Not one time in my life have I been to a funeral in good weather. And I've been to a few. Never fails, it's either freezing, raining, or both. Today is no exception. February 12, 1943. The whole world is at war and I'm standing in a graveyard with the rain pouring down from above and rising into my shoes from below. I swear, if I make it through the Pearly Gates and rate any percentage at all with St. Peter, I'm gonna ask him just one favor: make my funeral day a nice one.

It isn't enough that the weather is rotten, but so is the recently deceased. Was. This is one of the many pitfalls of being a cop on the detective beat. Attending the funerals of the dregs of society looking for a clue. I've been to too many of these to count, but this one is personal. This guy shot my partner. Then I shot him.

The preacher says his final words, throws some dirt on the casket and the crowd starts to break. I set my jaw and stand back a little, but I don't leave yet. There's a guy in back over there giving me the eye and I need to know why. This whole case is giving me the itch and it's a long way from over, even with Macauley here cold and in the ground.