I do not own The Office: U.S. version.

I do not strangle.

The Scranton Strangler

"It really is Dwight's fault, Pam. I mean, he was asking for it."

The love of his life, the fire of his loins, the mother of his child, Pamela Morgan Beesley Halpert nods understandingly.

"I know, Jim. I know."

Through the vertical bars of his holding area.

Dim overhead lighting bathing her face in unfortunately angled shadows.

And continues.

"But that doesn't mean you really had to give it to him, did you?"

A whimsical 'that's what she said' starts to escape his lips.

But the aggravated expression on her lovely face stops him.

And Jim Halpert sighs in defeat.

Shifts uncomfortably on the metal bench currently punishing his bony posterior.

"Well, . . ."

It really was Dwight's fault.

"I mean, he just wouldn't-"

"Stop."

Jim Halpert never really did like hands around his throat.

"Too late."

Much less the silicon-gloved hands of one Dwight Kurt Shrute.

"If I was the real Scranton Strangler . . ."

Now currently dressed in an overcoat, 1940s detective hat.

". . . you'd be so strangled by now."

Looking more like a deranged paper salesman version of the Hamburgler with a white circled 'S' glued to the center of his masked forehead.

"And if you're out there, Strangler, . . ."

Rather than any kind of real threat to common society.

". . . you will get caught."

Other than Jim's waning patience and sanity.

"By me."

Sigh.

Just another day at the office.

Unless . . .

"Sounds like someone's really trying to convince us that he's not the Scranton Strangler."

Self-importance smirk from . . .

"To my chickens I'm the Scranton Strangler."

Whelp. That's not going to work.

Still . . .

I do not own The Office: U.S. version.

I do not strangle.

The Scranton Strangler

Satan's Anus

It's Toby's fault, really, that's who's fault it is.

He's been so obsessed with following all the little details about the case.

". . . -ually strangled in one location and the body dumped in another-"

"Ugh, sounds like too much work to me."

And Jim's been bored.

So bored.

So, Toby.

And Michael Scott . . .

"Toby, yes, Toby The Devil, Satan's Anus himself-"

"Michael-"

. . . would completely back him up on any blame-staking of Toby, every bad thing to be had in the history of the world-

". . . pretty sure he killed JFK-"

"Michael, Toby hadn't even been born yet-"

"I mean, he's the one that blew up the Hindenberg-"

"Michael, you're actually going further back in history on this one-"

"Well, he's definitely the real reason that . . . that sports team you like sucks, right?"

"Michael-"

Toby.

Yeah.

That's it, that's got to be it.

But Pam, wonderful, beautiful, darling Pam . . .

"You know you got yourself into this, right, Jim?"

. . . isn't having any of it.

"Yeah. Yeah, I know."

"I mean, sure, it got you out of work for the day and you obviously have never even frowned at a puppy-"

"I shooed that dog away one time-"

"-I'm sure they'll send you on your merry way pretty soon, I mean, they can only hold you for forty-eight hours anyway-"

"Just enough time to grab a nap and get my prison tat first, don't you think-"

"Yes, but I'm not sharing you with some guy named Buster, I'm a pretty jealous woman, Halpert-"

It really is Toby's fault after all.

I do not own The Office: U.S. version.

I do not strangle.

The Scranton Strangler

Baiting the Hook

He'd started out small.

Little things.

Squeezeball, fake phonecall to a friend during work.

". . . so stressed sometimes, you know? Makes me feel like I could just . . . snap at any moment or something."

Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.

"Oh, what am I going to do this evening after we put the baby down? I don't know. I haven't been sleeping well lately. Maybe I'll just get out, drive around, contemplate the pointlessness of all humanity. Something like that."

Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.

"Yeah, yeah, no problem. Will do. Yeah. Bye."

Handset replaced into the cradle.

Squeezeball set close, fingers typing erratically on keyboard.

Huff of irritated breath.

Cease and desist of typing.

Squeezeball retrieved, squeezing recommenced.

Heavy sigh.

Adamant, absolute, complete obliviousness to deskmate Dwight K. Shrute's shrewd and hawkish gaze.

"What's wrong with you, Spaz McCoy?"

Subtly theatrical sigh.

"Oh, nothing, Dwight. Just so stressed lately. Just feel like I need to . . . I don't know . . ."

Rolling of the neck, the shoulders.

Popping, crackling.

Heavy sigh.

". . . let off some steam or something."

Then he rises, closing and opening his hands, flexing his fingers.

And theatrically sighing . . .

"I'm gonna stretch my legs. See if I can get my hands around something in the breakroom."

. . . one final time.

I do not own The Office: U.S. version.

I do not strangle.

The Scranton Strangler

Under Pressure

"I need to talk to you."

"Not now, Dwight."

"No, it has to be now. This is important."

"What, Dwight?"

"Has Jim seemed . . . off lately?"

"I don't know. In what way?"

"Does he seem . . . under pressure?"

"We have an infant daughter, Dwight. She poops and pees and cries and eats constantly. And Jim works all day to provide for our family. Yeah, you could say we're under pressure."

"Does he ever disappear on you, at night? Go out for a jug of milk and take his time getting back?"

"Dwight, I don't make him clock in at home."

"Maybe you should."

"What does that mean?"

"It means, Pam, that your husband has been acting weird lately and I think he might be . . . engaging in extracurricular hobbies outside of the house at night-"

"Dwight, I'm not talking about my sex life with you-"

"Not that. Ewww. Like . . . two crippled flamingos fighting over the last mollusc-"

"What?"

"Nothing."

"And now, thanks to you, your daughter, your only child, Jim, is visiting her father behind bars."

And Jim Halpert . . .

"Aww, Pam, . . ."

. . . finds he has no defense left.

". . . come on."

And Pamela Morgan Beesley Halpert, long-suffering wife of her jailbird husband . . .

"'Don't come on, Pam' me, mister. You're the criminal here. They're going to fingerprint you soon. We'll be destitute, out on the street-"

"Pam-"

. . . refuses to back down.

"We'll be on Hard Copy, Jim. Do you know what that will do to Michael? He will lose his mind entirely and I'll have to put up with it. He'll probably even tell them about the-"

"Hard Copy's not even a thing anymore, Pam-"

"Jim,-"

"I know, I know. I'm sorry. I should have been satisfied with the Morse Code thing."

"Yes, you should have."

Silence reigns between them for a moment or two.

Long enough for Jim to consider the snoring of the drunk in the next cell.

And the restless shuffles of his baby-stroller incarcerated . . .

Yeah, you and me both, kid.

. . . offspring.

I do not own The Office: U.S. version.

I do not strangle.

The Scranton Strangler

Accomplice

He shouldn't have enlisted Pam.

"Jim, what are you doing?"

But they'd always pranked together.

"Hey, Pam, what's up?"

Since he first started there.

"You, apparently."

It'd feel unnatural not to include her.

"What're we talking about?"

She is his wife, after all.

"You, Jim."

His helpmeet, his mate, his support.

"You."

And a damn decent actress.

"And your disturbing, unnatural needs."

Is Pamela Morgan Beesley Halpert.

"What are we talking about?"

Who now, eyebrow raised in disgruntled disbelief, tosses down the Times Tribune on the breakroom table between them.

Scranton Strangler Remains At Large.

And looks back up at her husband.

"Come on, Jim. You're going to freak Dwight out, he's going to catch on. He's going to put the pieces together. He's a volunteer sheriff's deputy on the weekends for god's sakes."

Jim furrows his brow.

"I thought he quit that."

Pam crosses her arms disappointed consternation.

"No. He's back. Last year. And I would have expected you to be more careful."

And Jim shrugs his skinny shoulders.

"Pam, Dwight's fine. He's not going to suspect a thing."

And Pam . . .

"Are you really willing to take that risk, Jim? I mean, it's a pretty big risk."

. . . presses on.

"Dwight's very perceptive about things like this."

Dwight, yes, Dwight.

Is closer than they realize.

For between the half-drawn blinds and Toby Flenderson's cramped office nook, Dunder Mifflin's Assistant (to the) Regional Manager, backs stealthily away from his hidden position . . .

"Dwight, watch out where you're going-"

. . . succeeding at the same time in tripping over the half-full wastebasket of . . .

"Shhh; shut up, Toby-"

. . . Michael Scott's Premier . . .

"You're just gonna leave it there?"

. . . Arch Nemesis . . .

"You never saw me-"

. . . in the History of Forever.

"What?"

As Jim and Pam Halpert remain . . .

". . . care about what happens to me or the baby . . ."

. . . unbelievably oblivious . . .

". . . if Dwight comes after you for this?"

. . . in the breakroom.

"Oh my god, Pam, that was amazing, that was brilliant, oh my god, you're brilliant, did you see his face, oh my god, how did you even hold it together, oh you're absolutely brilliant . . ."

Jim's complete and absolute fawning adoration of his prankster-partner-in-false-crime is only slightly dampened by the fact that she, the Queen of Office Prankdom . . .

"I don't know, Jim. I wonder if we're going too far this time."

. . . seems to be having the rarest . . .

"Maybe we should just let it go."

. . . of second thoughts.

"I mean, we've got CeCe now and . . ."

Jim Halpert shakes his head in casual dismissal.

"Come on, Dwight's not dumb enough to really-"

I do not own The Office: U.S. version.

I do not strangle.

The Scranton Strangler

MisDirection

"Okay, Michael, I'm heading out. Back in a little while."

"Okay, bye."

"Bye."

"Where's he going? He better be using personal time. As Assistant Regional Manager, you are required to tell me-"

"Relax, Dwight, he's just using his lunch break to make a run to the hardware store."

"Hardware store?"

"Yeah, uh, something about plastic sheeting? I don't know, I think he wants to paint the bathroom."

"Wow, Andy, your car looks great. You get it detailed?"

"Yeah. Christian Brothers over on Third."

"Huh. Affordable?"

"Yeah."

"They get out blood stains?"

"I don't know. They get out grape juice stains, I know that-"

"No, no, no, for blood stains you want McMillian's on Seventh."

"Thanks, Creed. Weird that you would know that- Oh, hey, Dwight."

"We'll have to move to another town, maybe another state, maybe another country, to escape the shame of being connected to the Scranton Strangler."

"Pam-"

"Maybe CeeCee can get a scholarship with her essay, My Father, The Scranton Strangler-"

"Pam-"

"What, I'll need some way to provide for her education, Jim. A single mother, out on her own. Shunned by society. I might have to remarry just for the money. I know Andy's family is rich. And he did sing to me in Pig Latin-"

"Pam-"

I do not own The Office: U.S. version.

I do not strangle.

The Scranton Strangler

Consequences

". . . right to remain silent-"

"Dwight, what are you doing?"

". . . can and will be used against you in a court of law-"

"Dwight, listen to me, you're not even a real cop-"

"-to consult an attorney before speaking to the police-"

"Dwight!"

"Dwight, listen to me, it's all just a prank, Jim's just been goofing off, seriously, you have to stop this-"

"It's not your fault you've been brainwashed into protecting him, Pam."

"Dwight-"

"Most women are gullible, too much Dancing with the Stars and Chamomile tea, if you ask me."

"Dwight-"

"And, of course, motherhood. Fact. Sleep deprivation and hormonal fluctuations make the average woman more pliable than a melted bag of cherry flavored Ice Pops-"

"Dwight-"

"We will get you help, Pam. My uncle Heinrich devised a set of five steps to take to break free from serial killers and post apocalyptic zombies-"

"Dwight, listen to me-"

"We will get you the help you need. For a monthly monetary exchange, of course-"

"Dwight, stop. Just stop for a second. Do you really think Jim, Jim Halpert, could be the Scranton Strangler?"

And the reply tone is just almost gentle, soothing.

"Oh, Pam."

Friendly.

"You sweet, desperate, ignorant woman."

"Excuse me?"

And completely, absolutely, positively . . .

"Don't you know it's always the person you least expect?"

. . . naive.

And Pamela Morgan Beesley Halpert . . .

"Well, I guess that leaves only one person then, Dwight."

. . . has finally . . .

"Yes, it does, Pam-"

. . . had enough.

"You."

He does not break down into confusion as she had hoped.

Or rage.

Or false self-realization.

Instead . . .

"Oh, Pam Pammy Pammy Pam Pam Pam, . . ."

"Dwight-"

. . . his blunt face pulls down into a visage of sad pity and strengthened resolution.

"It's going to be a long road of recovery for you."

As he tries to put a comforting arm around her.

"I just hope you're strong enough to make the journey."

"Ugh, Dwight, get off-"

"That's what she said! Hey, what's going on, what's all the hubbub?"

"You've got to talk to him! He's gone insane!"

Casual, dismissive shrug.

"I can't do anything with Dwight when he's like this, Pam."

"Come on, Angela, please-"

"You started this, Pam. You and your deviant, sociopathic husband and your ridiculous juvenile pranks. You're reaping what you sow."

"Angela-"

"I wouldn't worry about it too much, Pam. Everybody knows Jim is too much of a pussycat to be a serial killer. He'll be sprung soon. See if you can get yourself a conjugal visit while he's in there though, they're hot-"

"Oh my god, Meredith, please stop."

"Yeah, you should get yourself a makeover, get your hair done and go up to the jail and be all like 'hey, Jim'-"

"Kelly-"

I do not own The Office: U.S. version.

I do not strangle.

The Scranton Strangler

Exonerated, Sort Of

And now it's hours later and . . .

"Alright, Halpert."

. . . just like that . . .

"You're free to go."

. . . it's suddenly over.

And Jim is caught unawares.

"Wha- Oh, really?"

The officer nods as he unlocks the cell.

"What- what happened? Oh my god, did they find someone else strangled?"

The door creaks open, then closed again as Jim skirts through, eyes wide, mind caught between relief and dread.

Oh my god, I can't celebrate if I'm free because someone else died while I was in here!

Pam was right, I never should have-

"No. Dwight retracted his statement."

And Jim stops.

"What?"

The officer catches a quick glance at his watch, clearly ready to move on from his Shruted day.

"Dwight retracted his statement. Said you and Mrs. Halpert were staying at Shrute Farms on the night of one of the stranglings. Said he forgot."

And without much further ado, the taxed trio make their quick exit through the sheriff's department and out the front doors.

Jailbird Jim clinging gratefully close to the woman he loves.

"When we stayed at Shrute Farms, that was years before the stranglings started."

Whose murmured whisper matches his.

"I know that and you know that."

As they escape out into the parking lot.

He's parked right beside their mini-van, the stalker.

Not the Scranton Strangler.

"Come on, man, what the hell-"

Dwight.

"Hello, Jim. Pam. Baby."

"CeeC-"

"What did you think you were doing, Dwight?"

In the face of Jim Halpert's mild-mannered ire, Dwight K. Shrute is completely unaffected.

"Merely my job as a responsible citizen. Much more than you two, at any rate."

Methodically taking off his glasses and cleaning them with his pocket handkerchief as he speaks.

"What are you talking about, Dwight?"

And he frowns in derision at the Not Scranton Strangler and Not Brainwashed Accomplice.

"People have lost their lives to this person. He's killed people. And instead of doing your civic duty, you two detracted time and resources from local law enforcement-"

"That was you, Dwight. We were just goofing off-"

"-and generally just made a mockery of the whole situation."

"Dwight-"

"You know, I'm disappointed with the two of you. You've always proven yourselves to be sociopathic ne'er do wells. Even you, Pam, once Jim started becoming a bad influence on you. You used to be so innocent. But this is a new low for both of you."

And despite his roiling of stomach of emotions regarding Dwight K. Shrute at that moment, Jim finds himself feeling crushed, flattened.

Skewered.

In a tiny voice, face flushed with humiliation, Pam manages to speak.

"How did you figure out that it wasn't Jim?"

Dwight shrugs.

"Jim is many things. A prankster, a laze about, a second-rate paper salesman-"

"Hey-"

"But he's not a killer. He has no true homicidal tendencies. And he would never really do anything to threaten the safety and wellbeing of his family. He loves you too much."

Dwight shrugs again.

"And your husband has girly little weak hands."

Jim furrows his brow.

"Hey-"

Dwight ignores this outburst.

"He couldn't strangle a pencil."

And Pam almost grins.

"I have to open the pickle jars at home."

"Pam!"

Dwight hands over a thick brown manila folder.

"Oh and here's the dossier I compiled on him in the last several weeks, Pam."

And Pam is aghast.

"When did you-"

Jim for a different reason.

"How did you get my social security number?"

And Pam's disbelief begins shifting into burgeoning awe.

"Wow, Dwight, this is very through-"

"Pam!"