It was still raining outside six hours later as an unmarked black sedan pulled into the parking lot at the downtown precinct.  It maneuvered through the lot, weaving expertly through the narrow rows between parking spaces, filled with patrol cars and off-duty officer's personal vehicles.  The wipers worked over the tinted windshield with Sisyphean futility, clearing the accumulating droplets with one sweep only to have a fresh set to contend with on the back-swing.  Despite the shining topcoat, clean lines and palpable power of the vehicle, there was no joy in this ride.  It was a company car, and the company man had long forgotten the pleasures of an exhilarating ride.<br/><br/>The vehicle swung wide, preparing to enter a free space as it seemed to notice hallmark blue paint, marking the area between the two white lines.  A matching blue tag hung from the vehicle's rearview mirror, but the vehicle still hummed with disdain, despite the obvious fit.  It held position, glaring down the empty space for a long moment with subtle annoyance, before switching into reverse, backing away from the spot and continuing the search.  The spot would be saved for someone who<i>really</i>needed it, like an expecting mother, someone who needed a wheelchair, or more likely, the first asshole to come by.  Ultimately, the vehicle found a space in the back of the lot, settling into an unmarked spot as the blue tag on the rear-view was ripped down.<br/><br/>Thunder crashed in cruel reminder that the weather outside the vehicle was still inhospitable.  Inside, the driver looked over to the passenger seat, eyeing the three objects beside him.  First, an umbrella, tucked in the space between the seat and the stick shift, ready and eager to protect him from the downpour.  Second, a sturdy leather folio case, filled to the brim with important documents he'd been charged with delivering safely.  Last, a black cane, simple yet elegant in its design with a silver-inlaid grip, yet it remained the object of obvious derision as the driver considered his two hands, a choice needing to be made.<br/><br/>Moments later,<a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=http%3A%2F%2Fcdn.justluxe.com%2Farticles%2Fimages%2Fnews%2Fgrooming1948683e.jpg&amp;hash=6599fc04bbf0a83f3d73b8cf7f043f67" href="http://cdn.justluxe.com/articles/images/news/grooming1948683e.jpg" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">the driver</a>exited the vehicle, standing with the folio in one hand and steadying himself on the cane with the other.  He slammed the door shut, feeling the rain splash against his long coat, covering the pressed suit beneath.  It had sunk through his mid-length chocolate brown hair in seconds, running down his face, beading through the stubble he couldn't be bothered to shave every morning anymore.  With a grunt, he began to push forward, a brokenness in his eyes that seemed too set-in to be the result of one bad day.  A heavy limp in his right leg impeded his progress all the way to the front of the lot.<br/><br/>Right on cue, as he approached the handicapped parking space he'd passed earlier, an SUV came careening into the parking lot, swerving wide and ducking into the spot.  No identically colored card hung from the mirror of this vehicle, and the driver -- a larger man with a beard, head-covered by a hoodie under a puffy jacket -- stepped out, hot with furious energy.  He left the vehicle, accidentally bumping the soaked, suited man, knocking the folio out of his rain-slick hands.  "Sorry man," he mumbled.  "Fucking pigs, right?" he grunted as he bounded forward towards the door to the building.<br/><br/>"Yeah," the limping man replied.  "Have yourself a nice day," he called after the larger man, kneeling beside the rear driver's-side tire of the SUV to collect his folio, slipping a small butterfly knife out of the breast pocket of his jacket.  The blade flicked out, and he buried it swiftly, snugly, and subtly between the treads of the tire, digging in deep so a slow hissing noise emerged, water bubbling over the incision as he swept the folio under his arm and stood, concealing the knife in his coat again.  "<i>Shithead,</i>" he snarled.<br/><br/>He worked his way into the building, sliding through the door, dripping dry over the mat in the entrance.  It was meant to relieve the shoes of some water and mud.  It was hopeless in the wake of the deluge the man had dragged in with him, so he didn't overstay his welcome, moving up to the metal detectors.  While the larger man from before was being hassled by an officer who watched with annoyance as he dug through the myriad pockets, likely for a coin or some object that was setting off the detectors, the soaked man stepped up, pulling a single piece of metal out of his pocket -- a golden badge in a flip-case, along with an ID card, revealing him for what he was.  Three little letters that made every local law-enforcement agent roll their eyes.  "FBI," he said simply.<br/><br/>The officer inspected and waved him on through, drawing a look of ire and apprehension from the larger man as he continued his fruitless search.<br/><br/>The agent moved up to the front desk, one foot dragging with a wet slosh as the foot of the cane squeaked against the tile.  Settling his weight onto his good leg, he hung the cane on the edge of the desk, and as he slapped the wet folio onto the counter, he held up the badge again.  "Ryan Dodson, FBI.  Got a special delivery for your chief."<br/><br/>The sergeant, who had been inspecting some records on the computer very carefully, looked up from the desk, raising an eyebrow at him.  "Still raining out there?" he asked, making an observation as astute as they came.<br/><br/>"No, just got the call while I was at the water park.  They said it was a rush job, so here I am," the agent retorted, dripping with sarcasm.<br/><br/>"Alright, alright, Mr. Mailman," the sergeant replied.<br/><br/>"Best paid mailman<i>you</i>ever met," Ryan returned.  "Can you call him up for me?  I've got places to be, and this is to be handed off to him only."<br/><br/>"He's out, some kind of publicity statement, some senator trying to get re-elected.  Should be back in about an hour though."<br/><br/>"Great," Ryan groaned, taking the folio again.  "Got a waiting room or a spare computer?"<br/><br/>The sergeant pointed towards a waiting room, but hesitated as he did so.  "Actually, you got a minute?  Could use some advice on something from a 'company man'.  You've seen your share of weird shit in your day, haven't you?"<br/><br/>"Enough.  How weird are we talking?"<br/><br/>He tapped a few keys on the computer, waving the agent around to join him.  Ryan grunted, taking his cane and bringing himself around the counter to join the sergeant.  The sergeant brought up a file.  It showed a girl, Myra Sanders, in her late-twenties, pretty enough, with an optimistic smile.  "We got this girl in the back, trying to get some information out of her, but she's not exactly cooperating..." he said cryptically, drifting off as if he couldn't fully understand how or why.<br/><br/>"Well there's your problem," the agent noted, pointing at the screen.  "Says here she died two years ago.  Unless one of your boys in blue is a coroner, I don't think you're gonna get much out of her.  Turf 'er to the morgue and let them do their jobs."<br/><br/>"Yeah, about that... she won't let us."<br/><br/>The agent turned to the sergeant, clearly in no mood for games.  "You don't have a corpse?"<br/><br/>"Nope, she's walkin' and talkin'," the sergeant said with a breathy exhale, eyes wide with exasperation.<br/><br/>"Then you've got a copycat.  Someone who belongs in a psych ward."<br/><br/>"I don't think so.  Fingerprints are a dead match.  We even broke out one of the old retinal scanners... She aced that too.  Same patterns, even though the color's way off.  Had to run the near infrared scan to get the results, but they were a 100% match."<br/><br/>Ryan grimaced.  "Well then the coroner misidentified the body two years ago.  What happened?  Burn up in a car crash?  Those dental records are not foolproof."<br/><br/>"Nope, hit and run.  Her body was in fine condition aside from being banged up.  I saw it myself," the sergeant explained.  "Even saw the coroner lift a set of prints off the body.  The same prints that match the girl we have in the interrogation room."<br/><br/>Ryan leaned forward, eyeing the file, looking through it for any sign of weakness in the record.  Coroner's pictures showed it was indeed the girl from the lively picture above, except missing a few liters of blood, and absent of that optimistic smile.  "I don't get it," he replied.  "What are you trying to tell me?"<br/><br/>"We got a got a dead girl in the interrogation room.  And she's not being cooperative," he repeated.  "It's above my paygrade."<br/><br/>Ryan straightened.  "What do you expect me to do about it?  I'm just a mailman."<br/><br/>The sergeant smirked wryly.  "Best paid mailman<i>I've</i>ever seen," he practically sang back to the agent.  "Maybe you could get in there and show my boys how it's done."<br/><br/>"I don't do field work anymore.  This damn document is the most I've gotten out in years," Ryan growled back.<br/><br/>The sergeant shrugged.  "If it was me, I'd miss it.  If you don't want to do it, don't do it."<br/><br/>Ryan turned to the file again.  There was something strange about the girl he couldn't quite put his finger on, and though he wouldn't admit it, he had an itch to feel the rush of an actual investigation again, even for a moment.  Four years of recovery and paperwork had him aching for something meaningful to do.  His eyes slowly returned to the sergeant.  "This isn't like the movies, I'm not swooping in and taking jurisdiction.  This is still your shitstorm to clean up."<br/><br/>"Understood," the sergeant said.<br/><br/>"Alright.  Take me to her.  Let's find out what your boys missed."<br/><br/>Two minutes later the sopping wet agent entered the interrogation room, folio in tow, keeping his cane indiscriminately behind his leg as he shifted into his seat.  He eyed the girl sitting across from him.  She definitely had the look down, and could pass as a double for Ms. Myra Sanders any day of the week.  The hair was almost the same, but he paid little attention to it.  Hair was easy to fake, but the rest of her -- cheekbones, jaw shape, ears, nose -- everything matched perfectly.  It wasn't beyond the scope of impossibility, with the right plastic surgeon, but why would someone go to all this trouble to impersonate a girl who passed with little notice two years ago?<br/><br/>"Ms. Sanders," the agent began.  "I'm Agent Ryan Dodson, FBI," he explained, flashing his badge for her inspection.  "I understand there's some confusion on your current situation, and these boys haven't been able to give you any answers."  He regarded her for a long moment, eyeing her carefully, watching her for any signs of dishonesty.  "Think you could tell me where you've been the last two years?"