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I'm not one of those hardcore city dwellers who doesn't like the country. My relief in returning to the city was exclusively that of feeling that I had escaped a physical threat. Rationally, I knew that the response was entirely out of proportion to what had happened. I wouldn't care to try taking on the big bull, whether in the woods or a dark alley somewhere; I also had to admit that the confrontation wasn't likely. Some other factor was at work, and I couldn't say what it was. I don't scare easy, as a rule, but something about the encounter had put my fangs on edge.

Good food usually has a comforting effect on me, and on this particular day, I knew exactly what I wanted. It might be just the carnivore in me, or perhaps it was a subconsciously Freudian railing against my unknown fears, but a gravy-covered fried steak, bordered by mashed potatoes and sweet corn, remains unbeaten in my list of comfort foods. At the table of my local hole-in-the-wall, where they knew me best for that order, I pushed aside my feelings about the angry male I'd encountered earlier today and thanked, with silent grace, the being that had given up its life for my nourishment. As an afterthought, the bull at the encampment came back to mind, and I wondered whether he should be considered sapient enough to avoid the same fate. I made myself concentrate on enjoying and appreciating my food rather than disrespecting it.

Back in my car, I made reasonably sure that I wouldn't belch during my check-in with the boss. I activated my Infinity Device (Pocket Edition) and dialed... pressed? Swiped? Digitized, using a single digit to touch the screen? Whatever. It rang for me.

"Crandall," came the familiarly crabby voice.

"Checking in, cap'n."

"Communing with the great outdoors?"

"Complete with commune."

"They kept you a long time."

"Lunch."

A short pause on the phone. "Tell me you didn't visit Jo and Phil's..."

"Okay, I won't."

The bulldog voiced a passing comment about the legitimacy of my whelping and a mild threat against the continued functioning of my most personal equipment.

"I'm guessing you're stuck with the local mess today."

"Accurate in more than one way. Tell me about your blissful morning."

I can't say my description demonstrated any measure of bliss, but it did get the general idea across. The boss managed a bark of a chuckle at me.

"I'd be cheering on the bull."

"Nice of you."

"Allow me to make it worse. We may have another lead after all. Someone named Willy Keaton." He gave me an address far enough away from the precinct to make it irritating, and he damn well knew it. "Threatened Glover for serving him with papers."

That put my ears forward. "Glover himself? Not a cop or a minion? Why would he do that?"

"A great question to ask Keaton. I knew you'd make a decent detective one day."

"Fried steak, corn fresh-cut from the cob--"

"Obscene phone call." He hung up on me before I could get more graphic about how smoothly the potatoes were mashed or how the butter and gravy made everything all slick and sticky at the same time. This was not new banter between us. It was, however, almost enough to make me want to go back for second helpings.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Keaton's neighborhood was picture perfect, save for a certain set of eyesores, all of them from his house and yard. The chain-link fence was the only one on the block, and it reached almost to the edge of the sidewalk. A mailbox stood on a post just inside the fence, and fence links were anchored into the outer surface of the box itself, which was the type that allowed only flat items of limited thickness into the slot at the upper portion of the box. House numbers were painted on the front of it, but none appeared on or near the front door. Security floodlights were evident above the front door and the doors to the garage. I almost expected a sign declaring ABANDON HOPE ALL WHO ENTER HERE.

Paradoxically, the gate in the fence bore no padlock. Perhaps Keaton had a non-sapient pet who enjoyed the freedom of running around the yard. Given the set-up, I'd not have been surprised if the pet was uniformed and patrolled the perimeter on a tight schedule. I let myself in, making sure that the gate latched properly behind me. Padding up to the front door (itself fitted with a metal barricade), I found the buzzer and let it ring for a civil length of time. The response didn't take long.

"Get out of here!" a voice shouted from behind the door. "You're trespassing!"

"Mr. William Keaton?"

"Who wants to know?"

"I'm Detective Max Luton--"

"Invasion of privacy! Harassment! Get out of here!"

"--Homicide," I finished, when he took a breath.

Considering the tirade that went before, the silence was remarkable. "What's it to do with me?"

"Routine questioning, Mr. Keaton. Shall we talk inside?"

"Who died?"

"Thomas Glover."

Anticipating Keaton's next move, I reached into my jacket pocket for my shield. I heard only one lock slide before the door inched its way open. Holding the ID in plain view, I waited for Keaton to swing the door enough for us to size each other up. The brown mouse was of shorter stature, his round ears pert and slightly flushed. Slim, his casual clothing surprisingly crisp, his hairless tail guarding his hindpaws, he looked at me with whiskers twitching as if sniffing for deception. "You're still trespassing."

"Official business. Your gate is unlocked, and there was no way to announce my presence without coming up to the door." I gestured behind me. "I made sure that the latch was in place after I entered."

He paused, as if sizing up what sort of retort was called for. "So what are you here for?"

"I'm investigating the death of Thomas Glover."

"Nothin' to do with me."

"He served papers on you."

"Illegally!" the mouse spat, his tail giving a quick lash.

"What happened?"

"Came up to the door, like you, bold as brass. Identified himself as one of the muckety-muck lawyers in that firm I'm suing. They'd been trying to serve papers on me, countersuit, and I refused to talk to any of them."

"They didn't go to your lawyer?"

He raised himself up as high as he could go, proclaiming, "I represent myself. I know my rights."

"What happened?"

"He said he was here to help me. He wanted to talk about the case without having to go through the courts."

"You fell for that?"

"I fell for nothing! He started telling me things about the three bases for my lawsuit against his firm. Told me that the points I was suing on had 'broad interpretations,' as he put it. Sounded to me like he was giving up the game, switching sides, so I opened the door to hear more. That was when he pushed the papers at me and served me for the countersuit. I'm protesting; he did it unfairly, illegally. I know my rights."

"I'm sure you do, Mr. Keaton. Why would he tell you all that? Conflict of interest, isn't it?"

"All outlined in the countersuit. Most of it, anyway. He said something about the use of Kelo v. City of New London being limited by state legislature. That wasn't in the brief."

"Did it help?"

He wrestled with a response for a moment, long enough for me to cut him off.

"How did Glover seem?"

"Seemed like a damn lawyer, that's what he seemed like. Used a trick to give me papers I didn't want."

"And some advice, against his own interests." That was a guess, considering that I had no idea at all what that court case was about. "When did all this take place?"

"Two weeks ago." The rodent seemed more secure about himself on this point. "I drafted a letter to the bar association to complain about his trickery."

"Have you mailed it?"

He nodded vigorously. "Return receipt. I should get it soon. They usually reply promptly to the receipt."

"You've had dealings with them before?" This did not surprise me, and he made no response to it. "Do you get any satisfaction from them?"

"They protect their own, so no, I don't hear from them often."

"Does that make you mad?"

"It should infuriate any sensible citizen!" he declared.

"Mad enough to do something about it?"

The mouse gave me a withering stare, although I declined to be withered. "I already did something about it. I would not resort to murder. I know my rights."

"So you've said. Can you tell me your movements from, say, Monday evening to Tuesday morning?"

Keaton's ears shifted slightly as his posture became defensive. "I was... indisposed."

"Here at home?"

"No."

"Where were you?"

"I was... out."

"Where?"

No answer.

"Any witnesses where you were?"

Grinding his teeth a little, he finally admitted, "On Monday evening, I was in the company of two males in uniform who were attempting to violate my civil rights."

I leaned forward slightly. "Would you care to be more specific?"

"They claimed that I had run a stop sign, but it was at a corner so overgrown that I couldn't see it. Clearly entrapment. They kept me for nearly three hours."

"For a traffic stop? Why didn't they just give you a ticket and move on?"

"They couldn't cite me without a driving license." He once more attempted to raise himself to full height. "I don't require one. I'm allowed to make use of public roads, in all circumstances. It's black letter law. They can't prohibit my use of the roads. It's my right to go where I please."

"Three hours?" I asked.

"They were trying to arrest me, to imprison me for exercising my freedom to go where I please, to do with myself as I please. It's the same reason that I refuse to pay income taxes."

"Is that black letter law as well?"

"Taxation without representation. I am disallowed to vote, therefore I have no say in who represents me, therefore I am not represented."

"Who's stopping you from voting?"

"They say I require government identification to register." His tail lashed briefly before settling around his hindpaws again. "It's a conspiracy."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When I got back to the station house, Captain Crandall was out. For all I knew, he was taking afternoon tea, or maybe even a nap, but he wasn't in his office. I sat at my desk and tried sifting through old information and digging for new stuff. Police work is boring, plodding; benevolently, the term "grindingly thorough" is sometimes applied. I'm a collie, not a bloodhound, but the phrase "sniffing down a lead" still has its applications. The Internet has yet to create "scratch 'n sniff" technology, but give 'em a few years. My variation was dubbed "Google-fu" by some wag of a writer, so I'll stick with that. Granted, cops have access to a few things that Google (claim that they) didn't. I broke out the proverbial fine-tooth comb until the boss got back.

I was lost in the maze of information long enough that the bulldog had to clap me on my shoulder to get my attention. "Pull your head out and get into my office," he said with professionalism, tact, and sympathy. I backed out of the screens, toned down my cynicism filter, and joined him at his desk.

"How was Keaton?"

"Brings new fullness to the term 'pipsqueak'."

"Not a suspect?"

"I think the statistical term is a 'non-zero chance,' but it's a shot way too long to believe." I told him about the would-be dust-up on the night before we found the body; the precinct records had the details, including covering the hours between 7:15 and 10:00pm. There was still time afterward for the mouse to have tried something, but I think that the encounter probably left him without the stomach to get up to any more mischief for the rest of the time involved. Short form: He just didn't fit.

"Tell me you've got something else."

"Some time sneaking into bank records."

"Sneaking?"

"The 'suspicious circs' got me a little access without the need for a warrant."

"So that's what got you pinged."

I let my crossed eyebrows speak for me.

"It's why I got back here this afternoon."

"What 'ping'?"

"R.H.I.P. You first."

Never argue with the boss when he's got something on ya. "Glover's bank records are pretty straightforward, with one anomaly. There are regular payments into something called HLR Limited, an LLC setup of some kind. They started maybe five years ago, monthly payments at first, then semi-monthly, going up as time goes on."

"Blackmail."

"Looks like it."

"How much?"

"Over $400K, over the five years."

"Nice work, if you can get it. Here's hoping the IRS doesn't get curious."

"Glover's records, we can peek at. A dive into the LLC would require a warrant."

"I'll see if I can find a judge for it."

I nodded. "Okay, cap'n. What's this 'ping' you spoke of?"

Crandall leaned a short distance back in his chair. "Fibbies."

"What did I do that got the FBI on my tail?"

"Not yours. Glover's, or at least his bank accounts and business transactions. You know how they feel about domestic terrorism."

Considering all of the crazy turns this case had taken, this one shouldn't have taken me by surprise as much as it did. Clearly, the bulldog was enjoying my confusion as I tried to wrap my brain around all that I'd seen and learned about Glover over the past few days and attaching it to the term "domestic terrorism."

"C'mon, Luton," Crandall managed to grin at me. "We both know what 'subversion' meant, back in those glory days just before we got whelped. Didn't your dam ever regale you with stories of 'hells no, we won't go' and other proof of 'anti-government behavior'? My, what a sheltered puphood you must have had."

"I'm just trying to imagine what sort of 'undesirable' Glover could have been. If cookie cutters came in millionaire size, he'd be one of those."

"Recently, sure. No one starts out that way, unless you're a trust-fund pup. Our background says Glover worked for it, so he had to start with something, somewhere. That's what you get to find out."

"Lucky me."

"Like a five-leaf clover."

"Five?"

"Inflation."

"Even the leprechauns," I sighed, getting to my hindpaws. "How long, do you think, to get the warrant?"

"You just show up tomorrow, as usual. If you're lucky, you can bring me a bagel and schmear."

"Why is that lucky for me?"

"You might be able to trade it for a warrant."

"What do I get if I bring a coffee, too?"

"A big, sloppy kiss."

"One bagel it is."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Chelsea Watson."

"Can you talk?"

I held my Omniscient Device of Audio Connection carefully against my ear, almost hearing the unspoken consideration. "One moment, please," the ringtail said with efficient grace. I imagined that I could hear a door close. "Depends on what about," she answered my question softly.

"A little more background, if you know anything about it. Willy Keaton."

"He'd throw a fit, if he heard you call him that."

"I was more formal at his door."

"What did you go to see him for?"

"My cap'n heard that he'd threatened Thomas Glover for serving him papers."

Her voice smiled a little. "He'd threaten anyone for breathing too closely near him. If you check public records, you'd probably find that he's got a few dozen lawsuits on file at any given time. He's an unpleasant nuisance, but he didn't have anything do to with what happened to Thomas."

"I figured that much. I want to know why Glover was sent to serve papers. That sounds a little below his pay grade."

"I don't have all the details, but I can make a guess. Keaton represents himself, so the idea would be to get him to agree to something that would twist a ruling into LK&M's favor. Thomas was probably sent to investigate, to intimidate, to cut a deal if it would be in the firm's best interests."

"Things he wouldn't do."

"Not if he could help it."

"What changed?"

She hesitated. "I'm not sure that anything had changed. He was told what to do, and he went. He didn't have to like it."

"Do you feel that it might have made him start thinking about leaving the firm?"

"Calls for speculation." The voice managed to smile a little. "I truly don't know about that, Max."

"I'm still looking for some motive for suicide."

"Not murder?"

"The self-esteemed senior partner seems to think that Glover didn't have the right temperament to be murdered. He wasn't worthy of it."

Several seconds of silence passed before she spoke again. "Do you agree?"

"I'm just chasing down leads, Chelsea. They could all turn out to be useless. It looks more like suicide to me. I'm no shrink, but I do think in terms of motives. In general terms, there are no clear motives for suicide, the way that there are clear motives for murder. The greatest commonality... there's a tipping point, a trigger of some kind, something that makes someone actually do it. I'm starting to see things that might build up to him taking that last step."

"Serving papers?"

"Seeing how things and people were being affected by law, by law firms."

I had the sensation of a nodding head, for whatever reason. "That's relatable."

"Except Glover felt that he couldn't leave, so he..."

My pause was meant to indicate that I was waiting for agreement; instead, she said, "That doesn't feel right."

"How so?"

"Pressure, yes, but not the idea of not being able to leave. He could have jumped ship, found another firm, even hung out a shingle, if he wanted to. This... I know this isn't proof, but it just doesn't feel right."

"The facts seem to be telling me it's suicide."

"Not for this reason." This time, the feeling was one of a shaking head. "If he did kill himself, it wasn't because of the job."

"Chelsea, I--"

"Have to go." The line cut off suddenly.

Could have been legitimate; could have been denial. I couldn't tell for sure.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Wednesday night has been movie night ever since Barb left me. I had my choice of whatever I could find streaming or the collection of DVDs that I'd pick up at random times and places. Anything cheap that hadn't been popular enough to make it to streaming was probably in my collection. One day, we won't own anything anymore, and some blitz will make it impossible for us to entertain ourselves without paying for it, over and over, even if we're not using it. Like everyone else, I've been going along with it, not really having known much of anything else.

Some bit of perversity in me chose the film Country from my collection, which I watched while having dinner. After the extravagance of eating lunch at Jo and Phil's, I balanced my food budget by having a can of soup for dinner. I wasn't quite so pitiful as to eat it cold out of the can, but the most I could do to make it edible was to add some hot sauce. This melancholy (don't you even think of trying on that pun) meal matched the equally maudlin film, and I took the time to be grateful that I don't drink. It was an "out" for a lot of cops, but "out" had other meanings for me, with the Glover case, and I wasn't ready to go there yet.

Country (1984, Jessica Lange, Sam Shepard) was about land, families, the farming bust, the Reagan-era move to destroy small farms then let the agri-business lobby gobble up more land for almost no cost, and the cost of progress on the average fur. There's no question that the Glover case was eating away at me, for reasons I still couldn't fathom. The ringtail office manager was right: If it was suicide -- and everything pointed to it being suicide -- it wasn't about the land deals, not even about the laws surrounding land, not even about the law firm. Murders come in several categories, generally some variation of professional, accidental, or personal. Self-murder is personal, and the motives can be obscure. Eventually, it might make some kind of sense, somehow, but not always. This case might turn out to be one of those We Just Don't Know situations.

I tried not to sigh, failed. There's a term that AA uses, "dry drunk," to describe someone who's stopped boozing but hasn't done the emotional healing to stop bad habits and behaviors. I was never a drunk, so I'm not a "dry drunk." Since AA can explain everything, the term was broadened to encompass any form of addiction that one might be recovering from. I don't have a history of addictions, so AA will tell me that I'm in denial of one form or another, and that's about where I drop them off at their local meeting to suggest that they address their addiction to finding addiction in everything.

The particular behavior that I refer to is that peculiar urge to telephone someone when my brain decides it's time to bail whole buckets of angst from my sinking boat. I had tried calling Barb a few times after she left, because it was supposed to be one of those civil separations and divorces, the kind that real adults have. Staying in touch with her wasn't the best idea, and she knew it before I did. I tried calling my pup, my son, a few times... okay, it's supposed to be our son, isn't it? He didn't spring from my loins fully formed, and neither was Barb merely some intermediary incubation device. But that use of our stems from being a couple, and she's not here, so he's my son now.

Yeah, this is what "dry drunk" sounds like, they tell me. Maybe I should become a drunk for a while, just to legitimize my use of it.

I looked first to the phone, then to the photos that I still keep on the wall. There's one of me and Barb and Michael, when he was still a small pup. Young, not small. My sire's genes passed through me and into him -- tall, lean yet solid, perfect coloration, with a sense of a mane around his neck. His eyes were Barb's, and maybe a greater balance of temperament than I could offer. In that picture, you almost couldn't tell the difference between them, where eyes are concerned. In that sense, Barb had never left. I suppose some photo wizard could let me perform Cancel Culture on her and excise Barb from the photo; I wasn't that much of an asshole, at least not yet.

The other three photos were of Michael -- a high school graduation photo, posed next to his first car, a used beastie that he worked hard to get; a college graduation photo, degree in paw, and a lovely young husky at his side (with effort, I could remember her name -- Leota; I'd liked her, Barb less so, but it hadn't mattered; the two had separated after about a year together); and the most recent, with Michael and his two business partners standing in front of Unicorn Keep, the tea shop that I was sure would be a folly. Three years now, and they were looking to expand.

I looked back at the phone again, trying to resist it. The device was seductive, in its way. It was a phone, a device made to resemble one of the old designs, back when Bakelite was considered stylish, or at least functional. Fashioned like the old candlestick phones of as much as a century ago, its only concession to modern times was the push-button keypad on the base instead of the old rotary dial. A land line, so it would work even if the power went out (yes, I had "power bricks" for the Rectangular Cuboid of Infinite Function). It required the use of both forepaws, unless the base could be left on the table. This forces you to concentrate on the fact that you are speaking to someone, communicating, paying attention, actively listening.

Have I mentioned that I hate Bluetooth devices?

Unlike the originals, the earpiece of this phone was comparatively light, making it less likely that my forepaw would get tired holding it. The base was heavier, so that it wasn't prone to falling over. The push-buttons allowed up to 100 phone numbers to be stored for speed-dialing. There was no possibility that I'd ever fill up that list. I'm told that I'm allowed to say that I programmed the phone, but I'm hesitant to claim such technological wizardry. I lifted the earpiece and "dialed" (that wholly antiquated term) star-zero-one.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Michael."

"Dad! Good to hear from you." The voice agreed with the words.

"You busy?"

A few words, muffled to my ear, then back. "Trey can handle the front for a bit. Let me get back to the office..."

He was at the shop, as he so often was, but he had his own Delphic Oracle Device on him. I let myself be slightly less offended by the Bluetooth tech; he used it to be available. That might make it a good thing, at least in this one instance.

"There, that's better." The background noise had faded. "Howya goin'?"

"You first."

He chuckled. "The store's doing well, and so am I. Thank you for visiting Short Attention Span Theater."

It was an old joke between us, so I took no offense. "Two thumbs up," I offered, as the usual response. "Glad to hear it."

After my brief silence, he prodded me gently. "Your turn, dad. Did you forget your lines?"

I kept this pause shorter. "Having one of those cases."

"Can you talk about it?"

"Not in specifics."

"That's understood," he said, not unkindly. "How can I help?"

"Mostly by being there." I smiled a little. "See? I'm learning."

"I know it sounds mushy to you, Dad, but I think it helps."

"So do I, Michael. At least now we know what it means when I call you 'pup'."

He snickered a little. "I'm glad we got that cleared up. I can be proud of that, rather than thinking it was your way of trying to hold me back."

"Talking helps." I paused, just a moment, to make myself commit to that phrase. "I don't know if the name Thomas Glover has hit the papers where you are."

"I don't remember it, in print or on the Net." I heard the grin in his voice as he teased me about the advancements in modern technology. I had been the one to remind him that the online Project Gutenberg was, in itself, an irony that could be seen as bitter or hilarious. He had chosen the latter.

"He's not exactly famous, but he was rich enough to have the Powers That Be demand that a homicide dick investigate what looks at first like a suicide."

"That's pretty specific, Dad."

"Still in bounds. I'd be overstepping if I started talking about what the investigation is finding."

I could almost feel him nodding. "That's what's got you worried."

"That's my pup."

"Okay," he said softly, the smile in his voice again. "Nothing about the case. Can you tell me how you're feeling?"

"A lot of individual words. Lonesome. Tired. Worn-down. Useless."

He paused for longer than I thought the comments merited. I must have hit on something with him.

"You need some time, Dad."

"What else is new?" I hoped that my smirk made it across the phone lines.

"I mean it. I'm worried."

The penny dropped. "No, Michael, it's not that bad, I promise."

"You'd said that the case was bothering you..."

Nodding, I said, "I see the connection, pup. No, I'm not thinking of ending it. It's more like..." I weighed the consequences and risked a little more. "Telling tales out of school... There's little doubt that it was suicide, at least to my way of thinking. It's the 'why' that's bothering me."

"There's not always an answer, Dad."

"I agree. I just feel that there ought to be, for his one."

After a short pause, he asked, "Would you think it self-serving if I suggested that a cup of tea might help?"

That got a chuckle out of me. "Is that home-style medicine or a business model?"

"Por qué no los dos?" he replied, also chuckling. "I'll even give you the family discount."

"Now you're making an offer I can't refuse."

He didn't rise to the Brando imitation. "I'll sweeten the deal: I'll make it for you myself. The house has a spare room, you know. Take a few days off, change of scene, all of that brochure hype."

I wouldn't have concealed the smile in my voice even if I could. "Gotta get this one closed before I can do anything else."

"Weekend off?"

"Probably not, but I'm not avoiding this time."

Before I could apologize for telling the truth, my son spoke for both of us. "Thank you, Dad."

I breathed evenly for a moment. "I still do that."

"But now you know you're doing it."

"So I can try work through it."

"That's my sire."

I had to smile again. "I do listen, sometimes."

"Dad... is that why this case is bothering you?"

Not so very long ago, I'd have bitten his head off for being "presumptuous." He wasn't a shrink, but he'd gotten help even when I didn't, so he'd been helping me as best he could. He was pretty good at it, or maybe it was just that I didn't want to lose him like I'd lost Barb. "I'm not sure. What are you hearing?"

"You said there ought to be a 'why' for this case."

"I feel like I'm missing it." I nodded slowly. "Like I'm not listening."

"Brace yourself," he said, and I could hear the grin. "I'm gonna ask it."

"Go for it."

"How does that feel?"

He had discovered -- or maybe we did -- that keeping it light worked better for me. By not being too serious, he got me to take it seriously. "That fits. There's just something I'm not hearing, not seeing." I paused, hearing something in the background from his side of the conversation. "I'm betting you're needed."

"You win. Are you okay, Dad?"

"Enough to sleep. Tomorrow, I'm gonna go back and listen. New ears, new eyes."

"Good choice. I love you, Dad."

"Back atcha, son."

We ended the connection softly, and I sighed. It was time for bed, even though it was a little earlier than usual. I made myself run through the litany of phrases that my son had given me to "check in" with myself. Some part of me still thought it was crap; another felt the tether that my son had thrown to me, that I still held on to. Perhaps not every drunk used alcohol. Perhaps there's such a thing as a healthy addiction. Maybe I should try tea.

I looked again at the pictures on the wall, looked at Barb, tried once more to let go of the bad feelings, hold on to the good, all those things that are supposed to be "healing." I wasn't angry with her anymore, but I still had trouble remembering the good times. It was easier to blot it all out than to admit that I wasn't everything I thought I was, that I did as best I could, then and now, and that the only thing I could change was what I would do now. What road would I take now.

My last thought, before getting up to go to bed, was that Robert Frost was a jerk.