Fortunately, They Suck at Quick Service

Detective Jordan (GQ) Williams gazed at the body on the floor. Two shots to the chest. Quick, clean, efficient.

He turned to his partner and asked, “Wanna help me out here?”

Detective Harry Barnes did not want to help him out. He was sitting in a chair with a drooping frame and seemingly in pain. His strong and rugged physique looked frail, bent over with bowed head.

“You hung over?”

“It’s the eggs,” Barnes groaned out.

A strident voice rose from the first floor and hit the eardrums of the two detectives on the second floor. Barnes muttered a few well-chosen obscenities.

“She’s loud,” Williams said.

“That voice of hers just seems to gain strength as it travels. I’m pretty sure she’s the devil,” Barnes said, rising slowly and trying not to throw up. Again.

Detective Lizzie McIlroy entered the room much like a person who was in command of…well…everything. She was, in a sense. She gave the two detectives a stern look; Barnes felt like she was too close to him, though she was on the other side of the room.

“Talk to me,” she said.

“Murder,” Williams piped up. She gave him a sour look.

“Ya think?”

“Could be a really clever suicide,” Barnes said. He tried to smile but it hurt too much. He was favored with two derisive looks.

“Ok, GQ. What do we know?”

Williams knelt by the body and studied it.

“Shot twice, about fifteen feet away. Both shots hit the heart, and they appear to be less than an inch from each other. Someone knows how to shoot. Spotted some strands of hair on the chair next to him, so I bagged them. Also bagged a lighter from the kitchen table. You might want to take a look at the lighter,” GQ said the last part quietly.

Detective McIlroy took note of this and inspected the lighter. She looked up sharply after a short perusal, first at Barnes and then at Williams. The two scratch marks at the bottom of the disposable lighter disturbed her more than she let on. Barnes marked his lighters this way.

“Fine. Get the hair analyzed and get the lighter dusted. What else?”

“The damn music was blaring to high heaven, so I paused it,” Barned looked up wearily.

“You hung over?”

“Eggs.”

“Not alcohol?” McIlroy turned to GQ. “Is it alcohol?”

“He’s telling the truth. The idiot tried to break the bar record for the number of hard-boiled eggs that could be eaten in thirty minutes. I didn’t even know that was a thing.”

“He thinks he’s Cool Hand Luke because he has a passing resemblance to Steve McQueen.”

“Who?” GQ asked.

“A Hollywood icon. Played Butch Cassidy in another famous movie,” McIlroy said.

“Who’s that?”

GQ was on the receiving end of two pitying looks. Neither McIlroy nor Barnes felt the need to answer GQ. The kid was twenty-seven and steeped in the likes of Bad Bunny and DC superheroes; any explanation they offered to him about the majesty of McQueen’s role in movies would be lost on him. Besides, they had work to do.

The three detectives went through the small, dirty apartment looking for anything that could identify the man’s killer. Barnes poked through the Spotify playlist that had tortured his ears when they arrived; it was something he could do sitting down. McIlroy investigated the bedroom, and GQ searched the cupboards and refrigerator.

The forensics team was busy as well, and the coroner did what he did. The body was soon swept away to a cold table, and several evidence bags were toted to the station house. The process of finding a murderer had begun.

****************************

“Where is he?” McIlroy asked severely.

Williams jerked a thumb towards the break room. Barnes was getting another cup of coffee and investigating the snack machine. He made a selection and watched the honey bun get stuck halfway down. He shook the machine. No luck. He punched the glass and cracked it, and the desired pastry came tumbling down. Grunting, he pulled it out of the machine, unwrapped it, and started chewing on it. McIlroy marveled at how he stayed so slim despite eating the worst possible forms of food all the time.

“Glad you could join us, Barnes. You broke the glass on the snack machine, by the way,” McIlroy said.

“I just gave it a love tap,” he muttered, his mouth full of industrial pastry and processed sugar.

“I can’t imagine why you’ve been divorced three times.”

Barnes smiled at McIlroy.

“Ok. Let’s get this party started. First, congratulations to GQ for getting here later than Barnes. Not a good way to impress me.”

“Had to drop off some stuff at the dry cleaners. You don’t want me looking like him, do you?” Williams nodded in Barnes’ direction.

“Good point.” McIlroy eyed Barnes with more than her usual amount of disgust. The man’s clothes would never be mistaken for GQ’s attire.

“The hair analysis will be here by noon tomorrow…”

“Tomorrow! How the hell did you pull that off?” Barnes sputtered.

“My dad.”

“Ah. The councilman, soon to be our mayor,” Barnes said, spraying a few crumbs over his bargain-basement jacket.

“And the lighter had no prints on it. Odd.” McIlroy looked at Barnes and GQ. Neither had anything to offer concerning a lighter devoid of fingerprints.

“So. Anything to add? Any insights? Observations? Something not feel right about this?”

GQ raised his hand.

“This isn’t school, GQ. Spit it out.”

“That dry cleaning place across the street. Is it any good? I hear it’s the best and they give cops a big discount. That’s where I was, by the way.”

“They do great work, but they’re slow as hell. I just shake my clothes out…” Barnes began.

“Hey! The case! Insights? Observations? Hunches? Ideas? Theories?” McIlroy’s voice became strident again.

“It wasn’t a robbery. It was personal,” Barnes said. He had finished his honey bun and was slurping his coffee.

“Why do you think that?” McIlroy frowned at the sound of Barnes slurping his coffee. He was doing it on purpose, just to piss her off. It was working.

“There was coke all over the place, and he had a lot of cash in a drawer that wasn’t locked.”

“You saw all that? You barely moved,” McIlroy said.

“Well, the coke was in little bags where I was sitting. I opened the drawer where I was sitting and there was all that cash.”

“Did you take any?”

“Any what?”

“Cash. Coke.”

“My official answer to that is ‘no.’” Barnes winked at McIlroy.

“What was that?” McIlroy asked sharply.

“What?”

“You winked at me.”

“I didn’t,” Barnes said, winking again.

“You did it again! Stop it!”

“I think you want me to wink at you, Listerine. Now that I’m available again…”

“Quit calling me Listerine.”

“It fits. You’re so…antiseptic.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Yeah. It does. Everyone out there knows,” Barnes waved an arm towards the squad room.

“At least I’m not a slob like you. And you’re losing your hair. You’ll be bald in three years.”

“Probably, but I have a winning personality, so I’ll get wife number four. And anyway, you asked about observations. I had observations. About the case and about you.”

“You’re an asshole, you know.”

“Guilty, but I’m a lovable asshole. Just ask my three ex-wives. Sadly, the lovable part wasn’t enough to keep ‘em.”

“Just…shut up, ok? Or go stuff another honey bun in your mouth.” Which is exactly what Barnes planned to do as soon as he could dig out some quarters from his pockets. He knew excellent advice when he heard it.

“And you,” McIlroy pointed at GQ, “go and interview some of the vic’s neighbors. Someone must have heard the gunshots.”

“On it,” GQ said. He hustled out of the room and went about his task, whistling on the way out. Barnes sat and started eating honey bun #2, sipping coffee and thinking his own thoughts.

“What the hell was that?”

Barnes smiled wryly. “The kid’s taking a shot at me because I’m alone again. Cheeky little bastard. It’s a Hank Williams song. ‘I’m so Lonesome I could Cry.’ Pretty funny, actually.”

“Hmm. Didn’t take him for a Hank Williams fan. That’s odd.”

“Why do you even care? He’s just a stupid kid.”

McIlroy sighed in irritation. Talking to Barnes was like talking to a resentful teenager. He had little to offer unless it directly pertained to him.

“Your hair is shiny. What gives?” McIlroy asked.

“Yeah. I’m single again, so I’m on the hunt for the next Mrs. Barnes. It’s this new stuff for men, to gradually get rid of the gray. Maybe you should try it,” Barnes grinned.

McIlroy couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not. She gazed at him, a slight frown creasing her face and arching her eyebrows.

“When did you start using it?”

Barnes found the question puzzling, but he answered anyway.

“Two days ago. The same day I made an extra mark on my lighter. Why are you asking me things you already know?”

McIlroy didn’t answer. She had other things on her mind.

“Why do you do that? Make scratches on your lighter when you get divorced? Are you proud of it?

“It’s symbolic. They’re scratched off my list. Out of my life. Moving on. No regrets. Don’t look back. The future is mine to make. It’s all very positive and hopeful, you see. I don’t let…”

“Shut up.” McIlroy said. Something was bothering her again, and Barnes’ utterances were getting on her nerves. Barnes, for his part, did stop talking. His search for the six quarters needed for a soda became his immediate goal. He could trade barbs with McIlroy any time.

“I see you qualified to keep your gun another year. Barely passed. Again”

“But I passed. That’s all that matters,” Barnes said smugly.

“Your partner just got the second-highest score this precinct has ever had, right behind me. I don’t like the kid, but he’s got skills. He doesn’t like you, either. Complained to me about being stuck with a terrible partner. Doesn’t think he can advance much with you tied to him.”

“What did you tell the millennial prick?”

“To grow a pair.”

“Yeah, well, he dresses good and he keeps my car clean. Uses a little hand vacuum. The old heap never smelled so good.”

“Does he now? That’s interesting.”

“Yeah, about as interesting as watching the grass grow. We done here? There’s a Dr. Pepper calling my name,” Barnes said as he walked to the break room. He didn’t wait for a response from McIlroy.

****************************

The hair analysis arrived the next day, as promised. McIlroy read through the report and sighed. She was about to arrest a cop for murder.

****************************

McIlroy looked around. Everyone who was supposed to be here was here: the chief, the captain, her father, the mayor, and Barnes. Barnes the miscreant. Barnes the fuck-up. The man who didn’t deserve any respect for what he was.

“Thank you all for being on time,” McIlroy gave Barnes a significant look. Barnes scratched the side of his face with his middle finger.

“Ok. This is what happened.”

****************************

The news wasn’t good. It was the worst news possible for GQ. He sat in his cell and stared unbelievingly at his attorney.

“It’s the blood on your uniform, I’m afraid. That’s evidence that just can’t be explained away. I can try a plea bargain…”

“But I didn’t do it! I was home…”

His attorney raised her hands in frustration.

“That’s just it. You have no alibi. You have blood spatters from the victim on your uniform. Unless you have an accomplice that you can turn over, I don’t see what can be done.”

“But I didn’t do it!” GQ wailed.

“Of course. Of course,” the attorney said flatly.

He did it. Too bad. Seems like a nice enough guy and he puts on a good act. I’ll do my duty, but he’s gonna get the juice. Lunch with Becky today. I hope she doesn’t order the salmon again. I don’t like kissing her with that fish on her breath…

****************************

“Barnes!”

Barnes snapped out of his reverie and turned his attention to McIlroy.

“Present,” he said.

“Yes. Great. Could you shut the door, or do you prefer I yell over the noise out there?”

Barnes, moving with all the speed of a sedated turtle, got out of his chair and shut the door. He slunk back to his seat and looked up at McIlroy. He had never noticed how tall she was until today.

“The first thing that bothered me was the lighter that Detective Williams found. It had scratch marks on the bottom that were characteristic of the scratch marks that Barnes puts on his lighters. But there were only two scratch marks, not three. Barnes had just finalized his third divorce, and he immediately put an extra scratch on the bottom of his lighter.

“And then the hair found at the scene. It was Barnes’ hair, but it didn’t have the substance in it that Barnes had been using recently. It was his hair, but it wasn’t his recent hair, if you know what I mean.”

Everyone nodded. McIlroy’s father beamed at his little girl. Barnes wondered what kind of man could raise a kid who turned out to be like McIlroy. The mayor wondered how he was going to keep the sordid details out of the newspaper.

“He was being set up, but by whom? And then a couple of things stood out as odd. Williams is an expert marksman, and he could have made those shots. Williams also whistled a Hank Williams song one day, but he isn’t the type to listen to Hank Williams, being so young. The music that was playing at the crime scene was a Spotify playlist, and it had a couple of Hank Williams songs on it that had been played several hours earlier. I checked that out myself. It seemed telling that GQ would be whistling this. None of it meant anything by itself, but taken all together, it added up. Williams was framing Barnes.

“But there was no proof. Williams had, however, just dropped off his dirty uniforms at the dry cleaner establishment across the street. Fortunately, they suck at quick service, so I went and had his uniforms analyzed. Bingo. Small blood spatters on the cuffs of his uniform. The blood matched the vic’s blood. We had our man.”

Everyone nodded and stood, giving McIlroy the standing ovation she deserved. After a few handshakes and other formalities, the group filed out. McIlroy gathered her papers and left the conference room. She would be receiving a commendation for solving this case; she saved a cop from being framed by another cop. The department would be very grateful. McIlroy was a hero. She would retire as a hero.

****************************

Later that night, in a seedy motel outside of town…

McIlroy rolled off the man she had just decided to screw and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply before passing it to him. He puffed on the cigarette gently before passing it back to McIlroy, turning to his right to retrieve two glasses. He filled them with whiskey and passed one glass to McIlroy.

A clink of glasses and two quick swallows, followed by more whiskey. It was going to be that kind of night.

“It was easier than I thought it would be,” McIlroy said.

“But he’ll probably get the death penalty. Don’t that bother you?”

McIlroy turned to her lover.

“Does it bother you that you helped?”

“Not really. Should it?”

“No.”

The couple were silent for a few minutes, smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap whiskey. McIlroy stroked his thinning hair.

“The blood spatters on his uniform was the right way to go. Anything else wouldn’t have been as conclusive. How did you do that?”

McIlroy rolled over on her elbow and grinned at her accomplice.

“I wore one of his uniforms when I did it. He never noticed that one was missing. Got his laundry from the dry cleaners across the street and put the evidence in with the other clothes. Added some convincing DNA to the insides of the uniform and voila!”

“Damn. You’re good.”

“Yeah, well. GQ was good. He was going to surpass me one day, and I just can’t have that. My dad’s going to be mayor soon, and I want to be the chief one day. He was in the way.

“Thanks for the help, by the way. With the hair and the lighter.”

“Sure. Least I could do.”

“Ok. Gotta go. Can’t be seen leaving here.”

“You mean, leaving here with me?”

“Yes.”

“Cool.”

“Do it again soon?”

“Sure.”

The door slammed behind McIlroy. She stood for a moment, breathing in the cool night air and enjoying the breeze. She then walked to her vehicle, contemplating her future. The man she left in the motel room wasn’t part of her future. He was useful, but now he was a liability.

She wondered idly how she could poison a honey bun.