FUN TILL SOMEBODY DIES: ONE
Part one of A Murder Mystery
A day after the murder Sergeant Garcia sent word that he wanted to talk to me. As I sat on the hard chair in his hot stuffy little office I had more questions than answers.
I watched sweat run down the Sergeant’s forehead and form a large oily bead on the end of his nose. It hung there a moment then dripped off, landing on his notebook. A damp circle of ink spread out making the words run together like an ominous Rorschach. He showed it too me.
“You’re right,” I told him. “It definitely looks like breasts to me. Real hooters.”
“Large female breasts like Pamela Anderson!”
“Ah yes. Miss Anderson from Bay Watch?”
Behind the Sergeant, out the barred window, the sky was clear turquoise with one shriveled cloud near the horizon. I saw the Village Square with the dried up little fountain, the crumbling adobe church and the Sergeant’s ancient jeep sagging on treadles tires. The local dogs had been sniffing around it. A dark wet stain dripped down the front tire and I had no doubt the Sergeant would see there some carnal act involving midgets and fresh farm produce. Who wouldn’t?
The Sergeant wanted my opinion on the murder, both as a journalist and as a Gringo, accustomed as he no doubt thought I was to murder, rape and sacrilegious acts of idolatry on a daily basis back in Sodom and Gomorra.
I’m always wary talking to the police. A guy I interviewed on death row once told me, “You think you’re explaining the situation. The cops think you’re confessing.” He should know. That was one week before they hooked him to the pump and gave him a taste of his own medicine.