Chapter 3: The Sins on the Menu

So, was the problem with the food?

Tyler asked the chef what they ate. ‘Venison,’ he said, rolling his eyes.

If it was venison, why take what was in the stomachs? Didn’t add up.

Later, Tyler grumbled to me in private, "Venison my ass. I’d sooner believe they stole someone’s dog."

I looked at the chef. His good eye met mine, then darted away. Guilty. Lying.

Hannah bagged up the organs and teeth. The plates were empty.

One set of tableware was spotless. No blood. Never used.

Three sets of steak knives and forks. Two people, three sets? Was there a third diner? Or was the killer supposed to be the third?

Martin said the boss wanted food for three. Didn’t know who the third was.

"Detective Price, I’m just a worker. Boss doesn’t say, I don’t ask."

Old fox. I’d get the truth out of him later.

Rubbed my temples. Waved Tyler to take Martin away.

"Something else is off. Look."

Hannah pointed to the wounds. "Never seen anything like this," she said.

"Price, you went to West Point, right? Studied abroad? What kind of weapon does this?"

Hannah asking me for help? That was new. I took the gloves, grabbed the probes, and checked the wounds.

Weird shape. Didn’t look like anything I’d seen before.

Closed my eyes. Tried to picture the weapon. Shuddered. Not sure if it was the cold or something else.

This weapon—I’d only seen it once. Ten years ago. London.

First year after West Point. Studied at the Royal Police College in Britain. Chief detective, Professor Whitaker, was picking protégés.

Thin old man, weird Birmingham accent. Asked us a riddle: Can the law solve what the law can’t solve?

That’s when I met Quentin Miles. He kept asking who the idiot was who asked that question. I said the law could do it. Maybe not now, but someday. If we keep working at it.

I knew what they wanted to hear. Didn’t mean I believed it.

Whitaker smiled. Nodded. Satisfied.

But Quentin’s next words froze the old man’s smile.

Quentin said nobody can wait for perfect law. Delayed justice is like stale bread—useless. If the law can’t do it, use the sword.

Whitaker’s mouth twitched. "Mr. Miles, you should be Robin Hood, not a cop."

"After class, come to my office."

Class laughed. Quentin just shrugged.

Whitaker picked me. No surprise.

But Quentin talked his way in. We both became Whitaker’s protégés.

Whitaker was a bone china master. Quentin was obsessed. Skipped class, learned porcelain-making from him.

Still, he was the best. Genius, really.

Before graduation, Quentin and I argued. Nothing new.

I said, I just want to know who did it. Not why. Law comes first.

Quentin said he’d take care of evil, law or no law. Only killed the guilty. No mistakes.

If everyone starts lynching, what’s the law for?

He sneered. What if the bad guy’s powerful? What if everyone knows he’s guilty, but there’s no proof?

Price, as a law enforcer, are you sure you’ll never feel helpless when facing a murderer?

His words stuck in my throat. Like dry bread.

I stared at him. Swore: ‘If you ever kill, I’ll bring you in myself.’

Quentin smiled. ‘If someone must catch me, I hope it’s you.’

Strange. We were each other’s only real friend.

At graduation, Quentin gave me a painting. The Founding Fathers at Independence Hall.

I asked why the Founding Fathers?

He said we were like two of them. I called it nonsense.

Mr. Whitaker also gave us each a graduation gift. A small wooden gavel. And a pocket-sized, foldable, fine steel sickle. They were side by side on his desk. I let Quentin pick first. He didn’t stand on ceremony—grabbed the gavel, said it was too light, then tossed the sickle, called it interesting, folded it up, pocketed it, said it was his.

Left the crime scene. Smoked two in a row.

Professional, efficient killing. Sickle wounds. Felt too familiar.

Hannah saw my face. Didn’t tease me for once. Told the rookies to take the bodies back.

Tyler grabbed the menu. Brought it back to the station.

"Boss, did you see that metal cage outside the kitchen? Half a person’s height. What do you think they ate last night?" Tyler whispered.

"Whatever it was, it killed them. The Weed Puller doesn’t kill the innocent. They did something awful."

"Boss, do you know this Weed Puller?"

"No. I hope I’m wrong about who he is."

Next morning, Tyler and I checked Pembroke’s and Dorsey’s homes. More metal cages. Empty. They claimed it was for venison. I didn’t buy it.

We got back to the station around four.

Walked in on a mass vomiting scene.

Chief Wallace slapped the table. Cursed for ten sentences straight, thick Midwestern drawl.

Turned out, the station got a fancy set of bone china at lunch.

At coffee, someone used the new set. After two rounds, someone checked the sender.