Title:Inference of quarkonia production in ultra-liminal HHHH interactions

Abstract:

Tuesday. 11pm. Another body. The same pattern---a gunshot to the back of the head, the body covered in poop from head to toe. There's a lot of sick people in this city, but this guy was the sickest I'd ever come across. I got back to the office and looked over the photos along with my trusty sidekick---that's right, a glass full of whiskey. You don't like that? Well that's just tough, Johnny. I was the best detective in the city, and no one could stop me. I was halfway through my glass of whiskey when they showed up. "We'll be taking over the case from here, detective." I knew what they were---feds. Dressed in suits with crew cuts. They'd never seen the streets. They didn't have the guts to go out in the streets. "Not a chance, Harvard," I said. "This is my case. You boys don't have jurisdiction." "Can it, Daniels," my captain said. "They found other bodies covered in poop across state lines. That makes it a federal case. Nothing we can do about it." "We are building a psychological profile of the killer. Male, mid-40s, working in a physical field. We have the best minds from universities working on it. We'll catch this psycho in no time," Mr. Fed said. "Listen, Yale," I said, "you might have book smarts, but I've got street smarts---*and* book smarts. I've read tons of books---the books of the street. More than that, I've got the sixth sense. Just ask my captain. Ask anyone in this damn city. I've closed every case I've ever gotten. I don't need your fancy psychology books. I can do more with a glass of whiskey and a pack of smokes than you could do with the Library of Alexandra." "Given the detective's successful track record, we're willing to work with him to catch this crook," the ssecond fed chimed in. "But this is still a federal case." I pulled out my revolver and put it right up against the fed's chin. "Listen, Dartmouth. I ain't takin' orders from no fed. You think you know the streets? You ever seen a dame skinned alive and still breathing? You ever catch a serial killer wearing some dame's skin as a costume while he plays with his little toy trucks? You ever hold a dying mother in your arms after some pervert cut her tits off for fun? I don't need your psychobabble. I've arrived at scenes with no prints, no weapon, no motive, and found the killer within the hour. I got instinct, bucko, something you'll never have---something no stinkin' fed has, that's for damn sure." "Cool it, Daniels," my captain says. "They're only here to help. Lower your weapon, detective." I put my revolver back in my holster. I actually have three revolvers. Two on either side, and one one my ankle. And the safeties are never on. "We have used the best psychological theories to narrow down our list of suspects. We have spent all night reading books," the fed tells me. "Yeah, while I've got instinct, and my instinct tells me there are two killers---and they're right in this very room." I pull out both revolvers and shoot both feds right between the eyes. "Have you gone crazy, Daniels?" my captain barks at me. "It was a two-man job, chief. One to kill the victim, one to cover them in poop." I pull the second federal agent's hands out of his pockets. "Just as I suspected," I said, "covered in poop---the same type of poop found at all the crime scenes. They only started killing people in other states when they realized I was on the case---smart." "Well, Daniels, you've done it again," my captain says. "I don't need your congratulations, captain," I explain. "I don't do this for you, hell I don't even do it for this damn city. I do it because I've got the itch, captain. Some guys were born to dance. I was born to put sickos behind bars and throw away the key." "Well, what are you going to do the rest of the night, Daniels?" my captain asks. "I've got a date, captain---with a hot dame called Whiskey."