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willing to accept a little glue-induced brain fuzziness if it means banishing that horrid pulp smell.”
    In front of us, dozens of printing presses stretched back into the cavernous building, their ink-soaked printing cylinders whirring and spinning as they ate paper and spat printed sheets out the other end. A balding guy holding a clipboard stood nearby. Ink blackened his hands, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, though that meager attempt at self-cooling hadn’t prevented large sweat stains from spreading out into his pits and onto his back. He looked at us as we stepped forward.
    “Um…can I help you?”
    I flashed the guy my badge. “I’m Daggers. This is Steele. We’re with homicide. Are you in charge here?”
    The guy gave me a look somewhere around the intersection of Dumbfounded Street and Consternation Avenue. “Uhh…what’s this about?”
    “Do you know a guy by the name of Terrence Mann?”
    The blank look stare-off continued.
    I put a hand up to around my clavicle. “About yea high. Curly brown hair. Kind of on the soft side.”
    Something clicked in Clippy’s head. “Oh, yeah, that guy. You’ll want to talk to Yates. He’s the night manager. I think he’s still around, actually. We’ve been swamped lately.”
    I waited for a moment, but Clippy just stood there.
    “You want to point me in a general direction, there, sport?” I asked.
    The pit-stained one pointed into the whirring machinery.
    I gave a nod of thanks as we ventured into the cloud of ink and sound.
     

9
    We found Yates laying on a wheeled creeper, half-hidden under a malfunctioning printing press, machine grease smeared across his hands and forearms. After poking him with my toe, he grudgingly rolled out from underneath the contraption and stood up.
    Giant bags under his eyes made it appear as if he hadn’t slept in a week, much less one night. He wiped his face with a filthy rag before using it to slick back his hair, which, based on the way it undulated, I could only assume contained copious amounts of the same grease that lubricated his presses. I hoped his hair was naturally black and not that way due to a total disregard for personal hygiene.
    “Well? What do you want?” he snapped. “I’m busy.”
    I had to shout to make myself heard over the whirr of the presses. “I’m Daggers. This is Steele. Homicide.” I showed him my badge. “We need to ask you a few questions about Terrence Mann.”
    Yates’ eyes darted between me and my partner. “What about him? Is he dead?”
    “In a word—yes,” I said.
    Yates flipped his rag over his shoulder. “Great. Fan-fricking-tastic. That’s all I need right now.”
    “Um…is everything ok?” asked Steele.
    “Do I look ok to you?” he asked. “I’m tired, stressed, overworked, and I’ve just found out I’ve lost one of my best guys. This happens every time we have a big order come in. Well, not the guy keeling over part. I meant the workload. But does upper management care? No. You’d think they’d see we’re dying down here on the floor—no pun intended—and hire some more guys, but I swear those fat cats in charge don’t give a damn. They’re just in it to line their own pockets with as much cash as they can carry. Honestly, if I had any other option I’d run for the door. I’m sick of this crap.”
    I pumped the brakes. “Whoa there, guy. I can understand your frustration. We’ve put in our fair share of time in the trenches. Well, I have anyway. Steele only recently had the silver spoon removed from her mouth.” I got an evil glare for that comment. “But we really don’t need your life story. If you can answer a few questions, we’ll let you get back to work.”
    Yates crossed his arms and scowled. “Fine. What do you need?”
    “Tell us about Mann.”
    Yates shrugged. “He was a model employee. Came in to work on time, did his job, and kept his mouth shut. It’s one of the reasons I’m so upset. He’s going to be hard to