the front porch by the more conventional

This concoction had the texture not of smooth sweet truth but of a cow pie; however, it was his cow pie, and he was going to serve it with enthusiasm. After returning to the front porch by the more conventional route of the door, in consideration of Dalton’s perilous condition, Hazard used his cell phone to call 911. He gave the dispatcher his badge number and explained the situation. “I need paramedics and some jakes here sooner than soon.” As an afterthought he said, “Jakes are uniformed officers.” “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s all right,” she said. “I need a CSU—” “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry,” he said. [566] “Are you new, Detective?” “I’m forty-one,” he said, immediately realizing that his reply qualified for a stupidity commendation. “I mean new to Robbery/Homicide,” she said. “No, ma’am. I’ve been washed so many times I shouldn’t have any color left.” This was, however, his first case involving a ghost, or whatever the hell Dunny Whistler might be when he could shape your dreams and disappear into a mirror. This was also his first involving a phone call from a dead hit man, and his first involving a perp who starved and tortured a victim while keeping him alive on an IV drip. Some days you thought you had seen everything. This wasn’t one of them. Having concluded the 911 call, he darted across the street in the rain, to his department sedan. He stowed the Lockaid lock-release gun under the driver’s seat. By the time he returned to the front porch, he heard approaching sirens.   Coming through the library door, Ethan saw the creased and tattered photograph on the floor. Hannah. The same picture that had once stood on the desk in Dunny’s apartment, that had been torn out of the silver frame.