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Then Nancy who had both the strength and stubbornness of a concussed ox drew her revolver and emptied it into the offending officer's chest. Just a rapid, pop, pop, pop and she sent the old bastard straight down to hell.

The other detectives looked at her with a combined look like she had just poured an entire pot of coffee onto the floor. Except for Frank Hardy, who seemed to be on the verge of vomiting at the sight of the cop's pulped torso.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, Drew, " Exclaimed Leroy 'Encyclopedia' Brown, who was decidedly not the worst motherfucker in the whole damned town. "Why in the hell did you do that?"

"Get your panties out of a bunch, Brown, " she spat. "Sheriff Longmire would have impeded the investigation. This isn't amateur hour folks. Now we have two bodies. One of which we now have to hide."

"Why the hell do we have to do anything?" Enquired Lyle "The Mudshark" Williams.

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Nancy felt like an unkillable God.

"Fuck!" She whooped at the top of her lungs. "Goddamn. I said goddamn!"

Nancy Drew withdrew her pistol from its holster and proceeded to fire it off into the air. Meanwhile, Sally Kimball sat enamoured with the detective, while her partner Encyclopedia was too high to stop Nancy.

And that is the story of how the detectives completely misunderstood what Sir Arthur Conan Doyle meant by a "Seven Percent Solution".

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Leroy "Encyclopedia" Brown sat laid awake in his hospital bed. Do you know what the purpose of the appendix is? He did. Then, Nancy fucking drew sauntered into his hospital room and sat down a bouquet of assorted and very cheap flowers. He refused to acknowledge her.

"Hey bud, you doing well?" Said Nancy in the hopes of breaking the ice.

Brown remained silent, starting up at the ceiling in silent rage.

"Listen, Brown, I'm sorry for my involvement in your accident."

"Accident?" Spoke up the perturbed man. "You fucked my wife and then shot me!"

"Only a little bit."

"How do you shoot someone a little bit, Drew?"

"Well to be fair it was a .22 and you startled us."

"I startled you? Oh wow, golly gee, miss Drew I'm so sorry I interrupted your affair with my wife!"

"Oh come off it Leroy and stop being a douche about this."

"You shot me you asshole. I'm more upset about you shooting me than anything else!"

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Lyle Williams found himself seated in a field. It was like any other field in any other part of the world, completely unremarkable in any tangible way, shape or form. Save for perhaps the great black sun that seemed to be burning a handful of miles above the field.

As Lyle (who as a child was known as, The Mudshark, for reasons best left to his biographer) walked through the tall grass the air around him had noticeably changed in quantity. The air carried with it a faint electrical smell. Ozone mixed with the pheromones of ants.

At the centre of the grass sat a thrown woven together from infinitesimal mycelium filaments. On it sat a woman. At least, Lyle's limited perception viewed the being in such a manner. Her skin was the same shade of grey as graphite on paper, while the wrinkles in her skin and the outline of her form were stark porcelain. Visually she reminded Lyle of paintings he had seen of Queen Elizabeth I, but her eyes were alive and filled with a sort of cruel intensity that cut through his very soul.

It was for the most part not the worst encounter with a person Lyle had ever had.

"What do you seek, Mudshark?" The otherworldly queen had the sort of cruel insect voice that a bee or an ant might give and as she spoke her lips curled out to reveal a host of very long, very thin, and very sharp needle teeth that jutted out from blackened gums, barely hiding a bulbous snakelike tongue.

Lyle Williams woke up about two days later face down on the Idaville beach as the tide came in. In his left pocket, he had a handful of only the green skittles, while in the other he had the fingers from Sheriff Longmire's left hand.

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It was a cold night in Idaville, Florida. The man's name was Joe Friday. He used to be a cop. He was woken up in the dead of the night being slung over another man's shoulder and dumped into a wheelchair. The man who handled him was a former boy detective-savant, Leroy Brown.

Joe made a harsh gurgle that preceded actual speech, "Brown? What the hell is this how did you get into the nursing home?"

"You're very perceptive for a man supposedly suffering from Alzheimer's, Sergeant."

"Boo, so you caught me. The great boy detective, Encyclopedia Brown proves that an old man was lying."

Brown made a grunt as he wheeled the geriatric detective out of his room.

"I know you've been lying about a lot of things detective. I know that you weren't at picking up your laundry on the eighth of October in 1989. The sun wasn't where you claimed it to be when you gave your alibi."

"Please. Like that would hold up in court. It's circumstantial at best."

"True, but the powder on your antique driving gloves sure isn't. Now. Why'd you done it Friday? Why did you kill my father?"

"You trying to get a proper confession out of me, Brown?" The old man snorted. "Your father was a murderer. I put him down like a dog for the good of your town."

"My father was a good man. He looked up to you when he was on the force in L.A."

"Tell that to Philip Gomez. A nineteen-year-old kid who never got to grow up. Your dad shot him six, seven times and what did the department do? Sent his useless ass to Idaville. Betcha he didn't even tell you that, eh sunshine?"

"You're lying!"

"Those are the facts. Your father was a murderer and a bastard. I dispensed justice."

"Bullshit."

They reached the stairs. Joe Friday knew what was about to happen and fell silent. The immediate future sat before him and he closed his eyes, letting himself drift off to a better time. Leroy Brown gave the chair one push and sent both it and the elderly detective tumbling. His weakened frail body didn't survive as he broke his ribs on impact, piercing his golden heat and cracking open his skull like an egg.

He has left a broken bloodied puddle at the bottom of the stairs.