“Except no storm has moved through,” Marino says as Tailend Charlie violates my thoughts again, and I remember looking into the etymology after receiving the first mocking audio clip from him.

I say him but I don’t know if the person is male. For the sake of convenience I refer to him as such, and Benton believes it to be true. My profiler husband says my cyber-stalker-poet is a man, an older intelligent and highly educated one, and the question from the start is why he gave himself a handle that’s archaic British slang.

A tail-end Charlie, as it’s more typically spelled with a hyphen, can mean the last batsman in cricket. But it also can also refer to a gunner in the rear of a fighter plane or the last thunderstorm in a squall line. As I pass this along to Chicken Little Marino, I realize all I’m probably doing is reinforcing his fear that the sky really might fall on our heads.

“In other words, just when you think something’s over, the freakin’ worst is yet to come,” he complains as a whiff of rubbing alcohol fills my nostrils.

I watch him open packets of antimicrobial wipes, cleaning the six-inch plastic rulers we use as a scale when photographing evidence.

“One more curious coincidence in a day full of them.” I’m aware that my stomach is somewhat unsettled.

“Yeah but is it really a coincidence?” Marino places each disinfected ruler into a sterile bag, returning all of them to a labeled drawer in his photography case. “You’re saying it is, right? Because you only started getting those recordings a week ago. And now here we are.” His eyes dart around as sweat trickles down his shiny red face framed in Tyvek.

I’m not saying anything one way or another, and I don’t answer him as my patience rubs thinner. Everything is catching up with me. It’s as if I feel the earth shift beneath my feet, a sinkhole about to open up.

“And if you think about it, Doc, a bolt out of the blue is a tail-end Charlie because it’s the last part of a storm that’s moved on, right? Kind of like a last flash for good measure.”

I watch him drop wadded sanitizing wipes into the trash.

“What I’m saying is a rogue thunderbolt, in other words literally a tail-end Charlie, might be what killed this lady. Sure it could just be coincidental in a day full of shit like this—to quote you. It may have nothing to do with your rhyming troll.” His bloodshot eyes look at me. “But what if it does?”

I don’t reply because that’s what I’m afraid of. I don’t want to give my fear a name or form. I don’t want to think or say it.