In this week’s comic strip, the squad returns later that day to The Candy Bar, fully decked out in dramatic detective trench coats—magnifying glass in tow—ready to crack the mystery of Doc’s sudden absence. When the bartender looks at the ridiculous lineup and asks why they’re dressed like hardboiled gumshoes, they proudly announce their new detective status and demand to know her whereabouts around nine o’clock that morning. She calmly answers that she was working, offering to provide an alibi, but Frenchy immediately demands proof that she was actually there, while Charmy and Weaver sternly declare that they don’t take “alley buys” and that there’s no bribing their way out of this one!

The heavy oak door of The Candy Bar had swung shut behind the team with a dramatic thud that Charmy felt was worthy of a classic film noir. Stepping up to the bar rail, the sleuths cast long, comical shadows across the wooden floor. Charmy tightened the cloth belt of his grey trench coat, pulling the brim of his fedora low over his eyes. Beside him, Weaver tugged uncomfortably at an oversized lapel that kept tickling his nose, while Flimp scampered along the brass rail, holding a polished magnifying glass up to his eye and inspecting crumbs of dried donut glaze with forensic seriousness.

The counter attendant stared across the bar, an expression of tired bemusement washing over her face. She had served this unit milkshakes, seltzers, and jawbreakers for years, but seeing them assembled like a rogue squad of 1940s private investigators was a brand-new flavor of absurdity.

“I’m going to ask you one more time,” Charmy growled, trying his best to drop his voice into a gravelly baritone that only succeeded in sounding like a frog with a head cold. “Nine o’clock. The witching hour of the morning rush. Doc’s dispensary chair was cold, his medicine cabinet untouched. You say you were here slinging sodas, but where’s the paper trail? Where are the receipts?”

The bartender crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow at the tiny green army ant. “Charmy, you were standing right here at eight-thirty eating jelly beans out of your pocket. You saw me unlock the front door. You watched me wipe down the tables. I’ve been behind this bar all morning.”

“Ha!” Frenchy cried, leaning across the counter and pointing a tiny, accusatory finger, her doctor’s reflector bouncing against her blonde bangs. “A classic misdirection! She remembers the jelly beans, which means her mind is calculating every detail! But can you prove you were here, or were you merely projecting an astral projection of yourself while sneaking over to the dispensary with a burlap sack?”

Flimp jumped up onto the edge of the counter, chattering loudly in agreement. He held the magnifying glass in front of the bartender’s nose, squinting at her freckles through the enlarged glass lens until she gently pushed it away with a paper napkin.

“Look, you pint-sized Columbo,” she sighed, resting her palms flat against the wood. “I told you, I have an alibi. Sarge himself came in at ten minutes after nine to pick up a box of peanut butter patties. If you really think Doc was kidnapped, you can ask him.”

Weaver leaned in, his antennae twitching with righteous indignation. “Nice try, lady! But we don’t take ‘alley buys.’ You can keep your shady back-alley transactions to yourself. We operate on cold, hard facts, not street-corner currency!”

Charmy slammed his notebook onto the bar, nodding vigorously. “You heard the man! There’s no bribing your way out of this one! What did you do with Doc? Did he discover that your strawberry milkshakes are actually eighty percent corn syrup and twenty percent red dye number five? Was he on the verge of blowing the lid off the greatest confectionery scandal in military history?!”

The bartender pressed two fingers against the bridge of her nose, letting out a long, slow exhale. “You boys really don’t have anything better to do on your day off, do you? Doc is an adult. He walks around the perimeter of Fort Hill whenever he pleases. He doesn’t report to me, and he certainly doesn’t ask my permission to skip breakfast.”

“A suspect who denies everything is usually guilty of something,” Frenchy noted sagely, pulling a tiny ballpoint pen from her lab coat pocket and clicking it repeatedly against her clipboard. “I’m writing that down in our official medical-police record. ‘Suspect exhibits heightened heart rate, defensive posture, and refuses to buy alley goods.’”

“Alibis, Frenchy,” Weaver whispered hoarsely, nudging her elbow. “It’s alibis.”

“That’s what I said! Alley buys!” Frenchy insisted with absolute confidence.

Charmy leaned back, crossing his arms over his trench coat and squinting toward the rafters. “The plot thickens. If our primary witness won’t crack under the hot lights of cross-examination, it means the network is deeper than we anticipated. The culprit is covering their tracks, leaving no trace behind except a trail of baffling silence.”

“Or,” the bartender suggested flatly, “Doc is just doing Doc things, and you’re all wandering around in winter coats in eighty-degree weather looking ridiculous.”

Charmy ignored the comment completely, tapping his chin with the eraser of his pencil. “Every good detective knows the first person you question is rarely the mastermind. They’re just a pawn in the spider’s web. But we’ve rattled her cage. She knows we’re on the scent. Let’s regroup and evaluate our operational assets.”

He turned back toward his team, but as he did, his eyes locked onto Frenchy’s outfit. While Weaver and he had committed to the trench coats, Frenchy looked entirely different. The realization struck him that their squad dynamics needed immediate clarification before their next move.

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