Bloody Genius by John Sandford

Virgil, and said, “Best we could do.” She was a pretty woman, round-faced, brown-skinned, dark-eyed, with a flashing smile.
    Virgil took a sip, and said, “Okay. PBR? Miller Lite?”
    “Got it in two,” she said. “Miller.”
    “Well, you got what you wanted, what was most like that other shit,” the white-haired man said. And, “My name’s Harry.”
    “I’m Virgil.”
    “Let me guess . . .” He gave Virgil a look, with Alice, the barmaid, getting interested, her arms on the bar, looking back and forth between them, and then Harry said, “You’re reppin’ for somebody. Something technical, a computer company maybe . . .” He stopped, examined Virgil even more closely, and then said, “No. Bless my soul, you’re a cop. Some kind of cop.”
    Virgil laughed, shook his head.
    Alice asked, “Is he right? Are you a cop?”
    “Yeah, I guess,” Virgil said. “No, actually, I’m sure I am.”
    “Who you coppin’ for?” Harry asked.
    “Minnesota BCA. Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.”
    “That’s pretty amazing,” Alice said to Harry. And again to Harry: “Another one?”
    “Might as well,” Harry said, pushing his empty glass across the bar to her. To Virgil: “You workin’ on a case?”
    “Yeah, I’m taking a look at the professor who got killed over at the university.”
    “Hey, I read about that,” Harry said. “You gettin’ anywhere?”
    “We’re early in the game,” Virgil said.
    “Bullshit. I read about it two weeks ago. If you don’t have the killer by now, you’re in big trouble.”
    “Nah, we’re breaking it down,” Virgil said.
    “You don’t mind talking about it?”
    “Oh . . . no . . . I guess not.” Virgil didn’t mind talking. His attitude was, the killer knew everything about the case; and thecops knew some of it. Not talking about it didn’t keep information from anyone but the taxpaying citizens. He gave Harry a one-minute summary, and Harry took it all in.
    Alice the barmaid came back with Harry’s beer, said, “On the house because of the cop guess,” and Harry said, “Virgil’s investigating a murder.”
    “What murder?” she asked.
    “Professor over at the university,” Harry said.
    She shook a finger at Virgil. “I heard about that. The one at the library. You catch the killer?”
    “We’re working on it,” Virgil said.
    “Let me tell you something,” Harry said. “I own three McDonalds, but I don’t know the first thing about murder investigations except what I’ve seen on NCIS . You know that show?”
    “Sure. Gibbs and those guys. I’ve gotten a few tips there,” Virgil lied.
    “Mark Harmon, hell of a football player. You’re not nearly old enough to appreciate this, but Harmon was a quarterback at UCLA, and they kicked Nebraska’s ass back sometime in the seventies. Huge deal. Nebraska was the defending national champ at the time.”
    “Didn’t know that,” Virgil said.
    Harry leaned closer, breathing beer breath on Virgil. “That’s because you’re not old enough. I’m seventy and I remember it like it was yesterday. I wish it was yesterday. I remember when Joe Namath and the Jets upset the Colts.”
    “I know about that, though I wasn’t born yet,” Virgil said. “My dad was a jock; he told me about it maybe, mmm, two hundred times.”
    “You a jock?” Harry asked.
    “I guess. Baseball, mostly. Here at the U. Couldn’t see a college fastball that well.”
    “Played golf myself, at Michigan,” Harry said. “I once shot a 66 against the Badgers over in Madison. Best I ever did.”
    They talked about sports for a few more minutes, and Virgil had a second beer, and then Harry said, “Let me tell you something about your case.”
    “Go ahead.”
    “A young person did it,” Harry said. “I don’t know if it was a male or a female, but it was a young person.”
    “Why is that?”
    Harry held up a heavy index finger. “I started running my first McDonald’s when I was twenty-seven years old.