“Gawd. Well you tell ‘em hey from me.”

“F’sure.”

A lull fell in the conversation, and the newly arrived detective turned his attention to the older man. “Well… Dere ya’ go.”

“Uh-hmmm…Okay,” the transplant muttered then glanced back to the patrolman. “Sorry about the miscommunication there.”

“So’kay, cap,” he replied.

“Okay, well thanks. I guess I’ll catch up with you if I need anything else.”

The cop simply nodded then turned and made his way out of the room, which was quickly becoming crowded, even though there were only two crime scene technicians, the victim, and the two detectives occupying the space.

The younger detective offered his hand and said, “Bailey. Joe Bailey.”

The older man took it and answered, “Tim Fairbanks. But, everybody just calls me Banks.”

“You got it, Banks,” the younger man replied. “Everybody jus’ calls me Joe. Where ya’ stay at?”

“I’ve got a hotel room over at…”

“No…I mean where da’ ya’ live? Where are ya’ from?”

“Oh. Kansas City. Homicide division. I had some vacation time coming and not much to do, so I volunteered through the FOP to come down here.”

“We can use da’ help. Glad ya’ here.”

“Thanks. Just got here a couple days ago. That’s kind of obvious, I guess.”

“F’true. Doin’ okay so far?”

“Pretty much. Although, there have been a few times when I thought I was going to need a translator,” Fairbanks sighed.

“Like jus’ now?” Bailey replied. His own voice had the clipped affectations of the region but was nowhere near as thick as the uniformed officer where his dialect was concerned. He grinned at Fairbanks then momentarily poured it on for effect. “Ya’ get used ta’ it. Ya’ jus’ stick ‘round awhile dere, cap, an’ ya’ learn how ta’ tawk rite like us.”

“Yeah,” Detective Fairbanks chuckled. “So I’ve been told.”