The Question of the Felonious Friend

by E. J. Copperman

  “Do you want to ask Samuel a question?” Ms. Washburn said. “Do you want him to find out who killed Richard Handy?”

  Mason’s facial expression seemed to indicate that he thought Ms. Washburn was delusional. “I don’t want anything from either of you,” he said. “You talked my brother into shooting that other kid. You’re bad news, lady.”

  Ms. Washburn sat down behind her desk, looking stunned. She must have assumed that this ploy to get me involved in the investigation of Richard Handy’s death was flawless. But Mason was not cooperating by being the desperate client she had hoped for.

  Still, she was not going to give up without a fight. “I told you, we don’t believe that Tyler shot Richard Handy,” she said to Mason. “If you think there’s a chance he didn’t, you should ask the question. Samuel never stops working until a question is answered, and answered correctly.”

  I wanted to stop this conversation immediately, seeing nothing but problems coming from any research I might do into Richard Handy’s death. Clients do not seem to understand the concept of a correct answer versus the one they want, and this question would surely fall into a very emotional area for Mason. Ms. Washburn herself seemed somehow engaged with Tyler Clayton’s difficulties much more than any other question we had answered together, and that was confusing.

  Before I could reconcile those thoughts, Mason shook his head. “I’m not paying you people a dime,” he told Ms. Washburn and, I assume, me. “I don’t like the way you handled my brother and now I’m going to have to figure out how to pay for a lawyer. You can forget me asking you a question and giving you money to answer it.” He stood up, shaking his head. “I don’t know why I came here to begin with.” I considered reminding him that his original mission had been to beat me up but decided that would not improve the situation.

  “We’ll answer for free,” Ms. Washburn said before Mason could reach the door. “Just ask the question.”

  “Ms. Washburn,” I began. I had no intention of answering a question for Mason Clayton, and I certainly wasn’t going to do so without being paid my usual fee.

  She talked over my admonishment. “We can help Tyler’s lawyer prove he didn’t kill Richard Handy. And you don’t have to pay us because Tyler already contracted with us to answer a question. What do you say?”

  Ms. Washburn was acting irrationally and that confused me to the point of inactivity. She knew I had no interest in answering a question about Richard’s murder. She knew I would not work pro bono for a man who had tried to hit me in the face. And yet she was doing her best to convince Mason Clayton to ask me about the incident in which it was quite likely his brother had killed another man. Besides, Tyler had not given us any money for his question, so we owed him nothing even under Ms. Washburn’s logic.

  “What’s your angle?” Mason asked Ms. Washburn. “Why do you want this so bad?”

  “We didn’t help Tyler the first time,” Ms. Washburn answered. “We answered his question but it made his situation worse. We would like the chance to make it up to him.”

  I was torn. Since I had met Ms. Washburn I had appreciated her thoughtful support and had attempted to reciprocate by trusting her judgment. She had never actually attempted to make a unilateral decision for Questions Answered before, and had often pointed out that I am the owner of the business and therefore “the one who makes all the decisions,” adding, “I’m the employee.”

  But now she was offering our services—for no payment—when I had clearly stated my opposition to taking on the question even if we were to earn our usual fee. I wanted to tell Mason Clayton that we were not available for the service, that I was not interested in answering the question about Richard Handy’s murder, and that, in fact, I expected his brother had probably committed the crime, so the answer would not be the one he was hoping to receive.

  Instead, to avoid exhibiting a conflict between the two members of the Questions Answered staff, I remained silent, hoping that Mason would have the good sense to turn down the offer as he had indicated he would. It was difficult for me to know whether my resistance was based on my distaste for the question or whether I simply did not want to prolong any disagreement with Ms. Washburn.

  “The cops are investigating,” Mason pointed out.

  Ms. Washburn nodded. “And they have already arrested your brother. How hard do you think they’ll want to search for another killer when they have one in handcuffs who can’t even verbally defend himself?”

  “Ms. Washburn—” I managed.

  “Why would you do better?” Mason was ignoring me entirely and directing his question toward Ms. Washburn.

  “Samuel can think like Tyler,” she answered. “He too has an autism spectrum disorder, and he uses it to his advantage.”

  That was, as Mother would say, crossing a line. I do not always inform strangers of my “disorder,” and Ms. Washburn had always left that choice to my personal preference until now. I’d never required she ask permission to do so, but she knew how I feel about it.

  “Mr. Clayton,” I said when my voice had recovered from the stunning pronouncement Ms. Washburn had made. “I do not believe my Asperger’s Syndrome is a particular asset in answering this question, and I think the police are best suited to this kind of investigation.”

  “You’re the guy who put Tyler over the edge,” he answered, still aiming his gaze at Ms. Washburn. “Don’t you feel some responsibility for what happened?”

  Before my associate could say we did, I answered, “I do not. Tyler asked a question and I gave him the best answer I could. The fact that it did not please him is not my fault. The truth is not something you can alter to your taste.”

  Mason nodded toward Ms. Washburn to indicate he was speaking to her now. “Do you think there’s a chance Tyler didn’t shoot that guy in the convenience store?” He held up a hand in my direction. “I’m asking the lady,” he said. I had understood that point and was not going to interrupt. I would express my opinion after Ms. Washburn responded.

  “I think there’s a good chance, based on what I know about Tyler, that at least he didn’t kill Richard with any premeditation. I think either he didn’t shoot Richard at all, or he did it on an angry impulse. Either way, considering his developmental disability, the charge against him would be lessened and maybe dropped.”

  Now Mason turned to face me. “And what about you?”

  It was difficult then to know what his question meant. “What about me?” I echoed back at him.

  “Yeah. Do you think it’s possible Tyler didn’t shoot that guy?”

  The office telephone rang. I was going to ignore the ringing and let the voice mail function, something I rarely use, receive any message the caller might want to leave. But Ms. Washburn immediately picked up the receiver and said, “Questions Answered. How may we help you?”

  She listened for nine seconds, then extended the receiver toward me. “It’s Detective Hessler,” she said.

  “Does he want to speak to Mr. Clayton?” I asked, although the idea that the detective would have looked for Mason at Questions Answered would be an unlikely coincidence.

  “No. He wants to talk to you.”

  I took the telephone receiver from her hand and said into it, “This is Samuel Hoenig.”

  “Mr. Hoenig, it’s Detective Hessler.” Surely he should have realized I knew that already. “I have a question for you. How smart is Tyler Clayton?”

  I looked over at Mason and placed my hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone. “Has Tyler’s IQ ever been measured?” I asked. There is a general belief that people with autism spectrum behaviors have generally higher IQs than the rest of the public; that is not true. It is also not true that we have lower IQs. Individuals respond according to their abilities.

  Mason shrugged. “Maybe when he was in school. My parents might have done it when he was diagnosed, but they never told me. Why
?”

  “I do not have an accurate answer about Tyler’s IQ,” I told Hessler through the phone. “Why do you ask?”

  There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. “Because the guy who shot Richard Handy was smart enough to wear a ski mask and nondescript clothes before spray painting the lenses of two security cameras when he entered the Quik N EZ,” Hessler answered. “All I’ve gotten from the kid is ‘nnnnnnnnn,’ so I’m asking for your assessment of his intelligence. Would he have thought of that?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I told him, and disconnected the call. Then I turned toward Mason Clayton. “I think there is a strong possibility that your brother did not kill Richard Handy, or if he did, that he was not acting alone. Are you interested in our answering the question?”

  “Actually, I think I am.”

  “Then ask the question.”

  Nine

  “What is your first move?” Mother asked.

  It is my custom to have lunch with my mother every day at twelve thirty p.m. in our house not far from the Questions Answered office. Since much of the day had been spent dealing with Tyler Clayton, the crime scene at the Quik N EZ, and Mason Clayton’s visit to our office, I had not eaten lunch at all, but had called Mother on my cellular phone—which I touched in my front pocket every few minutes to confirm its presence—and let her know I would not be able to come home at the usual time.

  Now, hungry and charged with a new question to answer, I was having dinner with Mother in our kitchen. She had prepared a steak, well done as I prefer, baked potatoes, and broccoli. I am aware I should eat more vegetables and indeed a wider range of food generally, but menu additions are something of a challenge for me. The concept of “comfort food” is something I take seriously. Tonight, Mother knew I’d had a difficult day and had decided not to introduce anything unfamiliar to our evening meal.

  “My first move?” I asked.

  “In finding out whether your client shot that other man,” Mother said. “How will you go about doing that?”

  I chewed carefully as I always do and was careful not to speak with food in my mouth, a disgusting habit I have noticed in others that I will never practice. “I have already taken a few steps in that direction,” I told Mother.

  “What have you done?” Mother likes to discuss my work with me. I think she is somewhat relieved I am able to operate a business and likes to revel in the fact that it was her idea to turn my research skills into a going concern. Mother is, as with almost all people, not without some ego.

  “First, I established that Mason Clayton’s favorite Beatles song is ‘Fixing A Hole,’” I said.

  Mother smiled. She knows I use this technique to learn something about people I have not met before, but I believe she still finds it amusing. I don’t understand why; it works quite well a good percentage of the time. “And what does that tell you?” she asked.

  “He is dedicated to work, somewhat practical, and perhaps a little afraid of uncontrollable impulses.”

  She shook her head a little. “You get all that from a song.”

  “I do, but that was not the most important development. Mason gave me the name and phone number for Tyler’s therapist. Tyler had told Ms. Washburn and me that he goes to group therapy with three other people once a week.”

  Mother looked concerned. “You know a therapist isn’t going to discuss a client with you, Samuel. Confidentiality is very important. Dr. Mancuso doesn’t even tell me anything about his sessions with you.”

  I nodded. “I am well aware of that, Mother,” I said. I took another bite of steak, which was very well prepared (although the potato was a bit dry, but I chose not to mention that to Mother), so it was a gap of thirty-two seconds before I added, “I don’t expect the therapist, Dr. Lisa Shean, to divulge any confidential information. I already know the names of the other people in Tyler’s group. But I do believe I can ask questions in a general enough context that some information might be gained. But that, too, is not the most important development.”

  Mother, who had made a separate smaller steak for herself that was, in my opinion, seriously undercooked, drank some water from her glass while she considered that. “Of course not. What else did you find out?”

  “Tyler played Swords and Sorcerers with some people he knew online. He never met any of them, according to both Mason and his sister Sandy. But they might know more about his psychology than either of his siblings or even the people in his group. A young man like Tyler, considerably entrenched on the autism spectrum, might reveal more about himself in a safer fictional environment than in the real world. Ms. Washburn and I will definitely try to find his group online and see if any of them is in the area. They could be valuable sources of background and insight.”

  Mother’s eyes took on a wry quality. “But I’ll bet that was not the most important development.”

  I smiled. This was an inside joke between the two of us. “You know me so well.”

  “Okay, I give up. What was the most important development of the day?”

  “I discovered that Richard Handy had a police record.” I knew that was unexpected information, so I watched Mother’s face. I practice interpreting facial expressions by trying to provoke one in people I know and then storing the visual data when the emotion I am trying to elicit is expressed.

  I have seen Mother show most emotions, of course. But in this case, it was not a simple surprise that would be evoked; this was more in the area of a combination. Mother would show some concern, some surprise, and some worry, I would think. Facial configurations that exhibit more than one feeling at the same time are very tricky and therefore valuable to observe.

  Mother’s face barely registered any reaction at all. It was a great disappointment.

  “Well, I would have almost expected that,” she said.

  “Really?” No doubt my face was betraying more emotion than hers had. Mother had outplayed me again.

  “I always know when you’re testing me, Samuel,” she said. “I’m not terribly surprised about Richard. I think it’s because of the way he manipulated poor Tyler. What was he arrested for before?”

  My mother rarely fails to amaze me. I shook my head a little in wonder. “Not very serious crimes, but a number of them: trespassing, attempted fraud, burglary, petty theft, intention to distribute a controlled substance.”

  This time Mother’s eyebrows rose. “He was a drug dealer? That’s not a serious crime?”

  I smiled. The deception had been unintentional, but I did file her expression away. “He was reselling packs of cigarettes he had pocketed at the convenience store,” I said. “Tobacco is controlled, even if it is not illegal to sell to someone over the age of nineteen.”

  Mother looked irritated. “It oughta be illegal,” she mumbled. She doesn’t like it when I catch her off guard.

  “Perhaps, but that is not our concern at this moment.” I finished my last bite and stood to bus the dishes off the table. If I do it quickly enough, Mother’s knees prevent her from having to stand and clean the kitchen. She allows me to do so, but not always willingly. “Given that he had been involved in some criminal behavior, it is not entirely out of the question that there was a motive for Richard’s shooting other than Tyler’s disappointment in him.”

  “Ah!” Mother stood up, a little stiffly. “I see what you’re getting at. So what can you do to follow that lead?” She started toward the sink with her plate, which I intercepted as she walked.

  “You know the routine,” I said. “Pardon me—the ritual.” When I was younger, Mother referred to my usual order of activities before bed each night as a “ritual” from which I would not deviate. “I am very rigid in my ways and will not allow for any changes.”

  She put up her hands in a gesture of surrender. “Forgive me,” she said and sat back down. Mother is one of the few people I know who understands my sense o
f humor; Ms. Washburn acknowledges it, but most others seem to believe my Asperger’s Syndrome has robbed me of any comic instinct. More often than not, I try to amuse people and receive a reaction of blank stares. “What about Richard’s police record?”

  “Detective Hessler told me that much but was not interested in saying more,” I said. I washed our two plates and put the skillet Mother had used to cook the steaks into the sink to soak for a few minutes. “However, once Richard was no longer a minor, these transgressions became a matter of public record, so they are easier to track down. I believe my first step will be to speak to the owner of the Quik N EZ.”

  Mother absorbed that, nodding. “Why him first?”

  “It will be interesting to find out why the owner of a business who discovers an employee is stealing from him allows that employee to continue to work in the store.”

  “He told me he didn’t do it.” Mr. Raymond Robinson was a short man, only about five-foot-five by my estimation. But he stood straight with an almost military bearing that increased the illusion of height, which very well might have been his intention.

  He was also, rather incongruously given the surroundings and the tasks at hand, wearing a dark gray business suit, which was almost certain to be stained or damaged. We were standing in the Quik N EZ store Mr. Robinson owned and he was about to begin cleaning up the mess left behind when Richard Handy had been shot there.

  Ms. Washburn looked up from her notepad. “But you pressed charges against Richard and accused him of stealing cigarettes from behind the counter,” she pointed out.

  “I dropped the charges later,” Mr. Robinson said. “The cops didn’t see it that way and went ahead with prosecuting him anyway. He just got fined, didn’t do any jail time. I think they were trying to find his ‘supplier,’ but the supplier was the back of the store counter. Eventually even the judge lost interest and fined Richard four hundred bucks. That was it.”

  The Quik N EZ was not yet open to the public. The police crime scene tape was mostly removed except in the area where the shooting had taken place, which was not where we had taken up positions. Ms. Washburn had stood—strategically, I thought—with her back to the refrigerated container where milk was normally sold.