Lead A Dead Horse To Water

It took a moment for Ed's eyes to adjust to the shadowed figure lying crumpled on its side, and although he was facing away from Ed, the identity was unmistakable.  It was Mark Torrence, his instructor.

"Mark," he whispered.  "Are you asleep?"  He was surprised to find him loafing because Mark always seemed to be on the move no matter what the time of day.  Ed walked around the aisles to enter the box where Mark lay and stepped closer for a better look.

"Mark," he whispered, "You okay?"

"Mark!"  He spoke louder.  "Rise and shine, its time for my lesson."

There was no response from the recumbent figure.

Ed leaned forward and gently grasped Mark's shoulder but recoiled in horror as the body, sporting a silver handled knife embedded in it's midsection, slumped backwards.  Blood soaked Marks shirt and the straw under him.  Sweating and nauseous, Ed, with rare presence of mind, carefully backed out of the stall, sliding the door shut with his elbows.  He didn't want cats wandering in there, and more importantly, he absolutely didn't need the chief of police, Donald Wilson, jumping down his throat for screwing up a crime scene by damaging the evidence.  Wilson was still pissed over the time Ed sighted a late model car sitting in middle of a field and called it in.  It was Ed's horrendous bad luck that Wilson found his own daughter and the local drug pusher, Joey Lorenzo, in the back seat stoned and naked when he and Ed arrived.  According to the raging dialogue that immediately took place, Wilson hadn't seen her in her birthday suit since she was born.  It was a front-page story, but Wilson quietly pulled Ed to one side and explained how difficult it was to live in a small town when the police watched your every move.  Ed would be amazed at how so many seemingly little things were illegal.  He took the hint and let the more lurid aspects of the story die.

All this rattled through Ed's mind as he carefully looked around, assuring himself it was safe in the aisle.  He fled for the phone.

The barn office, located on the right by the front door in aisle one, doubled as the tack room and the walls were cluttered with saddles, bridles, pads and other paraphernalia.  Ed shut the door behind him, and shoving aside bottles of liniment, brushes, and cans of saddle soap, he grabbed the desk phone.  Who to dial first, the newspaper or the cops?  He quickly weighed his options, being fired or being jailed.  His budding professionalism prevailed and he dialed the Town Telegraph's private number for Chief Editor, Mac Logan.

"City desk.  Logan speaking."  Mac sounded and looked exactly how an opinionated, bull headed editor should look: gruff voiced, balding head, bushy eyebrows over piercing eyes, and a pug nose.  He had been holding down the editor's job at the Town Telegraph for years and knew everyone who was anyone.

"Mac," Ed frantically whispered.  "It's Riley."   He wasn't surprised Logan answered the phone.  He was pretty sure Mac slept under his desk at night.

"What do you want Riley, and why are you whispering?"