Joseph/Not-Joseph ran. Not-Joseph knew not for how long, because it no longer knew of time in society's terms. Immune to the frost-ridden wind, it reveled in the scents of night. A cat in an alley, scurrying to elude this strange being, the bitter odor of a car's exhaust, a dilapidated old man hoarding cheap wine beneath layers of clothing. It passed these by, however, finding nothing as a valid threat, and therefore not suitable to hunt. These few nights a month, with an almost euphoric feeling, Joseph would cast off the petty faults and desires of, so that he could pursue people of the city who disregard the law. Although he was aware of his actions during these monthly "walks", his will was trivial when making decisions. He played a small role in his alter-ego's whims, but the wild within had natural laws inclining Not-Joseph to pursue only the corrupt. So he/it ran, and stopped only upon finding the scent of fear. Tonight, however, all remained as it should be. After making its uniform rounds, Not-Joseph resigned itself to the shallow sleep of the righteous, the sleep of those who find themselves fighting against an oncoming tidal wave.

The next morning, Joseph rose out of bed, cooked some breakfast, put on some sweatpants, and had sat down, when his solitude at the table was broken by the entrance of his bloodhound, Max. The dog waddled over to his master, tentatively sniffing his leg. Glancing down, Joseph said, "Hi there buddy. You pickin' up some stuff from last night?" Max's face illuminated at Joseph's voice, and he looked up, diligently wagging his tail. "Oh, I get it," he said, fixing a reproaching look on the dog. "a master's love isn't enough, you want eggs. So be it, Sir Max." Joseph, barefoot, walked over the tiled kitchen floor, and began forking the remains of his breakfast into the dog's bowl. Max immediately followed, expressing his deep apology by licking Joseph's hand. "That's better. Now just make sure you scarf slowly, lugnut. I don't want you to choke because I decided to be generous today." As Max ate his treat, the phone rang, directing Joseph's attention. Stepping over Max, Joseph passed the refrigerator and picked the receiver up off the phone. "Hello?" he said. There was a short silence on the other line before a voice spoke gravely, saying, "Yeah, Joe. We, uh, we got another one." The lines under Joseph's eyes tightened as he understood both the voice and the meaning of the caller. Mitchell Keller, Joseph's partner, who had spent eight long years with him on the force. Mitchell had even taken a bullet for him, although he would always joke that he had tripped in front of Joseph. Even with so much compatibility between them, including a kind of graveyard humor, Joseph could never bring himself to be so open with Mitch that he could tell him his true nature. "Alright," Joseph replied, "I'll be ready in ten." He hung up the receiver. Although he looked impartial, simply standing and staring at the wall with a hard face, Max quickly noticed his erratic emotions, and whined at his master. Joseph looked down, face grim. "Sorry, buddy, but you can't help me any with this," he said.

Fat drops plopped on the windshield as Joseph rolled over to the curb with his roof light flashing. He stepped out into the dark, cold, rainy morning and into the yard of the latest victim. Mitchell caught his eye and hurried over. "It's the same as the others, if you can call it a pattern. I'm still skeptical that this is a person we're dealing with, Joe." Joseph sniffed the air. "Maybe, maybe not." Mitchell turned to him. "Huh? You're not getting philosophical on me are you? You know I can't stand being around some obscure Dali Llama." "No," Joseph replied, "I'm just as plain as any other llama, but I'm not so narrow as to limit my options." He sniffed again and made a face. "Especially in cologne. Whew! What is that you've got today? Eau de Salmon?" "Ok, ok," Mitchell said, "let's just get to work." Both men sloshed through the moist grass, hunching under the rain. Joseph reached the porch first, meeting a portly, complacent-looking sergeant who had just arrived and introduced himself as Roger Dunn. "Alright gentlemen, are we ready now? Then let's go inside." Turning before either could speak a word, Dunn swaggered inside, leaving the men there, each giving the other a look before Joseph bowed, hands leading inside, and Mitchell stepped over the doorway, managing to keep a smirk off his face. The antagonism and the cheer was tempered by the time they had reached the bedroom, however. Dunn paled. "Good Lord...please tell me that this was after the time of death." Each wall was irregularly streaked with red smears. The photographer looked up at their entrance with melancholy eyes. "I think I have enough shots for now." Passing Joseph on the way out, he paused, then spoke without turning.