Suspected

I came home, and the police were waiting for me.

The first person to interview me, some low runt from Idaho, concluded I was mentally insane when it was clear I was looking out the window at every chance I got, looking out at him. Idaho claimed there was no one out there.

The second person to interview me, a white-collar thirty-mil jackass from the Big Apple, found me to be perfectly sane and-- as he put it-- 'respectable.' He asked me where I hid my new boss' body. I told him "I didn't." This was only somewhat true.

Apple and Idaho left and said they'd come back with a warrant. They're full of shit; I know enough about the force to know that they're going to stop by with a warrant, they'll look around, and they'll find absolutely nothing besides maybe a few too many tampons for a healthy woman. They'll go back to their low-budget low-cut office and try to look for some new leads on the case of Terrance Englebert, now deceased.

And they'll never expect Terrance's body to show up stringed along a tree miles deep into the woods.