirty-year-old Marion County Alderman Robert Valasquez was gunned down and his home torched. The culprit? Sixteen-year-old runaway Alma Bichara. The teen suspect, with a 20 in blue numbers tattooed on her extensive left gazanga, snapped a selfie in Valasquez's Grand Oaks estate and posted the photograph on Facebook for her friends to see."

Ballister scoffed, "Nothing more than typical teen behavior. We see it all the time."

Dutton laid the report down on the table and looked at Ballister. He reflected, "I've been to Missouri and Douglas has never shown me anything. Anyway, we have much more important matters to deal with, like a little excursion to the Vine-Mart motel."

Ballister announced, "That washed up hole-in-the-wall was condemned eight years ago. What are we going there for?"

"There's a piece of this Twenty puzzle tied into the joint I need an answer to," Dutton clarified, "it's not every day an unidentified ghost, wearing a long black cloak, a fedora, and a pointed beak mask drops off evidence to a police department. You see, Mark, normal people don't do things like that. At least, not in my book they don't, and that makes me wonder what gives?"

Ballister contemplated, "The desk clerk never asked for identification?"

Dutton shook his head and gave a firm reply, "Brenda never said boo. She took the envelope from the interloper, went back to her Seek-A-Word, and passed the package up the chain. Maybe her three-day unpaid vacation will make her follow protocol in the future. You drive."

Ballister fished a key out of his pocket and commented, "Somebody wanted you to know something real bad."

En route, Dutton commiserated, "Twenty was convicted as an adult and sentenced to two consecutive life terms for first-degree murder, arson of a dwelling, and being a felon in possession of a firearm. She also experienced a joyride in Valasquez's brand new Lexus Nurburgring."

Ballister rolled to a stop at a red light and exclaimed, "Whoa! That V10 is a five hundred thousand dollar legend. Those sportsters are the most luxurious vehicles Lexus ever crafted. It's not every day you see one tool down a back alley somewhere."

Dutton stared straight ahead and finished his thought, "That's the reason my gut tells me this case is much more complicated than what appeared on the surface."

Ballister pulled into the chuckhole-filled parking lot of the Vine-Mart motel. He noticed weathered soil beneath the broken pavement. Thin crocodile cracks bounced the car but no tires popped.

Dutton's mind flooded as he glanced at Room Number Four. Shirley Sorrells was the first memory recalled. Beatrice Morgan followed. Eleanor Tomlinson, and a host of others did too. Each collegiate from the nearby nursing school etched Dutton's signature in stone and solidified his long-standing reputation.

Ballister parked in the slip closest to the boarded entryway of the motel and exited the vehicle. Once Dutton joined him, he asked, "What are we looking for the crime scene experts missed all those years ago? If the Valasquez murder occurred in his residence, why are we here?"

Dutton scoped the scenery and explained, "To find the key that unravels this mystery. The phantom's message provided the clue every haystack has a needle in it. So, what I'm searching for has to be here somewhere among this overgrown vegetation. The question is where to start looking."

A skeptical Ballister queried, "You're taking the word of an unknown eidolon? Isn't that a stretch, especially for the Lone Wolf?"

"I'm playing a hunch, Mark," Dutton responded. He extracted latex gloves out of his shirt pocket and fit them on his callused hands. Digging around the inside of the planter in the middle of the veranda, Dutton continued, "Many people at Twenty's trial were outraged she was convicted. They claimed a missing link could possibly have cleared her. That's what we're here to find out." Three decayed Marlboro cigarette butts were the rewards for Dutton's valiant effort. He flicked them aside.

Ballister knew once Dutton set his mind to accomplish a task, the bulldog wouldn't stop until he found success. He asked, "Why are you jumping through all these hoops?"

Dutton started down the walkway. He waved for Ballister to follow and answered, "Because, if we find what I'm looking for they could well be right." At the corner of the building, he crossed to the ditch and continued, "Sometimes, you have to champion the cause, even when no one else agrees with you or supports your efforts. Now, let's get started on this little project. Shall we?"

"Right behind you," Ballister confirmed.

Dutton kicked a crumpled Miller Lite can out of his way and remarked, "This murder occurred sixteen years ago while you played Little League shortstop in your Converse High-Tops in Billings, just before your family relocated to Marion County. Discovery suggested Valasquez engaged in the ongoing sexual and physical abuse of several young females, Twenty included."

Ballister commented, "It's creeps like Valasquez you'd like to nail to the frigging wall."

Dutton informed him, "The case's affidavit was sealed, but Valasquez was known to have possessed and produced child pornography. His account at SunFirst Bank had been flagged for suspicion of human trafficking. Antisocial personality disorders were his heroes. But that information never came out at Twenty's trial. The DA heard rumors about Valasquez's crimes, but thought they were bogus and swept them under the carpet."

"That's a pile of old attic dust," Ballister sneered.

On his hands and knees, Dutton searched the ditch that paralleled the property and found nothing. He rose and moved to a dense coppice full of mopheads and lacecaps. Their large, colorful, globe-shaped flowers bloomed.

"The only place we haven't searched is this underbrush leading into the woods," Ballister verified.

Dutton looked at Ballister and said, "Trial records proved Valasquez transported Twenty from Savannah, Georgia to Marion County for an encounter here at the Vine-Mart motel. Exactly why was never determined. When she refused, they struggled. Eventually, they ended up at Valasquez' estate where Twenty shot him."

"Can't say the maggot didn't get what he deserved," Ballister stated.

Dutton brushed debris aside and continued, "Further evidence confirmed Twenty's pimp, David Lorenz, gave her a snub-nosed .45 for self-defense because she'd told him she was tired of johns pawing her wares on the street."

"No doubt, the same one she shot Valasquez with," Ballister assumed.

"The same one," Dutton responded. He noticed a black object partially covered by a pile of leaves and extracted the object off the ground.

Ballister exclaimed, "Hello! What's that?"

Dutton clutched the evidence in his hand and stated, "Twenty's next appeal hearing before Judge Willard is set for August 28th. This may be the only chance she ever has to regain her freedom, and we're going to make sure she does."

"How are we going to do that?" Ballister asked. He shook his head and stated, "You never cease to amaze me."

"All in a day's work, kiddo," Dutton told him. He dropped the discovery into a zippered storage bag. "In the meantime, you're going to anonymously drop a bug in your buddy Arthur Douglas' ear at the Commercial. What you're going to tell him is undisclosed evidence has been found that could result in Twenty being granted a new trial."

"You know what you are? You're a rabble-rouser. This scheme is going to cause a major ruckus in this sleepy little villa," Ballister teased.

"The egotistical maniac will do the rest," Dutton confirmed. "he's a writer. He can't help himself. It's in his blood." Dutton climbed into the car and remarked, "Whirleybirds Pizza it is. You're buying, Whackadoodle. Let's rattle this joint."