Chapter 1

COINCIDENTALLY-- or is it?--a second pig, owned by one Amos Blossomfarten, farmer, had also escaped into this peaceful town, much to the consternation and deep chagrin of the local police force. Their problems, one might say, were now doubled.

Now big city folk might regard this little event as beyond insignificant, but to anyone familiar with small town living, this was very serious business.

Decent folk can't have pigs rooting around their garbage cans, scaring their kids silly, peeing and crapping on their porches and, in general, making a damned nuisance of themselves. And dear reader, if you've ever hit a two hundred pound porker with your car you'd know why these folks, especially the ones in blue uniforms and badges, call out the marines. Help! Help! S.O.S.! Mayday! Mayday! You betcha!

The Unhappy Troopers, One and All.

MEANWHILE, at Police One Headquarters, the new one over on One Police Lane, not the old one across from Ray & Roy's Sporting Goods and Delicatessen, nor the other one they now refer to as the Police Annex, you know, the one over on River Place, across from Sadie's Sewing Sircle, Police Chief Buzz 'Badges' Melrose was prepared to address the eleven failed pig catchers. The Chief was not in a good mood--the media saw to that.

Chief Melrose, at fifty three, looked more like a mid-manager in a steel mill than he did a cop. He was a portly, balding man with a grandfatherly face and a huge shock of white-gray hair.

The Chief always wore three-piece suits with the vest usually bunched up between the buttons that gave ill-fitting a new meaning. None of his officers ever commented on this to his face, for they knew the grandfather image was nothing more than that--an image. He was as fierce as they come.

Chief Melrose now eyed the men as they filed into the room. Sorry friggin' lot, he thought, and I'm stuck with 'em. He glanced to his right, looked out the window and saw the sign. The sign! As he looked at it now, he thought: What an embarassment that was... and is. He could see they still hadn't repaired the damn thing. What a surprise.

The sign, which stood in front of Police One Headquarters, its legs buried in grass, was right alongside the highway. It was a large sign, as most signs go. It measured a whopping five-feet wide by four-feet high. Made from glass, plastic, and steel, it had a whopping price tag, too.

The sign had four flashing colored lights across the top, similar to what you would find atop a police cruiser. Today, only one light, the second from the left, was still capable of blinking. That this was the work of vandals, there was no doubt. Real great, thought the Chief, for a sign less than a month old.

The sign had been one of the Chief's pet projects and the damage to it was taken personally by him, as if the culprit had also punched the Chief's lights out. He now looked at the lettering and felt his Irish come up. The lettering had also suffered from the vandalism.

The original lettering had been in crisp white type on a deep blue field. On both sides it read: HEADQUARTERS on the top line, with POLICE ONE directly underneath, both lines flushed with the side that faced the building. Beneath were the words, IN HERE, also flushed with the first two lines.

Each IN HERE had an arrow that pointed to the building. The arrow was either before or after the words dependant on the direction drivers would view it, from the West or the East. In the Chief's sentimental heart, it was to be a beacon, if you will, to all those who drove by.

Got trouble and need the police? Here we are! Right here. Line forms on the left--no waiting! And see? We ain't hiding our light under any old bushel, you betcha. The sign was big and it was baaad, too. Until...

Until, about three weeks ago, when the vandal (or vandals) had struck. Someone, they still hadn't a clue as to who (person or persons unknown), had taken Krylon Blue #4 spray paint (the color was a near-perfect match--could this be clue one? A demented Interior Designer who just up and went postal?) and monkied with the crisp, white lettering. On both sides.

He, or she--or they--had chosen the letters to blue-out, so to speak, carefully and most deliberately. Now anyone who drove by was treated to the strange surprise of a sign that read: HEAD LICE IN HERE --> From either direction, East or West.

The county board of directors had assured Chief Melrose that the sign would be repaired just as soon as there were extra funds in the budgetary coffers. The Chief, as experienced as he was, rough-estimated that to mean sometime just shy of thirty-seven years. Longer, if you took the time to count weekends.

Now that all eleven men were present and accounted for, the Chief made his opening remark. It made them all snap to attention. Even the two that slept woke up.

"You damn fools couldn't catch a cold if you stuck your head, soaking wet, into a freezer and left it in there 'til your damn ears froze up!" The Chief paused to let the vivid image sink in. "And now we have two pork chops on the loose!" He paused again and scanned their faces to make sure they knew he was a mite pissed. He was satisfied, so he went on.

"Damn it all to High Holy Hell," he snarled. "If we don't catch these two hamhocks... and soon... we'll be the laughingstock of the whole town. Make no mistake 'bout that!" He scowled as he looked the group over, as if he dared any one of them to open his big yap about that little truism.

"Make that the nation, Chief!" said one Officer Casey, who now nervously handed a copy of USA Today to his superior.

"Damn it all!" was the only thing Chief Melrose said when he saw the screaming headline, in all capital letters, over an inch high, on the front page:

SMALL TOWN COPS FUMBLE PIGSKIN!

The Chief had only scan-read the first paragraph, but it told him all he needed, or cared to know. The writer of the nasty piece, using many football references, cliches, and metaphors, had made it quite clear to any reader, that when it came to catching pigs, the local cops of this small, middle-America town had neither great offense nor even adequate defense.

And the eleven cops involved had no idea even, of how to set up a useful scrimmage against a witless pork chop who-- the reporter gleefully reported--wasn't even wearing a helmet!

And right at the tail-end of this first paragraph, for all the world to read, and now read by the Chief, was a snide, tongue-in-cheek sentence mentioning the possible need for a new coach. The Chief thanked his stars for the absence of his picture.

The Chief's face was livid as he looked back up. "Well, gentlemen, we're lucky!" Then he added, in answer to the quizzical facial expressions before him, "They could have said 'Pigs can't catch one of their own!"' No one laughed. And the only sounds for a long pregnant minute were the whirr of an air conditioner and a faint rustle of papers being pushed around on a desk somewhere.

The Chief broke the silence and turned his attention to Officer Morton Moldon. When Moldon saw the Chief look directly at him, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Moldon had a look on his face that said: "Oh, no lord, why me?"

Moldon, at forty two, and the father of three, looked as if he belonged in an accounting firm. He attire was always imaculate. And his tall, slender figure didn't hurt the look, either. He had a boyish face that belied his age, with a head of brown hair that he kept in a Marine drill Sargeant's style.

He and his wife, Mandy, were married twelve years ago and the two of them fit together as well as Laurel and Hardy. And both liked to fun it up, if you get the drift, and anyone in their vicinity was fair game to their playful antics.

"Moldy," the Chief said. He had used the officer's unflattering nickname. "I'm putting you in charge of this pig shit! No pun intended!" He scanned the officer's face to see if he had his full attention. "And I will hold you personally responsible for any more failures! You understand me, Moldy? You gettin' my drift?"

The Chief's eyes fairly burned with anger. "Catch those pigs, Mold, before Leno and Letterman use our sorry asses for funny fodder!" Again no one laughed, you betcha.

Moldon reddened and looked visibly shaken by the chief's directness. "Yes, Sir! Consider it done, Sir!" As he stared at the Chief, he looked ill and in need of serious medical attention.

This was due, in part, by what Moldon now saw on the Chief's face. Fear! In letters an inch high, all caps, right on his front page. He had never seen it before.

Not even during that little episode with the diarrhea, when the Chief had mistakenly eaten six Ex-Lax thinking they were Easter chocolates and--understandably, everyone agreed later--had had a major Number One accident during his mad--and very unsuccessful--dash to the John. From then on, he was lovingly referred to as Poopy Pants by the officers--but only behind his back, you betcha.

Now Fear, like diarrhea, has a smell that is truly unique and all its very own. And Moldon could now smell that fear smell. And he didn't like what he smelled! Nosirree Bob! Much the same way he didn't like the smell he had smelled on the day of the Ex-Lax smell. His nose now visibly wrinkled up at the thought.

Shitty stuff all 'round, thought Moldon, right shitty stuff. And he knew he now stood in it right up to his small- town cop's ears.

The Chief seemed to mellow a bit. "Good... Now, Sherlock, get a move on! Do the usual... APB's, house to house searches and two car roadblocks." He studied Moldon's face for a brief moment, then added:

"Also, check the airports, train stations, and don't forget the bus depots this time." His slate-blue eyes narrowed. "And Moldy? Rev up the canine squad, put SWAT on standby alert and issue an extra shot gun to every black and white." His eyes narrowed even more to almost a squint. "Also, Moldy, be sure to check down by Darby's farm. Old Sam Darby now keeps pigs again... and who knows?... Birds of a feather, eh?" He was back to a scowl as he watched the officer write.

Moldon felt the Chief's eyes on him as he wrote it down as fast as he could and tried his darndest not to forget anything. For the Chief would sooner kill a man than have to repeat himself. At least that was the general consensus.

As 'Moldy' scribbled away, the Chief turned to face the other officers, his face red and angry like.

"And men, be careful out there! Watch your step! You know what they say, a pig is much smarter than your average dog!" The Chief waved his hand in a gesture that signalled his dismissal of this forlorn crew. Moldon scribbled away.

As the officers proceeded to remove their respective asses from the seats of their respective metal folding chairs, the Chief heard mutterings, rumblings, and grumblings. They reminded him of a high school class that had just been told to read pages one through two hundred ten over the weekend. For a finals test on Monday.

There was no question and answer session for this group. Everyone knew what they had to do and it was simple: Not fail again. Catch these two pigs before the complaints started to pour in.

As they moved toward the door, none of them knew just how right the Chief had been in his meant-to-be-flippant remark concerning the porcine brain.

Two officers stopped just outside the door to look over the notes they had taken. The taller of the two said to the other, "You buying this shit, Harv?"

Harv looked up from his notes. "What shit? You mean the pig smarter than dog shit?"

"Yeah." He had said it almost as a question. Doubt was evident in the small response.

The shorter officer shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. There's strange shit in this world, dontcha know? Like last summer... remember the county fair when I played renta cop?" The other nodded. "Well, you remember the two-headed chicken... and the two-headed calf, dontcha?"

"I saw the chicken, but I didn't know there was a two-headed calf, too."

"Oh, yeah. Crazy stuff he was. I never saw anything like it!" He paused, then added, "Although, there was that time... I was just ten or so... when my folks took me on a vacation with 'em to Oklahoma. And, you know, we went into town one day and took in one of those penny arcade places. You know what I mean?" The other cop nodded. He knew.

"Well, they had this big old chicken who could play tunes on one of those zi... lo... phone things," he paused, "with its beak!" The other cop, with an amazed look, said, "No shit?"

"No shit. She played it pretty good, too. She'd just stand there a-pecking and a-pecking and the tune would pop out. Recognizable, too. Well, at least Row, Row, Row Your Boat was."

The other cop thought a bit. "Now you mention it, that reminds me of a pig I saw as a kid at the fair. He did songs, too. Grunted them out, he did. Did a great rendition of The Girl from Ipenema. It went sorta like... grunt grunt grunt... grunt grunt... grunt grunt grunt... grunt grunt... grunt grunt... "

Just then another cop walked by and remarked. "Aaaah! The language of love! You two should get a room somewhere!" He laughed and walked by. This chilled the chit-chat some.

"Yeah, strange shit out there," the shorter officer said. "And just maybe, maybe mind you," he glanced around, "ol' Poopy Pants could be right!" They then went their separate ways with their 'see ya laters' thrown back at each other as they walked.

Thus ten officers, the town's finest, though not the town's fastest, nor, you betcha, even the town's brightest, and now under the command of the intrepid Officer 'Moldy, ' prepared for the harsh battle that lay ahead. Against two defenseless pigs, no less.

But it was a battle some would live to regret...

"Peek-a-boo, I see you!"

"SEX CRIMES DIVISION, Detective Clu Sniffer here. How may I help you?" he said into his desk phone. He had said it crisp and business-like, as if he had said it many times before.

As usual, Detective Sniffer had his trusty old, yellow pad, legal size for sure, and a yellow jacketted pencil--a number two, thank you--newly sharpened and at the ready. He licked the point of the pencil with the point of his tongue in preparation to take notes.

With over twenty years on the force, the last six worked in SexCee (or Sexy, as most officers called it) Detective Clu Sniffer had seen it all, heard it all, done it all, and considered himself the epitome of organization, logical thinking, and preparation. To put it another way, he tried to live up to his name: Clu Sniffer. Sherlock Holmes was one of his favorite fictional detectives. In a solid second place was Hercule Poirot.

A female voice responded. She sounded elderly to him as she said, "Could you hold on a second, Detective Sniffer, my neighbor's damn cat is peeing on my prize Azaleas again!" He could picture it. So he grinned.

He held on and gave the pencil tip a fresh lick. He heard her say from way off in the background: "Shoo! Shoo!" a few times. Then a more distinct: "Mangy beast, stay on your side of the fence!" He continued to hold and gave the pencil a few more absent-minded tongue licks--just in case. No caller was going to catch this detective off guard, you betcha.

His full first name, if one has to know, is Clubert. His parents named him after his grandfather, Clubert Farney Framingham Sniffer. Yes, the same Clubert F. F. Sniffer who once owned the now infamous Cee Double Eff Ess ranch. To most folks, he was known affectionately as Clubby.

The CFFS ranch raised live-stock, but its sideline business, it was rumored, was raising men's peckers by supplying them with, as was said by most folk at the time: "The purdiest fillies this side of Hell!" It was also rumored that Clubby himself, no less, did most of the first time filly interviews. Just to make sure, mind you, they lived up to the popular saying. Grannie Sniffer, sweet naive thing that she was, never knew of her husband's interviewer's prowess.

Old man Clubert closed up shop, at least the seamy side of the business, before any charges could be filed and he spent the rest of his days denying, and trying to live down, the rumors. This lingering stain on the family name was the main reason young Clubert chose law enforcement as a career.

Oh, a word to the wise: Call him Clubert, Club, or even Clubby, and you'd better have your hospitalization insurance paid fully up. Or a burial plot all picked out, ready and waiting.

When she came back on she sounded winded. "I'm back," she breathlessly cooed. "Thanks for waiting, Detective. I know your time is important." She took a quick breath. "But some beasts just show no respect for other people's property!"

He commiserated. "So true, Ma'am! It'd be nice now, wouldn't it, if cats only had a mind to know better?" He poised the pencil over the pad.

"I meant my neighbor!" she huffed." He has less brains than his cat, he does!"

He felt chastised, so he changed the subject. "How can I be of service Ma'am?" He licked the pencil again. Lick, lick!

Having just passed his forty-fourth year on this planet, Detective Clu Sniffer had no illusions about life, but he did have a fear or two. His primo fear, numero uno, you betcha, was getting older. The thought of it preoccupied his every idle thought.

Somewhere, he knew, there was a recent photograph of his grandfather just doing its damndest to make him a twin. Which was ironic in a way, because Sniffer did resemble his Grandfather when the old man was young. He had cut a dashing figure. Tall, handsome, a rugged face, a smile fit for commercials, and a muscular Adonis-like body that young folk today would call hot. Detective Sniffer still had most of the above intact, but life was doing its best to change all that.

Sniffer knew he was already starting to show the creeping-up-on-you signs of aging. His once enviable crop of red hair was now pushed into a bad comb over, with not enough red hairs available for use, to keep the scalp from showing through--in far too many places.

The wrinkles on his face, especially those around and under his eyes, seemed to him to become more visible with each day that passed. Why, just last week he'd seen himself on the TV and there he was--as big as life!--on the six o'clock news, being interviewed by some dumb-ass reporter about the Bacon Bandito fiasco. He thought he was looking at old man Clubby himself. Got his attention, it did.

If someone asked him, right this minute, what had been said, he couldn't give them word one. All he now remembered about the entire affair was watching a balding, getting-older-than-shit Detective fidget fretfully and constantly adjust his older-than-shit tie.

It was as if he had viewed a stranger. A stranger who somehow, some way, and without his permission, had become the Detective, Clu Sniffer. A Clu Sniffer-type, old-as-shit stranger who was in a Hellbent race to the grave! With its sick mind made up to take him along, just for the ride. It felt to Sniffer as if he was being kidnapped by his older self.

His second fear, that of failure, was a bit more palatable since he felt he had a bit of a handle on it and some control over the end result. He had never failed, so far anyway, in his career. He had solved every case assigned to him, due he believed, to his organizational skills and his ability to pay attention to even the smallest detail. Just like a Holmes. Maybe better.

Hell, he had made Detective in less than three years, dontcha know? The only officer in the history of Police One to have done so. The closest being three years and one month.

However, and there's always a however in life, he had lately started to worry that maybe, just maybe mind you, fear number one was beginning to intrude on fear number two and, hand in hand like ill-fated lovers, they would jump off a cliff and take him with them. He had had that dream more than once.

Old age, he knew, could easily lead to mistakes, and mistakes, he knew, could lead to people saying: "Poor old Detective Sniffer! The day he got older-than-shit, he started making one mistake after the other, you betcha, and next thing you know BLAM! He goes and swallows his nine millimeter! Found him right there, we did, at his well-organized desk, face down on his trusty old yellow, legal-sized pad, right alongside his box of yellow-jacketted number two pencils--all newly sharpened, dontcha know?"

"Could you repeat that Ma'am?" He hadn't heard a word she'd said. Attention, so it's said, is one of the first things to go on the fast road to being older-than-shit.

"I said Detective, it's Ms. Henrietta Higgambotham-Smythington here." Her named rolled so easily and accurately off her tongue, Sniffer deduced she had practiced saying it for quite some time. Nothing gets by Clu Sniffer. He licked the pencil again. Lick, lick! Then he scribbled her name down. Or attempted to.

He scratched his head and looked down at his nearly indecipherable notes. "Well now," he said, perplexed. "Ms. Higgam... hoggem... uh... Ms. Sy... ming... ton, what seems to be the problem?" Memory, so it's said, ranks right up there alongside attention in the getting-older-than-shit brigade. Lick, lick!

"Smythington, Detective! Smy... thing... ton!" She sounded exasperated. Then, as if she now talked to a dim-witted moron, she repeated her entire name, spelled it out, letter by letter, slowly--oh, so slowly--and with more patience than most folks possess.

Sniffer licked the pencil again and wrote the corrections. Shit, he thought, what a name. Then he tapped into his vast organizational skills and wrote below the newly scrawled name: Ms. H -- S. As a backup, just in case. Lick, lick!

He was now ready. "Got it Ms. Higga... " He looked farther down the pad. "Ms. aitch hyphen ess." He paused and expected an interruption. She offered none, so he went on. "Again, Ma'am, what seems to be the problem?"

Ms. Henrietta Higgambotham-Smythington heaved a long sigh. Sniffer read this as a sign that no more lessons would be forthcoming. For which Detective getting-older-than-shit was very grateful. Lick, lick!

She sighed again and said, "I just saw a dirty pig, Detective Sniffer," she sighed once more, "peeking in my bathroom window, with me just coming out of the shower and all." Then she sounded excited. "I nearly died of fright, I did!" He tried to picture the scenario as he wrote. Lick, lick!

Sniffer deduced the woman sounded frightened, annoyed, irked, and in general, highly excited and agitated. Perhaps with a soupcon of anxiousness thrown in for good measure. Such were this detective's infinite powers of deduction using just mere auditory input.

He knew if he could also see, feel, smell, and taste this woman, at this very moment, he would know more about her than she knew about herself. Of course, he reminded himself, one had to be careful, too.

He well remembered the time he had been called on the carpet by Chief 'Poopy Pants' when the way he had handled a suspected murderess had pushed the feel and taste envelopes an inch too far. Lick, lick!

"Please try to be calm, Ms. Higgem... Huggim... Ms. aitch hyphen ess." He hoped she would continue to overlook the abbreviated familiarity he had applied to her name. "Our best officers are already working on it. In fact, Ma'am." He licked the pencil. "They have some pretty good leads that, even as we speak, they're following up." He paused to let his words sink in. He gave the pencil another good lick just in case it was now desperate. Then he went on:

"Now, Ma'am, can you describe this dirty old pig?" He again licked the point of the pencil with his tongue, his legal-sized yellow pad in place. Ever organized was his motto, his mantra, his reason for living. For outliving dying. If lead poisoning didn't get him first, that is.

"Well, where do I begin?" She paused. "Let me think." She paused again. "Oh, yes! I remember. He had red, beady little eyes that seemed to glow brightly as he ogled my poor old naked body up and down!" He heard her gasp. "I felt ashamed. So ashamed... what with me all wet and totally naked as the day I was born... and all glisteny like that." She took a deep breath then added:

"I couldn't cover myself up fast enough, I can tell you, but I had trouble finding my robe so I'm sure he got a real good look, he did." She paused once more and caught her breath again. "But to continue my description of this depraved and sorry soul, let me say that he was just over five feet tall. I know this because he stood a head higher than my prize-winning Rhododendron bushes, with a red tee shirt... " Sniffer jumped right in.

"Ma'am, excuse my interruption, but I'm a bit of an amateur gardener myself... love growing Mums... so tell me Ma'am, why do you put red tee shirts on your Rhododendron bushes?" He took a quick breath. "If it's to keep away the birds, try using aluminum pie tins. You know, the ones that come with those store-bought pies?" He paused to let her think about that. She was. "They really do the trick, they do! Oriental gardeners swear by 'em!" He was pleased at his attempt to lighten up the serious situation a bit.

"Detective!" she said in an exasperated tone even a deaf man could fathom."I meant the man, not the bushes! My word!"

Before Sniffer could offer any form of an apology for his gaffe, she said, "I think the tee shirt, the red tee shirt he wore, Detective Sniffer, had 'Semper Fi' printed on it."

She spelled it out. He wrote it down. He wondered if the eff should be capitalized. She went on. "In white letters I think... I mean, I couldn't see very well as the room was somewhat steamy and my eyes aren't what they used to be... if you know what I mean, Detective Sniffer!" She had emphasized the last part rather huffily, that's for sure. He underlined Semper fi three times. Lick, lick!

He said softly, "I do Ma'am. I sure do... And Ma'am?... You say he was five feet tall? That's one tall pig, Ma'am! Nothing at all like the other one, that little Bacon Bandito fella... " His words were cut short by Ms. Higgambotham-Smythington.

"OTHER ONE?" She said it so loudly he pulled his ear away from the phone a bit. In a normal voice she said, "You mean to tell me there are two dirty pigs running around looking in God fearing people's bathroom windows? Oh, my God!" Sniffer took a quick glance at the phone's mouthpiece.

She raised her voice. "Detective, you'd better send someone 'round here right away, you hear me?" Then yelled. "Right away! I'm scared witless and I demand some form of police protection! You hearing me, young man?" Christ, lady, he thought, the whole friggin' county heard you!

"Oh, yes'm," he said gently to calm her. "I hear you ten-four, Ms. Higgem... uh... Ms. aitch hyphen ess. I'll send around Officer Moldon. He's our best man for catching these dirty old pigs, you can bet on that!" Then he thought of question.

"Ma'am? If he was behind the bushes how did you get to see the letters on the tee?"

"He... uh... stepped out from behind the bushes and just stood there in my walkway. I got a fair look at his chest then, I'll say. Oh, and then he said oink three times and ran away." Clever hog, thought Sniffer.

He wrote down her address and they said their respective goodbyes. He had a look on his face that showed just how relieved he was to have hung up the phone. He placed the pencil into the pencil box with the other sharpies. Point down, eraser up--for safety, of course.

He gave his notes a quick scan, picked up the phone and hit two-two, the squad room's interoffice number. An officer answered on the first ring. "Squad Room! Officer Morton Moldon here!" His voice was crisp and snappy. It also sounded very young. Sniffer knew it was Moldy's phone voice.

Shit, thought Sniffer, did I ever sound that alert? Sure I did. Before my bullshit fears kicked in. Well, Moldy, old buddy, two can play at this game.

Sniffer held the phone tightly and took a deep breath. "Moldy! Detective Sniffer here!" he growled in his best I-can-sound-as-young-as-you-can voice.

"No shit? The Detective Sniffer?" Moldon said.

Sniffer ignored him. "Get your sorry ass over to Ms. Higgem... , " he looked down at his notes, "Ms. Henrietta Higgambotham-Smythington's place." He had said the name quickly and accurately. As a young Detective would. Pleased with himself he went on and sounded as brisk and as young as they come.

"She's had a big, dirty old pig looking in her window and sneaking peeks at her coming out of the shower. Could be that farmer Bliss... uh... Blossomfarten's escaped hog."

He glanced at his notes. "And Moldy, be careful, man! This pig is over five feet tall! You'll get a better idea of his real height by measuring her Rhododendron bushes... seems he's a head taller than they are." He checked his notes again.

"And Moldy, this hog has somehow managed to squeeze its fat ass into a red tee shirt!" He paused and expected at least an "Huh?" from the man. When none came, he continued: