He stood at the open door, and touched his hat. She still didn’t move, just stood with her shoulders slumped and hair forward over her face.

“Alison, I’ll call if we find out anything, okay?” There was the slightest hint of a nod. Kramer exhaled and shut the door.

Doesn’t look like any breakup I ever seen, he thought as he jumped back in his cruiser and eased away from the curb. He headed straight over to the missing man’s house. Mr Marc Rice lived right on Knob Hill Park at the end of Alpine Lane – ten minutes away.

Kramer slowed as he turned into the street. It was coming up to three in the morning, and it was tomb silent. He wound down the window as he pulled over exactly where Alison had told them she had seen her boyfriend for the last time, earlier in the evening. He switched off his car, and listened to the engine tick as it cooled – there was nothing else – no sound, no motion.

His eye caught movement and his neck wrenched as he swung around quickly. Several large fat cockroaches were heading single file along the gutter toward the park. They moved quick and with purpose. In a moment, they had entered the grassed area and vanished into the dark void.

“Good riddance,” he whispered.

Looking to the sidewalk, he saw that it still glistened from the spillage mentioned in the report. He grimaced as several cockroaches stopped at its edge, seemed to taste it, and then headed at top speed into the park. He pushed open the door, stepped out and stretched his back.

Kramer wrinkled his nose; the air stank of a strange fishy odor. “Phew, garbage day.”

He pulled his long black flashlight free and held it up in his fist. He then touched the button on the mic attached to his shoulder. “Sal, going to check out the park at Knob Hill. Over.”

“Okay, Will: stay in contact and take care,” the voice said in among the crush of electronic noise.

“You got it. Kramer out.” He swung the flashlight around. There was nothing but the foul odor. Stepping up onto the pavement, he saw that the black spillage marks had mostly dried, but still left a silvery snail trail that shone stickily in his beam.

“Nice.” He walked slowly toward the park, unconsciously placing his steps to avoid crushing leaves, roaches, or making any noise. He didn’t know why, but he had the urge to be as silent as humanly possible. He came to the park edge and its fringe of trees. For the most part the park was empty save for scrubby bushes and a huge rocky outcrop that gave the area its name. Normally this time of year it was dry and smelled of dust, and not much else.

Knob Hill Park wasn’t exactly a showpiece, like some of the national park areas closer to Bald Mountain that had willows, alders, cottonwoods, and sedges with Idaho fescue and bluebunch wheatgrass growing underneath. This was more an open space favored by dirt bike riders on weekends, much to the chagrin of the peace-loving residents nearby.