Dearly Departed by David Housewright

Twins. They’ll need him. My Twins were hot, having won nine of their last eleven, including a three-game sweep of Cleveland. It was still early, of course. Too early to get excited about a pennant race. And given the team’s payroll … Still, every time my boys start playing well, I remember ’87 and ’91, and a little tingle creeps up my spine. True, ’87 and ’91 are starting to be a long time ago. But what has your team done lately? Not much I bet.
    I was studying the stats of today’s probable pitchers when the phone rang. I let it ring six times before I answered, knowing it was Hunter Truman.
    “What the fuck is going on?” he wanted to know.
    “Pertaining to what?”
    “Goddammit, ain’t you working for me? I gotta get my news from the fucking radio, from some greaseball on TV?”
    “Are you referring to Irene Brown?”
    “What the hell you think I’m referring to? Jesus, Taylor.”
    “If you’d shut up for a few minutes, I’ll explain.”
    “Goddamn, Taylor—”
    “Shut up Truman. Will ya?”
    I told him all about Irene Brown, about how I spooked her into tossing the shoes, about what the Dakota County folks were going to do next. Truman surprised me by not uttering a syllable until I was finished.
    “What do you think?” he asked at last.
    “You asked me for my best guess. Well, my best guess is that Irene Brown is guilty of murder. Only I doubt Dakota County can make the charge stick even if forensics does discover corroborating evidence. Without a body, a good defense attorney should be able to clobber the county attorney. Hell, Truman, even you could win this one.”
    “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” he agreed. After a long pause, he asked, “Is that it?”
    “That’s it. I’ll send you a bill.”
    “You’re not looking into it anymore?”
    “You wanted my best guess. Well, you have it. There’s nothing more that I can do.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “I’m having lunch today at W. A. Frost with someone involved in the case. If I hear anything new, I’ll give you a call.”
    “Fine,” he said and hung up.
    “Yeah, pleasure doing business with you, too, Truman,” I told the dead receiver.
    “I should warn you before you order that I’m not buying after all,” Anne told me as she perused her menu.
    “You’re not?” I asked, surprised.
    She shook her head.
    “What happened?”
    “Raymond Fleck confessed to the murder after he learned that the Dakota County deputies arrested Irene.”
    “He did?”
    “Irene Brown then confessed a few minutes after she learned that Raymond was in custody.”
    “She did?”
    “Which means Irene did it and Raymond’s trying to protect her, or Raymond did it and Irene’s trying to protect him. …”
    I stared at my menu, not really seeing it.
    “Or worse,” she added, “they both did it and this is just a nifty way to interject a reasonable doubt into their trials. Both had motive, both had opportunity, both confessed willingly. Who do you believe? Who will a jury believe?” Anne shrugged. “Without the body, neither Raymond nor Irene can prove that they’re telling the truth. Without the body we can’t prove that either or both of them are lying. And neither of them is willing to lead the deputies to the body.”
    “I just had a sickening thought.”
    “What?”
    “What if they can’t lead them to Alison? What if neither of them did it, but both believe the other did, and they’re only confessing to protect each other? Call it the Gift of the Magi defense.”
    “People in love do amazing things,” Anne agreed.
    “Hell, I didn’t catch anybody,” I griped, tossing my menu onto the white tablecloth.
    “Buy your own damn lunch,” Annie told me.
    We parted with a hug in the parking lot of the YWCA just down the street from the restaurant. Annie was parked in the first row, my car was way in the back. When I reached it, I found a folded sheet of plain white typing paper jammed under my windshield wiper. I unfolded it,