John Anderson pulled up in front of the crime scene about ten-thirty in the morning. He groaned as he switched off the ignition and willed his body to exit the car. As he stood up his staggering hangover reared its ugly head and sent bolts of pain shooting through his skull. This was followed by wave after wave of dizziness and nausea. He found it difficult to even stand up at the moment, but he had to fake it anyway. The crime scene was already polluted with cops, forensics guys, and reporters. It was actually starting to remind him of Columbus and he was wondering why he had left the big city to become a detective in a small town like Belpre. This was supposed to be the sort of place where nothing ever really happened, least of all a brutal murder that would make Jeffrey Dahmer squeamish. He had been awakened by the call about thirty minutes before. Last night had ended the same way most of his nights did with him drinking about a fifth of bourbon and passing out in his recliner watching crime shows on Netflix.
