"Well, you see . . ." but Tommy lapsed into silence as he searched for a plausible explanation.

  Greta waited. "I'm waiting, Tommy."

  Tommy tried out several stories silently, in his head, but one look at his mother told him that only the truth would set him free.

  "I took a ride to Woodbine with Dad."

  When Tommy Junior was finished telling the story, Greta sent him to his room. He looked at his mother. "Mom?"

  "Yes, Tommy?"

  "Can I have my money back?"

  Greta saved them both the trouble of forming an answer and simply pointed to his bedroom. "Go."

  Greta called her ex-husband and left a nasty message on his answering machine. She was spoiling for a fight and felt cheated by the recording. She sensed that Tommy's father was sitting in his apartment, listening to her yelling at the answering machine. She hung up the phone and grabbed her coat. "I'm going out. Behave yourself while I'm gone."

  By the time Greta arrived at Tommy's apartment, she was wound up tight. She was yelling even before her ex-husband opened the door.

  Tommy looked at his ex-wife screaming at his front door and tried to calm her down. "Relax, Greta. What's the matter?"

  "Don't you tell me to relax, Tommy. What the hell is the matter with you anyway?" Greta picked up Tommy's cell phone and threw it, hitting him in the chest.

  "Hey, watch it, Greta. That hurt."

  Greta laughed. "My tics, Tommy. I'm sorry, but that was a tic."

  "Bullshit, Greta. I know your tics, and that was no goddamn tic. You threw the phone at me."

  Greta picked up the TV remote and, aiming at his head, let the remote fly.

  "Shit, Greta. What's with you?"

  Greta pulled the hundred from her purse. "This, Tommy."

  "Damn. Where'd you find that?" Like father, like son.

  "Tommy Junior told me all about your trip to—grr—Woodbine. Now you listen to me. Do not even think about enlisting your son in your scams."

  Tommy tried to object, but Greta just waved him off.

  "I'm not kidding, Tommy. Look, you and I, we're not—grr—exactly model citizens, but our son is gonna make it. He's gonna finish high school and get himself a real job, maybe even go to college. You think I've been hard on you these last—grr—few years? You don't wanna know me if I think you're getting Tommy Junior involved in criminal activity."

  Greta snatched the phone book off the table and flung it at Tommy. "Damn. My tics are bad tonight." She stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind her.

  Tommy picked up the phone book and found the telephone number. "We need to talk."

  Fingerprints

  As a frustrated filmmaker and security guard, Oliver had often looked at shoppers, framing a shot in his imaginary camera, and wondered about their motivation in coming to the mall. He quickly learned to distinguish the serious shoppers from the social set, the ones with no time to waste and those with nothing but time. In the imaginary documentary he was shooting, Oliver would highlight the bargain hunters, the mall walkers, the seasonal and the regular wage slaves and would ascribe to each his own unique motivations.

  Until that morning, he never considered that any of them went to the mall to be surrounded by eye witnesses, but that was the motivation which drew Oliver to the mall several hours before the start of his shift. If Little Mack came after him, Oliver wanted there to be plenty of witnesses.

  Oliver was nervous in the car en route to the mall. He was so busy watching a car in his mirror, so convinced that he was being tailed, that he nearly rear-ended a police car sitting at a red light. Oliver couldn't begin to relax until he pulled his car into the mall parking lot, finding a space just a short walk to the entrance. Having arrived safely at the mall, Oliver breathed a deep sigh of relief. There was very nearly a bounce in his step, a song on his lips, as he walked from his car to the mall entrance.

  "Hey, Berryhill. This is a pleasant surprise." Standing by the door, smoking a cigarette, waiting not for Oliver Berryhill, but for Santa Claus, Little Mack greeted Oliver warmly. "We need to talk."

  "G-good morning." Oliver swallowed hard. "N-no time to talk. I'll be late for work."

  Little Mack snorted. "You're a hero, Berryhill, right? Nobody's gonna give you crap if you're a coupla three minutes late."

  "I-I-I don't know."

  "Are you afraid of me, Berryhill?" Little Mack stared straight into Oliver's rapidly blinking eyes.

  "No. I don't think so. Should I be?"

  "Relax, Berryhill. I'm a pussycat." Little Mack snorted a second time. "Just like my dad."

  "It was an accident."

  Did I say it wasn't, Berryhill?"

  It's ju-just I thought you should know," Oliver explained, his stammer returning. "He fell."

  "You sure are taking a lot of credit for an accident."

  "I can't help it of the media runs with the story," Oliver said.

  "It just seems you're enjoying it a little too much." Little Mack's gaze pierced Oliver. "You know what I mean, Berryhill?"

  "Look. I'm sorry about your father, but I've gotta get inside before I'm late." Oliver started walking toward the door.

  "Go ahead, Berryhill." Little Mack smiled. "We can talk some more later."

  Detective Bebedict sat at his desk and thought about fingerprints, those idiosyncratic whorls that are left behind, manual markers in a digital world, digital markers in a manual world. He thought about fingerprints on the knife that killed Teddy Maciborski. More to the point, he thought about the absence of fingerprints on the knife that killed Big Mack. There should have been fingerprints, Eddie kept repeating.

  He said it the first time that morning, standing in his captain's office. "There should have been fingerprints."

  But his captain, a good cop grown weary, wasn't interested. He had a dead bad guy and a live local hero, and he didn't need a messy murder investigation. That's what he said to Eggs Bebedict that morning. He said, "I've got a dead bad guy and a live local hero, and I don't need a messy murder investigation."

  Eggs visualized the incident in the men's room, the story according to Oliver Berryhill. There should have been fingerprints. Sometimes, as a detective, Eggs would fixate on one troubling piece of information, one incongruity in the story, would allow that clue to percolate in his head, waiting for the universe to re-align itself, for the real story to reveal itself. Detective Bebedict's head was filled with the absence of fingerprints.

  Eggs wanted to talk to Oliver Berryhill, but his captain reminded him that officially the case was closed. Detective Bebedict needed to understand the absence of fingerprints. He would get no other police work done until he could shake this nagging doubt. Detective Bebedict needed someone to do his talking for him. He thumbed through his rolodex until he located the misfiled card with Cassie O'Malley's phone number. He stood up from his desk, left the building, and placed the call from his cell phone.

  "Ms. O'Malley? This is Detective Bebedict . . . Eggs."

  "Detective Bebedict. So nice of you to call. What can I do for you, Detective?"

  "Well, for starters," he said, "you can call me Eggs."

  "Okay, what can I do for you . . . Eggs?"

  "Actually Ms. O'Malley . . . Cassie. May I call you Cassie? Actually Cassie, it's what I can do for you."

  "And what might that be, Eggs?"

  "Are you still working on that story about Oliver Berryhill and Teddy Maciborski?"

  Cassie was curious where the detective was leading her. "Yes."

  "Well then, I have something that might be of interest to you."

  "Yes?"

  "You understand this is strictly confidential, Cassie?"

  "Of course." The writer in Cassie appreciated the detective's knack for ratcheting up the suspense.

  "And that you didn't hear this from me?"

  "Absolutely."

  Detective Bebedict took a deep breath. "I've never done this before."

  "Done what, Detective?"

  "Eggs."

  "Done what, Eggs?"

  "I've never leaked police information."

  "Is that what you're doing, Detective?"

  "Eggs."

  "Is that what you're doing, Eggs?"

  Eggs Bebedict nodded into the telephone. "There were no fingerprints on the knife."

  "What?" Cassie didn't understand the detective's point.

  "No fingerprints. On the knife. There should have been fingerprints."

  "But that makes sense. If Teddy Maciborski stumbled and fell, accidentally slitting his own throat, Oliver's fingerprints wouldn't be on the knife." Cassie was pleased with her bit of amateur detective work.

  "No, Cassie. You don't understand. There weren't any fingerprints on the knife. Not Oliver's and not Teddy's either." It was fast becoming the detective's mantra. "There should have been fingerprints."

  "I see what you mean." Cassie thought for a minute. "Why are you telling me this?"

  Eggs Bebedict considered his choices. He could tell her that the case was officially closed. He could tell her that his captain, nearing retirement, wished to avoid a messy murder case. He could tell her that he needed her to do his leg work for him. "I guess I'm just a sucker for a beautiful blond writer."

  Cassie knew right away there was another explanation. But that didn't stop her from liking the explanation he volunteered.

  "Why, Detective," she said, batting her eyelashes into the phone and feeling suddenly very southern, "you do say the sweetest things."

  Safe at the other end of the satellite transmission, Eggs Bebedict blushed into the telephone. "Keep in touch, Ms. O'Malley, okay?"

  Detective Bebedict's phone call left Cassie with a brainteaser . . . not the puzzle of the absent fingerprints, but the puzzle of the detective's motive. Why did the detective . . . Cassie corrected herself. Why did Eggs call her with this evidence? She was a feature writer for a low-circulation quarterly magazine. How did it benefit the detective to have this information released months later, in a barely reputable magazine?

  Cassie was tired of the Mall of New Jersey. She wanted to write her odd little account of Oliver Berryhill Day and move on to other stories. She didn't care especially about the absence of fingerprints. She pulled her Mustang into the mall parking lot, circling, waiting for a spot to open up, and listening to the last bit of Muddy Waters before turning off the CD player.

  Cassie made her way into the mall along with the mass of Christmas shoppers. She wanted to find Oliver Berryhill, ask him a few questions about Oliver Berryhill Day, slip in a question or two about the fingerprints and go home. She had made enough visits to the mall that she knew his routine. She staked out her table at the edge of the food court and waited. Santa's Workshop was back to its normal holiday routine. There was a long line of children on this busy day at the mall waiting for Santa to return from his break. Cassie checked her watch. Oliver would also be on a mid-morning break. She slipped through the closed double doors, off the main hallway, leaving the shoppers behind, past the electrical panels and the utility closets, hoping to find Oliver alone in the employee break-room.

  The break-room was empty. Well, nearly empty. Cassie was startled by the dead body propped at a table in the rear corner of the room. "Holy crap!" She pulled out her cell phone and called Eggs Bebedict.

  "Hello, Detective. It's Cassie. I'm at the mall."

  "This is a pleasant surprise. I didn't expect to hear back from you so soon. And please, I've told you this before. Call me Eggs."

  Cassie had no time for pleasantries. "There's another dead body."

  "What?" Detective Bebedict suddenly was paying attention.

  "I found a dead body in the employee break-room."

  "Is anyone with you?"

  "No. Just the dead body and me, perfect together."

  "I'll be right there, Cassie." Detective Bebedict was pulling on his coat as he spoke. "Don't let any of those damn rent-a-cops disturb the crime scene."

  "I'll do the best I can, Detective."

  "Thank you, Cassie. By the way, do you have any idea who the dead man is?"

  "You're gonna think I'm crazy, Detective . . ." Cassie wondered herself if finding the corpse had somehow distorted her perceptions. "I think the dead man is Woody Allen!"

  With their Latex Gloves and their Ziploc Baggies

  Detective Bebedict had spent more than a decade on the job without investigating even one suspicious death, and now he had two in two weeks. He raced to his car and to the crime scene that awaited him at the Mall of New Jersey. First Teddy Maciborski and now Woody Allen. En route to the mall, the detective made several telephone calls. On the third call, he reached Mr. Allen's management who insisted that Mr. Allen was currently doing lunch with an investor in Manhattan and very much alive. It was, evidently, Mr. Allen's doppelganger who was dead in the break-room at the Mall of New Jersey. Unless, as Eggs found himself wondering, it was Mr. Allen's doppelganger doing lunch in Manhattan.

  When Eggs arrived at the mall, he found Cassie barricading the door to the break-room, holding off Oliver and two additional members of mall security who were demanding, but not gaining, admittance.

  "Am I glad to see you, Detective!" Cassie stepped aside to permit Eggs Bebedict access to the crime scene. One of the rent-a-cops made a halfhearted attempt to follow the detective into the break-room, but Eggs turned, holding his hand out, like a cop directing traffic or a dog trainer teaching obedience. "Stay!" The rent-a-cop stopped. Then Detective Bebedict waved Cassie into the break-room. "Tell me exactly what happened."

  Cassie explained that nothing had happened. She had entered the break-room looking for Oliver, and instead found this dead man who could be Woody Allen. Eggs took a closer look at the dead man. He did look remarkably like the famous movie-maker, but Detective Bebedict decided with a mixture of relief and disappointment that Mr. Allen's management was undoubtedly correct regarding their client's whereabouts.

  Detective Bebedict went through the man's pockets and found no identification. No wallet, no money, no identifying documents. Eggs knew who the dead man wasn't. He needed to get to work if he was going to learn who the dead man was.

  "Did you see anyone leaving as you came down the hall?"

  Cassie shook her head no. "The hall was empty."

  "Are you sure?"

  Cassie nodded her head yes. "I'm sure."

  Detective Bebedict returned his attention to the dead man sitting quietly in the rear corner of the break-room with the bullet wound in his abdomen.

  "Well, at least we know the cause of death," Eggs said, talking to the dead man. The dead man, however, didn't answer.

  Eggs looked around the break-room, hoping to find a gun. It was a small room, with several cheap, industrial strength folding tables and chairs, a vinyl couch with a wood-crate coffee table, covered in old newspapers and department store advertising supplements. There was an alcove with a coffee pot, a microwave, and a mini-refrigerator. Eggs found cigarette butts in the employee break-room of the "smoke-free mall." He found a half-eaten bran muffin and a nearly empty cup of coffee. He found three dollars and twenty-seven cents in loose change. But he didn't find the murder weapon.

  Cassie watched as Detective Bebedict searched the room for evidence. "Don't you have crime scene guys to do that?"

  Eggs Bebedict let loose a gravelly laugh. "You've been watching way too much television." But he did call the department and ask them to send a couple of men.

  Cassie watched as they gathered the evidence. Eggs was right. It was nothing like TV. Where was the babe-alicious forensics expert in her short red dress and her long blond hair, talking lab tech jargon and thrusting out her chest? Where the nerdy guy with the funny accent, mapping the geometry of the crime, proving with a mathematical precision, like a landlocked Captain Queeg, his theory of the crime? Where was the kind, but flawed, supervisor, dispensing words of wisdom, calming a nervous crowd of onlookers?

  Detective Bebedict left the evidence collection to the two good ol' boys, Piney policemen, with their latex gloves and their Ziploc baggies. Eggs wanted a few words with Oliver Berryhill.

  To the Best of my Memory

  Detective Bebedict thought Oliver Berryhill seemed nervous about answering his questions. The Detective found it necessary to do his best Detective impersonation, suggesting ominously to Mr. Berryhill that, if it were necessary, they could do the interview "down at the station house." Still, Oliver was acting all fidgety.

  "I thought the case was closed, Detective. I thought your Captain was satisfied," said Oliver.

  Detective Bebedict stared at Oliver, dropping his already deep voice another full octave. "Don't you think a second dead body changes things just a little, Mr. Berryhill?"

  A nervous laugh leaked from the corner of Oliver's mouth. "I guess maybe it does."

  "Good. I'm glad you understand. Now, I know you've done this before, but one more time, Mr. Berryhill. What exactly happened when you walked into the men's room two weeks ago?"

  Oliver Berryhill got a faraway look in his eye, as if he were watching the incident on videotape. "I was making my regular rounds, checking the men's room, looking for smokers, not expecting any real trouble, when I walked in on Mr. Maciborski standing at one of the sinks." He looked at the detective. "Of course, at the time, I didn't know his name was Maciborski. He was just a guy, standing at he sink, looking at a piece of jewelry."

  Detective Bebedict nodded ever so slightly. "Go on."

  "I'm not sure what tipped me off," Oliver Berryhill taking a modest approach to the story this time, "but something told me the bracelet had been illegally obtained."

  "So there was nothing specific you can point to? You just had a hunch?" asked the detective.

  Oliver Berryhill agreed quickly. "A hunch, yes. Exactly. I had a hunch the bracelet was stolen, so I confronted Mr. Maciborski."

  "Okay then. Do you remember exactly what you did next?"

  Oliver thought for a minute. "Well, yes. I asked Mr. Maciborski if he would mind showing me his receipt for the bracelet."

 

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