chapter eight

word count: 443 words

Bud Kramer sloshed the last dredges of scalding coffee down his throat and crushed the Styrofoam cup with one hand, flinging it to the waste can . He wished it was good Irish whiskey, but it wasn't noon yet. No matter how bad things got, it was his rule, no booze before noon. Never. How could those a-holes lose the canister that had contained that fetus? His anger roared to the surface again. Bud Kramer didn't suffer fools well.

It was like the last time, the time where a baby was found in a dumpster, a baby who had been suffocated. Before his forensics team could get the blanket the baby was wrapped in, it disappeared. They'd had nothing to go on to trace where that baby came from. It was a disgrace, almost losing him the election. But luckily, finding evidence to nail the killer of a beautiful young coed got him back in the public's good graces again. But he might not be so lucky this time. No one liked to see an innocent baby abused. And it was his job to bring the monster who did this to justice.

"Bud, you're not gonna believe this. The canisters are back!" It was the voice of his assistant, Red, so-called because of his blazing-carrot topped head of hair.

"What?"

"They found them down the road from the gate. All of them." That man smiled, knowing the implications of finding one can, in particular.

"Did you find the one we want?"

"We're going through them. Should find it soon."

"Okay, tell that warden to put guards around those canisters, and don't let anyone near them."

Stan heard the hullabaloo when the cantainers were found. Stretching to peek out into the yard from his post, he gazed through the barred window to see the canisters arriving back. His heart beat a drum solo that pounded through his head louder than thunder. How did they get back here? Vic had told him the cans were long gone. He needed to get a look, find the one with his prints on it. They'd probably put a guard detail on them since a crime was involved. He glanced at his watch. His shift was about over.

He ran for the yard, running then walking, trying to a be casual, toward the stacked-up canisters. God! Which one was it? The warden stood by, stroking his chin, lost in thought. He spied Stan and called him over.

"Stan, stand guard on these, and don't let them out of your sight."

"Yes, sir." Don't worry. I won't. When I figure out how they got back here though, someone's gonna pay.