Bullock

"What's this about lesbo banter? You never told me anything about lesbos before, Katie."

She hates that nickname. And he's too stubborn to use anything else. And she really can't do anything about it, either. Other than tell him off. Again.

"Right. We got ourselves a cold stiff, obviously. Mid-thirties, Caucasian. Single. Probable cause of death was a small explosive; think a grenade, but more personal. Probably another costumed freak killing."

He pauses for a minute, finishes a doughnut-a caloric monstrosity that resembles the unholy love child of a Boston Creme and a French Cruller.

"We've gone over the scene, but they'll probably want to do it yourselves. We've got pictures of everything, so you should be fine against contamination."

As the two make their entrance, he sighs.

"Oh, bite me, Mr. Monocle. What the hell is up with that, anyway? You go half-blind because you work with your hands too much?"

Luigi, 12 hours earlier

The doors of the prison open, and carrying a single duffel bag, Luigi walks outside the walls for the first time in five years.

Prison had changed him, there was no denying that. But he had used his time well. Had honed his skills. Had tried to stay out of trouble, to be a model prisoner.

There was no car waiting for him; he had no close friends or associates to pick him up. But he was out. And a new beginning awaited.