The older man looks at Blake with a watery expression in his eyes, and reaches the hand not holding the poodle into his pocket, retrieving a small tape recorder and switching it on.  Doubtless, if this was a less public place, the man's kneecaps would have interesting things happen to them by this point, but the middle of a hotel hallway might not be the best place for Blake to respond to this level of aggravation.  "This is Reginald Thompson in the Clearwater Hotel," he spoke into the microphone, and pressed a button that date and time stamped the recording, "and a fellow guest has something he wants to repeat to me.  I'm sorry, sir, would you care to repeat that a little bit louder, so my lawyer can hear you this time?"<br/><br/><strong>Both Beck and Allison recognize the name.  Reginald Thompson is a hack author, writer of about a dozen or more pulp, testosterone driven fantasy novels, Conan with the serial number filed off type stuff.  Beck even made arrangements to interview the author one night, but an unspecified "personal emergency" led him to cancel.</strong><br/><br/>The dog, continues to bark.  "Hush, Thor," said Thompson.<br/><br/>Mamie appeared ready to go on with her questions and stories, despite what went on around her, when Allison hit the one subject that could probably derail the subject of the pudgy woman's conversation.  Looking at the boy (who was still trying to peer as far away and around the corner, into 213 as he could without actually leaving Mom's side), the woman gave a gasp.  "You're right!  Oh my goodness, Timothy, we're going back to our room, sweetheart.  Something terrible happened, you shouldn't see this."<br/><br/>"Oh come on, Mom," the boy said.  "It's not like we don't have HBO, you know.  I've seen CSI."<br/><br/>"That is television, this is real life," Mamie said.  "We're going back to our room now."<br/><br/>"But Mom!"<br/><br/>"But me no buts, mister," said Mamie, and turned around and marched back down the hall, leaving the scent of Youthdew behind her.<br/><br/>Despite the promptness of the call to the local law, it was still a good twenty minutes before the squad cars arrived, lights flashing red and yellow in the still night.  Up the stairs came the two sheriffs:  Deputy Sean Dumont, whom Taylor and Blake had met, and likely been utterly unimpressed by, and his boss.  Sheriff Marcus Willheim looks cut of a different cloth altogether, however.  A bald, tall, lanky African-American came up the stair with a scowl carved on his weathered brow.  A man in his 50s, he looks as tough as an old tree root, and not at all happy to see so many people standing about aimlessly in front of a crime scene.<br/><br/>"Sean," said the Sheriff.  You secure the area and keep out the spectators.  I'm going to start with this lot."<br/><br/>"Sheriff," said Mr. Fox.  "If it's alright with you, I'll host these guests in greenhouse until you need them.  You can use the conference room just on the ground floor, if you want to speak to them individually."<br/><br/>The Sheriff nodded.  "That would be most appreciated, Mr. Fox.  I'll want to speak to you to for more information about the guest in this room, but you could start by telling me the name of the person registered in this room."<br/><br/>"Damien Carson, from Chicago," Fox replied.<br/><br/>The sheriff made a note of it.  "Who called it in?"<br/><br/>"Mr. Goodchilde," answered Fox, pointing to Edwin.<br/><br/>"Fine, then we'll start with you, sir," Sheriff Willheim said to the parapsychologist.  "If you'd care to follow me."