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"Haven't seen you in a while," she said. "You get tired of gas sta- tion coffee?" "Decided to treat myself today," I said. Ever the diplomat. "Something to cat? I've got some cinnamon rolls just out of the oven." They smelled wonderful, but I'm insulin resistant and have to limit my carbohydrates or I gain weight. "Tempting," I said, "but not today." I poured myself some cof- fee, mixed in a little cream, and placed a faded dollar bill on the glass counter by the register. I found a booth in the back, read the News, and listened to the morning gossip. The Post might be a better paper, but it's divided into folding sections so large only an octopus with bifocals could comfortably read it. The gossip was more entertaining than the paper in any event. Wanda's Kitchen is a gathering place for the telecommuting yup- pies, aging hippies, and transient bikers who populate this moun- tain town of fifteen hundred. This morning's conversation centered on a controversial proposal to eliminate the town marshal's office and contract with the county for law enforcement services. The consensus was that this was a bad idea that would ultimately lead to enforcement of such things as building codes, marijuana laws, and the three-dog limit. I agreed with the consensus. I poured some more coffee and returned to my booth only to find Wanda's black Lab, Zeke, sitting beneath the table. The Boulder County Health Department doesn't make it up here very often. I took a moment to rub Zeke's belly, then began reviewing the news clippings and biographical blurbs Jayne Smyers had provided. The first victim, Paul Fontaine, had been a fifty-five-year-old professor of mathematics at Whitman College, in Walla Walla, Washington. He'd been shot once in the back of the head during