Shark's Tooth

“At least the Chamber of Commerce can stop calling.  Wasn’t a shark; couldn’t have been a shark.  Sharks don’t leave rust in the bite marks.  Some kind of knife or tool, used over and over to make the pattern.  We’re still trying to figure what.”

“Had to be a shark.  There was a tooth,” said Terry.

“Oh yeah.  Some tooth.  Tooth that big, the shark that owns it bites you, you float up to shore in two pieces.  Most sharks don’t sign their own teeth, either.”  She picked up a plastic bag and showed them the tooth, big as the palm of their hands, with “Shark” engraved in an angry script.

“Either sharks have learned to write, and label their teeth so they won’t get them mixed up with the grouper’s, or this is a souvenir from the TV show.  You know, starts out at the crime, Shark outraged at the terrible thing somebody’s done, he stares into the sun, sneers some hopefully tough and clever line, throws down his calling card, a tooth like this, and you know that he won’t rest until he’s got justice for us all, somewhere in the next forty eight minutes.  Usually throws one down at the end, just for good measure.”

“We’ve heard about the show.  So Shark’s some kind of detective?”

“Nothing that simple.  He works in the police department, job that would basically be a file clerk here, but that lets him be a combination of scientist, psychic and hit man.  Lets him do a much better job than you plain old detectives.  Hey, almost forgot.  Mark in Tech said to tell you he had something for you when you came by.”

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