“What do you mean? Scattered bowling balls? Like on the floor?” I asked.

“I went into the locker room to get one of my balls and I could not reach it because the floor was covered with them. When I touched one, and then another, I discovered the surfaces were bubbled, like they had been melted,” babbled Sadda D Qaid.

I had recently watched the tiny distressed female Rheinon practice, and I had spoken with her. Most Rheinon tended to talk a lot, and Sadda proved to be no exception— especially with the current situation.

“Did you touch any more of them?” I asked.

“No. I ran out because the bubbles frightened me.” Sadda’s skin exuded a sheen of sweat. Did a thick-skinned alien from a dry planet normally perspire? Of more interest, I noticed she held her hands together backwards, and with enough force that they were turning a darker color. What in the Galaxy did that mean?

“Stay here, Sadda. I’ll talk with you shortly.” I gestured to Brian, and went over to the locker room door that had slammed shut behind Sadda.

The security committee had demanded a special locker room with entry passwords. I entered the sequence of letters and numbers that had been assigned to me, and the door slid open.

Sadda’s description had accurately described the room—the floor remained unseen from the sheer number of bowling balls. Upon a closer look, the bubbled surfaces cre- ated a type of beauty, but not for bowlers. Destroyed bowl- ing balls would further complicate the competition scheduling.

“What could have caused this kind of damage?” Brian asked.

“Many things. The balls are made from resin so a strong laser or a piece of equipment that produced a high temperature would be effective. Actually, the possibilities are endless.”

My heart ached to see such damage. “Brian, get the crew in here. Thankfully, no one’s left the building yet.”

I stared at the floor and the racking. Portions of the shelving were assigned to each species. Humans weren’t the only ones who liked a variety of designs and colors on their balls.

The techs were going to be overrun with DNA samples and fingerprints. It always amazed me how much sweat transferred from the bowler’s hand to the ball. Which brought up a question I hadn’t considered—do aliens sweat? Other than the bowling balls on the floor, the remainder of the room appeared normal.

While Brian organized the crew, I approached the second floor control desk and asked Smith, “Is there any record of who went in the locker room today?”

Since there had been no mention of destroyed bowling balls yesterday, I had to assume the incident happened after the close of the alley last night.

Smith pointed at his screen, and said, “I can only retrieve the passwords that were used to open the door.”

That made sense. “Okay, send me a list.”

I thought for a moment. “Any cameras?”

“Not pointing at the locker room.”

Obviously we missed at least one thing during our security arrangements.

“Smith, did you notice who went in and out of the locker room today?”

“Not really. I was downstairs at the main desk for most of the morning. One of my staff called in sick. I’ve had a hectic day.” His tiredness showed in his annoyance. “Tari, I don’t need any more incidents at Revolutions.”

I ignored his comment and turned around to notice my detectives waiting. A glance inside the locker room showed the techs hard at work. “We’re going to have to re-interview everyone, and right now. We need to find out what they know about the locker room, and maybe a second interview will trigger further clues about the murder.” I turned to Smith, smiled brightly, and said, “How about providing that food?”

Smith nodded, and went off to the kitchen to notify the serving and kitchen staff.

Again, Brian and I set up in the restaurant.

“I’m starving. What are you going to order?” asked Brian, looking at a menu.

“I’m trying an alien dish. Apparently the gaini stew is quite tasty. How about you?”

“I’m sticking to traditional—a hamburger.” It hadn’t taken me very long in our partnership to discover Brian’s stolidity as a detective, and it obviously ran through the rest of his life.

I shook my head at his conservatism, and said, “Let’s start with the Bremen team we interviewed earlier.”

While Brian went off to collect one of the Bremen, I reviewed my earlier notes.

The Bremen bowling team hadn’t given us a lot of information during our interviews. Their major complaint involved their perception they weren’t getting enough practice time. And, as with all bowlers, they were not content with the lane conditions.

Shortly, Brian returned with Barb-Cole. She captained one of the Bremen bowling teams.

The initial round of the competition allowed three teams from each world. After a month of fierce trials, the three Earth teams chosen were from Japan, Australia, and Canada.

I decided to start with an innocuous question. “Barb, is your team from the same area on your planet? Like a country or something?” Barb-Cole’s team all had the same “dash- Cole” as part of their name. Barb-Cole and Stire-Cole were two I remembered.

“Not country—clan.”

“So that’s why everyone has the same last name.”

“Yes.” Her three eyes blinked a little faster.

Bremens were sparse with their words, so I knew I required precision with my questions.

“Have you been in the locker room today?”

“Yes.”

I mentally gave my head a thump. “At what time did you enter the locker room? Was the room neat and tidy?”

“Nine. Everything placed.”

I just might be getting the hang of talking to Bremen.

“Was that the only time you entered the locker room?”

“Yes, today.”

Or maybe I wasn’t. She was correct; I should have been more precise about the day. Our conversation gave me a headache.

“Did you notice anyone entering the locker room today?”

“Almost everyone.”

Almost? “Who didn’t use the locker room?” “Itlans.”

That’s right. I’d forgotten the Itlans wouldn’t let their bowling balls leave their sides. An Itlan had mentioned to Chrissy it was a matter of trust and, this morning, the proof rested on the floor of the locker room.

Itlans were excitable but also conformists—according to popular opinion. Perhaps this had led to their distrust of others—the locker room being a prime example. Their naming practices interested me. Every Itlan had only one name. Naming your child on Itla had to be difficult. Perhaps they had more than one name but the universal translator some- how garbled them together?

The rest of the interviews progressed along the same lines. We did take a break between interviews to grab our meal. My gaini stew impressed me. The texture and flavor combined for an exquisite experience. Too bad I couldn’t have added a glass of red wine to enhance the flavor.

Before I went back to the office, I stopped by the front desk and had a chat with Smith.

“Has anything else come to mind after your interview?” I asked.

“Not really. Harrison was pretty thorough walking me through my day’s activities and impressions.” Smith gave me a look I couldn’t decipher. “Who’s that guy Jack?”

“He’s a homicide detective from Vancouver.”

“What’s he doing here?” Smith tugged at his ear.

“He offered to help and the inspector accepted.”

“That must bother you.” A smile appeared on his face.

There was no need to respond, Smith knew me too well.

So I said, “By the way, that gaini stew was delicious. Where did you get the meat and the recipe?”

“Since tourism is starting between the worlds, a contingent of alien chefs arrived and offered to teach us how to cook. They’ve also set up a distribution system for their food. So I leapt at their offer, especially because of the bowling competition.”

“Smart thinking. Now that we’re a part of the BRITE Alliance, and host for the Intergalactic Bowling Competition, we’ll definitely notice an increase in visitors. And I bet their food will begin to show up in our markets so I’ll be able to buy some. So can I get a copy of that gaini stew rec- ipe? I want to try making it on my own.” I gave Smith a big smile.

“Don’t forget, most alien food is incompatible, if not poisonous. Luckily for you, humans can tolerate gaini. So I’ll give you the recipe on one condition—we go out for dinner. We need to catch up.”

“Sure, once this investigation is over.” His request surprised me. I wondered what lurked in Smith’s mind.

I took my leave and started back to Burnaby RCMP headquarters.

About twenty-two years ago, in 2019, Canada’s national police force, or the Mounties as they have been ever known, had uncovered an alien listening post on the Moon manned by the BRIT Alliance. After some years of negotiation, the four races that made up BRIT had graciously welcomed Earth into the group. This was now called the BRITE Alliance, at least in the English language.

The periodic bowling competition turned out to run approximately every three Earth years. To help welcome humans, the alliance awarded the current competition to Earth, and it would happen in Greater Vancouver.

The RCMP detectives resided in one big room. No individual offices for anyone—except Inspector Hayden. After initial reservations on my part, the arrangement turned out to be excellent. In addition to monitoring the group dynamics, the design made it possible for me to listen to any bizarre ideas being thrown around. We needed to be a little crazy ourselves to combat the ideas murderers thought up.

After I settled at my station, I worked with my camera and created holograms of the murder scene and the locker room, and then projected them in the center of our pool of desks. Seeing visuals of the crime scenes helped refresh memories. Otherwise, details could easily be overlooked or forgotten.

“Okay, everyone, I know you’re all busy writing up your interviews and reports, but let’s have a little discussion about the murder in the men’s washroom and the mayhem in the locker room.”

Excitement, tinged with a taste of resignation, flooded the squad room. As much as homicide detectives loved a new mystery, we knew our personal lives would suffer.

“First question: has anyone decided on a suspect in the murder of Keepe Style?”

I hadn’t expected an answer, and I didn’t get one. “Okay, how about a wild guess?” Our investigative juices needed to start flowing.

“I think the Tristorian spare killed Keepe Style, so he or she could become a main team member.” The squad burst into laughter. For a homicide detective, Harrison had a wicked sense of humor. And he didn’t step outside his comfort zone to take a dig at me for being the spare on Team Canada.

A grin reluctantly crept upon my face. “Very funny. Seriously, though, any thoughts?”

Brian spoke. “After talking with the medical staff waiting in the ambulance, we know no one left the bowling alley this morning. Lots of people arrived, but not one person left Revolutions. So the murderer has to be one of the bowlers, officials, or staff. And our outside canvass found nothing. The bowling alley is surrounded by businesses, and the earliest open time is ten in the morning.

“Of course, we’ll have to confirm time-of- death, but preliminary indications have the murder being committed while the bathroom was closed this morning.”

“It appears that way, but we may be wrong. Since there’s so much we don’t know about alien physiology, we need to be careful about our assumptions,” I said. “I’m sure the ME will confirm murder, so we’ll assume that for now.”

I continued, “Back to the on-site medical staff. Does anyone really think one of the medics was always watching the entrance to Revolutions?”

“Well, the side of the ambulance facing Revolutions is one long window. And the staff usually sits at the table in front of it,” said Brian.

“Close, but not one hundred percent.” I sighed. “We know Mike Dakota is the only one who will admit to entering the washroom. Why did Mike go in that particular time?”

“He told me he saw Smith take the ‘Closed for Cleaning’ sign away,” said Harrison.

“Interesting. Did anyone talk to Smith about this?” This was the first I’d heard about Mike seeing Smith take down the sign.

No answer. “Okay, Brian that’s on your plate.”

Brian nodded. However, I thought I glimpsed a twitch of annoyance on his face. What irritated him?

“It’s a little early to speak with the medical examiner, but I’m pretty sure the Tristorian was killed by the bowling ball found alongside his body. So whose ball is it?” I asked for thoroughness. However, I knew who owned the bowling ball.

“I spoke with Christine MacDonald, and she confirms the ball is hers,” said Harrison. “She also said she tried to tell you but you sent her out of the washroom. She was a little miffed.”

“She’s right; I did order her away from the crime scene.”

“Maybe she murdered the Tristorian,” said Brian.

“Unlikely. She walked in the door this morning at the same time I did. Then we went directly to the locker room, retrieved our balls, and went to a lane to practice. Neither one of us left the lane before the body was found.”

“Ah, collusion,” said Harrison.

He received a glare from me, and then I said, “So the murderer grabbed one of Chrissy’s other balls while we were busy practicing. And now that I think about it that would have been pretty easy to do. Our bowling bags were about fifteen feet behind the lane approaches and, with our thoughts and sights concentrated forward on our current ball and the pins, we wouldn’t have been paying any attention to what was happening behind our backs.” I wished I’d been more attentive to who had been near us.

“Do bowling balls get stolen very often?” asked Harrison.

“Occasionally, but I’ve never heard of it happening around here. Of course, we’ve never had aliens before. Whoever was going to use a stolen ball would have to get the ball fitted and the pro shop would most likely ask questions.” But perhaps not from an alien.

“So you really had no reason to be watching your bags?”

I smiled at Harrison; he’d tried to make me feel better.

“I know we don’t have the results from the sweepers, but what can we expect?” The RCMP had coordinated security research and training before the competition, so I wanted to find out if anyone had paid attention.

“I did some study of alien anatomy,” said Brian. “Only humans have fingerprints. However, the one thing that we all possess is DNA-like characteristics. For obvious reasons, the alien DNA is not called DNA, so the current nomenclature for alien DNA typing is PROFILE.”

“And what does PROFILE mean?” I asked.

“It doesn’t stand for much, and I don’t know who thought the name up. But thankfully, for us, every being— alien or otherwise—has a part of their cells unique to them. So given enough samples from the sweepers we can pinpoint individuals. Unfortunately, a bathroom is an ocean of DNA stuff,” said Brian.

“Good summary. What about motive?” I said.

Detective Sergeant Jack Naven spoke from an empty desk at the back of the room. “The possibilities are endless. Someone is trying to eliminate a competitive team, which could mean alien or human; world politics; galactic intrigue; a misunderstanding with the universal translator…just about anything. Even Harrison’s comment about a bowling, ah, spare moving up has some validity. We don’t have enough information to come to a conclusion.”

“At this point in the investigation, we rarely do,” I said. For some reason, his comments didn’t annoy me.

“Jack, I need you to look into alien politics—especially anything that might relate to this competition. Harrison and Brian, when the samples come in, look for a pattern or two. Everyone finish up your reports and send them to me. I’ll be going back to the crime scene later this evening to see if anything pops.”

I started to put together a holographic murder board. Al- though the end of the working day had arrived, no one had left. The room buzzed with comments and speculations. After I completed the board, I projected it into the center of the room, and also routed it to everyone’s coms. Beeps from the coms indicated reception of the murder board.

Well known for its hard working staff, my squad adhered to the RCMP vision. Together for a couple of years, we read each other well.

I needed to make a call. The medical examiner answered immediately.

Raj Inder’s black curly hair always looked like it wanted to escape so he kept it cut short. Still, it continued to have a life of its own, corkscrewing every which way whenever it got the chance.

“Tari, I knew you’d be calling.” Years ago, during my rookie time, Raj and I had met in the ER at Burnaby General Hospital. In fact, he had become my best male friend. I occasionally spent an evening enjoying a meal at Raj and Suki’s. Suki loved to cook and entertain, and I enjoyed Japanese food.

“Do you have anything interesting to tell me?” I hoped for anything, actually.

“Not much about your vic yet. Although, no surprise, he was killed by a bowling ball. Tari, how do you come up with such unusual scenarios?” Raj appeared delighted with the circumstances.

I growled, “Just bad luck. To top it off, I’ve been kicked off Canada’s bowling team, and put in charge of this investigation, but maybe the powers-that-be will decide they want someone else in charge.” I sighed. I could only hope.

Raj shook his head. “I have to agree; that is bad luck. Obviously, I’m doing consults with the Tristorian doctors, but I’m also having discussions with the other alien medical personnel. It’s all very exciting and fascinating.” Raj’s eyes sparkled.

“Contain yourself; I need information.” Even to myself, I sounded cranky. “What can you tell me about the Tristorian physiology?”

“Other than their four legs?” Raj laughed. “Sorry. I’m absolutely amazed at what I’m learning. In a lot of ways, their physiology is similar to ours. They have hearts and lungs. Their other internal organs function a little differently but, in the end, most of the same necessary functions are taken care of. Obviously, their blood vessel structure is different. Interestingly enough, they have ten fingers like we do. And I’m sure you saw that their blood and skin is somewhat green.”

“Yes, and their physical build resembles a pear.”

“Tari, if you were quadra-pedal, you’d have the same pear shape. How is their form?”

Form? “Oh, you mean bowling?”

Raj nodded.

I had not anticipated his question. “Very strange, but efficient. They have an intricate set of footwork, which I am sure even some dancers would love to emulate. However, back to my current problem, can you expand on the cause of death?”

“Their cranial structure is similar to ours, so a heavy bowling ball does a lot of damage. Talking to the Tristorian doctors, our consensus is that death was immediate. Their bone structure is somewhat frailer than ours.”

I thought for a moment. “Can you tell from the impact any characteristics about the perp?”

“Assuming the Tristorian was hit in a standing position, his attacker was probably about six feet tall. Although I’m more inclined to think that the victim was bending over and was hit from the side. It would be much easier to wield the bowling ball from a lower level.”

“Definitely. It’s all about the swing. Can you tell what angle the ball was coming from?”

“Not at this point. And the other side of the Tristorian’s skull also has a bump, most likely from the counter top. And if he did hit the counter, we can’t tell if his head hit it upon impact from the bowling ball, or whether he was pushed into it.”

Knowing the height of the victim led me to agree with Raj about a six-foot person swinging the bowling ball. “Okay, thanks. Keep me updated.”

“No problem. You’ll be the first to know. Tari, it’s too bad you’re off the bowling team. I was looking forward to watching some of the competition. When you get a chance, come and visit.” Raj hung up.

The squad room buzzed with activity, so I continued to study my notes for a few moments. Then I discovered a question I had not heard the answer to.

“Quiet.” My voice carried throughout the room. I’d had lots of practice. After the room quieted, I asked, “Did anyone find out why Skitem-Carry was late this morning?”

Around the room, heads shook.

“Harrison, give him a call and see what he says.”

Harrison nodded and poked at his com. He needed to find Skitem-Carry’s number somewhere, I suspected.

My com rang. It was Inspector Hayden.

“Tari, I’ve been fielding calls from the Intergalactic Bowling Congress. They’re insisting diplomats be assigned to observe your proceedings.”