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getting caught on this shift. All she wants is to get home to her dying son.

3:55 AM Hollywood PD
    D etective Finian Murphy slams the door of the interrogation room and lets loose an ear-splitting “FUCK!” Goddamn little Bad Vibe punk Preston Reid won’t sing! Not a word, not a peep! Just staring at him, cool as a cucumber, snug as a bug in a rug, ignoring his clever interrogation tricks. Nothing, nada, zip. And then Murphy gets mad and the little shit lawyers up! Goddamn crime shows! How are we supposed to catch bad guys if they know all our tricks! Captain Anderson is gonna kill me, he thinks. I am so screwed. Forget promotion, forget the noir convention, forget respect. I took the training course. What did I do wrong? Murphy scratches his balding head and makes his way back to his desk.
    Captain Anderson hangs up his phone. He’s not sure whether to look around for Candid Camera or call Agents Mulder and Scully to help him out with this one. A hill is vaporized but four people walk away from it, one of whom grew back an amputated leg. Body parts remain, and now those are growing, too? “This shit is above my pay grade,” he mutters to himself. There’s no protocol for this kind of whatever it is.
    Murphy knocks on his door, a timid mouse in a four hundred dollar silk suit. “What the hell you want, Murphy?” Anderson barks, he certainly has no time for this little shit.
    “Sorry, Boss.” Murphy kicks his foot like a petulant child. “You remember how you told me to stay away from the suspects?”
    Dread creeps into Anderson’s belly.
    “I went in there just to chat, you know, see if I could get us something to work with…” Murphy’s voice trails off.
    “You did. WHAT?” Anderson sees spots.
    “He lawyered up! Goddamn crime shows! How we supposed to catch bad guys when they know all our tricks!” The speech he rehearsed sounds useless, even to him.
    “You’re blaming your incompetence on crime shows? I don’t fucking believe this! Do you have any idea what you’ve done? To this investigation? To this department?” Anderson stands up, and Murphy flinches. Anderson’s heart palpitates. Bad.
    “Sir, I just really thought I could help!” Tears well up in Murphy’s eyes.
    Captain Anderson’s fists are clenched so tight his close-cropped nails dig into his palm, cutting through the skin. “Detective Murphy. You are suspended for insubordination, without pay, until further notice. You are further under arrest for obstructing a murder trial. I’m sure the FBI will have their own charges against you when they get here.” Anderson grabs Murphy by the arm and drags him from the office.
    Murphy bawls outright. He can’t help weeping as Captain Anderson flings him into the nearest patrolman with such force all three stagger to not fall down. “This idiot is under arrest for tampering with a federal case. Somebody put him in lock-up until the FBI gets here.” Anderson sits back down, takes a nip from the flask he has hidden in his lock box for these very occasions. The whiskey burns his throat, yet brings with it a familiar calm. His heart still skips beats. Rubbing his chest, he picks up his phone and dials. Waits. Takes a moment to appreciate that the screw-up only affects one of three caught perpetrators. He hopes.
    “Mr. Mayor, we’ve got some developments on the Crane Massacre you should be aware of before the Feds get here.” Captain Anderson feels an uncomfortable tightening in his lungs as he flexes his newly stiff left hand.

4:15 AM LAPD Morgue
    T he morgue is housed in the basement of the LAPD’s oldest building—one of the few dating back to the early days of the police force—the place where Hollywoodland stars and starlets were brought for their photo ops with the press after whatever infraction was à la mode. The lobby walls feature graffiti by Marilyn Monroe, Rudolf Valentino, Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Charlie Chaplin, and a host of others. The wall’s the reason why the