Chapter 1

In the end, he called 911.

“911”

“Hello? 911?”

“Yes ... what is your emergency?”

“I think ... I know ... I need the police...”

“911, what is your emergency?”

“My wife is missing.”

“Please call 215-7450.”

He did.

What he didn’t know was 911 had already called. A patrol car was on the way.

“Knoxville Police. Sergeant McDonald speaking.”

“My wife is missing. I think she’s hurt.”

“What?”

“Hold on ... there’s someone at the door.”

She had never gone without telling him before and he was fairly scattered, dropping the phone and answered the door.

Two officers ... both with hands near their pistols. 911 from a private residence was often a ‘domestic asault.’

“That was quick,” he said. “Please, come in.”

Stepping over his cell, rather than stopping in the spotless livingroom, he led the way to the kitchen.

Just inside the doorway the two officers stopped, looked at each other and drew their guns.

The kitchen was a disaster. The walls were covered in blood, chunks of stainless steel and boiled dinner. The lid ... or what might have been the lid ... was buried in the ceiling over the stove. On the stove, heat still on, the remains of the pressure cooker was starting to smoke.

“I think the pressure cooker exploded,” he said, bewildered.

“Where...?” began the lead officer.

“I was in my study, and heard a muffled pop...” he started ... and stopped. He noticed the officers had drawn their weapons. “Do I need a lawyer?”

“Not yet,” said the second cop. He started speaking to his collar. “Yes, sir.” He holstered his pistol, took a pair of nitrile gloves from his pocket, put them on and moved around the lead cop and the ‘suspect’ and shut off the stove. The only thing missing was the wife ... or her body.

Soon, there were a couple of plain-clothes detective and soon after that a van with a pair of technicians ... Forensics printed on their coveralls. The woman tech was the one who noticed the two odd spots in front of the stove. The suspect was in the livingroom with the two officers.

“What size shoe does your wife wear?”

“Three, I think. I hate shopping with her.”

The look the tech gave was definitely a question.

“She could never make up her mind, I stopped shopping with her after the first adventure.” He stopped at the look the tech gave ... and started again, “Adventure ... you never went shopping with my wife... 46 shoe stores ... six pair of sneakers. Would you like to see her shoe closet?”

“Yes.”

Accompanied by the guard, they went to the bedroom. The house didn’t look that big outside. The walk was a trek. Down two flights and down a long hall ... Bedroom and closets. Plural. The ‘shoe closet’ was the size of her apartment. It was full ... all size 3.

She grinned and went back to the scene ... the kitchen. A new pair of gloves and new numbered ziplock. With a swipe of an alcohol wipe over her tweezers she bent in front of the stove and pried a pair of size 3 shoe soles off the tile floor. She had to work at it ... they were really stuck.

There was something wrong here ... glue? No ... the tile had melted.

While she was looking at the tile the pressure cooker lid dropped from the ceiling. It almost hit the tech in the head. She jumped and looked down. She came as close to vomiting as she ever had ... There was a womans face attatched to the lid. It was still smoking.