"Are you up already?" Tanya asked when she came out of the bedroom and seeing Wyatt, hunched over the newspaper. He couldn't get back to sleep, so he went down and listened to the early news. When he heard the story about another archer attack, he checked the internet, and sure enough, there was a story on a local news feed about how the Port City rapist might have finally been caught, complete with a picture of a man with arrows piercing his hands, pinning him to a wooden drop box outside PCFM station. The guy had been brought in front of the radio station, rather than with the police, and the news people there did their part, calling it in, but not before taking some photos and drawing their own conclusions, based upon how well the face matched the description the police had given out earlier. In the years since the city had drastically expanded its police force, sensational crime stories were rare opportunities, and the potential discovery of the identity of a serial rapist was big news, even if nothing was yet proven.

The Port City Crier had been at the doorstep when he went to look, but this attack wasn't in there. The cover was all about the upcoming anniversary of the Hyde Park Massacre. Must have happened after the print deadline.

The department hadn't bothered to call him in. That could have meant that they weren't in a rush to investigate the attack on the rapist. Or, it could have meant that they had half the squad scouring the city looking for a lunatic with a bow. In either case, they were perfectly content to leave Wyatt Milter at home, eating his toast, contemplating Hyde Park and archery.

"Wyatt?" Tanya called again.

"I'm fine," he said through a mouthful. "There's some coffee made if you want some."

"Aw, thanks, mein bruder," Tanya said in her joking German accent that she saved for Wyatt's quieter moments. She was already dressed for work, and her high heels clicked off the kitchen floor as she moved quickly to the coffee pot and mug that he'd left out for her. After a generous pour, sniff and sip, she sighed and announced, "Ahhhh, das ist goot. Danke."

"No problem," he smiled, staring at the black-and-white file photos that the newspaper had drummed up. Nothing violent, unlike what they'd printed the days immediately after the massacre. The headline read "Not Forgotten" in the standard failed attempt at subtlety the Crier was well-known for. Tomorrow it would have something alarming about the rapist's body -- the Crier's editorial staff had their minds made up about what to think about the archer, and had been reliably alarmist that a madman might be out there picking off random people, while writing in an almost admiring detail about the attacks themselves. But for today, the Crier's gift to the readership was hefty praise for Mayor John Ramsay and his fine leadership that he showed in the aftermath of Hyde Park, next to pictures of grief-stricken people standing outside of police tape, looking in at what was the horror that the Crier was all too happy to show direct snaps of almost a year ago.

"You're qui- Oh..." Tanya said, coming around to the side of the table. "The ceremony?"

"Yeah," he said.

"Are you going to be out there for it? I read there was supposed to be a big commemoration that day..."

"Yeah, I know. All the beat guys will be there. I've been told they want me to work the office to cover the shortage."

"Oh Wyatt..." Tanya said, her arm coming across to rub him on the shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"Hey, it's overtime," Wyatt shrugged, smiling. "I could use it. You don't want me living here forever, do you?"

"I don't mind," Tanya said. "I like having you here. It makes me feel safe."

Wyatt snorted. She had three inches and twenty pounds on him, and none of it fat, neither. When he looked over at her with a sarcastic squint and pursed lips, she laughed. "I'm serious. When I talk to my students about you, I tell them you're a cop, and they're so interested. They want to know if you've fired a gun, if you've ever run down a crook, if you've..."

"And what do they say when you tell them I'm pretty much just a file clerk and coffeeboy?"

"I don't," she said, pointing at him. "I tell them you're in training and someday soon you're going to save somebody and be on the cover of all the city newspapers."

Wyatt smiled and shook his head. "You're such a bullshitter."

"Well, you will. Although it'd help if you got a full night's sleep, though."

"Yeah..." he said.

"Bad dreams again?" Tanya asked.

Wyatt tilted his head, as if letting the question bounce off him. "I just couldn't sleep. When I came down I heard on the radio that the archer had struck again, and I've been wired ever since."

"Again? What did that nutjob do now?" Tanya asked.

"Well, he might have gotten the Port City Rapist," Wyatt said.

"Oh," she laughed. "Well, I guess that's alright, then. Stuck full of arrows like the other ones?"

"Sort of," he said. "Fewer this time, it seems. The photo online showed one in his thigh, and one in each of his hands, pinning him to a dropbox of some kind."

"That's gruesome," Tanya said, wincing. "How could he have done that? Was the guy stealing the drop box?"

Wyatt shrugged. "How should I know?"

"Well, maybe it's some sort of clue. You should go in there early and find out. Maybe if you did that they'd put you on the case. Come on, mein bruder. Show a little initiative."

Wyatt paused for a second. He thought about the scrapbook in his desk, and how he'd stuffed it with extra information from the files he'd gotten on the archer when the others in the office weren't paying attention, and he realized that it did have some theories on who it could be and why he was doing things the way he was, theories that weren't being talked about around the station as far as he could tell. But nobody in his precinct had ever handled any of the archer's attacks so far, so it would make sense that nobody would bother making any theories around the station. He also knew that in all the time he'd worked in the department, nobody had ever asked anything of him other than to deliver reports and get coffee. Before, whenever he went to target practice, the officer that signed people in was always surprised to see him, and it was a sort of surprise tinted with something between amusement and disdain that made it harder and harder for him to go back to practice, until finally he stopped going. Nobody noticed. The thought of going to the captain with his ideas, when his precinct had handled none of the calls so far, gave Wyatt the feeling he'd be getting that same look if he made any suggestions. Surprise, amusement, disdain.

"I don't know," he said. "I don't think they'll need me."

"You never know," she said, smiling. "They might this time..."

Wyatt smiled and shook his head quickly. "Nah. I'll leave the pros to it."

Tanya smiled, and then shrugged. "Ok... Say, I'm going to be late, I'd better go." She stood up, sucked in her gut and twisted her waist. "How do I look?"

"Like my sister," he said. "How am I supposed to answer that question?"

She slapped him on the shoulder and ran for the door.

Wyatt turned back to his toast, and saw that there were only crumbs left. He decided it would be a good idea to try to get a longer nap before heading in for the afternoon and evening shift, and he picked himself up and wandered over to the living room sofa, where he kicked up his feet and lay down, and closed his eyes.

But he couldn't sleep.