Harry Potter and the Lake They Call Michigan

Chapter 2 Large Shared Rooms with Pastries

A police station in Chicago- 2:30 pm

The first person we see at the station is Lt. Welsh, munching on a drippy jelly filled. "Detective, correct me if I am incorrect, but I thought I ordered you to take the afternoon off," he talks around his coffee cup, washing down his donut.

"Yes, lieutenant." I salute stiffly.

"So what, pray tell, is your ugly mug doing in my squad room?" His breath comes out white powdery, as he just took another bite.

"Suffering, sir," I nod my head toward my partner. Welsh pretends to think on that, scratching his chin.

"Upon reflection, I imagine that pleases me." He swallows the last of his coffee and cringes at the taste of it. "So what do you got?" This last was directed at Fraser, who was already sitting at my computer clicking away on the Interpol site. Fraser tells him all about the 'highly unfruitful series of events' while, as usual, magicnetically attracting Frannie, who saunters over.

"Hi ya' Frase, can I help you with that?" She leans over Fraser, assaulting his shoulder with her cleavage, her arm draped across his back.

"Thank you kindly, Francesca, however I have already accessed the information I was looking for." As he says this, he turns his head so he can look her in the face but instead gets a 3-D of her chest. "Oh, pardon me . . . I mean I . . . oh, what was that you said Ray?" The blushing Mountie sputters as he clumsily stands up and away from Frannie.

"Oh, geez, Frannie give him some air!" I say, pulling her back by the arm. She gives me a look and turns back to the computer and sits down to read the screen. "Hey, that's my chair."

"So what?" she snaps.

"So, so . . . you're getting your girl smells all over it." She really does smell. Course she smells like Red Door, so that's not really a problem, unless I go someplace where me smelling like perfume would be trouble, like anywhere.

"Oh, please, I'll spray it down for cooties before I leave, okay!"

"Good, that's all I'm asking for, ya' know, a little consideration. So, sis, what's it say?" I got to pick on her for the cover. I mean, it wouldn't be normal if I didn't abuse my little sister right. So it has nothing whatsoever to do with defending Fraser's honor or something.

"Ooh, this is a bad guy. He burned a guy alive in the middle of the street, in front of witnesses and everything. He escaped from a maximum security in Scotland. Is that what they call the Yard Frase?"

"Uh . . . No, Francesca, Scotland Yard is not in Scotland," he answers with a smile pulling at his mouth.

"That can't be right. Can it?" Like Frannie knows about Scotland better than one of Her Majesty's Finest.

"Yes, it can, Frannie," I pipe up, "If Fraser says it ain't in Scotland, it ain't in Scotland."

"I'm just sayin', Scotland Yard ought'a be in Scotland."

"It is in England, London to be precise." The smile is really threatening now. Someone other than me could almost see it, if they looked long and hard.

"Then why is it called Scotland Yard?" She asked for it.

"That is quite an interesting story, in fact; the precise derivation of the name is uncertain however, two stories have come to prominence. Firstly the original site of the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police, 4 Whitehall Place, is said to have been a residence once owned by the Kings of Scotland before the Union. It may have been used to house their ambassadors, a Scottish consulate of a sort. Alternately, the name may have come from the fact that the site backed onto a court called Great Scotland Yard which was perhaps named for one of the landowners during the Middle Ages, a man by the name, as you may have surmised, of Scott. Subsequent sites which have housed the headquarters have inherited the name with the word 'new' prefixing the term on more than one occasion."

"If we could get back to the subject at hand people. Any connections here in Chicago?" Luckily, Welsh takes over saving us all from Constable Didactic.

"No," Frannie starts reading again. "He killed one Peter Pettigrew on November 2^nd of '81. Was sentenced to life in prison and was transferred to a maximum facility on the 5^th of November of the same year. Wow, Frase, that Scottish justice is fast."

"That does seem a tad quick. Even if he had confessed, the inquest still should have caused a longer delay than three d . . . Pardon me, did you say Pettigrew?" The crinkly-eyed, deep thinking look is back. "I could have sworn that was the name Black gave to the man he was following. Francesca is there any information on Pettigrew?"

"Just the Coroner's report, I'll grind it up."

"That's 'punch it up' Frannie," I say and she sticks her tongue out at me. "So, Black was chasing a dead guy through the streets of Chicago. How'd he manage that trick?" I hate when cases get weird and this one is weird after only an hour.

"It would appear that Pettigrew is a live dead person." And he says that like I should know what the hell he is talking about.

"Ya' mean like a zombie Frase?" He can't mean that, right? But, then again I remember some funky stuff in Vecchio's old case files, stuff that kinda' don't make sense unless you buy into some weird theories.

"No Ray, a live dead person, not an undead person." Like that clears it up.

"So, like a zombie?" Frannie's either my echo or stuck on a five second delay.

"No, not undead, just falsely presumed dead." Okay, maybe that is making some kinda' Canadian sense, but I don't have my Earth to Canada Dictionary on me.

"Eww, all they found was a finger." Frannie has kept reading into the Coroner's report I guess.

"Or that is all there was to find." Fraser's got to be at least two steps ahead of us. "Which means that Pettigrew didn't die in 1981 and Black would, of course, be looking for Pettigrew to clear his name."

"Ya' mean he cut off his finger to fake his own death? That is just a little over the top." Yeah, I'm catching on. Welsh, always the voice of reason, brings it all together;

"All right, Constable, let me see if I get this straight. You spotted an international fugitive from a mug shot you glanced at once sometime last week, and said fugitive was chasing a 'live' dead guy, who may or may not be a Zombie, through the lunch crowd on Wacker and when you corner them they manage to both vanish into thin air and spook the wolf. This leads you to the dubious conclusion that our fugitive, an escapee from a Scottish maximum security prison, is innocent and his victim mutilated himself so as to convince the world of his own deadness. Have I left anything out?"

"Did I hear that right? Ray, you and the Mountie're hunting zombies and disappearing suspects?" Dewey can't mind his own business for anything, nosy parker.

"Don't forget rats and big black dogs." Wherever Dewey goes Huey is sure to follow.

"Like 'The Hound of the Baskervilles'?" ponders Dewey.

"No, no that was a werewolf," Huey.

"No, Lon Chaney Jr. was a werewolf. Wait, no he was the Wolf man," Dewey.

"Oh, that's right the Hound of the Baskervilles was a devil dog," Huey. It's like watching a doofus tennis match.

"Okay, I'm sure the Hound of the Baskervilles was not a tasty lunchbox treat?" I can't stay out of it.

"No, that's the Hound of the Bakervilles," Huey keeps going. Why do I bother?

"Hey, did Lon Chaney Jr. ever play a baker?" Dewey again. Fraser can't seem to stay out of it either;

"Not to my knowledge, but he did play a character named Shorty who was, if I'm not mistaken, a cook in the 1940 Cecil B. De Mille film Northwest Mounted Police, which happens to be a personal favorite of mine." I wonder why.

"You hungry?" Huey to Dewey, "Let's get something to eat." They leave. Welsh and Frannie have drifted off too, but the Mountie just keeps on going.

"De Mille imported 300 pine trees to the set because he thought a soundstage forest would look more real on screen than location shooting in Canada. Interestingly enough, the film was nominated for Academy awards for both Best Art Direction and Best Cinematography, as well as editing, score and sound. However, it only won for editing. Texas Ranger Dusty Rivers teams up with the R.C.M.P. in search of a whiskey trader oblique stoke murderer named Corbeau against the background of the Riel Rebellion of 1885."

"Dusty Rivers huh? Isn't that a contradiction in terms? Come on Fraser, let's get going. This case is a dead end."

***

The Common Room 8:30 pm

The lilting sound of tuba and accordion music fill the air. I don't even look up from my divination essay. This is Fred and George's new hobby; a cover band for some Muggle rock star named Weird Al. It is just annoying. I know as much about Muggles as the twins, but the lyrics still make no sense to me. Somehow, the rest of the house seems to like it, just like everything else the twins do. So anytime they start playing, it turns into instant party. Someone has brought out butterbeers and pumpkin pasties and everyone is getting into it, except me. At least, no one is bleeding tonight. When they get to the lyrics, I cannot help but pay attention. This is one they have been working on for a few days, but they have changed the words some.