Broken Boulder the sweet far thing

It's nothing other than the crunch of small bones that perks his ears up. Our young detective stirs and grabs his weasel from the floor. Before going on, he turns it upside down and gives it a good shake, because old habits die like cockroaches, which is to say, they don't. 
His mind's backtracking, back to Merrick, Merrick. He tries, but he can't remember his face. He supposes that he should keep his memories organized but he's already drowning in paperwork as it is.

Oh, there's the boy. White-haired, thin as a rail.
Taylor approaches. His face turns into an expression of concern. A portrait of him right now could be titled Anxiety, Still Life. The weasel's limp head bobs, bobs, bobs, skitters over the ground. "The cold, maybe," the weasel falls to the floor, sprawling.
He's surprised by his voice, still rusty from disuse. Had it gotten deeper? Was that a crack? "Looking for something?" If he had hands, they'd be shoved in his pockets. Everything about Taylor now screams nervous young man, as it usually does.