“Who reported the murder?” Blair asked as he stepped into a very familiar office. The victim, Roger Sanchez, had been in archeology rather than anthropology, but the stacks of paper and the artifacts crowding the walls and the books packed on the shelves were a familiar sight from his past. “A friend of his who he often had lunch with, Peter Collins,” the secretary answered. Part of Blair was glad for a case that didn’t involve a hysterical victim or some strange Babylonian script being left at vandalism sites as part of a bizarre frat prank. Another part of him wasn’t sure he was ready to face this crime scene. Oh, it wasn't the idea of a body that bothered him as much as the room itself. The victim had been removed, but the office felt like a moment from Blair’s past.

Blair stepped into the room and tried to get a feel for the professor who had been shot point blank in the chest some time after everyone else had gone home for the night. Blair walked around the room admiring the Sudanese masks and the Eritrean rug, the Afrikaner shipping manifest and the Libyan flute, the Mayan figurine and the Peruvian hat. Sanchez had a wide range of interests, but the pictures of his expeditions made Blair wonder what his life would have been if he had stayed in this world.

“He’s…” a broken voice started, and Blair spun around, his heart beating madly as the stranger appeared out of nowhere. What the hell were the uniformed cops doing out there because they sure weren’t keeping people back. The skinny, middle aged man had a long face, and a casual suit that hung from his frame. “He’s dead,” the man whispered.

“Mr. Collins?” Blair asked, finally making a connection. The man nodded. “Mr. Collins, maybe we should talk somewhere else,” Blair suggested softly. The man ignored him and walked to spot right in front of the large desk, his eyes focused on where, at one time, Sanchez’s chair had sat. Sanchez was gone, the crime scene unit had taken the chair out to collect detailed samples. Despite this, Blair suspected that Collins could still see what he had found this morning.

“Mr. Collins?” Blair said a little louder, and a shiver went through the man’s frame as he reached out and braced himself with one hand on Sanchez’s desk. So much for preserving the scene. Oh well, the man had found Sanchez, so his fingerprints were probably on the desk already.

“Mr. Collins?” Blair called louder and this time the man’s head tilted toward him and his fingers slowly traveled the smooth wood of Sanchez’s desk. “Maybe we should talk in your office.” Taking the man by the arm, Blair guided him out of the crime scene.

Blair spent an unproductive hour with the primary witness who seemed utterly unable to process the image of death he’d seen. Blair remembered seeing that first body floating in a bathtub, a yellow scarf wrapped around her neck, and he couldn’t blame Collins for being shaken. Sanchez had not been a pretty sight with six bullets through his chest. Definitely overkill. Definitely someone with a personal ax to grind. In the end, he got little more than Collins had offered on the 911 call, but he dutifully typed up the extra details in his laptop before heading back to Sanchez’s office.

Finding the office disturbingly familiar, Blair wandered the perimeter trying to get to know Sanchez, maybe understand why someone would feel so much anger towards a middle-aged archeologist. The longer Blair was a detective, the more he understood that driving need to find the truth and give justice to the people left behind.

Blair fingered a South American carving of a protector god, and he realized that as much as he loved anthropology and archeology, he love helping people more. He certainly never intended to have this life, but all those years of putting clues together had made him into a damn good cop. Maybe he still couldn’t compete with Bets or certain other people when it came to intimidating confessions out of people or tackling a suspect, but he had other strengths. A voice broke into his thoughts as his partner of the day came into the small office.

“So, didn’t you used to be into all this stuff?” Jeff asked in a tone that carried curiosity but not the hostility the Cascade cops had always used when discussing his past.

“Yeah, used to,” Blair admitted as he ran his fingers through his shortened hair.

“Must be weird, being back then.”

“It’s like visiting an old friend I don’t get to see very often any more,” Blair admitted fondly. And maybe it was the act of saying the words, but for the first time, Blair realized that anthropology was no longer a cherished lover and confidante but rather a simple friend, missed but not vital to his survival. Blair smiled as he walked out of the office

“What do you mean?” Blair asked as he shifted his leather messenger bag on his arm.

“Please, the vic was a professor with a clean financial record—no drugs, no gambling, no suspicious spending. How many enemies could he have?”

“Man, you have no clue,” Blair said fondly, shaking his head.

“Okay, enlighten me, oh enlightened one.” Blair gave Jeff a strange look, and Jeff just shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, not really quick on the quips today, late night,” Jeff admitted.

“Okay, I will then. The first category would be students. Oh man, you have not seen anything until you see a college quarterback benched by a grade or some guy who can’t get his company to reimburse his tuition because he only got a C instead of a B. Not pretty. So we might want to look at students he failed last semester or students he is failing this semester.

“Then there are the other professors. You may think professors are these kind-hearted teddy bears, but oh no. The competition over grant money and tenure can get vicious. Asking around with the staff will probability give us the names of any of the other professors he was in a pissing contest with.

“Then again, there are the activists who accuse archeologists of raping the cultural heritage of a country for profit, and man, I totally understand their point of view, but not all archeologists are like that, and some of these activists are just,” Blair whistled sharply and waved his hand palm down at shoulder level to indicate the level of nutsy some of the activists reached.

“And then you have to remember that professors are still people with love lives and quarrels, and I figure that’s enough to keep us busy for a day or two,” Blair stopped as Jeff looked at him thoughtfully.

“Frizz, I’m glad you decided to join the force. It’s safer,” he quipped before slapping Blair on the arm and heading toward the exit.

“Hardee-har-har, man. Hardee har-har.”

"Okay, that is more information that I needed to know," Jeff complained as he guided their car around an old sedan with an ancient driver.

"What? Homophobic?" Blair knew that Arizona was pretty damn conservative and homophobia was at epidemic levels, but Jeff had never struck him as one to care.

"Don't go there. What people do in their own homes is their own business as long as I don't have to think about it too much." Jeff paused for a second. "Or see it. I really don't want to see it." Jeff smiled and his sharp features took on a very fox-like appearance. "Then again I don't want to see Bets having at it either, although I wouldn't mind a look at Maria in the act." Blair aimed a backhanded slap at Jeff's arm, and the man gave him a sharp, "Hey!" for his efforts.

"Okay, if it's not homophobia, why does the idea of Sanchez and Collins offend you?" Blair asked curiously.

"Come on, they're geek boys. I don't like the thought of either of them getting busy with anyone."

"Oh man, you are pathetic. So... how do you expect scientists to reproduce?"

"I don't. I mean, hey, if they absolutely have to, they can do some geeky science thing, but anyone that pale and that skinny and that... geeky has no right to be getting busy. It makes for a bad mental image."

"Some geeky thing?" Blair crossed his arms in challenge. After all, he had his own geeky past to defend.

"Yeah, like artificial insemination or something."

"Maybe immaculate conception?" Blair asked as he tried not to laugh. Jeff turned away from the traffic long enough to shoot Blair a death-glare.

"I'm going to say yes even though I'm trying not to think of how that applies to Sanchez and Collins, 'cause the thought of either of them pregnant is worse than thinking of them getting it on."

"Well I suppose there is the old story of Horus's birth from the Papyrus of Ani. The spirit of Ra and the spirit of Osiris met and 'poof' Horus just showed up. So, you want geeks to do that sort of thing?"

"It'd be nice if they could. Much better mental image."

"Of course then there's the South American tale of the woman who got pregnant when the skull of a fallen hero spit on her."

"And I'm thinking that she was telling her father a little white lie with that one."

"Hey, it's an epic tale of good and evil. Reproduction is often a central theme in ancient times when the ability to reproduce determined who had heirs and allies."

"Really? I just thought it was sex."

"Oh man, not in ancient hero stories. Then again, sometimes it's about not having the sex. When Set was trying to steal the rulership of Earth from Osiris, he cut his brother up into pieces and made sure that Osiris' genitals would never be found."

"Okay, if he's cut up into pieces, what the hell difference does a missing cock make?"

"Osiris' wife put him back together, but she couldn't find his genitals."

"Okay, that's just disturbing. Actually that's a worse image than Sanchez getting it on, pre or post murder." Blair shivered in horror at that particular thought, but he still had some revenge to get.

"Not as disturbing as the next part. She made him cock out of clay and so she could get pregnant." Blair watched as Jeff's head snapped over to him. Blair had to work to suppress the smile as he considered how to work the next bit into the conversation.

"You're shitting me. These people obviously did not understand biology very well.” Navigating into the carpool lane, Jeff headed back for the station.

"Yeah, well it was all about reproduction. After Set attacked Horus to try and get Earth, Horus grabbed Set's genitals in his hand and crushed them."

"Oh god... you did not have to tell me that!" Jeff complained as he squirmed in his seat.

"Yep, Set threw some shit at Horus, and Horus reached out and grabbed Set's cock and balls and started squeezing." Blair pulled out the last word with a long eee sound accompanied by him holding out his hand and slowly closing it in demonstration.

"Okay, stop."

"There's this really interesting wall art in a pyramid in..."

"Stop!"

"And then Ra stabbed himself in the genitals," Blair couldn't contain his smile now as Jeff's lips pursed together in disgust.

"Okay, enough,” Jeff nearly shouted. “Some things just don't need to be said."

"Yeah, well man, next time you start picking on the geeks, just remember that I have years of anthropology and cultural studies behind me. I've got mutilated genitals stories from a dozen different countries."

"Damn you geeks are vicious little shits."

"Yep," Blair agreed with a smile.

"What type of aftershave do you use?"

"Why? Am I offending your nose?" Jeff asked as he stuck his head in the spacious bathroom previously owned by the dead Sanchez.

"Look," Blair gestured toward the tipped garbage can when a bottle of Armani aftershave lay partially buried by the crumpled tissues and an empty package of condoms.

"And?" Jeff asked with an exaggerated tone. Blair reached across the man and pulled open the medicine cabinet where a half full bottle of Parisian's Pure Indulgence aftershave sat on the third shelf. Jeff raised one eyebrow in a comical expression.

"Und ver-ry interesting," he said in a fake accent that was half Schultz from Hogan's Heroes and half bad New York gangster. Blair rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, well I don't think Sanchez lived here alone," Blair said as he put the silver trash container on the counter.

"Good catch, Frizz. Let's bag the Armani crap and send it for prints," Jeff said as he wandered out of the bathroom.

Blair headed for the kitchen. Opening the cupboards, he found chips and salsa sitting next to granola bars. Oh yeah, Sanchez hadn't lived here alone. Blair collected several boxes on the table for the criminologists to dust. Wandering up to the bedroom, Blair opened the closet. Unsurprisingly, the clothes stood spread out on the bar evenly. Too evenly. Blair was willing to bet that someone had recently removed clothing from half of this closet and had then spread out Sanchez's clothes to make it look like he lived alone.

Walking over to the bed, Blair completely broke protocol by sitting on the bed. He was willing to bet that Collins and Sanchez had been family, but in the face of a police investigation, Collins had fled. Now the only question was whether it was a murderer's guilt or fear of homophobia that had driven Collins from the home he had obviously shared with his lover.

Family filled the rows closest to the coffin with professors taking the middle rows, and crying students gathered near the back. Collins was in back with the students, and Blair could see three female students huddled around him protectively. Sanchez's three brothers sat near the front, the youngest flinching at every audible sob.

Blair listened as one family member after another rose to go to the microphone and talk about the murdered professor. His father spoke of a child who had loved books and worked to pay his own way through college. His older brother talked about the time Sanchez spent volunteering in his community in the eighties. As Blair listened to each family member rise and speak, he realized that Sanchez was a stranger to those people who remembered the child Sanchez had once been, but who didn't seem to know the man now.

No one mentioned the Mexican dig site from the photograph Sanchez had enlarged and hung on his living room wall. None of the speakers brought up the three awards Sanchez had earned for various articles he'd published. People really didn't talk about the gay-support group that Sanchez sponsored every Wednesday, working with students identified as at risk by the student services department. And not one soul mentioned Collins who sat in the back row trembling with grief.

Blair watched the crowd as the pall bearers carried the coffin out of the chapel and out into the graveyard. Sanchez's mother wept until her husband, a solid looking man with a grey mustache had to support her. Blair had the uneasy feeling that the real Sanchez had been a stranger to these people.

Blair rubbed his hand over his now much shorter hair as he watched the family pass. The youngest brother, a quiet man in his thirties carrying the back of the coffin glared at Collins as he passed the back rows of the church. Interesting. Collins drew himself up to his full proud five foot five and glared right back. Very interesting.

The procession out to the gravesite was slow and hot and miserable with the morning sun already pounding the ground and reflecting off every available hard surface: the sidewalk, the concrete benches, even the statues.

Blair tried to keep back, well aware that as the police officer investigating the crime he wasn't part of this collective grief, but he also regretted both the death of a man he was quickly coming to respect and the chasm that seemed to exist between the man he knew through his investigation and the man the family seemed to know. He couldn't help find it sad when people who loved each other were reduced to being mere strangers.