Locked door. Single occupant, female, age 27. No signs of a struggle. Cause of death was strangulation. Body found face-up on the bed.

Three suspects. One witness.

Cal sighed, his breath cutting a thin passage through the haze of cigarette smoke. He rewound the tape and pressed play once again. In all the surveillance tapes, there was nothing to positively incriminate any of them.

He'd tried isolating them, questioning them individually. Good cop, bad cop. Threats. The works. They were all lying about something, but they wouldn't say what Cal wanted to hear. At least one of them, probably all, were guilty to some degree.

He had only one avenue remaining. Wearily, he got up and walked into the interrogation room. There sat the witness, utterly composed and expressionless. He'd seen the whole thing, even though they could confirm that he'd been two rooms away the whole time.

Cal flicked open his lighter and lit another cig. "We have ways of making you talk," he said to the Mime. "It's only a matter of time."