Meanwhile, the police have set up quite a crime-scene operation at Gale's place. Crawling with cops. Every speck of blood is being cataloged, every tchotchke inventoried. The useless cell phone that Mike tried to call him on. The bullet-punctured tea kettle is being measured for trajectory paths. This one's going to be examined inside and out. Which means it's not great news that, not two feet from Gale's corpse, lies a notebook -- with a nerdy, couldn't-be-more-Gale lightning-storm cover -- that is labeled "LAB NOTES." Gulp.
Joe R will probably have to go a few months before pancakes -- much less French fries and ketchup -- seem as benign as they used to. He can be reached for lavish praise and nothing but at firstname.lastname@example.org.