Eleven

“A stink bomb?” Chief Barry Dutton of the Midland Heights Police Department stood over me, eyes wide, his voice full of contempt. “You couldn’t think of anything better to do today than throw a stink bomb into the Kwik’N EZ?”

“I paid the guy for it,” I said.

I was sitting in the chair in front of the Chief’s desk, and was-n’t terribly frightened by his display of pique. I’ve known Barry for nine years, and even had dinner at his house a couple of times. I was a little frightened, though, because Barry is about six-four and looked like Arnold Schwarzenegger would if he were ten years younger and African-American.

“You think paying for the stink bomb makes it okay to use it in a convenience store?” Barry was James Earl Jones-ing his voice to full effect, and the chair vibrated a little, but I wasn’t going for it.

“The owner of the place seemed to think that once such an item is purchased, its use is strictly the responsibility of the owner,” I explained. “Besides, the name of his store breaks so many rules of grammar that, as a writer, it was a moral imperative for me to teach him a lesson.”

Barry sat down heavily and sighed. He knew perfectly well that he wasn’t going to get anywhere with me on this subject. It was either charge me or let me go.

“You didn’t just go in there to teach this guy how to spell ‘Quick,’” he said. “What were you doing there? Did this have something to do with the stink bombs at the school?”

“You knew about that?”

“Of course I knew about that—I’m the chief of police.” Barry fixed an imposing stare at me. “You think the parents in this town would let something that heinous happen without notifying, and then badgering, the chief of police?”

“Well, what are you doing about it?”

“The question isn’t what I’m doing about it—it’s whether you’re doing something about it, and if so, who asked you to do it.”

I actually looked away from him. “I’m. . . not at liberty to say.”

He snorted. It’s rare you get to hear someone snort, but he did it well. “What is this, freelance writer-client privilege? You’re not a private investigator, Aaron.”

“No. I looked into becoming one, but the state regulations are that you have to have. . .”

“. . . Five years of experience as a police officer or investigator with an organized police department of a state, county or municipality or an investigative agency of the United States, or any state, county, or municipality.” Barry said it all with what appeared to be enjoyable malice. “I’ve read the regs, and we’ve discussed them before.”

I fixed him in my gaze. “So you also know that in order to become a police officer in this state, you have to be under 35 years of age. So my time to start getting five years in as an investigator. . .”

Barry grinned. “. . . Passed about ten years ago.”

“Eight.”

“Nevertheless. That doesn’t explain what I’m going to tell Mr. Rebinow about his store. He’s got fresh produce in there, for crissakes, and now he’s going to have to close for two days.” Barry closed his eyes and rubbed them with an enormous thumb and forefinger.

“That may be produce, but it sure as hell ain’t fresh. Besides, the guy doesn’t seem to care what happens to the stink bombs he sells unless they get used in his store. I don’t see where I broke any laws. Doesn’t he have anti-stink-bomb insurance?”

Barry’s eyes opened wide again, and he started to point a finger at the sky, then gave it up. “Anti-stink-bomb insurance. What am I going to do with you?”

“You sound like me, talking to Ethan. Barry, while I’m here. . .”

“Oh god, you get pulled in for pulling a prank a nine-year-old would be ashamed of, and now you’re doing to ask me to help you,” Barry moaned. “Where do you get the nerve?”

“It’s called chutzpah. My people are born with it.”

“You must have been born a week late, because you’ve got twice as much as everybody else. What do you want?”

“Let’s say I’m investigating a murder. . .” I began, but Barry put his head on his desk and began banging his forehead on the desktop. “You want to cut that out? It’s distracting me.”

“Didn’t you learn anything from the last time? You damn near got yourself killed.” Barry stopped the forehead move, but kept his head on the desk. His voice echoed from under the desk, around his feet.

“This is different,” I told him. “I’m not anywhere near the killer this time. This murder took place in D.C.”

“Washington, D.C.? Our nation’s capital?”

“That was a question on the Police Chief exam, wasn’t it, Barry? Yeah, that Washington, D.C. Now, the question is, how do you investigate a crime long-distance? I mean, I’m a good 250 miles away from the scene, and I don’t want to move down there for however long it takes. What can I do?”

Barry sat back up and leaned back in his chair, thinking.

“Well, I assume you’ve already talked to the Washington cops.”

“Yeah.”

“What you want to do now is find out as much on the Internet about the victim as you can. Who he was. . . it was a man, right?” Barry asked.

“Louis Gibson.”

“Oh, that People for Family Values, or whatever, guy? How’d you get on that one?”

I told him.

“I guess everybody you go to school with can’t be as classy as you are,” Barry said.

“Well, how many people are as classy as me?”

“I was thinking of it from Gibson’s point of view, actually.”

“You’re funny. You should go into stand-up comedy. But wear the gun belt. If they don’t laugh, you can shoot them.”

Barry smiled a little. He’ll deny it, but he did. “Well, a high-profile case like that will be all over the Net. Find out what you can, and talk to your friend with the chest about motive. You say she acknowledges he was cheating on her?”

“Yeah, but Stephanie had already driven up here by the time he was killed.”

“She could have paid somebody to do it,” Barry said. “That happens. We had a rabbi right here in Jersey convicted of just that.”

“I remember something about that,” I admitted.

Barry chuckled. “Now, that’s chutzpah,” he said.