The Question of the Felonious Friend

by E. J. Copperman

  Mike shook his head but chuckled as he did. “Of course it does, Samuel. But there’s something you’re not telling me.” Mike is an astute observer of people and would no doubt make an excellent addition to Questions Answered if he were inclined to give up driving his taxicab, which he is not.

  I told him about my observation at Simon’s apartment.

  Mike’s face turned serious. “Well you know, they are getting a divorce,” he said finally. “I don’t know if that’s a really big deal.”

  “If Ms. Washburn decides to reconcile with her husband, does it become a big deal?” I asked.

  Mike smiled crookedly. “Of course it does, Samuel. Now get the heck out of my cab. I have an actual paying job to get to in New Brunswick.” He pointed to the rear passenger door, next to which I was seated.

  I opened the door and stepped out. “You know I would pay you for the ride if you would accept the money,” I said. I closed the door and stepped toward the front passenger window, which was open.

  “Yes, I do. And that’s one of the reasons I won’t accept the money. You’re a friend, Samuel. I don’t ever want you to think I’m acting like this with you because you are a regular fare. Clear?”

  “Quite so,” I said.

  “I’ll see you soon.” He backed out of the driveway while I walked to the back door and entered the house.

  Mother was in the kitchen. It was a warm night, so the windows were all open and the ceiling fan was spinning. She looked up and smiled when I entered. But when she saw my facial expression, she asked if something was wrong.

  “No,” I assured her. “I believe Mike just illuminated part of this question for me.”

  “I didn’t know anything about the guy.” Billy Martinez was standing next to the lottery ticket dispenser, the opposite side of the counter at the Quick N EZ than he manned three days earlier when I had come to ask Richard Handy about Tyler Clayton. “He came in every day and bought a soda, then he left some money in the tip jar and left. That’s all I know.”

  He stole a glance at Mr. Robinson, who was overseeing workmen replacing the glass on the dairy display. When Ms. Washburn and I had entered this morning, the police crime scene tape had been removed, the dairy cooler had been emptied, and the floor no longer bore any traces of the violence that had taken place here a few days before. Mr. Robinson, after noting that we were still not police officers but kept coming back to ask questions, had said Detective Hessler (whom Ms. Washburn had called but not spoken to) had given him permission to have the scene cleaned the evening before and the store was now again open for business.

  “He left quite a bit of money in the tip jar every day, didn’t he?” I asked.

  Billy was not attending to a customer at the moment, but frequently looked up the aisle as if hoping one would come and relieve him from the responsibility (completely unofficial) of speaking to me. There were only two customers in the store at the moment—perhaps news of its reopening had not yet spread through the community—and neither of them seemed especially anxious to pay for their purchases.

  “I don’t know how much money he left,” Billy answered. “Richard always took the tips for himself.”

  Ms. Washburn looked up from her notepad. “That’s not the way it’s supposed to be, is it?” she asked. “Aren’t all the employees supposed to share the tips?”

  Billy glanced at her. “Richard didn’t keep all the tips, just the ones from that guy,” he said.

  “Tyler Clayton,” I clarified.

  “Yeah, whoever. He’d come in here staring at Richard like he was in love with him or something, then he’d leave money in the jar and Richard would take it. I figured he was really just coming in for Richard, so he was entitled to the money.” Facial expression creates some difficulties for me, as do some vocal tones. I tend not to read emphasis and modulation well. But Billy’s explanation was so unconvincing that I did not feel the need to confirm its falseness with Ms. Washburn later.

  “He left one hundred dollars every day,” I said, although it was not confirmed that this was a daily amount. “Do you truly believe Richard was entitled to that money simply because Tyler considered him a friend?” I believe I sounded skeptical enough to get my point across.

  Billy clearly got the point, at any rate. “You think I’m lying?” he asked.

  “I do not yet have enough information to form an opinion,” I said. “But it is curious.”

  I traded a glance with Ms. Washburn which we would discuss later in her car.

  Mr. Robinson walked over from the refrigerated displays. “Have you got enough?” he asked. “I don’t want you interfering with my business.”

  I considered protesting that Mr. Robinson had not expressed any such reservations when we walked in, and that no one else was trying to purchase an item from the store, but Ms. Washburn shook her head slightly. I smiled what Mother calls my “professional smile” and said, “I have only one more question, for both of you.”

  Ms. Washburn probably thought I was going to ask about Beatles preferences, but at this moment character assessments of Mr. Robinson and Billy Martinez seemed less urgent.

  “So ask,” Mr. Robinson said.

  “Did Tyler Clayton ever change his style of clothing?”

  Billy’s eyebrows met over the bridge of his nose. “The style of his clothing?” he echoed.

  “Yes. Did he vary colors? Change fabrics? Did the climate make a difference?”

  Mr. Robinson shrugged. “I’m the owner. I wasn’t here every day. I’m just here to deal with … all this today.” It was a variation on his continued insistence that he never saw anything nor heard anything concerned with the killing in his store. He was either lying or the most absentee owner such a business could have had.

  Billy Martinez shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “That kid wore the same thing every day, no matter what. Hot, cold, snow, rain. He wore a dark blue hoodie and a pair of jeans. Every day.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “You have been extremely helpful.”

  Once we were safely away from the possible hearing of either of our interviewees and inside Ms. Washburn’s Kia Spectra, she said, “They were lying.”

  “Yes. About almost everything.”

  Ms. Washburn started the car and left the parking space we’d used, half a block from the Quik N EZ. “Almost everything?” she asked.

  “Billy was telling the truth about Tyler’s wardrobe. He did indeed wear the same type of clothing every day, probably for years. It is not uncommon among those on the autism spectrum to avoid as many kinds of change as possible.”

  Ms. Washburn looked like she wanted to give me a wry glance but did not divert her attention from the road, which I appreciated. “I have noticed that,” she said. “But you don’t wear the same clothes every day.”

  “I am not Tyler Clayton.”

  “Why are his clothes important?” she asked.

  “Individually, they are not,” I said. “Whether he always wore jeans or sweatpants or a tuxedo makes no particular difference to the question we are researching. What is important is that he wore the same thing every day. That means his clothes could be predicted in advance.”

  Ms. Washburn thought about that for a moment, then spoke after making a left turn. “So whoever painted over the security cameras could know what to wear.”

  “Precisely. Very good, Ms. Washburn. There was one other point that was relevant, but I think you noticed it when it happened.”

  Ms. Washburn’s eyes narrowed a tiny bit. I curbed my flicker of anxiety, realizing she could still see the road before her. “It was when you said that Tyler left a hundred-dollar bill in the tip jar every day,” she said.

  “That’s right. What do you think was important about it?”

  Ms. Washburn shook her head. “Don’t school me, Samuel. You k
now perfectly well what was important. I saw the technique: First you mentioned the hundred-dollar bill the day we were watching. Billy pretended he didn’t know about it.”

  I nodded. “That’s right.”

  “But then you said he did it every day. We didn’t know if that was true, but we suspected it. And Billy didn’t deny it or even say he didn’t know if it was true. He asked if you thought he was lying. That’s not the same thing.”

  “So what does that do for us?” I did not mean to sound as if I were condescending to Ms. Washburn, assuming I was more skilled at researching a question than she. I am merely more experienced, having done this kind of work for years alone in my attic room long before Questions Answered became an ongoing enterprise. But I had the feeling, watching her mouth tighten, that Ms. Washburn thought I was violating her warning not to “school” her.

  “Samuel. Stop it.”

  “I mean no offense,” I said.

  “I know, but you’re treating me like a promising student, not an associate.”

  “I am exploring possibilities in the question,” I said. “Your perspective helps me think of the issues in ways I might not consider. When I ask you about something, it is not because I have an answer in mind; it’s because I truly want to know what you think.”

  That seemed to appease Ms. Washburn, because she smiled slightly and said, “You want to know what Billy’s reaction does for us? It confirms what we suspected—that Tyler really did leave a hundred dollars in the tip jar for Richard every day. But it also opens up a number of questions that we need to answer.”

  “For example?”

  Ms. Washburn maneuvered the car into the parking lot of the strip mall where Questions Answered is located. “We need to know where Tyler got that kind of money. That’s the big thing. Did he go to the Quik N EZ on Richard’s days off? Someone like Tyler probably knew the personnel schedule for the store. Either way, let’s say Richard got two days off a week. That’s five hundred bucks each week Tyler would put in for tips. A part-time job at an electronics store doesn’t afford that kind of money just for throwing around.”

  It wasn’t exactly the way I would have worded the thought, but it helped me to crystallize the concerns I’d been having. “We have not asked Mason Clayton about the money,” I said. “We mentioned it to Sandy Clayton Webb before she became hostile to our efforts, and she seemed surprised, possibly shocked, at Tyler’s actions.”

  “I think we need to ask Mason when we see him.” Ms. Washburn parked the car near the office door. There are rarely many cars in the strip mall parking lot, as the stores there are not well-known names, part of chains that usually command higher rents in larger venues. It is one of the reasons Questions Answered can afford the rent in our office. We each got out of the car and walked into the office after I unlocked the door.

  Once inside Ms. Washburn and I took up our usual positions at our desks. I noted that I had missed a number of chances to exercise, so I checked my incoming e-mail quickly, then stood to start my rounds at the perimeter of the office. The unused space where tables and a counter for the pizzeria had been afforded me enough room to power walk effectively without having to stop often to avoid an obstacle.

  Ms. Washburn, accustomed to my routine, did not look up. “Mason Clayton will be here in three hours,” she said. “We can’t ask him about the money until then. What do you want to concentrate on until then?”

  “Do you know how to hack into bank records?” I asked, not really breathing heavily yet on my first of thirteen circuits around the room.

  “You know perfectly well that I don’t, and even if I did, I wouldn’t do it.” Ms. Washburn and I disagree on some areas of research. My focus is on results; the process itself does not especially interest me unless it yields answers. Ms. Washburn is convinced that some practices are morally questionable regardless of the good they might bring. I believe that if the question is worth answering and will create a beneficial result, any means necessary to achieve the goal of an answer is legitimate as long as it does no innocent person harm.

  Since I know that I would not misuse any bank records I study, there is no particular harm in studying them. I would not remove money from people’s accounts or use their information for any purpose other than to answer the question.

  Ms. Washburn sees it differently.

  “Very well,” I said. “I will do that myself when I am finished.”

  “Samuel,” she scolded.

  “I do not ask you to violate your moral code,” I reminded her. “What I will ask is that you— ”

  Ms. Washburn gasped and I stopped talking but not exercising, my arms now extended over my head. “What is wrong?” I asked.

  “I’ve been checking on the die you found on the floor in the Quik N EZ,” she said. “There aren’t many in the world like it.”

  “That should make it easier to trace,” I suggested. “Hardly cause for a gasp.”

  “There’s a reason there aren’t many,” she went on. “Among gamers it’s considered cursed merchandise.”

  I stopped walking for a moment to think, then resumed my gait. “Cursed?” I said.

  “Yes. According to this website, apparently when you see that particular die it means someone is going to be killed soon.”

  Thirteen

  “It’s ridiculous,” said Simon Taylor.

  Ms. Washburn had not suggested we call her estranged husband for more information about Swords and Sorcerers, but since he had established himself as our resident expert on the subject, it seemed only logical that we get in touch with him concerning the new information Ms. Washburn had discovered regarding the die I had found at the scene of Richard Handy’s murder.

  “What makes that more ridiculous than any other superstition?” I asked. I found myself feeling mildly angry with Simon Taylor, although I could not think of a particular offense he had aimed at me. Other than once when on the phone he had said he didn’t like me.

  The speakerphone option on our office phone was not working perfectly, so there was a one-second delay between the time I finished speaking and the time Simon responded. I was momentarily confused as to whether he was thinking about the question in depth.

  “I thought you were going to ask what makes it more ridiculous than anything else in S and S,” he said.

  “I do not judge people based on their preference in recreational activities,” I assured him. I was not certain that had sounded the way I’d intended, but my experience has been negative when I have tried to rectify such perceived situations.

  “I appreciate that,” Simon answered. “But getting back to your question, the idea of a cursed die is just a little too far for virtually every S and S player I know. We’re not delusional and we know perfectly well that this is a fantasy activity. Nobody I’ve ever met believes in wizards and elves.”

  “What about Roy McCloskey?” Ms. Washburn asked. Her smile bordered on mischievous.

  Simon’s voice sounded equally amused. “Roy doesn’t count.”

  I refrained from asking about Roy McCloskey, because it seemed he didn’t count. “How would such an item gain that kind of reputation? Is there any evidence that anyone besides Richard Handy has ever died violently while carrying that particular type of die?”

  It was Ms. Washburn and not her husband who responded. “According to this website, three other people have been found dead either by suicide or homicide while holding that die, which they call a Tenduline. It is made by one company in Mentor, Ohio, and only on a very limited basis. You really had to look for it to find one, and you couldn’t straight order it—you had to request it specifically. Even the price isn’t listed, which leads me to believe it’s pretty expensive. Richard Handy must have really wanted that item very badly.”

  “Assuming it was Richard’s,” I pointed out. “It is still quite possible the die belonged to Tyler or to an a
s-yet-unknown third party.”

  “That’s true,” Ms. Washburn answered. “But I’m betting it was Richard’s. It had rolled just to the point where it might be if it was in his hand when he was shot.” I had thought Ms. Washburn was not even stealing a glance in the direction of the dairy display when I assessed the crime scene, but she works hard at not letting her emotions get in the way of her performance at Questions Answered. She must have forced herself to look.

  “I don’t dispute the idea that it is possible,” I told her. “I’m suggesting we not jump to conclusions before we have—”

  “—a sufficient amount of data. Yes, I know,” Ms. Washburn said.

  Simon Taylor’s voice came through the speakerphone. “I don’t want to intrude,” he said with emphasis, “but is my part of this conversation over?”

  Ms. Washburn scowled a bit.

  “One last question,” I said.

  “You say that a lot,” Simon interjected. I did not respond to that.

  Instead, I simply continued as if he had not spoken. “Is the die itself valuable? Is it possible someone would kill Richard in an attempt to take possession of it?”

  This time I think Simon really was thinking his answer through before responding. Ms. Washburn’s hand went to her chin and stroked it, a gesture I had seen her husband perform when we were at his apartment.

  “I’ve never heard of any S and S item being so valuable it would be worth killing someone for,” he said after a moment. “Some people do get awfully caught up in the game, but if I had to generalize, I’d say most players are about as nonviolent a bunch as you could imagine.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “You have been most helpful.”

  “You do always talk like that, don’t you?” Simon asked.

  I was about to answer, but Ms. Washburn responded first. “Be nice, Simon.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll see you later.” He disconnected the call.

  I looked at Ms. Washburn. “I’m bringing him a couple of things from the house,” she said. “It’s not a big deal. And we said we weren’t going to discuss my marriage, Samuel.”