The police dispatcher looked up as she heard the door open.

“Richard!” she chimed, jumping out of her chair. “How’s my favorite little brother?”

“Hi, Sandra,” Richard sighed. “The coroner texted me; he said he had something for me.”

Sandra darted over to him and grabbed a cheek to shake it. “Oh, it’s so cute when you’re busy! You know we’re all rooting for you.”

He brushed her hand away. “Thanks. Gotta get going.”

“Don’t leave without saying hi to Terry!”

“I won’t,” he assured.

Sandra exhaled contentedly as she watched him amble away.

“’Morning, Dr. Wilson,” Richard called as he poked his head through the ajar door to the coroner’s office.

“Please, Richard, call me Fito,” the coroner requested. “No need to be formal.”

“It’s what it says on your door,” Richard pointed out. “No first name; it literally says ‘mister’. Not even abbreviated to ‘Mr’.”

“But you know why that is,” Fito hinted. “So no last names. After all, you’re almost one of us!”

“Thanks, but I feel so out of place here,” Richard winced.

Fito gave Richard a friendly punch on the shoulder. “Not at all! I’m glad you got this case. For one thing, the department doesn’t really want to help a bunch of cop-hating, violent anarchists.”

“Neither do I,” Richard admitted.

“Sure, but at least you’re willing. The staff detectives would simply declare the most convenient answer to be the correct one and close the case.” Fito cleared his throat, scribbled into an imaginary notebook, and did a deep-voiced impression. “Decedent obviously shot himself and then hid the gun. No further investigation planned.”

“I guess you’re right,” Richard laughed. “So what do you have for me?” He started to walk towards the morgue.

“Where are you going? I’ve got pictures, diagrams, and test results at my desk. There’s no need to look at the body.”

Richard perked up. “Phew! That’s a relief. It was the main reason I dreaded coming down here.”

“Nah, no need for that,” Fito assured. “Dead bodies smell horrible, even refrigerated ones.” He shuddered. “I don’t know how funeral directors put up with this.”

Fito sat down at his desk and shot Richard a worried look, stopping him in his tracks. “Brace yourself, kid,” Fito warned. “This is a weird one.”

Richard let out a hollow laugh. “Oh, great. My first murder case and it has to be crazy.”

“You may just be the right kind of crazy to crack this, though,” Fito complimented.

Richard’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, come now, son,” Fito comforted. “It’s no secret what happened to you at the police academy.”

“Can you be more specific?” Richard grumbled. “So much happened there.”

“I was referring to the Investigative Procedures course. How your instructors tried to give you bad marks. How you picked up on their supposedly irrelevant details and came to much more fitting deductions than the ones they intended. I’m still proud how you fought back, and got the commandant to find in your favor.” He sighed as he stared into the distance. “It’s too bad they weren’t willing to update the course materials. We would all have been the richer for it.”

“At least it gives me a niche,” Richard crowed.

“That it does! Now let me show you what I have.”

Fito brought up the first diagram, showing Saint’s back. “But I thought he was shot in the head?” Richard asked.

“He was…but that isn’t what killed him,” Fito revealed, switching to a photo of the same area. “This man was poisoned.”

Richard gaped as he examined the hole in Saint’s shirt, surrounded by a small halo of blood. “That’s an awfully big hole for a needle.”

“It wasn’t a needle,” Fito explained. “My guess is the attacker used some sort of poison-coated awl.”

“So we’re looking for a homicidal saddler?” Richard chuckled.

“Or a mad girdler,” Fito snickered. “Angry that the saddle-makers around here get the bulk of the leather work, and thirty for vengeance!”

“How long until the toxicology tests come back?” Richard inquired.

Fito gave him an uneasy look. “They’re already back.”

Richard gaped. “Doesn’t that normally take much longer? Specialized tests, detecting minute traces of…”

“Wasn’t necessary this time.” Fito brought up the toxicology report. “This man died of a massive fentanyl overdose.”

Richard was taken aback. “Then what was the point of shooting him in the head?”

Fito shrugged. “I don’t know. Given the amount of fentanyl, he would have only remained conscious a few seconds…less if he gave chase. But the shot was also to the back of the head.”

“Sounds like overkill,” Richard mused, “together with hideous unprofessionalism.”

“And that’s not the last of the weirdness,” Fito intoned. “He was carrying something else. Something really out of place.” He began fishing through an envelope.

“What?” Richard asked.

“This.” Fito handed over a small bottle.

Richard peered at it closely. “Holy water?”

Fito nodded. “Pure water, no other ingredients…I tested it. Though I have no way to verify its holiness.” He shrugged. “Seems an odd thing for a rioter to have on his person.”

Richard looked more closely at the bottle, finding an inscription for the church. After rotating the bottle a few times to read the overly long name, he realized it was the one that shared a building with Harmony.

Richard scoffed as he put the bottle back into the envelope. “How does any of this fit together?”

Fito smiled as he slapped Richard on the shoulder. “That’s for you to figure out!”

“Fabulous,” Richard sighed. “Guess I’d better get to work.”

“You know we’re rooting for you!” Fito chimed as Richard left. “Don’t forget to see Terry on your way out!”

“I won’t,” Richard grumbled.

He closed the door behind him, and paused to look at the glass. Underneath the word “Mister”, still barely visible, the outline of the previously acrylic letters tinted the glass slightly. Perhaps they’d be illegible if one didn’t know what was there before, but Richard knew. It was unfortunate that the name “Adolfito”, or anything resembling it, had become so unpopular after the good doctor’s notorious namesake dragged it irrecoverably through the mud.