"Up the stairs," Plankton told him, ushering the mystery guest into a motel room several doors down from the one he'd rented after the Scientology scare. "We didn't want to disturb anything until you got here."

The mystery guest kept his composure as Plankton led him into the bathroom. "We can't figure out if it was a one-to-one

(cop talk, the mystery guest recalled, for a suicide),

auto-erotic strangulation, or a mob hit," Plankton told the mystery guest. Then he said sarcastically, "Want to give me an educated guess?"

The guy hanging from the shower head in the stall looked like he'd just taken a phone call, except for the tongue. "If you ask me, you've got the wrong department," the mystery guest said forcibly.

"Lieutenant, c'mon, you know we've only got four men in the whole county working these babies," Plankton said testily, "Besides, what's a little jurisdiction when the department's reputation is at stake?"