October, 1964

Goodman had always been too nice, at least as far as Norgaard was concerned. He smiled too much, laughed too much, and drank too little. All the same, he was a good cop, and an even better friend.

And when it came to interrogating suspects, there was no two officers who could 'good cop, bad cop' like Goodman and Norgaard. The trick though, was always figuring out which one was the bad cop. One would think it'd be obvious.

Not so much.

It's the nice ones you gotta look out for, after all.

Aside from the fact that he was an overall good guy, one of the other things that everyone knew about Goodman — but never really said aloud — was that he was tough as nails. The man never took his work home with him, which Norgaard imagined was a huge part of why he was so resilient. He took a break from the death and mayhem.

That was something that Norgaard didn't understand, or appreciate, until many years later.

Tough as nails, but still a family man.

Then again, people are never what you'd expect. Goodman was no exception.

For instance: the man didn't really look like a lieutenant. He looked more like the stereotypical roly-poly cop who ate donuts with coffee on most — if not all — of his many stakeouts. In other words: he was pudgy, and comfortable being that way.

It meant that Norgaard, being not only younger, but in better physical condition, did most of the legwork. In the literal sense.

When it came to chasing down idiots resisting arrest, there was no one faster. He figured it was his long legs.

Though right then, normal things like crackheads and said-idiots were the furthest things from his mind.

Because the Number Eleven case had repeated itself.

The previous year, eleven high school juniors had all disappeared on the same day. They left not a trace. There was no hint at where they could've gone, why they'd gone, or if they were even still alive. The press had taken to calling it the case of the Number Eleven. Or in a few cases, Corduroy's Eleven.

There was some speculation whether it had anything to do with Ocean's 11, which had come out about three years before. Well, three years at the time, it would be four years now. Though honestly the only connection was the number, and Norgaard didn't think they were related.

And now it had happened again.

But this time the missing kids were all high school seniors, which meant they were from the same graduating class as the other missing kids.

It raised some interesting questions.

None of which any of the parents would want to hear.

Goodman sat as his desk, rubbing at his face. When he dropped his hands to the desk, Norgaard noticed that the man had circles under his eyes that put the dark side of the moon to shame. "Leap for joy, clap, squeal with glee, etcetera etcetera. It's the return of the Number fucking Eleven." Norgaard let out a disgusted scoff. "I'm so fucking sick of hearing about it. It's on the TV, it's on the radio, and it's in every goddamn fucking newspaper."

"Language, Doug."

"Fuck language," he snapped. "I don't give a fuck if people don't like my French. It's my French, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna shut up because—"

"Doug, please. I'm trying to think."

Norgaard muttered several other choice words under his breath, but then fell silent.

"There's something we're missing here," Goodman murmured, more to himself than anything else. "There's gotta be. We just haven't seen it yet."

Norgaard snorted, rolling his eyes. "Yeah. It's the number twelve."

"Shush," Goodman said, though Norgaard could tell from his distracted tone that Goodman was simply replying out of habit, and hadn't actually caught what the younger man had said. So they both sat in silence, thinking.

After a while, it was obvious that they'd each reached the same conclusion.

Goodman sighed. "It's one of the other students."

Norgaard nodded, though his bitter temper had cooled some during the silence, and now he just felt a grim sense of resignation. "Like I said, Tim," he muttered. "It's the number twelve."

{ { o } }

For the second time in about 365 days, Norgaard found himself situated in a room full of kids that were just barely over half his age. He recognized most of them, though there were some new faces. It was the new kids that looked the most afraid.

Norgaard wondered what that said about the others.

Or maybe it was just Corduroy. It wasn't exactly a friendly place. Hell, sometimes Norgaard thought he might even prefer living in Missoula. It might be a college town, but it was still safer than fucking Corduroy.

The principal had gathered the entire senior class together in the gym, and they sat in their section of the bleachers, their faces solemn.

Of course.

They'd done this song and dance at least once before.

Norgaard leaned against the nearest wall, and scanned their faces. He doubted very much that their perp — if it was indeed one of the kids — would be so obvious as to give himself away through facial expression, but it was always best to leave no stone unturned. They would also have to visit the kids who'd been absent today as soon as they were done here.

One of the office secretaries was writing them a list.

Goodman stood on the gym floor before the kids, hands tucked comfortably into his pockets. He had a smile on his face, but it wasn't a very happy one. Though you would only notice the sadness if you knew to look for it. Goodman had always had a better poker face than any other man Norgaard knew.

The principal offered him a megaphone, which Goodman politely declined. "I don't have to explain why you kids are here," he said, his smooth baritone carrying easily through the room. "I'll bet it feels a bit odd, like déjà vu. Well, it is gonna be the same song, all over again. Me and my partner," he paused, nodding at Norgaard, who raised a hand in greeting, "are going to ask you all some basic questions. We know you've heard 'em all before, but I hope you'll bear with us so we can locate your friends as soon as possible."

And so they got down to business. Some things Norgaard noticed after talking to about ten of the kids. The ones that had been friends with the missing kids had noticed that their behavior had changed. None of the vics — for that's likely what they were, if he was being realistic — had talked to their friends over the summer. When school had started up again, they'd all been a little off, and distant. They didn't laugh or talk as much.

And they'd all made new friends.

With each other.

And one other student.

But no one knew who that other student was.

It came as no shock to Norgaard that the kids who'd just moved to town were jittery, and frightened. They didn't know much of anything useful.

Except one.

"What's your name, kid?" Norgaard asked as nicely as he knew how.

"F-frank," he stuttered.

"Gotta last name, Frank?"

"Um, Haiden."

"Alright. Mr. Haiden, do you know these kids?" And he waved a hand over the eleven student photos.

Frank swallowed, then nodded. This took Norgaard by surprise. He had a list of all the new students, and Frank's name was on it. He'd started at the beginning of this month. He'd barely had any time to really settle in. Unless the list was wrong...

"You just moved here, correct?"

Again, the boy nodded.

Well, that's interesting... "Which one of these people do you know? Point 'em out for me, if you don't mind."

Frank lightly touched the photo of a girl with long blonde hair and pale eyes. Her name was Isabelle. A lovely little Catholic girl with a warm smile.

"How well did you know her?"

Frank shook his head. "Not that well. I sat next to her in class, she was nice to me. We sorta became friends. Kind of."

"'Kind of'?"

"Well, she was always looking around when we were together. Like she was afraid to be seen with me. When it was just us though, she insisted that wasn't it. In public she was always so... I don't know, she was just... not herself, if that makes sense. Of course, I guess I can't really say that, I mean, like I said, I didn't know her that well."

"Do you know if she ever hung out with anybody else? Did she have any other friends?"

Once more he shook his head. "No, not really. But there was this one girl who was always coming up to her when she was by herself. I don't think she ever saw me, I mean, I hid. She just looked so... I don't know, there was just something in her eyes that was just wrong. Izzy always looked afraid of her. I never asked her about it though. I should have. Maybe if I had..." Frank was crying by this point, his head bowed, and tears streaking down his cheeks.

Norgaard shifted uncomfortably. He never had been able to figure out how to handle crying people. Men, women, kids, made no difference. He was clueless no matter the situation. He reached across the table and awkwardly patted the boy's shoulder. He cleared his throat. "Um, could you — uh, describe this other girl for me?" He asked haltingly, trying not to seem insensitive and likely failing.

Frank sniffed, but nodded.

{ { o } }

"You want the good news, or the bad news first?"

Goodman smiled wearily. "Give me the bad, I'll likely need the good to cheer me up."

"Okay. So bad news is that no one knows exactly who the number twelve is."

Goodman sighed. "Yes, I know. I had about as much success as you did."

"Not quite. See, one thing that I got from the kids is that the vics all became distant, right? They only really talked to each other." He paused, adding a little dramatic emphasis to what he was about to say. "And, one other person. That brings me to the good news. I have a way to find our number twelve. I have a witness who knows what she looks like."

Goodman blinked. "'She'? Our number twelve is female?"

"Yeah, so were Anna Marie Hahn, Bertha Gifford, Jolly Jane Toppan, Lydia Sherman, and so on and so forth."

Goodman chuckled. "They were killers."

Norgaard nodded, "I know."

All the humor left Goodman's face. "We don't know they're dead."

"We don't know they're not," Norgaard fired back. "Look, all I'm saying is that we've got twenty-two missing kids, and only one lead. And I think it's safe to assume that none of those kids are coming back. This person is smart. Really smart. She knows how to cover her tracks, how to leave nothing behind."

His partner nodded. "Fair enough. But if she finds out there's a witness, he's gonna be in danger. I'd say it's best if we keep his existence between us for now."

"Got it. Play our cards close the the chest. Good plan, Goodman." It was an old joke, from when they'd first been thrown together as partners. At the time, it had driven Goodman up the wall, but in retrospect, it never failed to lighten the mood.

Goodman let out an involuntary bark of laughter at the joke, shaking his head. "Let's show this witness of yours last year's yearbook. See if he recognizes our number twelve as one of the students."