Harmless by Ernie Lindsey

tell you this: what I read changed everything.
    Once I’d finished
rehashing the particulars of my awful evening, Thomas said, “And that’s it? 
Your cat, some clothes, and a box of pictures?”
    “Yep,” I lied.
    “Have you looked
inside?” he asked, pointing at my front door.  “Noticed anything else missing?”
    “I haven’t had a chance
yet.”
    “Hold off then.  There
may be more.”
    “Like what?”
    “Hell if I know, it’s
your house.  If I’m going to help you, you gotta do exactly as I say.  Listen
to me—pay attention—if Schott and Berger or anybody else over there finds
something that belongs to you and they question you about it, you tell them
you’d loaned it to her, okay?  You’re neighbors, so it won’t seem suspicious. 
Do not say anything about stealing.  They might take it the wrong way and it’ll
open up a whole can of worms that we don’t want to deal with.  You’re a witness
and that’s it.  We want a clean break.  You heard a gunshot, you saw her fly
out the window, and then you called me to report it.  Nothing more.”
    “What about the time
discrepancy?”
    “The what?”
    “Can’t they pinpoint
the time of death?  Won’t they realize it took a while before I made the call?”
    “Maybe.  Shit.  How
long did it take before you called me?”
    “Half an hour, tops.”
    “They might not be able
to isolate it that close.  If they ask— if they ask , meaning don’t offer
more than you should—um, you seem like you’re pretty good at stretching the
truth—”
    “Hey!”
    “Tell them that you’re
fuzzy on the time frame.  Something like, you’ve never witnessed a murder
before so it took you a while to compose yourself.”
    “I might not be able to
hide that.  I mean, I’m always composed.”
    “I don’t even know what
to say to that.  Just do as you’re told or I’m done.  Got me?”
    “Yes.”
    “Here’s what I don’t
get—why didn’t any of the other neighbors call it in?  They had to have heard a
gunshot.”
    I pointed to each of
the surrounding houses.  “Mrs. Epstein over there, that old hag probably didn’t
have her hearing aid turned on.  Beside her, there in the house with the white
shutters, that’s where Dan Jordan lives.  He works for Philip Morris, so he’s
gone a lot.  Yeah, looks like his car’s not there, so he’s on the road until
tomorrow.  Mike Evans and his family live on the other side of Kerry, and I
think they’re on a trip to Disney World.”
    “What about behind you?”
    “There’s a pothead in
one, and the house directly behind Kerry’s is on the market.”
    “Damn.  Well, that
works out for you, cuts down on the chance anyone saw you.  Sucks at the same
time, because there’s nobody to ask if they saw anything after.”
    “Like what?”
    “Like a guy running
away, maybe the type of car he got into.  I gotta tell you, chief, right now we
don’t have a lot to go on.”
    We’d been so deep in
conversation, neither of us had noticed Detective Berger approaching.  And it’s
a good thing he was only close enough to hear the last sentence. 
    He said, “What do you
mean we don’t have a lot to go on, Planck?  Shouldn’t you be out
checking meters somewhere?”
    And so the reaming
began.

CHAPTER
8
    My first impression?  Dick . 
    In every sense of the
word, from his demeanor, to the way he dressed, to the way he parted his hair
down the middle.  (The 1800s called, Berger, and they still think you’re an
asshole.  I mean, really, does the guy have no sane person in his life to tell
him what an abomination he’s perpetrating on the rest of us?) 
    He wore a rumpled suit,
which undoubtedly came from the same recycle bin where Clarence shopped, a
sinfully ugly tie capable of inducing seizures, and—get this— sunglasses hanging by a neon orange lanyard.  In the middle of the night.  The only thing
admirable about him was the perfectly executed Windsor knot at his neck.  Given
the