The Question of the Felonious Friend

by E. J. Copperman

  It had a good deal of its glass missing but there were still gallons and half-gallons of milk on its shelves. The shattered glass from the contact of the bullet Richard Handy had not completely stopped with his body was more inside the container than outside, although there was some on the floor as well.

  “Have the police not yet cleared the area of the shooting?” I asked. I knew the answer but wanted to hear what Mr. Robinson might say about the incident without seeming like we were investigating the crime.

  I had simply called the owner of the Quik N EZ, whose name and phone number were on county records registering the business and on a number of licenses (including, ironically, the one allowing the retail outlet to sell cigarettes) and told him I was endeavoring to answer a question about Richard Handy. He asked if I was a police officer or a detective and I had quite honestly said that neither myself nor Ms. Washburn was affiliated with any law enforcement agency.

  He had to come to the store anyway to better assess the damage (“The cops wouldn’t let me in at all until after dark yesterday”) and to meet a representative from his insurance agency who would arrive, he said, in approximately one hour. For now he was answering our questions as if it had become a somewhat wearying but unbreakable habit.

  “They said the forensics people might have more tests to do,” Mr. Robinson answered. He looked skeptical. “I don’t see what the question might be. The kid walked in here with a gun and shot him a bunch of times. How complicated is that?”

  “But you weren’t here,” Ms. Washburn reminded him. “You didn’t see it happen, and the security cameras were painted over. As far as we’re aware there were no eyewitnesses. How do you know Tyler shot Richard?”

  Mr. Robinson looked surprised, as if Ms. Washburn had suggested a scenario he had not considered. “The cops said that’s what happened. Why?”

  “Well, maybe that’s not what happened.” Ms. Washburn didn’t glance toward the crime scene, but she gestured toward it with her right hand. “Maybe someone just wants you to think that’s what happened.”

  “Why would they want that?”

  I felt it was best to quell this exchange. Ms. Washburn was reacting emotionally because she didn’t want Tyler to have killed Richard. Mr. Robinson, clearly not having considered any alternative scenarios, was simply restating what the police had told him. An escalation of this conversation was not going to serve anyone well.

  “It is possible that someone else killed Richard Handy and used the best possible scapegoat, Tyler Clayton, to divert the attention of the police,” I said. Before either of them could interrupt me, I added, “We simply don’t know enough yet to form a proper theory. Did you know Tyler Clayton, Mr. Robinson?”

  He half shrugged. “I knew about him. He was this kid who used to come in every day at the same time and buy a drink or something. The guys used to talk about how he would stare at Richard. I guess maybe he had a crush on him or something. You see a lot of stuff in this business.”

  “We believe that was not the case,” I told Mr. Robinson. “Were you aware that Tyler would leave Richard extravagant tips in the jar on your counter? Possibly as much as one hundred dollars a day?”

  Mr. Robinson’s eyes widened. I could not interpret the emotion behind the expression; it might have been amazement, fear, pain, or disgust. I made a definite note to ask Ms. Washburn for her interpretation as soon as we were out of Mr. Robinson’s earshot.

  “A hundred dollars?” he asked, probably in wonderment. “Why?”

  “That is something else we need to discover before we can offer an informed theory,” I said.

  Mr. Robinson might not have been a contemplative type, but he was not unintelligent. “What do you need to know in order to form that theory? And what question did you say you were hired to answer?” His eyes narrowed a bit, perhaps in suspicion. Again, I would check with Ms. Washburn later. Since I rarely believe myself to be the proper object of suspicion, it is sometimes difficult for me to imagine that someone would doubt what I say. I very rarely lie.

  I chose to respond to Mr. Robinson’s first question and hope he would forget his second, which was less simple to address. “Your security cameras were spray painted black before the shooting occurred,” I said, acting on information I’d gotten from Detective Hessler. “That seems quite out of character for the Tyler Clayton with whom we are acquainted, and it speaks to a level of premeditation that doesn’t seem to jibe with the theory that Tyler killed Richard Handy in an emotional fit, as an impulse. So to answer your question, Mr. Robinson, in order to adequately determine who killed Richard, we would do best with a witness who saw the incident. Failing that, we need some physical evidence pointing to either Tyler or someone other than Tyler. May I examine the crime scene if I promise not to cross the police line?”

  It took Mr. Robinson a moment to absorb all I had said. “Sure,” he told me. “It’s your ass if the cops get mad, not mine.” That seemed an odd transaction to contemplate, so I assumed it was an expression that someone—I wasn’t sure I could ask either Mother or Ms. Washburn, but perhaps I could bring it up the next time I saw my friend Mike the taxicab driver—would explain to me later.

  Ms. Washburn still did not turn her head but asked if I needed her to join me by the refrigerated dairy display. Although she might have noticed something I would not, I reminded myself that Ms. Washburn has some difficulty with unpleasant images of violence. I see them as possible sources of information and do not feel an empathetic tie to the unfortunate victim. Some might see that as a failing; I view it as a strength. I told Ms. Washburn I would simply call out anything she need note, and she nodded.

  “I’m gonna clean up behind the counter,” Mr. Robinson said. “That’s not where the big mess is, but I can’t touch anything over there until the cops let me.” He walked to a door marked Employees Only as I focused my attention on the area where Richard Handy died.

  The refrigerated container stood approximately six feet high. Its door was completely made of glass except for the frame, which was stainless steel. It stood next to a similar display of soda bottles. The area where I had taken out a bottle of spring water two days before was twelve feet away and at an angle of approximately sixty degrees. I had no instruments to confirm my estimates, but felt they were accurate enough to suffice for the time being.

  As I’d noted from across the room, the glass on the milk display door had been partially shattered by a bullet that Hessler had suggested had passed through Richard Handy. Since there was not yet a medical examiner’s report, and there was no reason to think I would be allowed to see it when it was generated, I did not know the exact points in the body where the four bullets had penetrated, or which one might have been the prevailing cause of death.

  Even at point-blank range it is difficult to shoot a person. I had not asked but I had gotten the impression from Mason Clayton that his brother Tyler was not an accomplished marksman. He certainly had never shot a living human before or the police would have had records about the incident. I was quite secure in my assumption that Tyler’s autism spectrum disorder would have kept him out of the military.

  What was especially concerning about the crime scene was the blood. There was quite a bit of it on the floor, a little in the milk display container, and none anywhere else. That seemed odd, so I asked Ms. Washburn to make a note of it. I took my cellular phone out of my pocket. I had been keeping my left hand in that pocket to assure myself I was still in contact with the phone anyway but now I could put the technology to good use.

  Although Ms. Washburn disdains telephones as devices to take pictures, I was certain she had left her photographic equipment in her car and would certainly not have preferred to use it anyway. That would require her to examine the crime scene itself and she had made clear her desire to avoid doing that if possible. I understood the impulse on an intellectual level but did not from Ms. Washburn’s emotional poi
nt of view.

  My iPhone would suffice. Having practiced a number of times with the control panel I was able to navigate to the camera application quickly. I took various photographs of the scene, noting mentally that I would have to consult with an expert in blood spatter or become one myself. The former was probably less time consuming, but finding such a person not working for the police would be difficult. An expert working for the police would probably not be very forthcoming with information to a civilian.

  After viewing the scene from as many angles as I could without breaching the police lines, I stepped back to take it in on a more complete level. Ms. Washburn, to my left and approximately ten feet closer to the exit than I was, called over asking if there was anything of significance she should be writing down.

  “The pattern is inconsistent,” I answered. “Sections of the area seem either to have been spared any violence at all, which is unlikely, or covered with some sort of protective material that the police might have taken with them. It is definitely not here now.”

  “What about the security cameras?” Ms. Washburn asked.

  “An excellent question, thank you. The one in this area has indeed been covered with a coat of black spray paint. The can that was used must be in police evidence, as it too is no longer on the scene. Can you see the camera near the entrance from where you are standing?”

  Ms. Washburn took two steps back and looked up toward the ceiling. I could see the security unit near her, but from the rear and not closely enough to gather any details.

  “It’s got black paint on it and there’s some on the ceiling,” she said. “It wasn’t very carefully done.”

  “It couldn’t be,” I suggested. “Reach your arm up as high as you can.”

  Ms. Washburn did so, and her arm was still easily four feet from the camera lens. “Was the shooter standing on a box or something when he sprayed these?” she asked. “They’re not easily reached at all.”

  I considered her question. “It seems unlikely. Mr. Robinson, how many people were in the store at the time of the shooting?”

  The store owner looked up from his sweeping. “I wasn’t here,” he repeated.

  “I am aware of that, but surely the police gave you something of a report. You had another employee here at the time of the incident.”

  “Billy. Billy Martinez. He was working the counter with Richard. I haven’t spoken to him yet.” Mr. Robinson went back to his chore. He seemed to me to be a very uninvolved convenience store owner.

  “Do you have contact information for Billy?” Ms. Washburn asked.

  “Yeah.” Mr. Robinson approached my associate, who took down the information on her cellular phone. He turned back toward the counter, then looked over his shoulder at her. “What are you guys doing here, again?”

  “Answering a question,” Ms. Washburn assured him. She had learned to say that after only a few days of working with me at Questions Answered.

  “Uh-huh.” Mr. Robinson went back to work.

  I was about to turn away from the crime scene when something small near the police tape caught my attention (some people would have said “caught my eye,” but that is a strange expression that brings up unpleasant images in my mind, so I don’t use it). I squatted down to get a better view without having to touch the floor or anything else in the area.

  “What’s this?” I said quietly. I believe I might have heard an actor playing Sherlock Holmes say the same thing under similar circumstances, although a number would also have said, “Hello.” I am not British, so the former was more appropriate.

  “What’s what?” Ms. Washburn asked.

  “There appears to be a die on the floor near where Richard was shot,” I reported.

  “Somebody else died?” Mr. Robinson asked.

  “No,” Ms. Washburn assured him. “Like in a pair of dice.”

  Indeed, a multi-sided die, clearly meant for a game other than any I had played, sat on the floor approximately six feet from where I could guess Richard had fallen after being shot. It was a dark shade of green and instead of pips or dots marking its sides it had runes of an unknown nature. I took a photograph of the die, then stood up.

  “Mr. Robinson, did the police say they would be back to do further crime scene investigation?” I asked.

  “Well, like I said, they told me there might be more forensics tests,” he answered.

  “But they have gathered all the objects of evidence they intend to take?” I said.

  Mr. Robinson shrugged. “Ask them.”

  I looked on the shelf behind me and picked up a box of plastic sandwich bags with re-sealable tops. “May I purchase this?” I asked Mr. Robinson.

  He waved his hand at me. “Just take it,” he said. “The sixteen cents I make on it isn’t going to be missed.”

  I thanked him and opened the box, removing one plastic bag. Then I reached into my pocket and took out my handkerchief, which I often use as a buffer between my fingers and any object with which I am unfamiliar, like someone else’s doorknob.

  Again I squatted on the floor next to the police tape. This time I used the handkerchief to very gently lift the die, which was untouched by the blood and milk mixed on the floor, having landed clear of the scene. I was extremely careful putting it into the bag and sealing it. I walked back to where Ms. Washburn was standing.

  “What did you find?” she asked.

  I showed her the bag with the die in it. “This. I believe it is used for a game, but I don’t know which one.”

  “Swords and Sorcerers,” Ms. Washburn sighed. “Remember, Richard and Tyler both played that one.”

  I nodded. “Tyler online, and Richard, as I recall, played with people in a local group.”

  “That’s right,” Ms. Washburn said. “Some people still play together in the same room, but it’s becoming more common for groups to play via Skype or online in some other forum.”

  I examined the die. The runes were unfamiliar to me, but clearly would have some significance to a dedicated player of the game. I wasn’t sure if the item was custom made or would have been mass produced.

  “Do you recognize this, Mr. Robinson?” I asked.

  The store owner walked to us and examined the item in my hand. “I don’t know anything about that,” he said. “Is it from a casino or something?”

  I shook my head and directed my attention to Ms. Washburn. “It goes against the stereotype for people like me, but I’m afraid I am not an expert on Swords and Sorcerers, and I don’t know anyone who is.”

  Ms. Washburn’s eyes closed briefly. I thought she was disappointed in me, especially when she sighed wistfully, then opened her eyes again.

  “I’m afraid I do,” she said.

  Ten

  “You found an S and S dice at a place where a guy got shot and you want me to tell you about it?” Simon Taylor, Ms. Washburn’s estranged husband, was staring at me incredulously and then at his wife, who had an expression on her face I had not seen before but recognized as contempt.

  “Ms. Washburn informs me you are something of an expert on the subject,” I explained, not correcting him on the use of the word dice. “This item might be significant in answering the question of Richard Handy’s murder. If there is anything distinctive or noteworthy about it, it would be extremely valuable to know. Are you able to help?”

  Ms. Washburn, it should be noted, suggested consulting her husband only reluctantly. They were in the process of divorcing, which I am told is almost never an amiable activity, and she had been advised by her attorney not to speak to Simon Taylor. All communication, she said, was supposed to go through the lawyer. We had not consulted the lawyer.

  After she had mentioned that her husband did in fact play “S and S,” as I was told the game should be called, Ms. Washburn had immediately said she did not want to ask him about the die. We were walking away f
rom the Quik N EZ toward her car and she seemed as agitated as I have seen her, even including the moments immediately following an attempt to decapitate her some months earlier.

  “We should be able to find someone else who can help,” she said as we reached her Kia Spectra. She opened both our doors and we got into the car.

  “I have no doubt,” I said, looking at the screen of my iPhone. I had texted Mother asking if it would be inappropriate for me to insist on seeing Simon, and she had answered, It’s not inappropriate but it is insensitive. I decided not to place Ms. Washburn into an uncomfortable position, although it seemed obvious that our question had nothing to do with their marriage or their divorce.

  Ms. Washburn started the car and engaged the transmission. We started driving away from the convenience store. “I mean, Simon’s just a guy in his thirties who never got over pretending to be a wizard,” she said. “He’s not the person who invented the game or anything. There have to be people who know more about it than he does.”

  “Most certainly,” I agreed. That speculation was certainly accurate; it was extremely unlikely Simon Taylor was the world’s foremost authority on the dice used in Swords and Sorcerers.

  “So there’s no reason it has to be him,” she went on. I was not certain she had heard anything I had said.

  “True,” I said. “Once we get back to Questions Answered, I can begin to research possible experts on the subject.”

  “Because I really don’t want to have to see him if it’s not necessary,” Ms. Washburn said.

  “Nor should you.” The conversation was starting to repeat itself. I was somewhat confused about Ms. Washburn’s insistence when I was doing my best to minimize the urgency of seeing Simon Taylor. I was not even certain that the die was going to be significant in answering the question Mason Clayton had posed.