I toss my clothes on the couch and take a two-minute shower. After rubbing Icy Hot into my lower back, I throw on some fresh sweats, a fresh hoodie, wrangle my cell out of the pocket of my sweatpants on the couch, and look at the time.

3:22 a.m.

I have a lot to accomplish in thirty-eight minutes.

Fifteen minutes later, I am holding the pay phone in my hand. It is the only pay phone I know of and it happens to be at Summer Park. I'm not overly concerned with anyone seeing me, but I pull the beanie down and flip up the hood of my sweatshirt, which I'm guessing makes me look all that more suspicious. The 911 call is simple and short: there is a dead woman at 1561 Sycamore.

There is a squad car parked in front of the house when I return and I take the back entrance to my condo.

Peeking through the curtains, Lassie on my lap, busily licking his hind paws, I watch as three more squad cars arrive, followed fittingly by a van with Alexandria Crime Scene Unit inscribed on the side.

With one minute left, I give one last glance out the window at the dancing red and blue lights, then lie down on my pillow. Lassie snuggles up next to me.

After sleeping on the ground two nights in a row, I'm quite happy to have made it back to my bed, but as I close my eyes, I can't shake the feeling I've forgotten something.

Something important.

...

I'm surprised to find Lassie still curled up next to me twenty-three hours later. He bats his eyes at me and he still looks tired. I think he would happily have slept for another twenty-three. But I don't have a litter box and I'm guessing he has to take care of business.

I open the door to a small third-story balcony. I have a long dead plant and I rip it from the planter and scatter the remaining dirt in a heaping mound.

Lassie is still on the bed and I tell him, "Go pee and poop on that mound of dirt."

To my absolute amazement, he does.

Holy shit.

"Good dog."

I head to the opposite window and peer out. There are still two police cars parked in front of the house. Crime scene tape has been strung around the perimeter of the wrought iron fence.

I plop down in front of my laptop and pull up the local news.

Young Woman Slain.

Being that Alexandria is only fifteen minutes from the White House and is home to a huge percentage of bigwigs, I expect a bigger story, but the report is just the basics. No name. No age. Simply that a woman was found strangled in the garage of her home in Alexandria. No suspects.