Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." by Bad-Boy Storyteller Page B

sizable amount of cleavage.
    Michelle wanders into the Friesens’ restaurant-style kitchen, wondering why a man in his position would be banging a stripper. Could he be responsible for her death? Then, she yells twice more, out through sliding glass doors into a well-manicured backyard, complete with swimming pool, fire pit, and volleyball net. “Must be nice,” she says to herself.
    Upstairs Cools searches methodically room by room until he reaches the master bedroom. A whisper inside his head warns him to move cautiously, as a cold breeze brushes past. He pulls his weapon from its holster. Again he calls through a partly open door, “Trace…Trace Friesen, are you in here?” Still no answer, so warily he nudges it open, and there he finds the man he’d just spoken to forty-five minutes earlier, holding a gun in his lap. The deputy mayor is slumped back over a red chair against a backdrop of bloody material. Cools’s first thought is Michelle; he can hear her downstairs, still calling for the man, and knows they should no longer be seperated. Subsequently he heads back down the stairs, past framed pictures hung on the wall, the survivors of the deceased, as well as a large crucifix pronouncing the faith of his home. He rounds the corner near the bottom of the staircase and catches her eye. “Found him,” he says, in a defeated tone.
    “He’s not…?”
    “Yeah, partner he is. And it looks like he did it himself.”
    “You’ve got to be freaking kidding me.”
    “I wish I was.”
    Once more, with Michelle close behind, Cools enters the cold room, this time spotting Trace’s phone near his bare feet. He pulls a set of clean latex gloves out of his jacket pocket. He puts them on and carefully picks up the phone, pressing redial.
    “Suicide crises and prevention.”
    “Did you just receive a call from this number?”
    “Sorry, sir, we do not have caller ID; it’s to keep everything anonymous.”
    “Well, I am a detective from the Seattle Police Department; a call was made from this number at 11:51, just ten minutes ago, and—”
    “Oh my God,” the girl cries, “did he do it?”
    “Are you the person he spoke with?” Cools asks, ignoring her question.
    “No…no, it was Maggie; she’s in the back, freaking out.”
    “I need you to put her on the line right now,” he demands.
    “Ah…all right then…Hold on. I’ll see if I can get her.”
    Then, as he waits for the hotline girl, he watches his partner suspiciously investigating the scene, and remembers just how resilient she is.
    “This is Maggie.” Her sobbing voice comes over the air.
    In an effort to deflect from the emotional state of affairs, he speaks candidly with her. “Maggie, are you the person who spoke with Mr. Trace Friesen?”
    “Yes,” she replies, holding back the tears.
    “What did he say to you, Maggie?”
    She pulls it together, answering, “He was making comments about Joshua, the crazy radio caller, killing his wife. He said he was in love with her.”
    “Maggie, are the phone calls recorded?”
    “Yes.”
    “Listen up, Maggie. I cannot go into everything right now, but I need to interview you ASAP. I’m going to send a cruiser out to pick you up, and it is very important that you do not talk about this to anyone, okay?”
    “I don’t think I can…,” she replies reluctantly. “Not now, I—”
    “Maggie, yes you can, and you will. And make sure you have the tape.” With that he hangs up and lowers his tone to attend to Michelle. “Have you found anything?”
    “Not much. It seems pretty clear what’s happened here,” she replies, from a crouched position, searching the floor around the body.
    “Are you all right, Michelle?” he inquires, like a protective older brother.
    “Yes, I’m all right, Brad,” she replies defensively. Then she stands glaring at him, folds her salon-styled hair behind her ears, and validates herself further. “I’m fine. I’m a grown woman, and I can handle this. You just